61173	----	MISRULE by ROBERT SCOTT Glen Wheatley thanked his lucky stars for his good fortune every day of his life ... every day, that is, but one! [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Worlds of If Science Fiction, May 1962. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] The brick smashed through the window and skittered across the top of Glen Wheatley's desk. He had already removed most of the breakables, but it caught a large plastic ash tray and sent it caroming off his cheekbone. A thin trickle of blood crept down his face. "Good God, aren't they starting a little early this year?" Bert Hillary, who shared Wheatley's office, was obviously not expecting an answer. He had been making it clear for the past hour (they had all got to their desks an hour earlier for this day) that he was an old hand, while this was Glen's first experience of People's Day. Glen knew that Hillary had been in the Civil Service only five or six years. He himself could hardly be accused of being an expert on the every-four-years Day. Still, he waited for the older man to make the first move. Hillary got up and peered cautiously out the shattered window. "Yeah, they're already boiling around the outer wall like yeast in a vat. That guy with the brick must have quite a pitching arm." Sweat stood out on his forehead. He was clearly much more frightened than he pretended to be. Glen noticed this with some satisfaction. At least, he wasn't the only one. "Come on, Wheatley. Us lower-level boys have got to be on the hop. You'd be surprised how fast that mob can get up here." Glen unfolded the map of Government House that had been placed on his desk that morning. He stared grimly at it, dabbing at his cheek with a rather grubby handkerchief meanwhile. The bleeding did not show any signs of stopping. Hillary hurried to the door. "Come on!" He was openly nervous now. "It's no good studying that map for safety-holes now. You should have been doing that ever since we got here this morning." As a matter of fact, Glen had been doing just that, whenever Hillary's flow of words had momentarily run dry. But he had not yet got the location of all the nearby hidden cubbies clearly in his mind. "Government House is such a maze," he said defensively. "And we're damned lucky it is," Hillary said from the doorway. "Anyway, how do you know that map you've got there isn't just what they've been hawking in People's Square all this past week?" He gave a slightly sick leer. "You know those maps are inaccurate. They're just a sop, just to give the mob an extra thrill. Government House plants most of them." He could sound like an old hand, too, Glen thought with a certain smugness. "Nuts to that. Some of them are amazingly accurate. There are a hell of a lot of non-Government people in here from year to year, and some of them aren't here just on business. Let's get going." Hillary pulled Glen through the door, and then locked it. Glen raised his eyebrows at this. "Oh, sure," his co-worker said wryly. "Gives the People something to work off steam on." He patted the flimsy door. "This will cave in under a few hard shoulders. Not like the safety-hole panels. We hope." "But they don't unlock for another half hour in this area." "Thirty-eight minutes, to be exact," Hillary said, glancing at his watch. "And of course the ones deeper in and higher up open even later. We're supposed to give them a run for their taxes." * * * * * The corridor was emptying out rapidly. Glen could hear smashing noises from the ground floor. Apparently the People were already in the building, beginning their day of destruction. He thought gratefully of his private apartment, tucked away in the impregnable heart of Government House. Of course, it was closed off to him too on this day; but at least it was safe from the mob. They would get mainly the chaff to destroy. "I'm heading for the upper levels," Hillary said. "Even if the safeties open later up there, it takes longer for the mob to penetrate. There's enough breakable and burnable stuff at the first few levels to keep them busy for a while. Coming?" Glen had just seen Joan Bourne emerge from her office and lock the door. He headed toward her. "I'm going to stay near some out-of-the-way safety in this area and hop in when it first opens. I don't feel like running from the People," he called back with a bravado he did not really feel. "Suit yourself." Hillary was already at the stairs. He paused for a moment. "And good luck." "Thanks," Glen said. "Good hiding." Joan had been listening, and met him in the middle of the corridor. "I think you've got the right idea, Glen. Want some company?" He smiled, and brushed her cheek with his lips. "You know the answer to that, Joan. For life." "This is _hardly_ the day to bring that up again." She took his arm, and they turned off down a side corridor. "Besides, I thought our relationship was very nice as it is," she pouted. "It is. I'm just greedy." The side passageway took them deeper into the labyrinth that was Government House. Glen had hardly ever been out of it. He had been born and brought up in the great central area that surrounded Government Park, now sealed off from both the People and the Civil Servants. Apart from a vacation trip to another city's Government House, this had been Glen's entire world. And two years ago he had passed the Examinations and become a full-fledged CS, with all the privileges--and perils, he was now realizing--that that entailed. They turned into another corridor, went past a bank of elevators--turned off for the day, as all the elevators were in the official section of the building--and went up a long flight of stairs. Glen stopped at the third level. "This looks like as good a spot as any to wait for the first safety-holes to open. It's out of the way. And there's a hole right here, according to the map. It'll be opening in twenty minutes. The mob should be busy down there for longer than that." They located the almost invisible key square, and Glen pressed his Class-6 key to it. "Just on the chance they might have given us a break," he said half apologetically. "Apparently they haven't," Joan murmured. "Let's see if my Class-5 has any better luck." She pressed her own key to the square, but the panel still refused to slide back. Class-5 shelters in this area were often combined with those for Class-6. * * * * * Glen looked at her quizzically. "Joan, we graduated at the same time, and you're already Class-5--Job Consultation--while I'm still Class-6--Secondary School Allocation. How do you do it?" "Brains, personality and talent. Hadn't you noticed?" She pressed close to him. He kissed her. "Mmm, yes. But I still don't see...." "Darling," she said, "Joan Bourne is a young lady destined to go far. And fast." "You seem so different from the other girls here though, Joan." He blushed. "You didn't happen to come from ... Outside. Er ... from the People, that is?" "I grew up in Block 6, Section A, overlooking the statue of Martyr Sherman Adams in Government Park. Just two blocks down from you, if I remember your records correctly." "You've had access to my records?" "Class-5 always does to Class-6's. And I took a special interest in you, my dear." She stroked his cheek. "Then you're forgiven the snooping," Glen smiled. "But to think I was being so polite and discreet about asking your origins!" "Not many take the Exams and come to Civil Service from Outside any more, sweet. Just as not many from here decide to go out and try their luck in the big world. Generally we stay on our side of the fence, and they stay on theirs. Except for the Day, of course. And then it's all one-way traffic." "But I've heard some CS people go Outside for their vacation. I never have, of course, but...." "Oh, yes, quite a few do. You're taken in a CS plane to another Government House, where you won't be known in the city outside. You are given appropriate papers and emerge from the House during business hours. You mingle with the People, just like one of them. And when vacation's over, back to the House for Job Consultation or Welfare Benefits or whatever you want to trump up. Show your true papers, and you're whisked back to your own cozy womb." She smiled reminiscently. "Outside is an interesting experience." This annoyed Glen obscurely. He put his arm around her. "I don't want you going Outside again. At least, not without me." "Oh, the People are just people. Except for today...." * * * * * "Well, well, the Bourne from which no traveler returneth! Hope I'm not interrupting anything, my dear. Anything important, that is." At this unexpected voice, Glen let go of Joan and spun to face the intruder. It was a Class-2 High Official named Duckpath, whom he had heard speak at a few Government banquets. He dropped his fists, which he had unconsciously raised. "Mustn't be so nervous, young man," Duckpath said, swaying slightly. He was obviously quite drunk. "How are you, Joanie?" He patted her rump affectionately and gave her a smacking kiss. Joan looked both annoyed and amused. Glen flushed, but said nothing. After a moment of contemplating the new arrival, Joan said, "Well, Ducks, what brings you down to the lower echelons?" "Oh, pleasure, pleasure, my dear. Wanted to see all the fun and games. Usually pretty dull on top, you know." He winked at her, then cocked an ear. "Sounds like the rabble are getting warmer, too." Glen listened, and realized he had been hearing all along a dim muttering which was now clearly getting louder. A distinct crash sounded, and he was sure he smelled smoke. "Come on, Joan," he said, tugging at her arm. "Let's get into the shelter. It must be time now." "Young man, you _are_ obstreperous, aren't you?" Duckpath interposed himself between Glen and Joan. "Be calm, be calm. As you may know, my key will open any of the lower echelon's shelters, and at any time. Yours is not due to open for five minutes yet, for example, but at the touch of this--" he flashed his Class-2 key--"all barriers will fall before us. And I like the scent of danger. Just the scent, of course. Now--" he motioned to Glen--"if you will just stand by that stairway, you will be able to see them in plenty of time for us all to get into shelter. You two shall be my guests. It will be very cozy." He giggled. Glen scowled, but did as he was told. It was true that the stairs were the obvious place for the onslaught. They led both up and down. He assumed Duckpath had come down them, but of course the People were still below, although apparently working their way rapidly to the stairs. The only other way up to this area was through one of the secret passageways, which the mob would not know about. Another crash echoed up the stairwell, much louder this time. A wisp of smoke curled lazily in the air in front of him. Glen fingered the caked blood on his cheek. Things he had never questioned before seemed utterly meaningless and cruel now. His irritation with Duckpath bubbled over, and he said sourly, "What madness! This whole procedure is incredibly stupid and wasteful." Joan glanced at Duckpath with raised eyebrows, but said nothing. That gentleman at first stiffened, then relaxed and said blandly, "I wouldn't criticize the Government too much, my boy. It gives us all we have. And it can take it away also." He smiled. "This is not madness, but sheer sanity. You must have been neglecting your Political Science courses." "Sanity! It's murder and destruction," Glen muttered. "You know very well, young man, that all that is being destroyed is easily replaced. _Will_ be replaced tomorrow, in fact. Ours is an opulent, productive society." Duckpath's smile deepened into a smirk. "All the important documents, all the valuables, are safely locked away in the central section. And the good that is being done today!" He became rapturous. "The People are led by us, led by the nose. We decide where they will go to school, where they will live, which job they will get, how many children they may have. Soon we will decide when they are to die. We have the power." His eyes glistened. "And in return we give them security. The population is balanced, the country productive, the old cared for; there is medical service for all. Everything is arranged for the best by the great complex of Government Houses all over the world. Everything is in the hands of the Government." Duckpath was panting slightly. "Everything is in _our_ hands." * * * * * "If everything is so perfect, why this?" Glen gestured toward the cloud of smoke seeping through the entrance to the stairway. "It's only the office furnishings. The building itself won't burn," Joan murmured. Duckpath gave her a little squeeze. "Our callow young friend is talking about the hatred, I believe, Joanie. The urge of the People to destroy and kill. Well, it is only natural." He belched softly. "These People are aware that their lives are woven from threads held in Government House. And though they are well cared for, they resent it. They resent having to file into this building and be allocated to this and that. They want someone to take care of them, but they resent their loss of freedom. They resent our power. "So this is their day. It comes once every four years. The day that gives them the illusion that they have some control over us, the day of Mob Rule. This is the day they can express all their locked-up frustrations, all their fury at the State which feeds and clothes them and watches over them. They can batter down and smash and burn." Duckpath stared at Glen and seemed to sober a little. "Yes, they can even kill. They cannot bring guns or knives here, but they can use fire and fists and stones. And that is even better for boiling away their hostilities. The hotheads among the People will go so far as to kill, and that will cool them. But they will get only the fumble-fingered and feeble-witted. The rest will take care of themselves." He paused for a moment, breathless. "Do you realize we haven't had even the sniff of a revolution in four hundred years? No civil strife at all. No _change_ of any kind." He laughed. "This is Sheep's Day ... their day to be wolves." "Glen, you'd better watch the stairs," Joan said, her face taut. Glen started. Duckpath's harangue had distracted him, and somehow chilled him too. He peered down the stairwell. There were People at the end of the lower corridor, milling around and shouting. "We've got to get to shelter," he said, hurrying toward Joan. Duckpath began to talk again. "This is nothing new. The Romans had a word for it, and a day for it, too. A day when the laws were abandoned and society was turned upside down. A day when the people cast off the bonds of civilization and order. A day of Misrule. They even had a King of Misrule. I rather like that. I might be such a King." He struck a pose. "King of Misrule!" He turned with a grand gesture to Joan. "And you are my...." A rock crashed against the side of his head. Another exploded on the wall next to Glen. "The secret passageways, Glen!" Joan screamed. "They've come up the other way. The maps must have been accurate this time." There was a knot of men at the far bend of the corridor. They carried torches, and clumps of stones in sacks at their waists. Obviously they were not the dilettantes of People's Day. They were after more than the crash of furniture. "Get the dame, boys!" one of them yelled. They charged forward. Duckpath was lying across the entrance to the shelter, and the mob was almost on him. "We've got to take the stairway, Joan!" Glen cried, fumbling at her arm. "His key, his key!" She knelt beside Duckpath and pulled the key out of his hand. The High Official stirred, but did not speak. An amazing amount of blood had already accumulated on the floor around him. * * * * * A brick grazed Glen's shoulder, sending him spinning toward the stairway. Joan rushed after him, and they pounded the stairs together. "I can get in anywhere with this," she gasped, holding up the key. Presumably the half-conscious Duckpath had made the oncoming men pause. Ripping sounds could be heard, and a horrible strangled cry. They were relieving the High Official of his personal belongings--and probably of his life. But the People from the floor below were now surging up the stairs, joined by four men from the crowd that had first seen Joan. "Get the dame! Government meat!" The cry came booming up to Glen and Joan. They stumbled into the corridor at the next landing, realizing they would never make it up the next flight before the mob reached them. They were both fumbling with their maps. "There's a small Class-3 right around here," Joan waved her map in his face. She raced along the wall for a few yards and then clapped Duckpath's key to it. A panel slid back and she slipped inside. "Thank God!" She glanced around her. "Darling, it's only a single. Too bad." There was obviously no room for another person, Glen saw with dismay. Joan and the air-freshening apparatus took up all the space. "Hurry and find another, sweets." She pitched him the Class-2 key, and blew him a kiss as the door slid shut. It would open again only after sundown, when People's Day was officially over. A mass of screaming People burst from the stairway, and raised a great shout on seeing Glen. He dashed down the corridor, turned left, and then turned right at the next passageway. He was in a long corridor ending in a large window opening on the outside. Glen squinted at his map through eyes that refused to focus. He suddenly realized they were streaming with tears. There was a Class-4 shelter several paces along on the left. He rushed to it and pressed the High Official's key to the square. A dim red light glowed through the plastic of the key. Full. He pounded on the panel. Of course it was soundproof. Of course the shelter was full of wise Civil Servants. Only the fumble-fingered and the feeble-witted, only the chaff.... The People came pouring around the corner as Glen backed toward the end of the corridor. A stone sang past him and smashed through the window. Another caught him in the ribs. He backed faster, now completely blinded by tears. The growl of hatred from the mob grew louder. A heavy blow struck his collarbone and he lurched backward. His knees caught, and then he was flipping over. Out and down. He sailed through the air. The pressure of the mob was gone. There was no time to think. There was just an exhilarating sense of flight, of space, of freedom. * * * * * Editorial from the _Albany Evening Star_: _A MOST SUCCESSFUL PEOPLE'S DAY_ People's Day is over again. For four more years peace and order reign over the land. We feel that this year's Day was one of the most successful in history. The damage seemed to be substantially less than usual. Among those no longer with us are: Oliver Duckpath: Class-2 High Official. Deeply valued, he will be missed, as those whom he cared for in his work as Supervisor will testify. Lizabeth Brennan: Class-6 Religion Consultant. Glen Wheatley: Class-6 Secondary School Allocator. Thurmond Christian: Class-6.... 
61217	----	ONE MILLION FOUR HUNDRED NINETY TWO THOUSAND SIX HUNDRED THIRTY THREE MARLON BRANDOS BY VANCE AANDAHL She liked the Brando type. The more there was of it, the better! [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Worlds of If Science Fiction, September 1962. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Chester McRae. Good old Chet, best man in Accounting. Six feet tall, brown hair, brown eyes. Full of vim and vigor, that was good old Chet. "God!" he screamed. "They're strangling me, the skunks!" He rose from bed, his face dripping with sweat and his hands trembling like a frightened child's. "They're killing me!" He ran to the bathroom and vomited. His wife was standing by the door when he finished, but he walked past her as if she didn't exist. "Why, Chester! What's the matter with you?" she asked, trailing him into the bedroom. "I've never heard you talk like that before!" For a moment she stood watching him in numb silence. "For goodness' sake, Chester, why are you getting dressed at three o'clock in the morning?" "None of your business," he mumbled, setting a firm upper lip and gazing at her with lizard-cold Marlon Brando eyes. He picked up his tie, laughed at it with careless ease and threw it across the room. "See you around, baby," he hissed, zipping up his trousers and walking past her. "Chester McRae! Where are you going at this time of night? You've got to go to work tomorrow! Don't you love me any more? Chester...." But her words echoed emptily through Chester McRae's pleasant little suburban home. Chester was no longer present. * * * * * Bartholomew Oliver. Good old Barth, best man on a duck hunt since the guy who invented shotguns. Five foot ten, weak chin, gambler's mustache. Good man with small-town girls, too. "Hey, Thelma," he said. "You know what I think?" "Go to sleep." "I think it'd be funnier than hell if I left you flat." "What kind of wisecrack is that? And what do you think you're doing?" "I'm getting dressed...." "It's three o'clock in the morning." "So? I don't give a damn." "You'll come back. Drunken louse." He laughed softly and smiled at her in the darkness with ice-white Marlon Brando teeth. Then he was gone. * * * * * Oswald Williams. Good old Ozzie, best man in the whole philosophy department. Five foot two, one hundred and seven pounds, milky eyes. Wrote an outstanding paper on the inherent fallacies of logical positivism. "Louise," he whispered, "I feel uneasy. Very uneasy." His wife lifted her fatty head and gazed happily down at Oswald. "Go to sleep," she said. "If you'll excuse me, I think that I shall take a walk." "But, Oswald, it's three o'clock in the morning!" "Don't be irrational," he whispered. "If I want to take a walk, I shall take a walk." "Well! I don't think you ought to, or you might catch a cold." He rose and dressed, donning a tee-shirt and tweed trousers. With snake-swift Marlon Brando hands, he tossed his plaid scarf in her face. "Excuse me, Louise," he whispered, "but I gotta make it...." Then, laughing softly, he strode from the room. * * * * * At three o'clock in the morning, even a large city is quiet and dark and almost dead. At times, the city twitches in its sleep; occasionally it rolls over or mutters to itself. But only rarely is its slumber shattered by a scream.... "Johnny! Hey, Johnny!" cries Chester McRae, his eyes as dull and poisonous as two tiny toads. "Let's make it, man ... let's split...." whispers Bartholomew Oliver, one finger brushing his nose like a rattler nosing a dead mouse. "I don make no move without my boys," says Oswald Williams, his hands curled like scorpion tails. Together they walk down the street, moving with slow insolence, their lips curled in snarls or slack with indifference, their eyes glittering with hidden hatreds. But they are not alone in the city. The college boys are coming, in their dirty jeans and beer-stained tee-shirts; so too are the lawyers, in dusty jackets and leather pants; so come the doctors and the businessmen, on stolen motorcycles; the bricklayers and gas station attendants, the beatniks and dope pushers, the bankers and lifesaving instructors, the butchers, the bakers, the candlestick makers... they are all coming, flocking into the city for reasons not their own, wandering in twos and threes and twenties, all of them sullen and quiet, all of them shuffling beneath darkly-hued clouds of ill intent, all of them proud and deadly and virile, filling the streets by the thousands now, turning the streets into rivers of flesh.... "Hey, Johnny," says Chester, "let's cool this dump." "Man, let's make it with the skirts," says Bartholomew. "I don see no skirts," says Chester. "You pig," snarls Ozzie. The mob is monstrous now, like a pride of lion cubs, beyond count in their number, without equal in their leonine strength, above the common quick in their immortal pride, milling through the hot black veldt, swarming in the city streets. Millions of them, more than the eye can see or the mind can bear. It seems that no man sleeps, that every male in the great city must walk tonight. "Johnny," says Chester, "I don dig no chicks on the turf." "Eeee, colay. What a drag," whispers Bartholomew. "You goddam logical positivist," snarls Ozzie. * * * * * An uneasy sound ripples through the mob, like the angry hiss of an injured ego, moving from street to street and swelling upward in a sudden, angry roar ... they want their women, the dance-hall girls, the young waitresses, the nowhere chicks in five dollar dresses, the Spanish girls with eyes as dark as the Spanish night. And then, as though by accident, one man looks up at the starry sky and sees _her_--sees her standing on a balcony far above them, twenty stories above them, up where the wind can blow her hair and billow her blue dress like an orchid of the night. She laughs gently, without fear, gazing down at the mindless mob of rebels. They laugh too, just as gently, their quiet eyes crawling over the sight of her body, far above. "Thass my chick," whispers Chester. "Cool it, daddy," says Bartholomew, slipping into a pair of dark glasses and touching his lips with the tip of his tongue. "That skirt is private property." "You boys may walk and talk," says Ozzie, "but you don play. You don play with Rio's girl." Suddenly, angry words and clenched fists erupt from the proud, quiet millions that flood the streets. Suddenly, a roar like the roar of lions rises up and buffets the girl in blue, the girl on the balcony. She laughs again, for she knows that they are fighting for her. A figure appears on the balcony, next to the girl. The figure is a man, and he too is dressed in blue. Suddenly, just as suddenly as it began, the fighting ceases. "My God," whispers Chester, his cheeks gone pale, "what am I doing out here?" "Maybe I got the D.T.s," whispers Bartholomew, "but maybe I don't...." He sits down on the curb and rubs his head in disbelief. Oswald does not speak. His shame is the greatest. He slinks into the darkness of an alley and briefly wishes for an overcoat. The pride of lion cubs has been routed, and now they scatter, each one scrambling for his private den of security, each one lost in a wild and nameless fear. In twos and threes and twenties they rush back to their homes, their wives, their endless lives. Far above, in the apartment with the balcony, a man in blue is chiding a girl in blue. "That was scarcely reasonable, Dorothy." "But Daddy, you promised to let me have them for the entire night!" "Yes, but...." "I wasn't really going to let them hurt themselves! Really, I wasn't!" "But, Dorothy--you know these things can get out of hand." "Oh, but Daddy, you know how I adore strong, quiet, proud men. Rebellious men like Marlon." "Yes, and you know how _I_ adore order and peace. There shall be _no_ more riots! And tomorrow our little puppets shall go back to their 'dull' lives, as you so wittily put it, and everything shall be as I wish." * * * * * Three hours later, Chester McRae arose at the sound of the alarm, dressed in a stupor and stumbled into his kitchen for breakfast. "My goodness, Chester," said his wife, who had already arisen, "you look grouchier than usual! Ha, ha!" He smiled wanly and opened the morning paper. Halfway across town, Bartholomew Oliver was still asleep, casually lost in the pleasures of an erotic dream. But Professor Oswald Williams, his tiny jaw unshaven and his eager eyes shot through with fatigue, had been hard at work for three hours, scribbling down his latest exposure of the logical positivists. 
11228	----	THE MARROW OF TRADITION by Charles W. Chestnutt 1901 CONTENTS I. At Break of Day II. The Christening Party III. The Editor at Work IV. Theodore Felix V. A Journey Southward VI. Janet VII. The Operation VIII. The Campaign drags IX. A White Man's "Nigger" X. Delamere Plays a Trump XI. The Baby and the Bird XII. Another Southern Product XIII. The Cakewalk XIV. The Maunderings of Old Mrs. Ochiltree XV. Mrs. Carteret Seeks an Explanation XVI. Ellis Takes a Trick XVII. The Social Aspirations of Captain McBane XVIII. Sandy Sees His Own Ha'nt XIX. A Midnight Walk XX. A Shocking Crime XXI. The Necessity of an Example XXII. How Not to Prevent a Lynching XXIII. Belleview XXIV. Two Southern Gentlemen XXV. The Honor of a Family XXVI. The Discomfort of Ellis XXVII. The Vagaries of the Higher Law XXVIII. In Season and Out XXIX. Mutterings of the Storm XXX. The Missing Papers XXXI. The Shadow of a Dream XXXII. The Storm breaks XXXIII. Into the Lion's Jaws XXXIV. The Valley of the Shadow XXXV. "Mine Enemy, O Mine Enemy!" XXXVI. Fiat Justitia XXXVII. The Sisters The Marrow of Tradition I like you and your book, ingenious Hone! In whose capacious all-embracing leaves The very marrow of tradition's shown. --CHARLES LAMB _To the Editor of the Every-Day Book_ I AT BREAK OF DAY "Stay here beside her, major. I shall not he needed for an hour yet. Meanwhile I'll go downstairs and snatch a bit of sleep, or talk to old Jane." The night was hot and sultry. Though the windows of the chamber were wide open, and the muslin curtains looped back, not a breath of air was stirring. Only the shrill chirp of the cicada and the muffled croaking of the frogs in some distant marsh broke the night silence. The heavy scent of magnolias, overpowering even the strong smell of drugs in the sickroom, suggested death and funeral wreaths, sorrow and tears, the long home, the last sleep. The major shivered with apprehension as the slender hand which he held in his own contracted nervously and in a spasm of pain clutched his fingers with a viselike grip. Major Carteret, though dressed in brown linen, had thrown off his coat for greater comfort. The stifling heat, in spite of the palm-leaf fan which he plied mechanically, was scarcely less oppressive than his own thoughts. Long ago, while yet a mere boy in years, he had come back from Appomattox to find his family, one of the oldest and proudest in the state, hopelessly impoverished by the war,--even their ancestral home swallowed up in the common ruin. His elder brother had sacrificed his life on the bloody altar of the lost cause, and his father, broken and chagrined, died not many years later, leaving the major the last of his line. He had tried in various pursuits to gain a foothold in the new life, but with indifferent success until he won the hand of Olivia Merkell, whom he had seen grow from a small girl to glorious womanhood. With her money he had founded the Morning Chronicle, which he had made the leading organ of his party and the most influential paper in the State. The fine old house in which they lived was hers. In this very room she had first drawn the breath of life; it had been their nuptial chamber; and here, too, within a few hours, she might die, for it seemed impossible that one could long endure such frightful agony and live. One cloud alone had marred the otherwise perfect serenity of their happiness. Olivia was childless. To have children to perpetuate the name of which he was so proud, to write it still higher on the roll of honor, had been his dearest hope. His disappointment had been proportionately keen. A few months ago this dead hope had revived, and altered the whole aspect of their lives. But as time went on, his wife's age had begun to tell upon her, until even Dr. Price, the most cheerful and optimistic of physicians, had warned him, while hoping for the best, to be prepared for the worst. To add to the danger, Mrs. Carteret had only this day suffered from a nervous shock, which, it was feared, had hastened by several weeks the expected event. Dr. Price went downstairs to the library, where a dim light was burning. An old black woman, dressed in a gingham frock, with a red bandana handkerchief coiled around her head by way of turban, was seated by an open window. She rose and curtsied as the doctor entered and dropped into a willow rocking-chair near her own. "How did this happen, Jane?" he asked in a subdued voice, adding, with assumed severity, "You ought to have taken better care of your mistress." "Now look a-hyuh, Doctuh Price," returned the old woman in an unctuous whisper, "you don' wanter come talkin' none er yo' foolishness 'bout my not takin' keer er Mis' 'Livy. _She_ never would 'a' said sech a thing! Seven er eight mont's ago, w'en she sent fer me, I says ter her, says I:-- "'Lawd, Lawd, honey! You don' tell me dat after all dese long w'ary years er waitin' de good Lawd is done heared yo' prayer an' is gwine ter sen' you de chile you be'n wantin' so long an' so bad? Bless his holy name! Will I come an' nuss yo' baby? Why, honey, I nussed you, an' nussed yo' mammy thoo her las' sickness, an' laid her out w'en she died. I wouldn' _let_ nobody e'se nuss yo' baby; an' mo'over, I'm gwine ter come an' nuss you too. You're young side er me, Mis' 'Livy, but you're ove'ly ole ter be havin' yo' fus' baby, an' you'll need somebody roun', honey, w'at knows all 'bout de fam'ly, an' deir ways an' deir weaknesses, an' I don' know who dat'd be ef it wa'n't me.' "''Deed, Mammy Jane,' says she, 'dere ain' nobody e'se I'd have but you. You kin come ez soon ez you wanter an' stay ez long ez you mineter.' "An hyuh I is, an' hyuh I'm gwine ter stay. Fer Mis' 'Livy is my ole mist'ess's daughter, an' my ole mist'ess wuz good ter me, an' dey ain' none er her folks gwine ter suffer ef ole Jane kin he'p it." "Your loyalty does you credit, Jane," observed the doctor; "but you haven't told me yet what happened to Mrs. Carteret to-day. Did the horse run away, or did she see something that frightened her?" "No, suh, de hoss didn' git skeered at nothin', but Mis' 'Livy did see somethin', er somebody; an' it wa'n't no fault er mine ner her'n neither,--it goes fu'ther back, suh, fu'ther dan dis day er dis year. Does you 'member de time w'en my ole mist'ess, Mis' 'Livy upstairs's mammy, died? No? Well, you wuz prob'ly 'way ter school den, studyin' ter be a doctuh. But I'll tell you all erbout it. "Wen my ole mist'ess, Mis' 'Liz'beth Merkell,--an' a good mist'ess she wuz,--tuck sick fer de las' time, her sister Polly--ole Mis' Polly Ochiltree w'at is now--come ter de house ter he'p nuss her. Mis' 'Livy upstairs yander wuz erbout six years ole den, de sweetes' little angel you ever laid eyes on; an' on her dyin' bed Mis' 'Liz'beth ax' Mis' Polly fer ter stay hyuh an' take keer er her chile, an' Mis' Polly she promise'. She wuz a widder fer de secon' time, an' didn' have no child'en, an' could jes' as well come as not. "But dere wuz trouble after de fune'al, an' it happen' right hyuh in dis lib'ary. Mars Sam wuz settin' by de table, w'en Mis' Polly come downstairs, slow an' solemn, an' stood dere in de middle er de flo', all in black, till Mars Sam sot a cheer fer her. "'Well, Samuel,' says she, 'now dat we've done all we can fer po' 'Liz'beth, it only 'mains fer us ter consider Olivia's future.' "Mars Sam nodded his head, but didn' say nothin'. "'I don' need ter tell you,' says she,' dat I am willin' ter carry out de wishes er my dead sister, an' sac'ifice my own comfo't, an' make myse'f yo' housekeeper an' yo' child's nuss, fer my dear sister's sake. It wuz her dyin' wish, an' on it I will ac', ef it is also yo'n.' "Mars Sam didn' want Mis' Polly ter come, suh; fur he didn' like Mis' Polly. He wuz skeered er Miss Polly." "I don't wonder," yawned the doctor, "if she was anything like she is now." "Wuss, suh, fer she wuz younger, an' stronger. She always would have her say, no matter 'bout what, an' her own way, no matter who 'posed her. She had already be'n in de house fer a week, an' Mars Sam knowed ef she once come ter stay, she'd be de mist'ess of eve'ybody in it an' him too. But w'at could he do but say yas? "'Den it is unde'stood, is it,' says Mis' Polly, w'en he had spoke, 'dat I am ter take cha'ge er de house?' "'All right, Polly,' says Mars Sam, wid a deep sigh. "Mis' Polly 'lowed he wuz sighin' fer my po' dead mist'ess, fer she didn' have no idee er his feelin's to'ds her,--she alluz did 'low dat all de gent'emen wuz in love wid 'er. "'You won' fin' much ter do,' Mars Sam went on, 'fer Julia is a good housekeeper, an' kin ten' ter mos' eve'ything, under yo' d'rections.' "Mis' Polly stiffen' up like a ramrod. 'It mus' be unde'stood, Samuel,' says she, 'dat w'en I 'sumes cha'ge er yo' house, dere ain' gwine ter be no 'vided 'sponsibility; an' as fer dis Julia, me an' her couldn' git 'long tergether nohow. Ef I stays, Julia goes.' "Wen Mars Sam beared dat, he felt better, an' 'mence' ter pick up his courage. Mis' Polly had showed her ban' too plain. My mist'ess hadn' got col' yit, an' Mis' Polly, who'd be'n a widder fer two years dis las' time, wuz already fig'rin' on takin' her place fer good, an' she did n! want no other woman roun' de house dat Mars Sam might take a' intrus' in. "'My dear Polly,' says Mars Sam, quite determine', 'I couldn' possibly sen' Julia 'way. Fac' is, I couldn' git 'long widout Julia. She'd be'n runnin' dis house like clockwo'k befo' you come, an' I likes her ways. My dear, dead 'Liz'beth sot a heap er sto' by Julia, an' I'm gwine ter keep her here fer 'Liz'beth's sake.' "Mis' Polly's eyes flash' fire. "'Ah,' says she,' I see--I see! You perfers her housekeepin' ter mine, indeed! Dat is a fine way ter talk ter a lady! An' a heap er rispec' you is got fer de mem'ry er my po' dead sister!' "Mars Sam knowed w'at she 'lowed she seed wa'n't so; but he didn' let on, fer it only made him de safer. He wuz willin' fer her ter 'magine w'at she please', jes' so long ez she kep' out er his house an' let him alone. "'No, Polly,' says he, gittin' bolder ez she got madder, 'dere ain' no use talkin'. Nothin' in de worl' would make me part wid Julia.' "Mis' Polly she r'ared an' she pitch', but Mars Sam helt on like grim death. Mis' Polly wouldn' give in neither, an' so she fin'lly went away. Dey made some kind er 'rangement afterwa'ds, an' Miss Polly tuck Mis' 'Livy ter her own house. Mars Sam paid her bo'd an' 'lowed Mis' Polly somethin' fer takin' keer er her." "And Julia stayed?" "Julia stayed, suh, an' a couple er years later her chile wuz bawn, right here in dis house." "But you said," observed the doctor, "that Mrs. Ochiltree was in error about Julia." "Yas, suh, so she wuz, w'en my ole mist'ess died. But dis wuz two years after,--an' w'at has ter be has ter be. Julia had a easy time; she had a black gal ter wait on her, a buggy to ride in, an' eve'ything she wanted. Eve'ybody s'posed Mars Sam would give her a house an' lot, er leave her somethin' in his will. But he died suddenly, and didn' leave no will, an' Mis' Polly got herse'f 'pinted gyardeen ter young Mis' 'Livy, an' driv Julia an' her young un out er de house, an' lived here in dis house wid Mis' 'Livy till Mis' 'Livy ma'ied Majah Carteret." "And what became of Julia?" asked Dr. Price. Such relations, the doctor knew very well, had been all too common in the old slavery days, and not a few of them had been projected into the new era. Sins, like snakes, die hard. The habits and customs of a people were not to be changed in a day, nor by the stroke of a pen. As family physician, and father confessor by brevet, Dr. Price had looked upon more than one hidden skeleton; and no one in town had had better opportunities than old Jane for learning the undercurrents in the lives of the old families. "Well," resumed Jane, "eve'ybody s'posed, after w'at had happen', dat Julia'd keep on livin' easy, fer she wuz young an' good-lookin'. But she didn'. She tried ter make a livin' sewin', but Mis' Polly wouldn' let de bes' w'ite folks hire her. Den she tuck up washin', but didn' do no better at dat; an' bimeby she got so discourage' dat she ma'ied a shif'less yaller man, an' died er consumption soon after,--an' wuz 'bout ez well off, fer dis man couldn' hardly feed her nohow." "And the child?" "One er de No'the'n w'ite lady teachers at de mission school tuck a likin' ter little Janet, an' put her thoo school, an' den sent her off ter de No'th fer ter study ter be a school teacher. W'en she come back, 'stead er teachin' she ma'ied ole Adam Miller's son." "The rich stevedore's son, Dr. Miller?" "Yas, suh, dat's de man,--you knows 'im. Dis yer boy wuz jes' gwine 'way fer ter study ter be a doctuh, an' he ma'ied dis Janet, an' tuck her 'way wid 'im. Dey went off ter Europe, er Irope, er Orope, er somewhere er 'nother, 'way off yander, an' come back here las' year an' sta'ted dis yer horspital an' school fer ter train de black gals fer nusses." "He's a very good doctor, Jane, and is doing a useful work. Your chapter of family history is quite interesting,--I knew part of it before, in a general way; but you haven't yet told me what brought on Mrs. Carteret's trouble." "I'm jes' comin' ter dat dis minute, suh,--w'at I be'n tellin' you is all a part of it. Dis yer Janet, w'at's Mis' 'Livy's half-sister, is ez much like her ez ef dey wuz twins. Folks sometimes takes 'em fer one ernudder,--I s'pose it tickles Janet mos' ter death, but it do make Mis' 'Livy rippin'. An' den 'way back yander jes' after de wah, w'en de ole Carteret mansion had ter be sol', Adam Miller bought it, an' dis yer Janet an' her husban' is be'n livin' in it ever sence ole Adam died, 'bout a year ago; an' dat makes de majah mad, 'ca'se he don' wanter see cullud folks livin' in de ole fam'ly mansion w'at he wuz bawn in. An' mo'over, an' dat's de wust of all, w'iles Mis' 'Livy ain' had no child'en befo', dis yer sister er her'n is got a fine-lookin' little yaller boy, w'at favors de fam'ly so dat ef Mis' 'Livy'd see de chile anywhere, it'd mos' break her heart fer ter think 'bout her not havin' no child'en herse'f. So ter-day, w'en Mis' 'Livy wuz out ridin' an' met dis yer Janet wid her boy, an' w'en Mis' 'Livy got ter studyin' 'bout her own chances, an' how she mought not come thoo safe, she jes' had a fit er hysterics right dere in de buggy. She wuz mos' home, an' William got her here, an' you knows de res'." Major Carteret, from the head of the stairs, called the doctor anxiously. "You had better come along up now, Jane," said the doctor. For two long hours they fought back the grim spectre that stood by the bedside. The child was born at dawn. Both mother and child, the doctor said, would live. "Bless its 'ittle hea't!" exclaimed Mammy Jane, as she held up the tiny mite, which bore as much resemblance to mature humanity as might be expected of an infant which had for only a few minutes drawn the breath of life. "Bless its 'ittle hea't! it's de we'y spit an' image er its pappy!" The doctor smiled. The major laughed aloud. Jane's unconscious witticism, or conscious flattery, whichever it might be, was a welcome diversion from the tense strain of the last few hours. "Be that as it may," said Dr. Price cheerfully, "and I'll not dispute it, the child is a very fine boy,--a very fine boy, indeed! Take care of it, major," he added with a touch of solemnity, "for your wife can never bear another." With the child's first cry a refreshing breeze from the distant ocean cooled the hot air of the chamber; the heavy odor of the magnolias, with its mortuary suggestiveness, gave place to the scent of rose and lilac and honeysuckle. The birds in the garden were singing lustily. All these sweet and pleasant things found an echo in the major's heart. He stood by the window, and looking toward the rising sun, breathed a silent prayer of thanksgiving. All nature seemed to rejoice in sympathy with his happiness at the fruition of this long-deferred hope, and to predict for this wonderful child a bright and glorious future. Old Mammy Jane, however, was not entirely at ease concerning the child. She had discovered, under its left ear, a small mole, which led her to fear that the child was born for bad luck. Had the baby been black, or yellow, or poor-white, Jane would unhesitatingly have named, as his ultimate fate, a not uncommon form of taking off, usually resultant upon the infraction of certain laws, or, in these swift modern days, upon too violent a departure from established social customs. It was manifestly impossible that a child of such high quality as the grandson of her old mistress should die by judicial strangulation; but nevertheless the warning was a serious thing, and not to be lightly disregarded. Not wishing to be considered as a prophet of evil omen, Jane kept her own counsel in regard to this significant discovery. But later, after the child was several days old, she filled a small vial with water in which the infant had been washed, and took it to a certain wise old black woman, who lived on the farther edge of the town and was well known to be versed in witchcraft and conjuration. The conjure woman added to the contents of the bottle a bit of calamus root, and one of the cervical vertebrae from the skeleton of a black cat, with several other mysterious ingredients, the nature of which she did not disclose. Following instructions given her, Aunt Jane buried the bottle in Carteret's back yard, one night during the full moon, as a good-luck charm to ward off evil from the little grandson of her dear mistress, so long since dead and gone to heaven. II THE CHRISTENING PARTY They named the Carteret baby Theodore Felix. Theodore was a family name, and had been borne by the eldest son for several generations, the major himself being a second son. Having thus given the child two beautiful names, replete with religious and sentimental significance, they called him--"Dodie." The baby was christened some six weeks after its birth, by which time Mrs. Carteret was able to be out. Old Mammy Jane, who had been brought up in the church, but who, like some better informed people in all ages, found religion not inconsistent with a strong vein of superstition, felt her fears for the baby's future much relieved when the rector had made the sign of the cross and sprinkled little Dodie with the water from the carved marble font, which had come from England in the reign of King Charles the Martyr, as the ill-fated son of James I. was known to St. Andrew's. Upon this special occasion Mammy Jane had been provided with a seat downstairs among the white people, to her own intense satisfaction, and to the secret envy of a small colored attendance in the gallery, to whom she was ostentatiously pointed out by her grandson Jerry, porter at the Morning Chronicle office, who sat among them in the front row. On the following Monday evening the major gave a christening party in honor of this important event. Owing to Mrs. Carteret's still delicate health, only a small number of intimate friends and family connections were invited to attend. These were the rector of St. Andrew's; old Mrs. Polly Ochiltree, the godmother; old Mr. Delamere, a distant relative and also one of the sponsors; and his grandson, Tom Delamere. The major had also invited Lee Ellis, his young city editor, for whom he had a great liking apart from his business value, and who was a frequent visitor at the house. These, with the family itself, which consisted of the major, his wife, and his half-sister, Clara Pemberton, a young woman of about eighteen, made up the eight persons for whom covers were laid. Ellis was the first to arrive, a tall, loose-limbed young man, with a slightly freckled face, hair verging on auburn, a firm chin, and honest gray eyes. He had come half an hour early, and was left alone for a few minutes in the parlor, a spacious, high-ceilinged room, with large windows, and fitted up in excellent taste, with stately reminiscences of a past generation. The walls were hung with figured paper. The ceiling was whitewashed, and decorated in the middle with a plaster centre-piece, from which hung a massive chandelier sparkling with prismatic rays from a hundred crystal pendants. There was a handsome mantel, set with terra-cotta tiles, on which fauns and satyrs, nymphs and dryads, disported themselves in idyllic abandon. The furniture was old, and in keeping with the room. At seven o'clock a carriage drove up, from which alighted an elderly gentleman, with white hair and mustache, and bowed somewhat with years. Short of breath and painfully weak in the legs, he was assisted from the carriage by a colored man, apparently about forty years old, to whom short side-whiskers and spectacles imparted an air of sobriety. This attendant gave his arm respectfully to the old gentleman, who leaned upon it heavily, but with as little appearance of dependence as possible. The servant, assuming a similar unconsciousness of the weight resting upon his arm, assisted the old gentleman carefully up the steps. "I'm all right now, Sandy," whispered the gentleman as soon as his feet were planted firmly on the piazza. "You may come back for me at nine o'clock." Having taken his hand from his servant's arm, he advanced to meet a lady who stood in the door awaiting him, a tall, elderly woman, gaunt and angular of frame, with a mottled face, and high cheekbones partially covered by bands of hair entirely too black and abundant for a person of her age, if one might judge from the lines of her mouth, which are rarely deceptive in such matters. "Perhaps you'd better not send your man away, Mr. Delamere," observed the lady, in a high shrill voice, which grated upon the old gentleman's ears. He was slightly hard of hearing, but, like most deaf people, resented being screamed at. "You might need him before nine o'clock. One never knows what may happen after one has had the second stroke. And moreover, our butler has fallen down the back steps--negroes are so careless!--and sprained his ankle so that he can't stand. I'd like to have Sandy stay and wait on the table in Peter's place, if you don't mind." "I thank you, Mrs. Ochiltree, for your solicitude," replied Mr. Delamere, with a shade of annoyance in his voice, "but my health is very good just at present, and I do not anticipate any catastrophe which will require my servant's presence before I am ready to go home. But I have no doubt, madam," he continued, with a courteous inclination, "that Sandy will be pleased to serve you, if you desire it, to the best of his poor knowledge." "I shill be honored, ma'am," assented Sandy, with a bow even deeper than his master's, "only I'm 'feared I ain't rightly dressed fer ter wait on table. I wuz only goin' ter pra'r-meetin', an' so I didn' put on my bes' clo's. Ef Mis' Ochiltree ain' gwine ter need me fer de nex' fifteen minutes, I kin ride back home in de ca'ige an' dress myse'f suitable fer de occasion, suh." "If you think you'll wait on the table any better," said Mrs. Ochiltree, "you may go along and change your clothes; but hurry back, for it is seven now, and dinner will soon be served." Sandy retired with a bow. While descending the steps to the carriage, which had waited for him, he came face to face with a young man just entering the house. "Am I in time for dinner, Sandy?" asked the newcomer. "Yas, Mistuh Tom, you're in plenty er time. Dinner won't be ready till _I_ git back, which won' be fer fifteen minutes er so yit." Throwing away the cigarette which he held between his fingers, the young man crossed the piazza with a light step, and after a preliminary knock, for an answer to which he did not wait, entered the house with the air of one thoroughly at home. The lights in the parlor had been lit, and Ellis, who sat talking to Major Carteret when the newcomer entered, covered him with a jealous glance. Slender and of medium height, with a small head of almost perfect contour, a symmetrical face, dark almost to swarthiness, black eyes, which moved somewhat restlessly, curly hair of raven tint, a slight mustache, small hands and feet, and fashionable attire, Tom Delamere, the grandson of the old gentleman who had already arrived, was easily the handsomest young man in Wellington. But no discriminating observer would have characterized his beauty as manly. It conveyed no impression of strength, but did possess a certain element, feline rather than feminine, which subtly negatived the idea of manliness. He gave his hand to the major, nodded curtly to Ellis, saluted his grandfather respectfully, and inquired for the ladies. "Olivia is dressing for dinner," replied the major; "Mrs. Ochiltree is in the kitchen, struggling with the servants. Clara--Ah, here she comes now!" Ellis, whose senses were preternaturally acute where Clara was concerned, was already looking toward the hall and was the first to see her. Clad in an evening gown of simple white, to the close-fitting corsage of which she had fastened a bunch of pink roses, she was to Ellis a dazzling apparition. To him her erect and well-moulded form was the embodiment of symmetry, her voice sweet music, her movements the perfection of grace; and it scarcely needed a lover's imagination to read in her fair countenance a pure heart and a high spirit,--the truthfulness that scorns a lie, the pride which is not haughtiness. There were suggestive depths of tenderness, too, in the curl of her lip, the droop of her long lashes, the glance of her blue eyes,--depths that Ellis had long since divined, though he had never yet explored them. She gave Ellis a friendly nod as she came in, but for the smile with which she greeted Delamere, Ellis would have given all that he possessed,--not a great deal, it is true, but what could a man do more? "You are the last one, Tom," she said reproachfully. "Mr. Ellis has been here half an hour." Delamere threw a glance at Ellis which was not exactly friendly. Why should this fellow always be on hand to emphasize his own shortcomings? "The rector is not here," answered Tom triumphantly. "You see I am not the last." "The rector," replied Clara, "was called out of town at six o'clock this evening, to visit a dying man, and so cannot be here. You are the last, Tom, and Mr. Ellis was the first." Ellis was ruefully aware that this comparison in his favor was the only visible advantage that he had gained from his early arrival. He had not seen Miss Pemberton a moment sooner by reason of it. There had been a certain satisfaction in being in the same house with her, but Delamere had arrived in time to share or, more correctly, to monopolize, the sunshine of her presence. Delamere gave a plausible excuse which won Clara's pardon and another enchanting smile, which pierced Ellis like a dagger. He knew very well that Delamere's excuse was a lie. Ellis himself had been ready as early as six o'clock, but judging this to be too early, had stopped in at the Clarendon Club for half an hour, to look over the magazines. While coming out he had glanced into the card-room, where he had seen his rival deep in a game of cards, from which Delamere had evidently not been able to tear himself until the last moment. He had accounted for his lateness by a story quite inconsistent with these facts. The two young people walked over to a window on the opposite side of the large room, where they stood talking to one another in low tones. The major had left the room for a moment. Old Mr. Delamere, who was watching his grandson and Clara with an indulgent smile, proceeded to rub salt into Ellis's wounds. "They make a handsome couple," he observed. "I remember well when her mother, in her youth an ideally beautiful woman, of an excellent family, married Daniel Pemberton, who was not of so good a family, but had made money. The major, who was only a very young man then, disapproved of the match; he considered that his mother, although a widow and nearly forty, was marrying beneath her. But he has been a good brother to Clara, and a careful guardian of her estate. Ah, young gentleman, you cannot appreciate, except in imagination, what it means, to one standing on the brink of eternity, to feel sure that he will live on in his children and his children's children!" Ellis was appreciating at that moment what it meant, in cold blood, with no effort of the imagination, to see the girl whom he loved absorbed completely in another man. She had looked at him only once since Tom Delamere had entered the room, and then merely to use him as a spur with which to prick his favored rival. "Yes, sir," he returned mechanically, "Miss Clara is a beautiful young lady." "And Tom is a good boy--a fine boy," returned the old gentleman. "I am very well pleased with Tom, and shall be entirely happy when I see them married." Ellis could not echo this sentiment. The very thought of this marriage made him miserable. He had always understood that the engagement was merely tentative, a sort of family understanding, subject to confirmation after Delamere should have attained his majority, which was still a year off, and when the major should think Clara old enough to marry. Ellis saw Delamere with the eye of a jealous rival, and judged him mercilessly,--whether correctly or not the sequel will show. He did not at all believe that Tom Delamere would make a fit husband for Clara Pemberton; but his opinion would have had no weight,--he could hardly have expressed it without showing his own interest. Moreover, there was no element of the sneak in Lee Ellis's make-up. The very fact that he might profit by the other's discomfiture left Delamere secure, so far as he could be affected by anything that Ellis might say. But Ellis did not shrink from a fair fight, and though in this one the odds were heavily against him, yet so long as this engagement remained indefinite, so long, indeed, as the object of his love was still unwed, he would not cease to hope. Such a sacrifice as this marriage clearly belonged in the catalogue of impossibilities. Ellis had not lived long enough to learn that impossibilities are merely things of which we have not learned, or which we do not wish to happen. Sandy returned at the end of a quarter of an hour, and dinner was announced. Mr. Delamere led the way to the dining-room with Mrs. Ochiltree. Tom followed with Clara. The major went to the head of the stairs and came down with Mrs. Carteret upon his arm, her beauty rendered more delicate by the pallor of her countenance and more complete by the happiness with which it glowed. Ellis went in alone. In the rector's absence it was practically a family party which sat down, with the exception of Ellis, who, as we have seen, would willingly have placed himself in the same category. The table was tastefully decorated with flowers, which grew about the house in lavish profusion. In warm climates nature adorns herself with true feminine vanity. "What a beautiful table!" exclaimed Tom, before they were seated. "The decorations are mine," said Clara proudly. "I cut the flowers and arranged them all myself." "Which accounts for the admirable effect," rejoined Tom with a bow, before Ellis, to whom the same thought had occurred, was able to express himself. He had always counted himself the least envious of men, but for this occasion he coveted Tom Delamere's readiness. "The beauty of the flowers," observed old Mr. Delamere, with sententious gallantry, "is reflected upon all around them. It is a handsome company." Mrs. Ochiltree beamed upon the table with a dry smile. "I don't perceive any effect that it has upon you or me," she said; "And as for the young people, 'Handsome is as handsome does.' If Tom here, for instance, were as good as he looks"-- "You flatter me, Aunt Polly," Tom broke in hastily, anticipating the crack of the whip; he was familiar with his aunt's conversational idiosyncrasies. "If you are as good as you look," continued the old lady, with a cunning but indulgent smile, "some one has been slandering you." "Thanks, Aunt Polly! Now you don't flatter me." "There is Mr. Ellis," Mrs. Ochiltree went on, "who is not half so good-looking, but is steady as a clock, I dare say." "Now, Aunt Polly," interposed Mrs. Carteret, "let the gentlemen alone." "She doesn't mean half what she says," continued Mrs. Carteret apologetically, "and only talks that way to people whom she likes." Tom threw Mrs. Carteret a grateful glance. He had been apprehensive, with the sensitiveness of youth, lest his old great-aunt should make a fool of him before Clara's family. Nor had he relished the comparison with Ellis, who was out of place, anyway, in this family party. He had never liked the fellow, who was too much of a plodder and a prig to make a suitable associate for a whole-souled, generous-hearted young gentleman. He tolerated him as a visitor at Carteret's and as a member of the Clarendon Club, but that was all. "Mrs. Ochiltree has a characteristic way of disguising her feelings," observed old Mr. Delamere, with a touch of sarcasm. Ellis had merely flushed and felt uncomfortable at the reference to himself. The compliment to his character hardly offset the reflection upon his looks. He knew he was not exactly handsome, but it was not pleasant to have the fact emphasized in the presence of the girl he loved; he would like at least fair play, and judgment upon the subject left to the young lady. Mrs. Ochiltree was quietly enjoying herself. In early life she had been accustomed to impale fools on epigrams, like flies on pins, to see them wriggle. But with advancing years she had lost in some measure the faculty of nice discrimination,--it was pleasant to see her victims squirm, whether they were fools or friends. Even one's friends, she argued, were not always wise, and were sometimes the better for being told the truth. At her niece's table she felt at liberty to speak her mind, which she invariably did, with a frankness that sometimes bordered on brutality. She had long ago outgrown the period where ambition or passion, or its partners, envy and hatred, were springs of action in her life, and simply retained a mild enjoyment in the exercise of an old habit, with no active malice whatever. The ruling passion merely grew stronger as the restraining faculties decreased in vigor. A diversion was created at this point by the appearance of old Mammy Jane, dressed in a calico frock, with clean white neckerchief and apron, carrying the wonderful baby in honor of whose naming this feast had been given. Though only six weeks old, the little Theodore had grown rapidly, and Mammy Jane declared was already quite large for his age, and displayed signs of an unusually precocious intelligence. He was passed around the table and duly admired. Clara thought his hair was fine. Ellis inquired about his teeth. Tom put his finger in the baby's fist to test his grip. Old Mr. Delamere was unable to decide as yet whether he favored most his father or his mother. The object of these attentions endured them patiently for several minutes, and then protested with a vocal vigor which led to his being taken promptly back upstairs. Whatever fate might be in store for him, he manifested no sign of weak lungs. "Sandy," said Mrs. Carteret when the baby had retired, "pass that tray standing upon the side table, so that we may all see the presents." Mr. Delamere had brought a silver spoon, and Tom a napkin ring. Ellis had sent a silver watch; it was a little premature, he admitted, but the boy would grow to it, and could use it to play with in the mean time. It had a glass back, so that he might see the wheels go round. Mrs. Ochiltree's present was an old and yellow ivory rattle, with a handle which the child could bite while teething, and a knob screwed on at the end to prevent the handle from slipping through the baby's hand. "I saw that in your cedar chest, Aunt Polly," said Clara, "when I was a little girl, and you used to pull the chest out from under your bed to get me a dime." "You kept the rattle in the right-hand corner of the chest," said Tom, "in the box with the red silk purse, from which you took the gold piece you gave me every Christmas." A smile shone on Mrs. Ochiltree's severe features at this appreciation, like a ray of sunlight on a snowbank. "Aunt Polly's chest is like the widow's cruse," said Mrs. Carteret, "which was never empty." "Or Fortunatus's purse, which was always full," added old Mr. Delamere, who read the Latin poets, and whose allusions were apt to be classical rather than scriptural. "It will last me while I live," said Mrs. Ochiltree, adding cautiously, "but there'll not be a great deal left. It won't take much to support an old woman for twenty years." Mr. Delamere's man Sandy had been waiting upon the table with the decorum of a trained butler, and a gravity all his own. He had changed his suit of plain gray for a long blue coat with brass buttons, which dated back to the fashion of a former generation, with which he wore a pair of plaid trousers of strikingly modern cut and pattern. With his whiskers, his spectacles, and his solemn air of responsibility, he would have presented, to one unfamiliar with the negro type, an amusingly impressive appearance. But there was nothing incongruous about Sandy to this company, except perhaps to Tom Delamere, who possessed a keen eye for contrasts and always regarded Sandy, in that particular rig, as a very comical darkey. "Is it quite prudent, Mrs. Ochiltree," suggested the major at a moment when Sandy, having set down the tray, had left the room for a little while, "to mention, in the presence of the servants, that you keep money in the house?" "I beg your pardon, major," observed old Mr. Delamere, with a touch of stiffness. "The only servant in hearing of the conversation has been my own; and Sandy is as honest as any man in Wellington." "You mean, sir," replied Carteret, with a smile, "as honest as any negro in Wellington." "I make no exceptions, major," returned the old gentleman, with emphasis. "I would trust Sandy with my life,--he saved it once at the risk of his own." "No doubt," mused the major, "the negro is capable of a certain doglike fidelity,--I make the comparison in a kindly sense,--a certain personal devotion which is admirable in itself, and fits him eminently for a servile career. I should imagine, however, that one could more safely trust his life with a negro than his portable property." "Very clever, major! I read your paper, and know that your feeling is hostile toward the negro, but"-- The major made a gesture of dissent, but remained courteously silent until Mr. Delamere had finished. "For my part," the old gentleman went on, "I think they have done very well, considering what they started from, and their limited opportunities. There was Adam Miller, for instance, who left a comfortable estate. His son George carries on the business, and the younger boy, William, is a good doctor and stands well with his profession. His hospital is a good thing, and if my estate were clear, I should like to do something for it." "You are mistaken, sir, in imagining me hostile to the negro," explained Carteret. "On the contrary, I am friendly to his best interests. I give him employment; I pay taxes for schools to educate him, and for court-houses and jails to keep him in order. I merely object to being governed by an inferior and servile race." Mrs. Carteret's face wore a tired expression. This question was her husband's hobby, and therefore her own nightmare. Moreover, she had her personal grievance against the negro race, and the names mentioned by old Mr. Delamere had brought it vividly before her mind. She had no desire to mar the harmony of the occasion by the discussion of a distasteful subject. Mr. Delamere, glancing at his hostess, read something of this thought, and refused the challenge to further argument. "I do not believe, major," he said, "that Olivia relishes the topic. I merely wish to say that Sandy is an exception to any rule which you may formulate in derogation of the negro. Sandy is a gentleman in ebony!" Tom could scarcely preserve his gravity at this characterization of old Sandy, with his ridiculous air of importance, his long blue coat, and his loud plaid trousers. That suit would make a great costume for a masquerade. He would borrow it some time,--there was nothing in the world like it. "Well, Mr. Delamere," returned the major good-humoredly, "no doubt Sandy is an exceptionally good negro,--he might well be, for he has had the benefit of your example all his life,--and we know that he is a faithful servant. But nevertheless, if I were Mrs. Ochiltree, I should put my money in the bank. Not all negroes are as honest as Sandy, and an elderly lady might not prove a match for a burly black burglar." "Thank you, major," retorted Mrs. Ochiltree, with spirit, "I'm not yet too old to take care of myself. That cedar chest has been my bank for forty years, and I shall not change my habits at my age." At this moment Sandy reëntered the room. Carteret made a warning gesture, which Mrs. Ochiltree chose not to notice. "I've proved a match for two husbands, and am not afraid of any man that walks the earth, black or white, by day or night. I have a revolver, and know how to use it. Whoever attempts to rob me will do so at his peril." After dinner Clara played the piano and sang duets with Tom Delamere. At nine o'clock Mr. Delamere's carriage came for him, and he went away accompanied by Sandy. Under cover of the darkness the old gentleman leaned on his servant's arm with frank dependence, and Sandy lifted him into the carriage with every mark of devotion. Ellis had already excused himself to go to the office and look over the late proofs for the morning paper. Tom remained a few minutes longer than his grandfather, and upon taking his leave went round to the Clarendon Club, where he spent an hour or two in the card-room with a couple of congenial friends. Luck seemed to favor him, and he went home at midnight with a comfortable balance of winnings. He was fond of excitement, and found a great deal of it in cards. To lose was only less exciting than to win. Of late he had developed into a very successful player,--so successful, indeed, that several members of the club generally found excuses to avoid participating in a game where he made one. III THE EDITOR AT WORK To go back a little, for several days after his child's birth Major Carteret's chief interest in life had been confined to the four walls of the chamber where his pale wife lay upon her bed of pain, and those of the adjoining room where an old black woman crooned lovingly over a little white infant. A new element had been added to the major's consciousness, broadening the scope and deepening the strength of his affections. He did not love Olivia the less, for maternity had crowned her wifehood with an added glory; but side by side with this old and tried attachment was a new passion, stirring up dormant hopes and kindling new desires. His regret had been more than personal at the thought that with himself an old name should be lost to the State; and now all the old pride of race, class, and family welled up anew, and swelled and quickened the current of his life. Upon the major's first appearance at the office, which took place the second day after the child's birth, he opened a box of cigars in honor of the event. The word had been passed around by Ellis, and the whole office force, including reporters, compositors, and pressmen, came in to congratulate the major and smoke at his expense. Even Jerry, the colored porter,--Mammy Jane's grandson and therefore a protégé of the family,--presented himself among the rest, or rather, after the rest. The major shook hands with them all except Jerry, though he acknowledged the porter's congratulations with a kind nod and put a good cigar into his outstretched palm, for which Jerry thanked him without manifesting any consciousness of the omission. He was quite aware that under ordinary circumstances the major would not have shaken hands with white workingmen, to say nothing of negroes; and he had merely hoped that in the pleasurable distraction of the moment the major might also overlook the distinction of color. Jerry's hope had been shattered, though not rudely; for the major had spoken pleasantly and the cigar was a good one. Mr. Ellis had once shaken hands with Jerry,--but Mr. Ellis was a young man, whose Quaker father had never owned any slaves, and he could not be expected to have as much pride as one of the best "quality," whose families had possessed land and negroes for time out of mind. On the whole, Jerry preferred the careless nod of the editor-in-chief to the more familiar greeting of the subaltern. Having finished this pleasant ceremony, which left him with a comfortable sense of his new dignity, the major turned to his desk. It had been much neglected during the week, and more than one matter claimed his attention; but as typical of the new trend of his thoughts, the first subject he took up was one bearing upon the future of his son. Quite obviously the career of a Carteret must not be left to chance,--it must be planned and worked out with a due sense of the value of good blood. There lay upon his desk a letter from a well-known promoter, offering the major an investment which promised large returns, though several years must elapse before the enterprise could be put upon a paying basis. The element of time, however, was not immediately important. The Morning Chronicle provided him an ample income. The money available for this investment was part of his wife's patrimony. It was invested in a local cotton mill, which was paying ten per cent., but this was a beggarly return compared with the immense profits promised by the offered investment,--profits which would enable his son, upon reaching manhood, to take a place in the world commensurate with the dignity of his ancestors, one of whom, only a few generations removed, had owned an estate of ninety thousand acres of land and six thousand slaves. This letter having been disposed of by an answer accepting the offer, the major took up his pen to write an editorial. Public affairs in the state were not going to his satisfaction. At the last state election his own party, after an almost unbroken rule of twenty years, had been defeated by the so-called "Fusion" ticket, a combination of Republicans and Populists. A clean sweep had been made of the offices in the state, which were now filled by new men. Many of the smaller places had gone to colored men, their people having voted almost solidly for the Fusion ticket. In spite of the fact that the population of Wellington was two thirds colored, this state of things was gall and wormwood to the defeated party, of which the Morning Chronicle was the acknowledged organ. Major Carteret shared this feeling. Only this very morning, while passing the city hall, on his way to the office, he had seen the steps of that noble building disfigured by a fringe of job-hunting negroes, for all the world--to use a local simile--like a string of buzzards sitting on a rail, awaiting their opportunity to batten upon the helpless corpse of a moribund city. Taking for his theme the unfitness of the negro to participate in government,--an unfitness due to his limited education, his lack of experience, his criminal tendencies, and more especially to his hopeless mental and physical inferiority to the white race,--the major had demonstrated, it seemed to him clearly enough, that the ballot in the hands of the negro was a menace to the commonwealth. He had argued, with entire conviction, that the white and black races could never attain social and political harmony by commingling their blood; he had proved by several historical parallels that no two unassimilable races could ever live together except in the relation of superior and inferior; and he was just dipping his gold pen into the ink to indite his conclusions from the premises thus established, when Jerry, the porter, announced two visitors. "Gin'l Belmont an' Cap'n McBane would like ter see you, suh." "Show them in, Jerry." The man who entered first upon this invitation was a dapper little gentleman with light-blue eyes and a Vandyke beard. He wore a frock coat, patent leather shoes, and a Panama hat. There were crow's-feet about his eyes, which twinkled with a hard and, at times, humorous shrewdness. He had sloping shoulders, small hands and feet, and walked with the leisurely step characteristic of those who have been reared under hot suns. Carteret gave his hand cordially to the gentleman thus described. "How do you do, Captain McBane," he said, turning to the second visitor. The individual thus addressed was strikingly different in appearance from his companion. His broad shoulders, burly form, square jaw, and heavy chin betokened strength, energy, and unscrupulousness. With the exception of a small, bristling mustache, his face was clean shaven, with here and there a speck of dried blood due to a carelessly or unskillfully handled razor. A single deep-set gray eye was shadowed by a beetling brow, over which a crop of coarse black hair, slightly streaked with gray, fell almost low enough to mingle with his black, bushy eyebrows. His coat had not been brushed for several days, if one might judge from the accumulation of dandruff upon the collar, and his shirt-front, in the middle of which blazed a showy diamond, was plentifully stained with tobacco juice. He wore a large slouch hat, which, upon entering the office, he removed and held in his hand. Having greeted this person with an unconscious but quite perceptible diminution of the warmth with which he had welcomed the other, the major looked around the room for seats for his visitors, and perceiving only one chair, piled with exchanges, and a broken stool propped against the wall, pushed a button, which rang a bell in the hall, summoning the colored porter to his presence. "Jerry," said the editor when his servant appeared, "bring a couple of chairs for these gentlemen." While they stood waiting, the visitors congratulated the major on the birth of his child, which had been announced in the Morning Chronicle, and which the prominence of the family made in some degree a matter of public interest. "And now that you have a son, major," remarked the gentleman first described, as he lit one of the major's cigars, "you'll be all the more interested in doing something to make this town fit to live in, which is what we came up to talk about. Things are in an awful condition! A negro justice of the peace has opened an office on Market Street, and only yesterday summoned a white man to appear before him. Negro lawyers get most of the business in the criminal court. Last evening a group of young white ladies, going quietly along the street arm-in-arm, were forced off the sidewalk by a crowd of negro girls. Coming down the street just now, I saw a spectacle of social equality and negro domination that made my blood boil with indignation,--a white and a black convict, chained together, crossing the city in charge of a negro officer! We cannot stand that sort of thing, Carteret,--it is the last straw! Something must be done, and that quickly!" The major thrilled with responsive emotion. There was something prophetic in this opportune visit. The matter was not only in his own thoughts, but in the air; it was the spontaneous revulsion of white men against the rule of an inferior race. These were the very men, above all others in the town, to join him in a movement to change these degrading conditions. General Belmont, the smaller of the two, was a man of good family, a lawyer by profession, and took an active part in state and local politics. Aristocratic by birth and instinct, and a former owner of slaves, his conception of the obligations and rights of his caste was nevertheless somewhat lower than that of the narrower but more sincere Carteret. In serious affairs Carteret desired the approval of his conscience, even if he had to trick that docile organ into acquiescence. This was not difficult to do in politics, for he believed in the divine right of white men and gentlemen, as his ancestors had believed in and died for the divine right of kings. General Belmont was not without a gentleman's distaste for meanness, but he permitted no fine scruples to stand in the way of success. He had once been minister, under a Democratic administration, to a small Central American state. Political rivals had characterized him as a tricky demagogue, which may of course have been a libel. He had an amiable disposition, possessed the gift of eloquence, and was a prime social favorite. Captain George McBane had sprung from the poor-white class, to which, even more than to the slaves, the abolition of slavery had opened the door of opportunity. No longer overshadowed by a slaveholding caste, some of this class had rapidly pushed themselves forward. Some had made honorable records. Others, foremost in negro-baiting and election frauds, had done the dirty work of politics, as their fathers had done that of slavery, seeking their reward at first in minor offices,--for which men of gentler breeding did not care,--until their ambition began to reach out for higher honors. Of this class McBane--whose captaincy, by the way, was merely a polite fiction--had been one of the most successful. He had held, until recently, as the reward of questionable political services, a contract with the State for its convict labor, from which in a few years he had realized a fortune. But the methods which made his contract profitable had not commended themselves to humane people, and charges of cruelty and worse had been preferred against him. He was rich enough to escape serious consequences from the investigation which followed, but when the Fusion ticket carried the state he lost his contract, and the system of convict labor was abolished. Since then McBane had devoted himself to politics: he was ambitious for greater wealth, for office, and for social recognition. A man of few words and self-engrossed, he seldom spoke of his aspirations except where speech might favor them, preferring to seek his ends by secret "deals" and combinations rather than to challenge criticism and provoke rivalry by more open methods. At sight, therefore, of these two men, with whose careers and characters he was entirely familiar, Carteret felt sweep over his mind the conviction that now was the time and these the instruments with which to undertake the redemption of the state from the evil fate which had befallen it. Jerry, the porter, who had gone downstairs to the counting-room to find two whole chairs, now entered with one in each hand. He set a chair for the general, who gave him an amiable nod, to which Jerry responded with a bow and a scrape. Captain McBane made no acknowledgment, but fixed Jerry so fiercely with his single eye that upon placing the chair Jerry made his escape from the room as rapidly as possible. "I don' like dat Cap'n McBane," he muttered, upon reaching the hall. "Dey says he got dat eye knock' out tryin' ter whip a cullud 'oman, when he wuz a boy, an' dat he ain' never had no use fer niggers sence,--'cep'n' fer what he could make outen 'em wid his convic' labor contrac's. His daddy wuz a' overseer befo' 'im, an' it come nachul fer him ter be a nigger-driver. I don' want dat one eye er his'n restin' on me no longer 'n I kin he'p, an' I don' know how I'm gwine ter like dis job ef he's gwine ter be comin' roun' here. He ain' nothin' but po' w'ite trash nohow; but Lawd! Lawd! look at de money he's got,--livin' at de hotel, wearin' di'mon's, an' colloguin' wid de bes' quality er dis town! 'Pears ter me de bottom rail is gittin' mighty close ter de top. Well, I s'pose it all comes f'm bein' w'ite. I wush ter Gawd I wuz w'ite!" After this fervent aspiration, having nothing else to do for the time being, except to remain within call, and having caught a few words of the conversation as he went in with the chairs, Jerry, who possessed a certain amount of curiosity, placed close to the wall the broken stool upon which he sat while waiting in the hall, and applied his ear to a hole in the plastering of the hallway. There was a similar defect in the inner wall, between the same two pieces of studding, and while this inner opening was not exactly opposite the outer, Jerry was enabled, through the two, to catch in a more or less fragmentary way what was going on within. He could hear the major, now and then, use the word "negro," and McBane's deep voice was quite audible when he referred, it seemed to Jerry with alarming frequency, to "the damned niggers," while the general's suave tones now and then pronounced the word "niggro,"--a sort of compromise between ethnology and the vernacular. That the gentlemen were talking politics seemed quite likely, for gentlemen generally talked politics when they met at the Chronicle office. Jerry could hear the words "vote," "franchise," "eliminate," "constitution," and other expressions which marked the general tenor of the talk, though he could not follow it all,--partly because he could not hear everything distinctly, and partly because of certain limitations which nature had placed in the way of Jerry's understanding anything very difficult or abstruse. He had gathered enough, however, to realize, in a vague way, that something serious was on foot, involving his own race, when a bell sounded over his head, at which he sprang up hastily and entered the room where the gentlemen were talking. "Jerry," said the major, "wait on Captain McBane." "Yas, suh," responded Jerry, turning toward the captain, whose eye he carefully avoided meeting directly. "Take that half a dollar, boy," ordered McBane, "an' go 'cross the street to Mr. Sykes's, and tell him to send me three whiskies. Bring back the change, and make has'e." The captain tossed the half dollar at Jerry, who, looking to one side, of course missed it. He picked the money up, however, and backed out of the room. Jerry did not like Captain McBane, to begin with, and it was clear that the captain was no gentleman, or he would not have thrown the money at him. Considering the source, Jerry might have overlooked this discourtesy had it not been coupled with the remark about the change, which seemed to him in very poor taste. Returning in a few minutes with three glasses on a tray, he passed them round, handed Captain McBane his change, and retired to the hall. "Gentlemen," exclaimed the captain, lifting his glass, "I propose a toast: 'No nigger domination.'" "Amen!" said the others, and three glasses were solemnly drained. "Major," observed the general, smacking his lips, "_I_ should like to use Jerry for a moment, if you will permit me." Jerry appeared promptly at the sound of the bell. He had remained conveniently near,--calls of this sort were apt to come in sequence. "Jerry," said the general, handing Jerry half a dollar, "go over to Mr. Brown's,--I get my liquor there,--and tell them to send me three glasses of my special mixture. And, Jerry,--you may keep the change!" "Thank y', gin'l, thank y', marster," replied Jerry, with unctuous gratitude, bending almost double as he backed out of the room. "Dat's a gent'eman, a rale ole-time gent'eman," he said to himself when he had closed the door. "But dere's somethin' gwine on in dere,--dere sho' is! 'No nigger damnation!' Dat soun's all right,--I'm sho' dere ain' no nigger I knows w'at wants damnation, do' dere's lots of 'em w'at deserves it; but ef dat one-eyed Cap'n McBane got anything ter do wid it, w'atever it is, it don' mean no good fer de niggers,--damnation'd be better fer 'em dan dat Cap'n McBane! He looks at a nigger lack he could jes' eat 'im alive." "This mixture, gentlemen," observed the general when Jerry had returned with the glasses, "was originally compounded by no less a person than the great John C. Calhoun himself, who confided the recipe to my father over the convivial board. In this nectar of the gods, gentlemen, I drink with you to 'White Supremacy!'" "White Supremacy everywhere!" added McBane with fervor. "Now and forever!" concluded Carteret solemnly. When the visitors, half an hour later, had taken their departure, Carteret, inspired by the theme, and in less degree by the famous mixture of the immortal Calhoun, turned to his desk and finished, at a white heat, his famous editorial in which he sounded the tocsin of a new crusade. At noon, when the editor, having laid down his pen, was leaving the office, he passed Jerry in the hall without a word or a nod. The major wore a rapt look, which Jerry observed with a vague uneasiness. "He looks jes' lack he wuz walkin' in his sleep," muttered Jerry uneasily. "Dere's somethin' up, sho 's you bawn! 'No nigger damnation!' Anybody'd 'low dey wuz all gwine ter heaven; but I knows better! W'en a passel er w'ite folks gits ter talkin' 'bout de niggers lack dem in yander, it's mo' lackly dey're gwine ter ketch somethin' e'se dan heaven! I got ter keep my eyes open an' keep up wid w'at's happenin'. Ef dere's gwine ter be anudder flood 'roun' here, I wants ter git in de ark wid de w'ite folks,--I may haf ter be anudder Ham, an' sta't de cullud race all over ag'in." IV THEODORE FELIX The young heir of the Carterets had thriven apace, and at six months old was, according to Mammy Jane, whose experience qualified her to speak with authority, the largest, finest, smartest, and altogether most remarkable baby that had ever lived in Wellington. Mammy Jane had recently suffered from an attack of inflammatory rheumatism, as the result of which she had returned to her own home. She nevertheless came now and then to see Mrs. Carteret. A younger nurse had been procured to take her place, but it was understood that Jane would come whenever she might be needed. "You really mean that about Dodie, do you, Mammy Jane?" asked the delighted mother, who never tired of hearing her own opinion confirmed concerning this wonderful child, which had come to her like an angel from heaven. "Does I mean it!" exclaimed Mammy Jane, with a tone and an expression which spoke volumes of reproach. "Now, Mis' 'Livy, what is I ever uttered er said er spoke er done dat would make you s'pose I could tell you a lie 'bout yo' own chile?" "No, Mammy Jane, I'm sure you wouldn't." "'Deed, ma'am, I'm tellin' you de Lawd's truf. I don' haf ter tell no lies ner strain no p'ints 'bout my ole mist'ess's gran'chile. Dis yer boy is de ve'y spit an' image er yo' brother, young Mars Alick, w'at died w'en he wuz 'bout eight mont's ole, w'iles I wuz laid off havin' a baby er my own, an' couldn' be roun' ter look after 'im. An' dis chile is a rale quality chile, he is,--I never seed a baby wid sech fine hair fer his age, ner sech blue eyes, ner sech a grip, ner sech a heft. W'y, dat chile mus' weigh 'bout twenty-fo' poun's, an' he not but six mont's ole. Does dat gal w'at does de nussin' w'iles I'm gone ten' ter dis chile right, Mis' 'Livy?" "She does fairly well, Mammy Jane, but I could hardly expect her to love the baby as you do. There's no one like you, Mammy Jane." "'Deed dere ain't, honey; you is talkin' de gospel truf now! None er dese yer young folks ain' got de trainin' my ole mist'ess give me. Dese yer new-fangle' schools don' l'arn 'em nothin' ter compare wid it. I'm jes' gwine ter give dat gal a piece er my min', befo' I go, so she'll ten' ter dis chile right." The nurse came in shortly afterwards, a neat-looking brown girl, dressed in a clean calico gown, with a nurse's cap and apron. "Look a-here, gal," said Mammy Jane sternly, "I wants you ter understan' dat you got ter take good keer er dis chile; fer I nussed his mammy dere, an' his gran'mammy befo' 'im, an' you is got a priv'lege dat mos' lackly you don' 'preciate. I wants you to 'member, in yo' incomin's an' outgoin's, dat I got my eye on you, an' am gwine ter see dat you does yo' wo'k right." "Do you need me for anything, ma'am?" asked the young nurse, who had stood before Mrs. Carteret, giving Mammy Jane a mere passing glance, and listening impassively to her harangue. The nurse belonged to the younger generation of colored people. She had graduated from the mission school, and had received some instruction in Dr. Miller's class for nurses. Standing, like most young people of her race, on the border line between two irreconcilable states of life, she had neither the picturesqueness of the slave, nor the unconscious dignity of those of whom freedom has been the immemorial birthright; she was in what might be called the chip-on-the-shoulder stage, through which races as well as individuals must pass in climbing the ladder of life,--not an interesting, at least not an agreeable stage, but an inevitable one, and for that reason entitled to a paragraph in a story of Southern life, which, with its as yet imperfect blending of old with new, of race with race, of slavery with freedom, is like no other life under the sun. Had this old woman, who had no authority over her, been a little more polite, or a little less offensive, the nurse might have returned her a pleasant answer. These old-time negroes, she said to herself, made her sick with their slavering over the white folks, who, she supposed, favored them and made much of them because they had once belonged to them,--much the same reason why they fondled their cats and dogs. For her own part, they gave her nothing but her wages, and small wages at that, and she owed them nothing more than equivalent service. It was purely a matter of business; she sold her time for their money. There was no question of love between them. Receiving a negative answer from Mrs. Carteret, she left the room without a word, ignoring Mammy Jane completely, and leaving that venerable relic of ante-bellum times gasping in helpless astonishment. "Well, I nevuh!" she ejaculated, as soon as she could get her breath, "ef dat ain' de beatinis' pe'fo'mance I ever seed er heared of! Dese yer young niggers ain' got de manners dey wuz bawned wid! I don' know w'at dey're comin' to, w'en dey ain' got no mo' rispec' fer ole age--I don' know--I don' know!" "Now what are you croaking about, Jane?" asked Major Carteret, who came into the room and took the child into his arms. Mammy Jane hobbled to her feet and bobbed a curtsy. She was never lacking in respect to white people of proper quality; but Major Carteret, the quintessence of aristocracy, called out all her reserves of deference. The major was always kind and considerate to these old family retainers, brought up in the feudal atmosphere now so rapidly passing away. Mammy Jane loved Mrs. Carteret; toward the major she entertained a feeling bordering upon awe. "Well, Jane," returned the major sadly, when the old nurse had related her grievance, "the old times have vanished, the old ties have been ruptured. The old relations of dependence and loyal obedience on the part of the colored people, the responsibility of protection and kindness upon that of the whites, have passed away forever. The young negroes are too self-assertive. Education is spoiling them, Jane; they have been badly taught. They are not content with their station in life. Some time they will overstep the mark. The white people are patient, but there is a limit to their endurance." "Dat's w'at I tells dese young niggers," groaned Mammy Jane, with a portentous shake of her turbaned head, "w'en I hears 'em gwine on wid deir foolishniss; but dey don' min' me. Dey 'lows dey knows mo' d'n I does, 'ca'se dey be'n l'arnt ter look in a book. But, pshuh! my ole mist'ess showed me mo' d'n dem niggers 'll l'arn in a thousan' years! I 's fetch' my gran'son' Jerry up ter be 'umble, an' keep in 'is place. An' I tells dese other niggers dat ef dey'd do de same, an' not crowd de w'ite folks, dey'd git ernuff ter eat, an' live out deir days in peace an' comfo't. But dey don' min' me--dey don' min' me!" "If all the colored people were like you and Jerry, Jane," rejoined the major kindly, "there would never be any trouble. You have friends upon whom, in time of need, you can rely implicitly for protection and succor. You served your mistress faithfully before the war; you remained by her when the other negroes were running hither and thither like sheep without a shepherd; and you have transferred your allegiance to my wife and her child. We think a great deal of you, Jane." "Yes, indeed, Mammy Jane," assented Mrs. Carteret, with sincere affection, glancing with moist eyes from the child in her husband's arms to the old nurse, whose dark face was glowing with happiness at these expressions of appreciation, "you shall never want so long as we have anything. We would share our last crust with you." "Thank y', Mis' 'Livy," said Jane with reciprocal emotion, "I knows who my frien's is, an' I ain' gwine ter let nothin' worry me. But fer de Lawd's sake, Mars Philip, gimme dat chile, an' lemme pat 'im on de back, er he'll choke hisse'f ter death!" The old nurse had been the first to observe that little Dodie, for some reason, was gasping for breath. Catching the child from the major's arms, she patted it on the back, and shook it gently. After a moment of this treatment, the child ceased to gasp, but still breathed heavily, with a strange, whistling noise. "Oh, my child!" exclaimed the mother, in great alarm, taking the baby in her own arms, "what can be the matter with him, Mammy Jane?" "Fer de Lawd's sake, ma'am, I don' know, 'less he's swallered somethin'; an' he ain' had nothin' in his han's but de rattle Mis' Polly give 'im." Mrs. Carteret caught up the ivory rattle, which hung suspended by a ribbon from the baby's neck. "He has swallowed the little piece off the end of the handle," she cried, turning pale with fear, "and it has lodged in his throat. Telephone Dr. Price to come immediately, Philip, before my baby chokes to death! Oh, my baby, my precious baby!" An anxious half hour passed, during which the child lay quiet, except for its labored breathing. The suspense was relieved by the arrival of Dr. Price, who examined the child carefully. "It's a curious accident," he announced at the close of his inspection. "So far as I can discover, the piece of ivory has been drawn into the trachea, or windpipe, and has lodged in the mouth of the right bronchus. I'll try to get it out without an operation, but I can't guarantee the result." At the end of another half hour Dr. Price announced his inability to remove the obstruction without resorting to more serious measures. "I do not see," he declared, "how an operation can be avoided." "Will it be dangerous?" inquired the major anxiously, while Mrs. Carteret shivered at the thought. "It will be necessary to cut into his throat from the outside. All such operations are more or less dangerous, especially on small children. If this were some other child, I might undertake the operation unassisted; but I know how you value this one, major, and I should prefer to share the responsibility with a specialist." "Is there one in town?" asked the major. "No, but we can get one from out of town." "Send for the best one in the country," said the major, "who can be got here in time. Spare no expense, Dr. Price. We value this child above any earthly thing." "The best is the safest," replied Dr. Price. "I will send for Dr. Burns, of Philadelphia, the best surgeon in that line in America. If he can start at once, he can reach here in sixteen or eighteen hours, and the case can wait even longer, if inflammation does not set in." The message was dispatched forthwith. By rare good fortune the eminent specialist was able to start within an hour or two after the receipt of Dr. Price's telegram. Meanwhile the baby remained restless and uneasy, the doctor spending most of his time by its side. Mrs. Carteret, who had never been quite strong since the child's birth, was a prey to the most agonizing apprehensions. Mammy Jane, while not presuming to question the opinion of Dr. Price, and not wishing to add to her mistress's distress, was secretly oppressed by forebodings which she was unable to shake off. The child was born for bad luck. The mole under its ear, just at the point where the hangman's knot would strike, had foreshadowed dire misfortune. She had already observed several little things which had rendered her vaguely anxious. For instance, upon one occasion, on entering the room where the baby had been left alone, asleep in his crib, she had met a strange cat hurrying from the nursery, and, upon examining closely the pillow upon which the child lay, had found a depression which had undoubtedly been due to the weight of the cat's body. The child was restless and uneasy, and Jane had ever since believed that the cat had been sucking little Dodie's breath, with what might have been fatal results had she not appeared just in the nick of time. This untimely accident of the rattle, a fatality for which no one could be held responsible, had confirmed the unlucky omen. Jane's duties in the nursery did not permit her to visit her friend the conjure woman; but she did find time to go out in the back yard at dusk, and to dig up the charm which she had planted there. It had protected the child so far; but perhaps its potency had become exhausted. She picked up the bottle, shook it vigorously, and then laid it back, with the other side up. Refilling the hole, she made a cross over the top with the thumb of her left hand, and walked three times around it. What this strange symbolism meant, or whence it derived its origin, Aunt Jane did not know. The cross was there, and the Trinity, though Jane was scarcely conscious of these, at this moment, as religious emblems. But she hoped, on general principles, that this performance would strengthen the charm and restore little Dodie's luck. It certainly had its moral effect upon Jane's own mind, for she was able to sleep better, and contrived to impress Mrs. Carteret with her own hopefulness. V A JOURNEY SOUTHWARD As the south-bound train was leaving the station at Philadelphia, a gentleman took his seat in the single sleeping-car attached to the train, and proceeded to make himself comfortable. He hung up his hat and opened his newspaper, in which he remained absorbed for a quarter of an hour. When the train had left the city behind, he threw the paper aside, and looked around at the other occupants of the car. One of these, who had been on the car since it had left New York, rose from his seat upon perceiving the other's glance, and came down the aisle. "How do you do, Dr. Burns?" he said, stopping beside the seat of the Philadelphia passenger. The gentleman looked up at the speaker with an air of surprise, which, after the first keen, incisive glance, gave place to an expression of cordial recognition. "Why, it's Miller!" he exclaimed, rising and giving the other his hand, "William Miller--Dr. Miller, of course. Sit down, Miller, and tell me all about yourself,--what you're doing, where you've been, and where you're going. I'm delighted to meet you, and to see you looking so well--and so prosperous." "I deserve no credit for either, sir," returned the other, as he took the proffered seat, "for I inherited both health and prosperity. It is a fortunate chance that permits me to meet you." The two acquaintances, thus opportunely thrown together so that they might while away in conversation the tedium of their journey, represented very different and yet very similar types of manhood. A celebrated traveler, after many years spent in barbarous or savage lands, has said that among all varieties of mankind the similarities are vastly more important and fundamental than the differences. Looking at these two men with the American eye, the differences would perhaps be the more striking, or at least the more immediately apparent, for the first was white and the second black, or, more correctly speaking, brown; it was even a light brown, but both his swarthy complexion and his curly hair revealed what has been described in the laws of some of our states as a "visible admixture" of African blood. Having disposed of this difference, and having observed that the white man was perhaps fifty years of age and the other not more than thirty, it may be said that they were both tall and sturdy, both well dressed, the white man with perhaps a little more distinction; both seemed from their faces and their manners to be men of culture and accustomed to the society of cultivated people. They were both handsome men, the elder representing a fine type of Anglo-Saxon, as the term is used in speaking of our composite white population; while the mulatto's erect form, broad shoulders, clear eyes, fine teeth, and pleasingly moulded features showed nowhere any sign of that degeneration which the pessimist so sadly maintains is the inevitable heritage of mixed races. As to their personal relations, it has already appeared that they were members of the same profession. In past years they had been teacher and pupil. Dr. Alvin Burns was professor in the famous medical college where Miller had attended lectures. The professor had taken an interest in his only colored pupil, to whom he had been attracted by his earnestness of purpose, his evident talent, and his excellent manners and fine physique. It was in part due to Dr. Burns's friendship that Miller had won a scholarship which had enabled him, without drawing too heavily upon his father's resources, to spend in Europe, studying in the hospitals of Paris and Vienna, the two most delightful years of his life. The same influence had strengthened his natural inclination toward operative surgery, in which Dr. Burns was a distinguished specialist of national reputation. Miller's father, Adam Miller, had been a thrifty colored man, the son of a slave, who, in the olden time, had bought himself with money which he had earned and saved, over and above what he had paid his master for his time. Adam Miller had inherited his father's thrift, as well as his trade, which was that of a stevedore, or contractor for the loading and unloading of vessels at the port of Wellington. In the flush turpentine days following a few years after the civil war, he had made money. His savings, shrewdly invested, had by constant accessions become a competence. He had brought up his eldest son to the trade; the other he had given a professional education, in the proud hope that his children or his grandchildren might be gentlemen in the town where their ancestors had once been slaves. Upon his father's death, shortly after Dr. Miller's return from Europe, and a year or two before the date at which this story opens, he had promptly spent part of his inheritance in founding a hospital, to which was to be added a training school for nurses, and in time perhaps a medical college and a school of pharmacy. He had been strongly tempted to leave the South, and seek a home for his family and a career for himself in the freer North, where race antagonism was less keen, or at least less oppressive, or in Europe, where he had never found his color work to his disadvantage. But his people had needed him, and he had wished to help them, and had sought by means of this institution to contribute to their uplifting. As he now informed Dr. Burns, he was returning from New York, where he had been in order to purchase equipment for his new hospital, which would soon be ready for the reception of patients. "How much I can accomplish I do not know," said Miller, "but I'll do what I can. There are eight or nine million of us, and it will take a great deal of learning of all kinds to leaven that lump." "It is a great problem, Miller, the future of your race," returned the other, "a tremendously interesting problem. It is a serial story which we are all reading, and which grows in vital interest with each successive installment. It is not only your problem, but ours. Your race must come up or drag ours down." "We shall come up," declared Miller; "slowly and painfully, perhaps, but we shall win our way. If our race had made as much progress everywhere as they have made in Wellington, the problem would be well on the way toward solution." "Wellington?" exclaimed Dr. Burns. "That's where I'm going. A Dr. Price, of Wellington, has sent for me to perform an operation on a child's throat. Do you know Dr. Price?" "Quite well," replied Miller, "he is a friend of mine." "So much the better. I shall want you to assist me. I read in the Medical Gazette, the other day, an account of a very interesting operation of yours. I felt proud to number you among my pupils. It was a remarkable case--a rare case. I must certainly have you with me in this one." "I shall be delighted, sir," returned Miller, "if it is agreeable to all concerned." Several hours were passed in pleasant conversation while the train sped rapidly southward. They were already far down in Virginia, and had stopped at a station beyond Richmond, when the conductor entered the car. "All passengers," he announced, "will please transfer to the day coaches ahead. The sleeper has a hot box, and must be switched off here." Dr. Burns and Miller obeyed the order, the former leading the way into the coach immediately in front of the sleeping-car. "Let's sit here, Miller," he said, having selected a seat near the rear of the car and deposited his suitcase in a rack. "It's on the shady side." Miller stood a moment hesitatingly, but finally took the seat indicated, and a few minutes later the journey was again resumed. When the train conductor made his round after leaving the station, he paused at the seat occupied by the two doctors, glanced interrogatively at Miller, and then spoke to Dr. Burns, who sat in the end of the seat nearest the aisle. "This man is with you?" he asked, indicating Miller with a slight side movement of his head, and a keen glance in his direction. "Certainly," replied Dr. Burns curtly, and with some surprise. "Don't you see that he is?" The conductor passed on. Miller paid no apparent attention to this little interlude, though no syllable had escaped him. He resumed the conversation where it had been broken off, but nevertheless followed with his eyes the conductor, who stopped at a seat near the forward end of the car, and engaged in conversation with a man whom Miller had not hitherto noticed. As this passenger turned his head and looked back toward Miller, the latter saw a broad-shouldered, burly white man, and recognized in his square-cut jaw, his coarse, firm mouth, and the single gray eye with which he swept Miller for an instant with a scornful glance, a well-known character of Wellington, with whom the reader has already made acquaintance in these pages. Captain McBane wore a frock coat and a slouch hat; several buttons of his vest were unbuttoned, and his solitaire diamond blazed in his soiled shirt-front like the headlight of a locomotive. The conductor in his turn looked back at Miller, and retraced his steps. Miller braced himself for what he feared was coming, though he had hoped, on account of his friend's presence, that it might be avoided. "Excuse me, sir," said the conductor, addressing Dr. Burns, "but did I understand you to say that this man was your servant?" "No, indeed!" replied Dr. Burns indignantly. "The gentleman is not my servant, nor anybody's servant, but is my friend. But, by the way, since we are on the subject, may I ask what affair it is of yours?" "It's very much my affair," returned the conductor, somewhat nettled at this questioning of his authority. "I'm sorry to part _friends_, but the law of Virginia does not permit colored passengers to ride in the white cars. You'll have to go forward to the next coach," he added, addressing Miller this time. "I have paid my fare on the sleeping-car, where the separate-car law does not apply," remonstrated Miller. "I can't help that. You can doubtless get your money back from the sleeping-car company. But this is a day coach, and is distinctly marked 'White,' as you must have seen before you sat down here. The sign is put there for that purpose." He indicated a large card neatly framed and hung at the end of the car, containing the legend, "White," in letters about a foot long, painted in white upon a dark background, typical, one might suppose, of the distinction thereby indicated. "You shall not stir a step, Miller," exclaimed Dr. Burns wrathfully. "This is an outrage upon a citizen of a free country. You shall stay right here." "I'm sorry to discommode you," returned the conductor, "but there's no use kicking. It's the law of Virginia, and I am bound by it as well as you. I have already come near losing my place because of not enforcing it, and I can take no more such chances, since I have a family to support." "And my friend has his rights to maintain," returned Dr. Burns with determination. "There is a vital principle at stake in the matter." "Really, sir," argued the conductor, who was a man of peace and not fond of controversy, "there's no use talking--he absolutely cannot ride in this car." "How can you prevent it?" asked Dr. Burns, lapsing into the argumentative stage. "The law gives me the right to remove him by force. I can call on the train crew to assist me, or on the other passengers. If I should choose to put him off the train entirely, in the middle of a swamp, he would have no redress--the law so provides. If I did not wish to use force, I could simply switch this car off at the next siding, transfer the white passengers to another, and leave you and your friend in possession until you were arrested and fined or imprisoned." "What he says is absolutely true, doctor," interposed Miller at this point. "It is the law, and we are powerless to resist it. If we made any trouble, it would merely delay your journey and imperil a life at the other end. I'll go into the other car." "You shall not go alone," said Dr. Burns stoutly, rising in his turn. "A place that is too good for you is not good enough for me. I will sit wherever you do." "I'm sorry again," said the conductor, who had quite recovered his equanimity, and calmly conscious of his power, could scarcely restrain an amused smile; "I dislike to interfere, but white passengers are not permitted to ride in the colored car." "This is an outrage," declared Dr. Burns, "a d----d outrage! You are curtailing the rights, not only of colored people, but of white men as well. I shall sit where I please!" "I warn you, sir," rejoined the conductor, hardening again, "that the law will be enforced. The beauty of the system lies in its strict impartiality--it applies to both races alike." "And is equally infamous in both cases," declared Dr. Burns. "I shall immediately take steps"-- "Never mind, doctor," interrupted Miller, soothingly, "it's only for a little while. I'll reach my destination just as surely in the other car, and we can't help it, anyway. I'll see you again at Wellington." Dr. Burns, finding resistance futile, at length acquiesced and made way for Miller to pass him. The colored doctor took up his valise and crossed the platform to the car ahead. It was an old car, with faded upholstery, from which the stuffing projected here and there through torn places. Apparently the floor had not been swept for several days. The dust lay thick upon the window sills, and the water-cooler, from which he essayed to get a drink, was filled with stale water which had made no recent acquaintance with ice. There was no other passenger in the car, and Miller occupied himself in making a rough calculation of what it would cost the Southern railroads to haul a whole car for every colored passenger. It was expensive, to say the least; it would be cheaper, and quite as considerate of their feelings, to make the negroes walk. The car was conspicuously labeled at either end with large cards, similar to those in the other car, except that they bore the word "Colored" in black letters upon a white background. The author of this piece of legislation had contrived, with an ingenuity worthy of a better cause, that not merely should the passengers be separated by the color line, but that the reason for this division should be kept constantly in mind. Lest a white man should forget that he was white,--not a very likely contingency,--these cards would keep him constantly admonished of the fact; should a colored person endeavor, for a moment, to lose sight of his disability, these staring signs would remind him continually that between him and the rest of mankind not of his own color, there was by law a great gulf fixed. Having composed himself, Miller had opened a newspaper, and was deep in an editorial which set forth in glowing language the inestimable advantages which would follow to certain recently acquired islands by the introduction of American liberty, when the rear door of the car opened to give entrance to Captain George McBane, who took a seat near the door and lit a cigar. Miller knew him quite well by sight and by reputation, and detested him as heartily. He represented the aggressive, offensive element among the white people of the New South, who made it hard for a negro to maintain his self-respect or to enjoy even the rights conceded to colored men by Southern laws. McBane had undoubtedly identified him to the conductor in the other car. Miller had no desire to thrust himself upon the society of white people, which, indeed, to one who had traveled so much and so far, was no novelty; but he very naturally resented being at this late day--the law had been in operation only a few months--branded and tagged and set apart from the rest of mankind upon the public highways, like an unclean thing. Nevertheless, he preferred even this to the exclusive society of Captain George McBane. "Porter," he demanded of the colored train attaché who passed through the car a moment later, "is this a smoking car for white men?" "No, suh," replied the porter, "but they comes in here sometimes, when they ain' no cullud ladies on the kyar." "Well, I have paid first-class fare, and I object to that man's smoking in here. You tell him to go out." "I'll tell the conductor, suh," returned the porter in a low tone. "I 'd jus' as soon talk ter the devil as ter that man." The white man had spread himself over two seats, and was smoking vigorously, from time to time spitting carelessly in the aisle, when the conductor entered the compartment. "Captain," said Miller, "this car is plainly marked 'Colored.' I have paid first-class fare, and I object to riding in a smoking car." "All right," returned the conductor, frowning irritably. "I'll speak to him." He walked over to the white passenger, with whom he was evidently acquainted, since he addressed him by name. "Captain McBane," he said, "it's against the law for you to ride in the nigger car." "Who are you talkin' to?" returned the other. "I'll ride where I damn please." "Yes, sir, but the colored passenger objects. I'm afraid I'll have to ask you to go into the smoking-car." "The hell you say!" rejoined McBane. "I'll leave this car when I get good and ready, and that won't be till I've finished this cigar. See?" He was as good as his word. The conductor escaped from the car before Miller had time for further expostulation. Finally McBane, having thrown the stump of his cigar into the aisle and added to the floor a finishing touch in the way of expectoration, rose and went back into the white car. Left alone in his questionable glory, Miller buried himself again in his newspaper, from which he did not look up until the engine stopped at a tank station to take water. As the train came to a standstill, a huge negro, covered thickly with dust, crawled off one of the rear trucks unobserved, and ran round the rear end of the car to a watering-trough by a neighboring well. Moved either by extreme thirst or by the fear that his time might be too short to permit him to draw a bucket of water, he threw himself down by the trough, drank long and deep, and plunging his head into the water, shook himself like a wet dog, and crept furtively back to his dangerous perch. Miller, who had seen this man from the car window, had noticed a very singular thing. As the dusty tramp passed the rear coach, he cast toward it a glance of intense ferocity. Up to that moment the man's face, which Miller had recognized under its grimy coating, had been that of an ordinarily good-natured, somewhat reckless, pleasure-loving negro, at present rather the worse for wear. The change that now came over it suggested a concentrated hatred almost uncanny in its murderousness. With awakened curiosity Miller followed the direction of the negro's glance, and saw that it rested upon a window where Captain McBane sat looking out. When Miller looked back, the negro had disappeared. At the next station a Chinaman, of the ordinary laundry type, boarded the train, and took his seat in the white car without objection. At another point a colored nurse found a place with her mistress. "White people," said Miller to himself, who had seen these passengers from the window, "do not object to the negro as a servant. As the traditional negro,--the servant,--he is welcomed; as an equal, he is repudiated." Miller was something of a philosopher. He had long ago had the conclusion forced upon him that an educated man of his race, in order to live comfortably in the United States, must be either a philosopher or a fool; and since he wished to be happy, and was not exactly a fool, he had cultivated philosophy. By and by he saw a white man, with a dog, enter the rear coach. Miller wondered whether the dog would be allowed to ride with his master, and if not, what disposition would be made of him. He was a handsome dog, and Miller, who was fond of animals, would not have objected to the company of a dog, as a dog. He was nevertheless conscious of a queer sensation when he saw the porter take the dog by the collar and start in his own direction, and felt consciously relieved when the canine passenger was taken on past him into the baggage-car ahead. Miller's hand was hanging over the arm of his seat, and the dog, an intelligent shepherd, licked it as he passed. Miller was not entirely sure that he would not have liked the porter to leave the dog there; he was a friendly dog, and seemed inclined to be sociable. Toward evening the train drew up at a station where quite a party of farm laborers, fresh from their daily toil, swarmed out from the conspicuously labeled colored waiting-room, and into the car with Miller. They were a jolly, good-natured crowd, and, free from the embarrassing presence of white people, proceeded to enjoy themselves after their own fashion. Here an amorous fellow sat with his arm around a buxom girl's waist. A musically inclined individual--his talents did not go far beyond inclination--produced a mouth-organ and struck up a tune, to which a limber-legged boy danced in the aisle. They were noisy, loquacious, happy, dirty, and malodorous. For a while Miller was amused and pleased. They were his people, and he felt a certain expansive warmth toward them in spite of their obvious shortcomings. By and by, however, the air became too close, and he went out upon the platform. For the sake of the democratic ideal, which meant so much to his race, he might have endured the affliction. He could easily imagine that people of refinement, with the power in their hands, might be tempted to strain the democratic ideal in order to avoid such contact; but personally, and apart from the mere matter of racial sympathy, these people were just as offensive to him as to the whites in the other end of the train. Surely, if a classification of passengers on trains was at all desirable, it might be made upon some more logical and considerate basis than a mere arbitrary, tactless, and, by the very nature of things, brutal drawing of a color line. It was a veritable bed of Procrustes, this standard which the whites had set for the negroes. Those who grew above it must have their heads cut off, figuratively speaking,--must be forced back to the level assigned to their race; those who fell beneath the standard set had their necks stretched, literally enough, as the ghastly record in the daily papers gave conclusive evidence. Miller breathed more freely when the lively crowd got off at the next station, after a short ride. Moreover, he had a light heart, a conscience void of offense, and was only thirty years old. His philosophy had become somewhat jaded on this journey, but he pulled it together for a final effort. Was it not, after all, a wise provision of nature that had given to a race, destined to a long servitude and a slow emergence therefrom, a cheerfulness of spirit which enabled them to catch pleasure on the wing, and endure with equanimity the ills that seemed inevitable? The ability to live and thrive under adverse circumstances is the surest guaranty of the future. The race which at the last shall inherit the earth--the residuary legatee of civilization--will be the race which remains longest upon it. The negro was here before the Anglo-Saxon was evolved, and his thick lips and heavy-lidded eyes looked out from the inscrutable face of the Sphinx across the sands of Egypt while yet the ancestors of those who now oppress him were living in caves, practicing human sacrifice, and painting themselves with woad--and the negro is here yet. "'Blessed are the meek,'" quoted Miller at the end of these consoling reflections, "'for they shall inherit the earth.' If this be true, the negro may yet come into his estate, for meekness seems to be set apart as his portion." The journey came to an end just as the sun had sunk into the west. Simultaneously with Miller's exit from the train, a great black figure crawled off the trucks of the rear car, on the side opposite the station platform. Stretching and shaking himself with a free gesture, the black man, seeing himself unobserved, moved somewhat stiffly round the end of the car to the station platform. "'Fo de Lawd!" he muttered, "ef I hadn' had a cha'm' life, I'd 'a' never got here on dat ticket, an' dat's a fac'--it sho' am! I kind er 'lowed I wuz gone a dozen times, ez it wuz. But I got my job ter do in dis worl', an' I knows I ain' gwine ter die 'tel I've 'complished it. I jes' want one mo' look at dat man, an' den I'll haf ter git somethin' ter eat; fer two raw turnips in twelve hours is slim pickin's fer a man er my size!" VI JANET As the train drew up at the station platform, Dr. Price came forward from the white waiting-room, and stood expectantly by the door of the white coach. Miller, having left his car, came down the platform in time to intercept Burns as he left the train, and to introduce him to Dr. Price. "My carriage is in waiting," said Dr. Price. "I should have liked to have you at my own house, but my wife is out of town. We have a good hotel, however, and you will doubtless find it more convenient." "You are very kind, Dr. Price. Miller, won't you come up and dine with me?" "Thank you, no," said Miller, "I am expected at home. My wife and child are waiting for me in the buggy yonder by the platform." "Oh, very well; of course you must go; but don't forget our appointment. Let's see, Dr. Price, I can eat and get ready in half an hour--that will make it"-- "I have asked several of the local physicians to be present at eight o'clock," said Dr. Price. "The case can safely wait until then." "Very well, Miller, be on hand at eight. I shall expect you without fail. Where shall he come, Dr. Price?" "To the residence of Major Philip Carteret, on Vine Street." "I have invited Dr. Miller to be present and assist in the operation," Dr. Burns continued, as they drove toward the hotel. "He was a favorite pupil of mine, and is a credit to the profession. I presume you saw his article in the Medical Gazette?" "Yes, and I assisted him in the case," returned Dr. Price. "It was a colored lad, one of his patients, and he called me in to help him. He is a capable man, and very much liked by the white physicians." Miller's wife and child were waiting for him in fluttering anticipation. He kissed them both as he climbed into the buggy. "We came at four o'clock," said Mrs. Miller, a handsome young woman, who might be anywhere between twenty-five and thirty, and whose complexion, in the twilight, was not distinguishable from that of a white person, "but the train was late two hours, they said. We came back at six, and have been waiting ever since." "Yes, papa," piped the child, a little boy of six or seven, who sat between them, "and I am very hungry." Miller felt very much elated as he drove homeward through the twilight. By his side sat the two persons whom he loved best in all the world. His affairs were prosperous. Upon opening his office in the city, he had been received by the members of his own profession with a cordiality generally frank, and in no case much reserved. The colored population of the city was large, but in the main poor, and the white physicians were not unwilling to share this unprofitable practice with a colored doctor worthy of confidence. In the intervals of the work upon his hospital, he had built up a considerable practice among his own people; but except in the case of some poor unfortunate whose pride had been lost in poverty or sin, no white patient had ever called upon him for treatment. He knew very well the measure of his powers,--a liberal education had given him opportunity to compare himself with other men,--and was secretly conscious that in point of skill and knowledge he did not suffer by comparison with any other physician in the town. He liked to believe that the race antagonism which hampered his progress and that of his people was a mere temporary thing, the outcome of former conditions, and bound to disappear in time, and that when a colored man should demonstrate to the community in which he lived that he possessed character and power, that community would find a way in which to enlist his services for the public good. He had already made himself useful, and had received many kind words and other marks of appreciation. He was now offered a further confirmation of his theory: having recognized his skill, the white people were now ready to take advantage of it. Any lurking doubt he may have felt when first invited by Dr. Burns to participate in the operation, had been dispelled by Dr. Price's prompt acquiescence. On the way homeward Miller told his wife of this appointment. She was greatly interested; she was herself a mother, with an only child. Moreover, there was a stronger impulse than mere humanity to draw her toward the stricken mother. Janet had a tender heart, and could have loved this white sister, her sole living relative of whom she knew. All her life long she had yearned for a kind word, a nod, a smile, the least thing that imagination might have twisted into a recognition of the tie between them. But it had never come. And yet Janet was not angry. She was of a forgiving temper; she could never bear malice. She was educated, had read many books, and appreciated to the full the social forces arrayed against any such recognition as she had dreamed of. Of the two barriers between them a man might have forgiven the one; a woman would not be likely to overlook either the bar sinister or the difference of race, even to the slight extent of a silent recognition. Blood is thicker than water, but, if it flow too far from conventional channels, may turn to gall and wormwood. Nevertheless, when the heart speaks, reason falls into the background, and Janet would have worshiped this sister, even afar off, had she received even the slightest encouragement. So strong was this weakness that she had been angry with herself for her lack of pride, or even of a decent self-respect. It was, she sometimes thought, the heritage of her mother's race, and she was ashamed of it as part of the taint of slavery. She had never acknowledged, even to her husband, from whom she concealed nothing else, her secret thoughts upon this lifelong sorrow. This silent grief was nature's penalty, or society's revenge, for whatever heritage of beauty or intellect or personal charm had come to her with her father's blood. For she had received no other inheritance. Her sister was rich by right of her birth; if Janet had been fortunate, her good fortune had not been due to any provision made for her by her white father. She knew quite well how passionately, for many years, her proud sister had longed and prayed in vain for the child which had at length brought joy into her household, and she could feel, by sympathy, all the sickening suspense with which the child's parents must await the result of this dangerous operation. "O Will," she adjured her husband anxiously, when he had told her of the engagement, "you must be very careful. Think of the child's poor mother! Think of our own dear child, and what it would mean to lose him!" VII THE OPERATION Dr. Price was not entirely at ease in his mind as the two doctors drove rapidly from the hotel to Major Carteret's. Himself a liberal man, from his point of view, he saw no reason why a colored doctor might not operate upon a white male child,--there are fine distinctions in the application of the color line,--but several other physicians had been invited, some of whom were men of old-fashioned notions, who might not relish such an innovation. This, however, was but a small difficulty compared with what might be feared from Major Carteret himself. For he knew Carteret's unrelenting hostility to anything that savored of recognition of the negro as the equal of white men. It was traditional in Wellington that no colored person had ever entered the front door of the Carteret residence, and that the luckless individual who once presented himself there upon alleged business and resented being ordered to the back door had been unceremoniously thrown over the piazza railing into a rather thorny clump of rosebushes below. If Miller were going as a servant, to hold a basin or a sponge, there would be no difficulty; but as a surgeon--well, he wouldn't borrow trouble. Under the circumstances the major might yield a point. But as they neared the house the major's unyielding disposition loomed up formidably. Perhaps if the matter were properly presented to Dr. Burns, he might consent to withdraw the invitation. It was not yet too, late to send Miller a note. "By the way, Dr. Burns," he said, "I'm very friendly to Dr. Miller, and should personally like to have him with us to-night. But--I ought to have told you this before, but I couldn't very well do so, on such short notice, in Miller's presence--we are a conservative people, and our local customs are not very flexible. We jog along in much the same old way our fathers did. I'm not at all sure that Major Carteret or the other gentlemen would consent to the presence of a negro doctor." "I think you misjudge your own people," returned Dr. Burns, "they are broader than you think. We have our prejudices against the negro at the North, but we do not let them stand in the way of anything that _we_ want. At any rate, it is too late now, and I will accept the responsibility. If the question is raised, I will attend to it. When I am performing an operation I must be _aut Caesar, aut nullus_." Dr. Price was not reassured, but he had done his duty and felt the reward of virtue. If there should be trouble, he would not be responsible. Moreover, there was a large fee at stake, and Dr. Burns was not likely to prove too obdurate. They were soon at Carteret's, where they found assembled the several physicians invited by Dr. Price. These were successively introduced as Drs. Dudley, Hooper, and Ashe, all of whom were gentlemen of good standing, socially and in their profession, and considered it a high privilege to witness so delicate an operation at the hands of so eminent a member of their profession. Major Carteret entered the room and was duly presented to the famous specialist. Carteret's anxious look lightened somewhat at sight of the array of talent present. It suggested, of course, the gravity of the impending event, but gave assurance of all the skill and care which science could afford. Dr. Burns was shown to the nursery, from which he returned in five minutes. "The case is ready," he announced. "Are the gentlemen all present?" "I believe so," answered Dr. Price quickly. Miller had not yet arrived. Perhaps, thought Dr. Price, a happy accident, or some imperative call, had detained him. This would be fortunate indeed. Dr. Burns's square jaw had a very determined look. It would be a pity if any acrimonious discussion should arise on the eve of a delicate operation. If the clock on the mantel would only move faster, the question might never come up. "I don't see Dr. Miller," observed Dr. Burns, looking around the room. "I asked him to come at eight. There are ten minutes yet." Major Carteret looked up with a sudden frown. "May I ask to whom you refer?" he inquired, in an ominous tone. The other gentlemen showed signs of interest, not to say emotion. Dr. Price smiled quizzically. "Dr. Miller, of your city. He was one of my favorite pupils. He is also a graduate of the Vienna hospitals, and a surgeon of unusual skill. I have asked him to assist in the operation." Every eye was turned toward Carteret, whose crimsoned face had set in a look of grim determination. "The person to whom you refer is a negro, I believe?" he said. "He is a colored man, certainly," returned Dr. Burns, "though one would never think of his color after knowing him well." "I do not know, sir," returned Carteret, with an effort at self-control, "what the customs of Philadelphia or Vienna may be; but in the South we do not call negro doctors to attend white patients. I could not permit a negro to enter my house upon such an errand." "I am here, sir," replied Dr. Burns with spirit, "to perform a certain operation. Since I assume the responsibility, the case must be under my entire control. Otherwise I cannot operate." "Gentlemen," interposed Dr. Price, smoothly, "I beg of you both--this is a matter for calm discussion, and any asperity is to be deplored. The life at stake here should not be imperiled by any consideration of minor importance." "Your humanity does you credit, sir," retorted Dr. Burns. "But other matters, too, are important. I have invited this gentleman here. My professional honor is involved, and I merely invoke my rights to maintain it. It is a matter of principle, which ought not to give way to a mere prejudice." "That also states the case for Major Carteret," rejoined Dr. Price, suavely. "He has certain principles,--call them prejudices, if you like,--certain inflexible rules of conduct by which he regulates his life. One of these, which he shares with us all in some degree, forbids the recognition of the negro as a social equal." "I do not know what Miller's social value may be," replied Dr. Burns, stoutly, "or whether you gain or lose by your attitude toward him. I have invited him here in a strictly professional capacity, with which his color is not at all concerned." "Dr. Burns does not quite appreciate Major Carteret's point of view," said Dr. Price. "This is not with him an unimportant matter, or a mere question of prejudice, or even of personal taste. It is a sacred principle, lying at the very root of our social order, involving the purity and prestige of our race. You Northern gentlemen do not quite appreciate our situation; if you lived here a year or two you would act as we do. Of course," he added, diplomatically, "if there were no alternative--if Dr. Burns were willing to put Dr. Miller's presence on the ground of imperative necessity"-- "I do nothing of the kind, sir," retorted Dr. Burns with some heat. "I have not come all the way from Philadelphia to undertake an operation which I cannot perform without the aid of some particular physician. I merely stand upon my professional rights." Carteret was deeply agitated. The operation must not be deferred; his child's life might be endangered by delay. If the negro's presence were indispensable he would even submit to it, though in order to avoid so painful a necessity, he would rather humble himself to the Northern doctor. The latter course involved merely a personal sacrifice--the former a vital principle. Perhaps there was another way of escape. Miller's presence could not but be distasteful to Mrs. Carteret for other reasons. Miller's wife was the living evidence of a painful episode in Mrs. Carteret's family, which the doctor's presence would inevitably recall. Once before, Mrs. Carteret's life had been endangered by encountering, at a time of great nervous strain, this ill-born sister and her child. She was even now upon the verge of collapse at the prospect of her child's suffering, and should be protected from the intrusion of any idea which might add to her distress. "Dr. Burns," he said, with the suave courtesy which was part of his inheritance, "I beg your pardon for my heat, and throw myself upon your magnanimity, as between white men"-- "I am a gentleman, sir, before I am a white man," interposed Dr. Burns, slightly mollified, however, by Carteret's change of manner. "The terms should be synonymous," Carteret could not refrain from saying. "As between white men, and gentlemen, I say to you, frankly, that there are vital, personal reasons, apart from Dr. Miller's color, why his presence in this house would be distasteful. With this statement, sir, I throw myself upon your mercy. My child's life is worth more to me than any earthly thing, and I must be governed by your decision." Dr. Burns was plainly wavering. The clock moved with provoking slowness. Miller would be there in five minutes. "May I speak with you privately a moment, doctor?" asked Dr. Price. They withdrew from the room and were engaged in conversation for a few moments. Dr. Burns finally yielded. "I shall nevertheless feel humiliated when I meet Miller again," he said, "but of course if there is a personal question involved, that alters the situation. Had it been merely a matter of color, I should have maintained my position. As things stand, I wash my hands of the whole affair, so far as Miller is concerned, like Pontius Pilate--yes, indeed, sir, I feel very much like that individual." "I'll explain the matter to Miller," returned Dr. Price, amiably, "and make it all right with him. We Southern people understand the negroes better than you do, sir. Why should we not? They have been constantly under our interested observation for several hundred years. You feel this vastly more than Miller will. He knows the feeling of the white people, and is accustomed to it. He wishes to live and do business here, and is quite too shrewd to antagonize his neighbors or come where he is not wanted. He is in fact too much of a gentleman to do so." "I shall leave the explanation to you entirely," rejoined Dr. Burns, as they reëntered the other room. Carteret led the way to the nursery, where the operation was to take place. Dr. Price lingered for a moment. Miller was not likely to be behind the hour, if he came at all, and it would be well to head him off before the operation began. Scarcely had the rest left the room when the doorbell sounded, and a servant announced Dr. Miller. Dr. Price stepped into the hall and met Miller face to face. He had meant to state the situation to Miller frankly, but now that the moment had come he wavered. He was a fine physician, but he shrank from strenuous responsibilities. It had been easy to theorize about the negro; it was more difficult to look this man in the eyes--whom at this moment he felt to be as essentially a gentleman as himself--and tell him the humiliating truth. As a physician his method was to ease pain--he would rather take the risk of losing a patient from the use of an anaesthetic than from the shock of an operation. He liked Miller, wished him well, and would not wittingly wound his feelings. He really thought him too much of a gentleman for the town, in view of the restrictions with which he must inevitably be hampered. There was something melancholy, to a cultivated mind, about a sensitive, educated man who happened to be off color. Such a person was a sort of social misfit, an odd quantity, educated out of his own class, with no possible hope of entrance into that above it. He felt quite sure that if he had been in Miller's place, he would never have settled in the South--he would have moved to Europe, or to the West Indies, or some Central or South American state where questions of color were not regarded as vitally important. Dr. Price did not like to lie, even to a negro. To a man of his own caste, his word was his bond. If it were painful to lie, it would be humiliating to be found out. The principle of _noblesse oblige_ was also involved in the matter. His claim of superiority to the colored doctor rested fundamentally upon the fact that he was white and Miller was not; and yet this superiority, for which he could claim no credit, since he had not made himself, was the very breath of his nostrils,--he would not have changed places with the other for wealth untold; and as a gentleman, he would not care to have another gentleman, even a colored man, catch him in a lie. Of this, however, there was scarcely any danger. A word to the other surgeons would insure their corroboration of whatever he might tell Miller. No one of them would willingly wound Dr. Miller or embarrass Dr. Price; indeed, they need not know that Miller had come in time for the operation. "I'm sorry, Miller," he said with apparent regret, "but we were here ahead of time, and the case took a turn which would admit of no delay, so the gentlemen went in. Dr. Burns is with the patient now, and asked me to explain why we did not wait for you." "I'm sorry too," returned Miller, regretfully, but nothing doubting. He was well aware that in such cases danger might attend upon delay. He had lost his chance, through no fault of his own or of any one else. "I hope that all is well?" he said, hesitatingly, not sure whether he would be asked to remain. "All is well, so far. Step round to my office in the morning, Miller, or come in when you're passing, and I'll tell you the details." This was tantamount to a dismissal, so Miller took his leave. Descending the doorsteps, he stood for a moment, undecided whether to return home or to go to the hotel and await the return of Dr. Burns, when he heard his name called from the house in a low tone. "Oh, doctuh!" He stepped back toward the door, outside of which stood the colored servant who had just let him out. "Dat's all a lie, doctuh," he whispered, "'bout de operation bein' already pe'fo'med. Dey-all had jes' gone in de minute befo' you come--Doctuh Price hadn' even got out 'n de room. Dey be'n quollin' 'bout you fer de las' ha'f hour. Majah Ca'te'et say he wouldn' have you, an' de No'then doctuh say he wouldn't do nothin' widout you, an' Doctuh Price he j'ined in on bofe sides, an' dey had it hot an' heavy, nip an' tuck, till bimeby Majah Ca'te'et up an' say it wa'n't altogether yo' color he objected to, an' wid dat de No'then doctuh give in. He's a fine man, suh, but dey wuz too much fer 'im!" "Thank you, Sam, I'm much obliged," returned Miller mechanically. "One likes to know the truth." Truth, it has been said, is mighty, and must prevail; but it sometimes leaves a bad taste in the mouth. In the ordinary course of events Miller would not have anticipated such an invitation, and for that reason had appreciated it all the more. The rebuff came with a corresponding shock. He had the heart of a man, the sensibilities of a cultivated gentleman; the one was sore, the other deeply wounded. He was not altogether sure, upon reflection, whether he blamed Dr. Price very much for the amiable lie, which had been meant to spare his feelings, or thanked Sam a great deal for the unpalatable truth. Janet met him at the door. "How is the baby?" she asked excitedly. "Dr. Price says he is doing well." "What is the matter, Will, and why are you back so soon?" He would have spared her the story, but she was a woman, and would have it. He was wounded, too, and wanted sympathy, of which Janet was an exhaustless fountain. So he told her what had happened. She comforted him after the manner of a loving woman, and felt righteously indignant toward her sister's husband, who had thus been instrumental in the humiliation of her own. Her anger did not embrace her sister, and yet she felt obscurely that their unacknowledged relationship had been the malignant force which had given her husband pain, and defeated his honorable ambition. When Dr. Price entered the nursery, Dr. Burns was leaning attentively over the operating table. The implements needed for the operation were all in readiness--the knives, the basin, the sponge, the materials for dressing the wound--all the ghastly paraphernalia of vivisection. Mrs. Carteret had been banished to another room, where Clara vainly attempted to soothe her. Old Mammy Jane, still burdened by her fears, fervently prayed the good Lord to spare the life of the sweet little grandson of her dear old mistress. Dr. Burns had placed his ear to the child's chest, which had been bared for the incision. Dr. Price stood ready to administer the anaesthetic. Little Dodie looked up with a faint expression of wonder, as if dimly conscious of some unusual event. The major shivered at the thought of what the child must undergo. "There's a change in his breathing," said Dr. Burns, lifting his head. "The whistling noise is less pronounced, and he breathes easier. The obstruction seems to have shifted." Applying his ear again to the child's throat, he listened for a moment intently, and then picking the baby up from the table, gave it a couple of sharp claps between the shoulders. Simultaneously a small object shot out from the child's mouth, struck Dr. Price in the neighborhood of his waistband, and then rattled lightly against the floor. Whereupon the baby, as though conscious of his narrow escape, smiled and gurgled, and reaching upward clutched the doctor's whiskers with his little hand, which, according to old Jane, had a stronger grip than any other infant's in Wellington. VIII THE CAMPAIGN DRAGS The campaign for white supremacy was dragging. Carteret had set out, in the columns of the Morning Chronicle, all the reasons why this movement, inaugurated by the three men who had met, six months before, at the office of the Chronicle, should be supported by the white public. Negro citizenship was a grotesque farce--Sambo and Dinah raised from the kitchen to the cabinet were a spectacle to make the gods laugh. The laws by which it had been sought to put the negroes on a level with the whites must be swept away in theory, as they had failed in fact. If it were impossible, without a further education of public opinion, to secure the repeal of the fifteenth amendment, it was at least the solemn duty of the state to endeavor, through its own constitution, to escape from the domination of a weak and incompetent electorate and confine the negro to that inferior condition for which nature had evidently designed him. In spite of the force and intelligence with which Carteret had expressed these and similar views, they had not met the immediate response anticipated. There were thoughtful men, willing to let well enough alone, who saw no necessity for such a movement. They believed that peace, prosperity, and popular education offered a surer remedy for social ills than the reopening of issues supposed to have been settled. There were timid men who shrank from civic strife. There were busy men, who had something else to do. There were a few fair men, prepared to admit, privately, that a class constituting half to two thirds of the population were fairly entitled to some representation in the law-making bodies. Perhaps there might have been found, somewhere in the state, a single white man ready to concede that all men were entitled to equal rights before the law. That there were some white men who had learned little and forgotten nothing goes without saying, for knowledge and wisdom are not impartially distributed among even the most favored race. There were ignorant and vicious negroes, and they had a monopoly of neither ignorance nor crime, for there were prosperous negroes and poverty-stricken whites. Until Carteret and his committee began their baleful campaign the people of the state were living in peace and harmony. The anti-negro legislation in more southern states, with large negro majorities, had awakened scarcely an echo in this state, with a population two thirds white. Even the triumph of the Fusion party had not been regarded as a race issue. It remained for Carteret and his friends to discover, with inspiration from whatever supernatural source the discriminating reader may elect, that the darker race, docile by instinct, humble by training, patiently waiting upon its as yet uncertain destiny, was an incubus, a corpse chained to the body politic, and that the negro vote was a source of danger to the state, no matter how cast or by whom directed. To discuss means for counteracting this apathy, a meeting of the "Big Three," as they had begun to designate themselves jocularly, was held at the office of the "Morning Chronicle," on the next day but one after little Dodie's fortunate escape from the knife. "It seems," said General Belmont, opening the discussion, "as though we had undertaken more than we can carry through. It is clear that we must reckon on opposition, both at home and abroad. If we are to hope for success, we must extend the lines of our campaign. The North, as well as our own people, must be convinced that we have right upon our side. We are conscious of the purity of our motives, but we should avoid even the appearance of evil." McBane was tapping the floor impatiently with his foot during this harangue. "I don't see the use," he interrupted, "of so much beating about the bush. We may as well be honest about this thing. We are going to put the niggers down because we want to, and think we can; so why waste our time in mere pretense? I'm no hypocrite myself,--if I want a thing I take it, provided I'm strong enough." "My dear captain," resumed the general, with biting suavity, "your frankness does you credit,--'an honest man's the noblest work of God,'--but we cannot carry on politics in these degenerate times without a certain amount of diplomacy. In the good old days when your father was alive, and perhaps nowadays in the discipline of convicts, direct and simple methods might be safely resorted to; but this is a modern age, and in dealing with so fundamental a right as the suffrage we must profess a decent regard for the opinions of even that misguided portion of mankind which may not agree with us. This is the age of crowds, and we must have the crowd with us." The captain flushed at the allusion to his father's calling, at which he took more offense than at the mention of his own. He knew perfectly well that these old aristocrats, while reaping the profits of slavery, had despised the instruments by which they were attained--the poor-white overseer only less than the black slave. McBane was rich; he lived in Wellington, but he had never been invited to the home of either General Belmont or Major Carteret, nor asked to join the club of which they were members. His face, therefore, wore a distinct scowl, and his single eye glowed ominously. He would help these fellows carry the state for white supremacy, and then he would have his innings,--he would have more to say than they dreamed, as to who should fill the offices under the new deal. Men of no better birth or breeding than he had represented Southern states in Congress since the war. Why should he not run for governor, representative, whatever he chose? He had money enough to buy out half a dozen of these broken-down aristocrats, and money was all-powerful. "You see, captain," the general went on, looking McBane smilingly and unflinchingly in the eye, "we need white immigration--we need Northern capital. 'A good name is better than great riches,' and we must prove our cause a righteous one." "We must be armed at all points," added Carteret, "and prepared for defense as well as for attack,--we must make our campaign a national one." "For instance," resumed the general, "you, Carteret, represent the Associated Press. Through your hands passes all the news of the state. What more powerful medium for the propagation of an idea? The man who would govern a nation by writing its songs was a blethering idiot beside the fellow who can edit its news dispatches. The negroes are playing into our hands,--every crime that one of them commits is reported by us. With the latitude they have had in this state they are growing more impudent and self-assertive every day. A yellow demagogue in New York made a speech only a few days ago, in which he deliberately, and in cold blood, advised negroes to defend themselves to the death when attacked by white people! I remember well the time when it was death for a negro to strike a white man." "It's death now, if he strikes the right one," interjected McBane, restored to better humor by this mention of a congenial subject. The general smiled a fine smile. He had heard the story of how McBane had lost his other eye. "The local negro paper is quite outspoken, too," continued the general, "if not impudent. We must keep track of that; it may furnish us some good campaign material." "Yes," returned Carteret, "we must see to that. I threw a copy into the waste-basket this morning, without looking at it. Here it is now!" IX A WHITE MAN'S "NIGGER" Carteret fished from the depths of the waste-basket and handed to the general an eighteen by twenty-four sheet, poorly printed on cheap paper, with a "patent" inside, a number of advertisements of proprietary medicines, quack doctors, and fortune-tellers, and two or three columns of editorial and local news. Candor compels the admission that it was not an impressive sheet in any respect, except when regarded as the first local effort of a struggling people to make public expression of their life and aspirations. From this point of view it did not speak at all badly for a class to whom, a generation before, newspapers, books, and learning had been forbidden fruit. "It's an elegant specimen of journalism, isn't it?" laughed the general, airily. "Listen to this 'ad':-- "'Kinky, curly hair made straight by one application of our specific. Our face bleach will turn the skin of a black or brown person four or five shades lighter, and of a mulatto perfectly white. When you get the color you wish, stop using the preparation.' "Just look at those heads!--'Before using' and 'After using.' We'd better hurry, or there'll be no negroes to disfranchise! If they don't stop till they get the color they desire, and the stuff works according to contract, they'll all be white. Ah! what have we here? This looks as though it might be serious." Opening the sheet the general read aloud an editorial article, to which Carteret listened intently, his indignation increasing in strength from the first word to the last, while McBane's face grew darkly purple with anger. The article was a frank and somewhat bold discussion of lynching and its causes. It denied that most lynchings were for the offense most generally charged as their justification, and declared that, even of those seemingly traced to this cause, many were not for crimes at all, but for voluntary acts which might naturally be expected to follow from the miscegenation laws by which it was sought, in all the Southern States, to destroy liberty of contract, and, for the purpose of maintaining a fanciful purity of race, to make crimes of marriages to which neither nature nor religion nor the laws of other states interposed any insurmountable barrier. Such an article in a Northern newspaper would have attracted no special attention, and might merely have furnished food to an occasional reader for serious thought upon a subject not exactly agreeable; but coming from a colored man, in a Southern city, it was an indictment of the laws and social system of the South that could not fail of creating a profound sensation. "Infamous--infamous!" exclaimed Carteret, his voice trembling with emotion. "The paper should be suppressed immediately." "The impudent nigger ought to be horsewhipped and run out of town," growled McBane. "Gentlemen," said the general soothingly, after the first burst of indignation had subsided, "I believe we can find a more effective use for this article, which, by the way, will not bear too close analysis,--there's some truth in it, at least there's an argument." "That is not the point," interrupted Carteret. "No," interjected McBane with an oath, "that ain't at all the point. Truth or not, no damn nigger has any right to say it." "This article," said Carteret, "violates an unwritten law of the South. If we are to tolerate this race of weaklings among us, until they are eliminated by the stress of competition, it must be upon terms which we lay down. One of our conditions is violated by this article, in which our wisdom is assailed, and our women made the subject of offensive comment. We must make known our disapproval." "I say lynch the nigger, break up the press, and burn down the newspaper office," McBane responded promptly. "Gentlemen," interposed the general, "would you mind suspending the discussion for a moment, while I mind Jerry across the street? I think I can then suggest a better plan." Carteret rang the bell for Jerry, who answered promptly. He had been expecting such a call ever since the gentlemen had gone in. "Jerry," said the general, "step across to Brown's and tell him to send me three Calhoun cocktails. Wait for them,--here's the money." "Yas, suh," replied Jerry, taking the proffered coin. "And make has'e, charcoal," added McBane, "for we're gettin' damn dry." A momentary cloud of annoyance darkened Carteret's brow. McBane had always grated upon his aristocratic susceptibilities. The captain was an upstart, a product of the democratic idea operating upon the poor white man, the descendant of the indentured bondservant and the socially unfit. He had wealth and energy, however, and it was necessary to make use of him; but the example of such men was a strong incentive to Carteret in his campaign against the negro. It was distasteful enough to rub elbows with an illiterate and vulgar white man of no ancestry,--the risk of similar contact with negroes was to be avoided at any cost. He could hardly expect McBane to be a gentleman, but when among men of that class he might at least try to imitate their manners. A gentleman did not order his own servants around offensively, to say nothing of another's. The general had observed Carteret's annoyance, and remarked pleasantly while they waited for the servant's return:-- "Jerry, now, is a very good negro. He's not one of your new negroes, who think themselves as good as white men, and want to run the government. Jerry knows his place,--he is respectful, humble, obedient, and content with the face and place assigned to him by nature." "Yes, he's one of the best of 'em," sneered McBane. "He'll call any man 'master' for a quarter, or 'God' for half a dollar; for a dollar he'll grovel at your feet, and for a cast-off coat you can buy an option on his immortal soul,--if he has one! I've handled niggers for ten years, and I know 'em from the ground up. They're all alike,--they're a scrub race, an affliction to the country, and the quicker we're rid of 'em all the better." Carteret had nothing to say by way of dissent. McBane's sentiments, in their last analysis, were much the same as his, though he would have expressed them less brutally. "The negro," observed the general, daintily flicking the ash from his cigar, "is all right in his place and very useful to the community. We lived on his labor for quite a long time, and lived very well. Nevertheless we are better off without slavery, for we can get more out of the free negro, and with less responsibility. I really do not see how we could get along without the negroes. If they were all like Jerry, we'd have no trouble with them." Having procured the drinks, Jerry, the momentary subject of the race discussion which goes on eternally in the South, was making his way back across the street, somewhat disturbed in mind. "O Lawd!" he groaned, "I never troubles trouble till trouble troubles me; but w'en I got dem drinks befo', Gin'l Belmont gimme half a dollar an' tol' me ter keep de change. Dis time he didn' say nothin' 'bout de change. I s'pose he jes' fergot erbout it, but w'at is a po' nigger gwine ter do w'en he has ter conten' wid w'ite folks's fergitfulniss? I don' see no way but ter do some fergittin' myse'f. I'll jes' stan' outside de do' here till dey gits so wrop' up in deir talk dat dey won' 'member nothin' e'se, an' den at de right minute I'll ban' de glasses 'roun, an' moa' lackly de gin'l 'll fergit all 'bout de change." While Jerry stood outside, the conversation within was plainly audible, and some inkling of its purport filtered through his mind. "Now, gentlemen," the general was saying, "here's my plan. That editorial in the negro newspaper is good campaign matter, but we should reserve it until it will be most effective. Suppose we just stick it in a pigeon-hole, and let the editor,--what's his name?" "The nigger's name is Barber," replied McBane. "I'd like to have him under me for a month or two; he'd write no more editorials." "Let Barber have all the rope he wants," resumed the general, "and he'll be sure to hang himself. In the mean time we will continue to work up public opinion,--we can use this letter privately for that purpose,--and when the state campaign opens we'll print the editorial, with suitable comment, scatter it broadcast throughout the state, fire the Southern heart, organize the white people on the color line, have a little demonstration with red shirts and shotguns, scare the negroes into fits, win the state for white supremacy, and teach our colored fellow citizens that we are tired of negro domination and have put an end to it forever. The Afro-American Banner will doubtless die about the same time." "And so will the editor!" exclaimed McBane ferociously; "I'll see to that. But I wonder where that nigger is with them cocktails? I'm so thirsty I could swallow blue blazes." "Here's yo' drinks, gin'l," announced Jerry, entering with the glasses on a tray. The gentlemen exchanged compliments and imbibed--McBane at a gulp, Carteret with more deliberation, leaving about half the contents of his glass. The general drank slowly, with every sign of appreciation. "If the illustrious statesman," he observed, "whose name this mixture bears, had done nothing more than invent it, his fame would still deserve to go thundering down the endless ages." "It ain't bad liquor," assented McBane, smacking his lips. Jerry received the empty glasses on the tray and left the room. He had scarcely gained the hall when the general called him back. "O Lawd!" groaned Jerry, "he's gwine ter ax me fer de change. Yas, suh, yas, suh; comin', gin'l, comin', suh!" "You may keep the change, Jerry," said the general. Jerry's face grew radiant at this announcement. "Yas, suh, gin'l; thank y', suh; much obleedzed, suh. I wuz jus' gwine ter fetch it in, suh, w'en I had put de tray down. Thank y', suh, truly, suh!" Jerry backed and bowed himself out into the hall. "Dat wuz a close shave," he muttered, as he swallowed the remaining contents of Major Carteret's glass. "I 'lowed dem twenty cents wuz gone dat time,--an' whar I wuz gwine ter git de money ter take my gal ter de chu'ch festibal ter-night, de Lawd only knows!--'less'n I borried it offn Mr. Ellis, an' I owes him sixty cents a'ready. But I wonduh w'at dem w'ite folks in dere is up ter? Dere's one thing sho',--dey're gwine ter git after de niggers some way er 'nuther, an' w'en dey does, whar is Jerry gwine ter be? Dat's de mos' impo'tantes' question. I'm gwine ter look at dat newspaper dey be'n talkin' 'bout, an' 'less'n my min' changes might'ly, I'm gwine ter keep my mouf shet an' stan' in wid de Angry-Saxon race,--ez dey calls deyse'ves nowadays,--an' keep on de right side er my bread an' meat. Wat nigger ever give me twenty cents in all my bawn days?" "By the way, major," said the general, who lingered behind McBane as they were leaving, "is Miss Clara's marriage definitely settled upon?" "Well, general, not exactly; but it's the understanding that they will marry when they are old enough." "I was merely thinking," the general went on, "that if I were you I'd speak to Tom about cards and liquor. He gives more time to both than a young man can afford. I'm speaking in his interest and in Miss Clara's,--we of the old families ought to stand together." "Thank you, general, for the hint. I'll act upon it." This political conference was fruitful in results. Acting upon the plans there laid out, McBane traveled extensively through the state, working up sentiment in favor of the new movement. He possessed a certain forceful eloquence; and white supremacy was so obviously the divine intention that he had merely to affirm the doctrine in order to secure adherents. General Belmont, whose business required him to spend much of the winter in Washington and New York, lost no opportunity to get the ear of lawmakers, editors, and other leaders of national opinion, and to impress upon them, with persuasive eloquence, the impossibility of maintaining existing conditions, and the tremendous blunder which had been made in conferring the franchise upon the emancipated race. Carteret conducted the press campaign, and held out to the Republicans of the North the glittering hope that, with the elimination of the negro vote, and a proper deference to Southern feeling, a strong white Republican party might be built up in the New South. How well the bait took is a matter of history,--but the promised result is still in the future. The disfranchisement of the negro has merely changed the form of the same old problem. The negro had no vote before the rebellion, and few other rights, and yet the negro question was, for a century, the pivot of American politics. It plunged the nation into a bloody war, and it will trouble the American government and the American conscience until a sustained attempt is made to settle it upon principles of justice and equity. The personal ambitions entertained by the leaders of this movement are but slightly involved in this story. McBane's aims have been touched upon elsewhere. The general would have accepted the nomination for governor of the state, with a vision of a senatorship in the future. Carteret hoped to vindicate the supremacy of his race, and make the state fit for his son to live in, and, incidentally, he would not refuse any office, worthy of his dignity, which a grateful people might thrust upon him. So powerful a combination of bigot, self-seeking demagogue, and astute politician was fraught with grave menace to the peace of the state and the liberties of the people,--by which is meant the whole people, and not any one class, sought to be built up at the expense of another. X DELAMERE PLAYS A TRUMP Carteret did not forget what General Belmont had said in regard to Tom. The major himself had been young, not so very long ago, and was inclined toward indulgence for the foibles of youth. A young gentleman should have a certain knowledge of life,--but there were limits. Clara's future happiness must not be imperiled. The opportunity to carry out this purpose was not long delayed. Old Mr. Delamere wished to sell some timber which had been cut at Belleview, and sent Tom down to the Chronicle office to leave an advertisement. The major saw him at the desk, invited him into his sanctum, and delivered him a mild lecture. The major was kind, and talked in a fatherly way about the danger of extremes, the beauty of moderation, and the value of discretion as a rule of conduct. He mentioned collaterally the unblemished honor of a fine old family, its contemplated alliance with his own, and dwelt upon the sweet simplicity of Clara's character. The major was a man of feeling and of tact, and could not have put the subject in a way less calculated to wound the _amour propre_ of a very young man. Delamere had turned red with anger while the major was speaking. He was impulsive, and an effort was required to keep back the retort that sprang once or twice to his lips; but his conscience was not clear, and he could not afford hard words with Clara's guardian and his grandfather's friend. Clara was rich, and the most beautiful girl in town; they were engaged; he loved her as well as he could love anything of which he seemed sure; and he did not mean that any one else should have her. The major's mild censure disturbed slightly his sense of security; and while the major's manner did not indicate that he knew anything definite against him, it would be best to let well enough alone. "Thank you, major," he said, with well-simulated frankness. "I realize that I may have been a little careless, more from thoughtlessness than anything else; but my heart is all right, sir, and I am glad that my conduct has been brought to your attention, for what you have said enables me to see it in a different light. I will be more careful of my company hereafter; for I love Clara, and mean to try to be worthy of her. Do you know whether she will be at home this evening?" "I have heard nothing to the contrary," replied the major warmly. "Call her up by telephone and ask--or come up and see. You're always welcome, my boy." Upon leaving the office, which was on the second floor, Tom met Ellis coming up the stairs. It had several times of late occurred to Tom that Ellis had a sneaking fondness for Clara. Panoplied in his own engagement, Tom had heretofore rather enjoyed the idea of a hopeless rival. Ellis was such a solemn prig, and took life so seriously, that it was a pleasure to see him sit around sighing for the unattainable. That he should be giving pain to Ellis added a certain zest to his own enjoyment. But this interview with the major had so disquieted him that upon meeting Ellis upon the stairs he was struck by a sudden suspicion. He knew that Major Carteret seldom went to the Clarendon Club, and that he must have got his information from some one else. Ellis was a member of the club, and a frequent visitor. Who more likely than he to try to poison Clara's mind, or the minds of her friends, against her accepted lover? Tom did not think that the world was using him well of late; bad luck had pursued him, in cards and other things, and despite his assumption of humility, Carteret's lecture had left him in an ugly mood. He nodded curtly to Ellis without relaxing the scowl that disfigured his handsome features. "That's the damned sneak who's been giving me away," he muttered. "I'll get even with him yet for this." Delamere's suspicions with regard to Ellis's feelings were not, as we have seen, entirely without foundation. Indeed, he had underestimated the strength of this rivalry and its chances of success. Ellis had been watching Delamere for a year. There had been nothing surreptitious about it, but his interest in Clara had led him to note things about his favored rival which might have escaped the attention of others less concerned. Ellis was an excellent judge of character, and had formed a very decided opinion of Tom Delamere. To Ellis, unbiased by ancestral traditions, biased perhaps by jealousy, Tom Delamere was a type of the degenerate aristocrat. If, as he had often heard, it took three or four generations to make a gentleman, and as many more to complete the curve and return to the base from which it started, Tom Delamere belonged somewhere on the downward slant, with large possibilities of further decline. Old Mr. Delamere, who might be taken as the apex of an ideal aristocratic development, had been distinguished, during his active life, as Ellis had learned, for courage and strength of will, courtliness of bearing, deference to his superiors, of whom there had been few, courtesy to his equals, kindness and consideration for those less highly favored, and above all, a scrupulous sense of honor; his grandson Tom was merely the shadow without the substance, the empty husk without the grain. Of grace he had plenty. In manners he could be perfect, when he so chose. Courage and strength he had none. Ellis had seen this fellow, who boasted of his descent from a line of cavaliers, turn pale with fright and spring from a buggy to which was harnessed a fractious horse, which a negro stable-boy drove fearlessly. A valiant carpet-knight, skilled in all parlor exercises, great at whist or euchre, a dream of a dancer, unexcelled in Cakewalk or "coon" impersonations, for which he was in large social demand, Ellis had seen him kick an inoffensive negro out of his path and treat a poor-white man with scant courtesy. He suspected Delamere of cheating at cards, and knew that others entertained the same suspicion. For while regular in his own habits,--his poverty would not have permitted him any considerable extravagance,--Ellis's position as a newspaper man kept him in touch with what was going on about town. He was a member, proposed by Carteret, of the Clarendon Club, where cards were indulged in within reasonable limits, and a certain set were known to bet dollars in terms of dimes. Delamere was careless, too, about money matters. He had a habit of borrowing, right and left, small sums which might be conveniently forgotten by the borrower, and for which the lender would dislike to ask. Ellis had a strain of thrift, derived from a Scotch ancestry, and a tenacious memory for financial details. Indeed, he had never had so much money that he could lose track of it. He never saw Delamere without being distinctly conscious that Delamere owed him four dollars, which he had lent at a time when he could ill afford to spare it. It was a prerogative of aristocracy, Ellis reflected, to live upon others, and the last privilege which aristocracy in decay would willingly relinquish. Neither did the aristocratic memory seem able to retain the sordid details of a small pecuniary transaction. No doubt the knowledge that Delamere was the favored lover of Miss Pemberton lent a touch of bitterness to Ellis's reflections upon his rival. Ellis had no grievance against the "aristocracy" of Wellington. The "best people" had received him cordially, though his father had not been of their caste; but Ellis hated a hypocrite, and despised a coward, and he felt sure that Delamere was both. Otherwise he would have struggled against his love for Clara Pemberton. His passion for her had grown with his appreciation of Delamere's unworthiness. As a friend of the family, he knew the nature and terms of the engagement, and that if the marriage took place at all, it would not be for at least a year. This was a long time,--many things might happen in a year, especially to a man like Tom Delamere. If for any reason Delamere lost his chance, Ellis meant to be next in the field. He had not made love to Clara, but he had missed no opportunity of meeting her and making himself quietly and unobtrusively agreeable. On the day after this encounter with Delamere on the stairs of the Chronicle office, Ellis, while walking down Vine Street, met old Mrs. Ochiltree. She was seated in her own buggy, which was of ancient build and pattern, driven by her colored coachman and man of all work. "Mr. Ellis," she called in a shrill voice, having directed her coachman to draw up at the curb as she saw the young man approaching, "come here. I want to speak to you." Ellis came up to the buggy and stood uncovered beside it. "People are saying," said Mrs. Ochiltree, "that Tom Delamere is drinking hard, and has to be carried home intoxicated, two or three times a week, by old Mr. Delamere's man Sandy. Is there any truth in the story?" "My dear Mrs. Ochiltree, I am not Tom Delamere's keeper. Sandy could tell you better than I." "You are dodging my question, Mr. Ellis. Sandy wouldn't tell me the truth, and I know that you wouldn't lie,--you don't look like a liar. They say Tom is gambling scandalously. What do you know about that?" "You must excuse me, Mrs. Ochiltree. A great deal of what we hear is mere idle gossip, and the truth is often grossly exaggerated. I'm a member of the same club with Delamere, and gentlemen who belong to the same club are not in the habit of talking about one another. As long as a man retains his club membership, he's presumed to be a gentleman. I wouldn't say anything against Delamere if I could." "You don't need to," replied the old lady, shaking her finger at him with a cunning smile. "You are a very open young man, Mr. Ellis, and I can read you like a book. You are much smarter than you look, but you can't fool me. Good-morning." Mrs. Ochiltree drove immediately to her niece's, where she found Mrs. Carteret and Clara at home. Clara was very fond of the baby, and was holding him in her arms. He was a fine baby, and bade fair to realize the bright hopes built upon him. "You hold a baby very naturally, Clara," chuckled the old lady. "I suppose you are in training. But you ought to talk to Tom. I have just learned from Mr. Ellis that Tom is carried home drunk two or three times a week, and that he is gambling in the most reckless manner imaginable." Clara's eyes flashed indignantly. Ere she could speak, Mrs. Carteret exclaimed:-- "Why, Aunt Polly! did Mr. Ellis say that?" "I got it from Dinah," she replied, "who heard it from her husband, who learned it from a waiter at the club. And"-- "Pshaw!" said Mrs. Carteret, "mere servants' gossip." "No, it isn't, Olivia. I met Mr. Ellis on the street, and asked him point blank, and he didn't deny it. He's a member of the club, and ought to know." "Well, Aunt Polly, it can't be true. Tom is here every other night, and how could he carry on so without showing the signs of it? and where would he get the money? You know he has only a moderate allowance." "He may win it at cards,--it's better to be born lucky than rich," returned Mrs. Ochiltree. "Then he has expectations, and can get credit. There's no doubt that Tom is going on shamefully." Clara's indignation had not yet found vent in speech; Olivia had said all that was necessary, but she had been thinking rapidly. Even if all this had been true, why should Mr. Ellis have said it? Or, if he had not stated it directly, he had left the inference to be drawn. It seemed a most unfair and ungentlemanly thing. What motive could Ellis have for such an act? She was not long in reaching a conclusion which was not flattering to Ellis. Mr. Ellis came often to the house, and she had enjoyed his society in a friendly way. That he had found her pleasant company had been very evident. She had never taken his attentions seriously, however, or regarded his visits as made especially to her, nor had the rest of the family treated them from that point of view. Her engagement to Tom Delamere, though not yet formally ratified, was so well understood by the world of Wellington that Mr. Ellis would, scarcely have presumed to think of her as anything more than a friend. This revelation of her aunt's, however, put a different face upon his conduct. Certain looks and sighs and enigmatical remarks of Ellis, to which she had paid but casual attention and attached no particular significance, now recurred to her memory with a new meaning. He had now evidently tried, in a roundabout way, to besmirch Tom's character and undermine him in her regard. While loving Tom, she had liked Ellis well enough, as a friend; but he had abused the privileges of friendship, and she would teach him a needed lesson. Nevertheless, Mrs. Ochiltree's story had given Clara food for thought. She was uneasily conscious, after all, that there might be a grain of truth in what had been said, enough, at least, to justify her in warning Tom to be careful, lest his enemies should distort some amiable weakness into a serious crime. She put this view of the case to Tom at their next meeting, assuring him, at the same time, of her unbounded faith and confidence. She did not mention Ellis's name, lest Tom, in righteous indignation, might do something rash, which he might thereafter regret. If any subtler or more obscure motive kept her silent as to Ellis, she was not aware of it; for Clara's views of life were still in the objective stage, and she had not yet fathomed the deepest recesses of her own consciousness. Delamere had the cunning of weakness. He knew, too, better than any one else could know, how much truth there was in the rumors concerning him, and whether or not they could be verified too easily for him to make an indignant denial. After a little rapid reflection, he decided upon a different course. "Clara," he said with a sigh, taking the hand which she generously yielded to soften any suggestion of reproach which he may have read into her solicitude, "you are my guardian angel. I do not know, of course, who has told you this pack of lies,--for I can see that you have heard more than you have told me,--but I think I could guess the man they came from. I am not perfect, Clara, though I have done nothing of which a gentleman should be ashamed. There is one sure way to stop the tongue of calumny. My home life is not ideal,--grandfather is an old, weak man, and the house needs the refining and softening influence of a lady's presence. I do not love club life; its ideals are not elevating. With you by my side, dearest, I should be preserved from every influence except the purest and the best. Don't you think, dearest, that the major might be induced to shorten our weary term of waiting?" "Oh, Tom," she demurred blushingly, "I shall be young enough at eighteen; and you are barely twenty-one." But Tom proved an eloquent pleader, and love a still more persuasive advocate. Clara spoke to the major the same evening, who looked grave at the suggestion, and said he would think about it. They were both very young; but where both parties were of good family, in good health and good circumstances, an early marriage might not be undesirable. Tom was perhaps a little unsettled, but blood would tell in the long run, and marriage always exercised a steadying influence. The only return, therefore, which Ellis received for his well-meant effort to ward off Mrs. Ochiltree's embarrassing inquiries was that he did not see Clara upon his next visit, which was made one afternoon while he was on night duty at the office. In conversation with Mrs. Carteret he learned that Clara's marriage had been definitely agreed upon, and the date fixed,--it was to take place in about six months. Meeting Miss Pemberton on the street the following day, he received the slightest of nods. When he called again at the house, after a week of misery, she treated him with a sarcastic coolness which chilled his heart. "How have I offended you, Miss Clara?" he demanded desperately, when they were left alone for a moment. "Offended me?" she replied, lifting her eyebrows with an air of puzzled surprise. "Why, Mr. Ellis! What could have put such a notion into your head? Oh dear, I think I hear Dodie,--I know you'll excuse me, Mr. Ellis, won't you? Sister Olivia will be back in a moment; and we're expecting Aunt Polly this afternoon,--if you'll stay awhile she'll be glad to talk to you! You can tell her all the interesting news about your friends!" XI THE BABY AND THE BIRD When Ellis, after this rebuff, had disconsolately taken his leave, Clara, much elated at the righteous punishment she had inflicted upon the slanderer, ran upstairs to the nursery, and, snatching Dodie from Mammy Jane's arms, began dancing gayly with him round the room. "Look a-hyuh, honey," said Mammy Jane, "you better be keerful wid dat chile, an' don' drap 'im on de flo'. You might let him fall on his head an' break his neck. My, my! but you two does make a pretty pictur'! You'll be wantin' ole Jane ter come an' nuss yo' child'en some er dese days," she chuckled unctuously. Mammy Jane had been very much disturbed by the recent dangers through which little Dodie had passed; and his escape from strangulation, in the first place, and then from the knife had impressed her as little less than miraculous. She was not certain whether this result had been brought about by her manipulation of the buried charm, or by the prayers which had been offered for the child, but was inclined to believe that both had cooperated to avert the threatened calamity. The favorable outcome of this particular incident had not, however, altered the general situation. Prayers and charms, after all, were merely temporary things, which must be constantly renewed, and might be forgotten or overlooked; while the mole, on the contrary, neither faded nor went away. If its malign influence might for a time seem to disappear, it was merely lying dormant, like the germs of some deadly disease, awaiting its opportunity to strike at an unguarded spot. Clara and the baby were laughing in great glee, when a mockingbird, perched on the topmost bough of a small tree opposite the nursery window, burst suddenly into song, with many a trill and quaver. Clara, with the child in her arms, sprang to the open window. "Sister Olivia," she cried, turning her face toward Mrs. Carteret, who at that moment entered the room, "come and look at Dodie." The baby was listening intently to the music, meanwhile gurgling with delight, and reaching his chubby hands toward the source of this pleasing sound. It seemed as though the mockingbird were aware of his appreciative audience, for he ran through the songs of a dozen different birds, selecting, with the discrimination of a connoisseur and entire confidence in his own powers, those which were most difficult and most alluring. Mrs. Carteret approached the window, followed by Mammy Jane, who waddled over to join the admiring party. So absorbed were the three women in the baby and the bird that neither one of them observed a neat top buggy, drawn by a sleek sorrel pony, passing slowly along the street before the house. In the buggy was seated a lady, and beside her a little boy, dressed in a child's sailor suit and a straw hat. The lady, with a wistful expression, was looking toward the party grouped in the open window. Mrs. Carteret, chancing to lower her eyes for an instant, caught the other woman's look directed toward her and her child. With a glance of cold aversion she turned away from the window. Old Mammy Jane had observed this movement, and had divined the reason for it. She stood beside Clara, watching the retreating buggy. "Uhhuh!" she said to herself, "it's huh sister Janet! She ma'ied a doctuh, an' all dat, an' she lives in a big house, an' she's be'n roun' de worl' an de Lawd knows where e'se: but Mis' 'Livy don' like de sight er her, an' never will, ez long ez de sun rises an' sets. Dey ce't'nly does favor one anudder,--anybody mought 'low dey wuz twins, ef dey didn' know better. Well, well! Fo'ty yeahs ago who'd 'a' ever expected ter see a nigger gal ridin' in her own buggy? My, my! but I don' know,--I don' know! It don' look right, an' it ain' gwine ter las'!--you can't make me b'lieve!" Meantime Janet, stung by Mrs. Carteret's look,--the nearest approach she had ever made to a recognition of her sister's existence,--had turned away with hardening face. She had struck her pony sharply with the whip, much to the gentle creature's surprise, when the little boy, who was still looking back, caught his mother's sleeve and exclaimed excitedly:-- "Look, look, mamma! The baby,--the baby!" Janet turned instantly, and with a mother's instinct gave an involuntary cry of alarm. At the moment when Mrs. Carteret had turned away from the window, and while Mammy Jane was watching Janet, Clara had taken a step forward, and was leaning against the window-sill. The baby, convulsed with delight, had given a spasmodic spring and slipped from Clara's arms. Instinctively the young woman gripped the long skirt as it slipped through her hands, and held it tenaciously, though too frightened for an instant to do more. Mammy Jane, ashen with sudden dread, uttered an inarticulate scream, but retained self-possession enough to reach down and draw up the child, which hung dangerously suspended, head downward, over the brick pavement below. "Oh, Clara, Clara, how could you!" exclaimed Mrs. Carteret reproachfully; "you might have killed my child!" She had snatched the child from Jane's arms, and was holding him closely to her own breast. Struck by a sudden thought, she drew near the window and looked out. Twice within a few weeks her child had been in serious danger, and upon each occasion a member of the Miller family had been involved, for she had heard of Dr. Miller's presumption in trying to force himself where he must have known he would be unwelcome. Janet was just turning her head away as the buggy moved slowly off. Olivia felt a violent wave of antipathy sweep over her toward this baseborn sister who had thus thrust herself beneath her eyes. If she had not cast her brazen glance toward the window, she herself would not have turned away and lost sight of her child. To this shameless intrusion, linked with Clara's carelessness, had been due the catastrophe, so narrowly averted, which might have darkened her own life forever. She took to her bed for several days, and for a long time was cold toward Clara, and did not permit her to touch the child. Mammy Jane entertained a theory of her own about the accident, by which the blame was placed, in another way, exactly where Mrs. Carteret had laid it. Julia's daughter, Janet, had been looking intently toward the window just before little Dodie had sprung from Clara's arms. Might she not have cast the evil eye upon the baby, and sought thereby to draw him out of the window? One would not ordinarily expect so young a woman to possess such a power, but she might have acquired it, for this very purpose, from some more experienced person. By the same reasoning, the mockingbird might have been a familiar of the witch, and the two might have conspired to lure the infant to destruction. Whether this were so or not, the transaction at least wore a peculiar look. There was no use telling Mis' 'Livy about it, for she didn't believe, or pretended not to believe, in witchcraft and conjuration. But one could not be too careful. The child was certainly born to be exposed to great dangers,--the mole behind the left ear was an unfailing sign,--and no precaution should be omitted to counteract its baleful influence. While adjusting the baby's crib, a few days later, Mrs. Carteret found fastened under one of the slats a small bag of cotton cloth, about half an inch long and tied with a black thread, upon opening which she found a few small roots or fibres and a pinch of dried and crumpled herbs. It was a good-luck charm which Mammy Jane had placed there to ward off the threatened evil from the grandchild of her dear old mistress. Mrs. Carteret's first impulse was to throw the bag into the fire, but on second thoughts she let it remain. To remove it would give unnecessary pain to the old nurse. Of course these old negro superstitions were absurd,--but if the charm did no good, it at least would do no harm. XII ANOTHER SOUTHERN PRODUCT One morning shortly after the opening of the hospital, while Dr. Miller was making his early rounds, a new patient walked in with a smile on his face and a broken arm hanging limply by his side. Miller recognized in him a black giant by the name of Josh Green, who for many years had worked on the docks for Miller's father,--and simultaneously identified him as the dust-begrimed negro who had stolen a ride to Wellington on the trucks of a passenger car. "Well, Josh," asked the doctor, as he examined the fracture, "how did you get this? Been fighting again?" "No, suh, I don' s'pose you could ha'dly call it a fight. One er dem dagoes off'n a Souf American boat gimme some er his jaw, an' I give 'im a back answer, an' here I is wid a broken arm. He got holt er a belayin'-pin befo' I could hit 'im." "What became of the other man?" demanded Miller suspiciously. He perceived, from the indifference with which Josh bore the manipulation of the fractured limb, that such an accident need not have interfered seriously with the use of the remaining arm, and he knew that Josh had a reputation for absolute fearlessness. "Lemme see," said Josh reflectively, "ef I kin 'member w'at _did_ become er him! Oh, yes, I 'member now! Dey tuck him ter de Marine Horspittle in de amberlance, 'cause his leg wuz broke, an' I reckon somethin' must 'a' accident'ly hit 'im in de jaw, fer he wuz scatt'rin' teeth all de way 'long de street. I didn' wan' ter kill de man, fer he might have somebody dependin' on 'im, an' I knows how dat'd be ter dem. But no man kin call me a damn' low-down nigger and keep on enjoyin' good health right along." "It was considerate of you to spare his life," said Miller dryly, "but you'll hit the wrong man some day. These are bad times for bad negroes. You'll get into a quarrel with a white man, and at the end of it there'll be a lynching, or a funeral. You'd better be peaceable and endure a little injustice, rather than run the risk of a sudden and violent death." "I expec's ter die a vi'lent death in a quarrel wid a w'ite man," replied Josh, in a matter-of-fact tone, "an' fu'thermo', he's gwine ter die at the same time, er a little befo'. I be'n takin' my own time 'bout killin' 'im; I ain' be'n crowdin' de man, but I'll be ready after a w'ile, an' den he kin look out!" "And I suppose you're merely keeping in practice on these other fellows who come your way. When I get your arm dressed, you'd better leave town till that fellow's boat sails; it may save you the expense of a trial and three months in the chain-gang. But this talk about killing a man is all nonsense. What has any man in this town done to you, that you should thirst for his blood?" "No, suh, it ain' nonsense,--it's straight, solem' fac'. I'm gwine ter kill dat man as sho' as I'm settin' in dis cheer; an' dey ain' nobody kin say I ain' got a right ter kill 'im. Does you 'member de Ku-Klux?" "Yes, but I was a child at the time, and recollect very little about them. It is a page of history which most people are glad to forget." "Yas, suh; I was a chile, too, but I wuz right in it, an' so I 'members mo' erbout it 'n you does. My mammy an' daddy lived 'bout ten miles f'm here, up de river. One night a crowd er w'ite men come ter ou' house an' tuck my daddy out an' shot 'im ter death, an' skeered my mammy so she ain' be'n herse'f f'm dat day ter dis. I wa'n't mo' 'n ten years ole at de time, an' w'en my mammy seed de w'ite men comin', she tol' me ter run. I hid in de bushes an' seen de whole thing, an' it wuz branded on my mem'ry, suh, like a red-hot iron bran's de skin. De w'ite folks had masks on, but one of 'em fell off,--he wuz de boss, he wuz de head man, an' tol' de res' w'at ter do,--an' I seen his face. It wuz a easy face ter 'member; an' I swo' den, 'way down deep in my hea't, little ez I wuz, dat some day er 'nother I'd kill dat man. I ain't never had no doubt erbout it; it's jus' w'at I'm livin' fer, an' I know I ain' gwine ter die till I've done it. Some lives fer one thing an' some fer another, but dat's my job. I ain' be'n in no has'e, fer I'm not ole yit, an' dat man is in good health. I'd like ter see a little er de worl' befo' I takes chances on leavin' it sudden; an', mo'over, somebody's got ter take keer er de ole 'oman. But her time'll come some er dese days, an den _his_ time'll be come--an' prob'ly mine. But I ain' keerin' 'bout myse'f: w'en I git thoo wid him, it won' make no diff'ence 'bout me." Josh was evidently in dead earnest. Miller recalled, very vividly, the expression he had seen twice on his patient's face, during the journey to Wellington. He had often seen Josh's mother, old Aunt Milly,--"Silly Milly," the children called her,--wandering aimlessly about the street, muttering to herself incoherently. He had felt a certain childish awe at the sight of one of God's creatures who had lost the light of reason, and he had always vaguely understood that she was the victim of human cruelty, though he had dated it farther back into the past. This was his first knowledge of the real facts of the case. He realized, too, for a moment, the continuity of life, how inseparably the present is woven with the past, how certainly the future will be but the outcome of the present. He had supposed this old wound healed. The negroes were not a vindictive people. If, swayed by passion or emotion, they sometimes gave way to gusts of rage, these were of brief duration. Absorbed in the contemplation of their doubtful present and their uncertain future, they gave little thought to the past,--it was a dark story, which they would willingly forget. He knew the timeworn explanation that the Ku-Klux movement, in the main, was merely an ebullition of boyish spirits, begun to amuse young white men by playing upon the fears and superstitions of ignorant negroes. Here, however, was its tragic side,--the old wound still bleeding, the fruit of one tragedy, the seed of another. He could not approve of Josh's application of the Mosaic law of revenge, and yet the incident was not without significance. Here was a negro who could remember an injury, who could shape his life to a definite purpose, if not a high or holy one. When his race reached the point where they would resent a wrong, there was hope that they might soon attain the stage where they would try, and, if need be, die, to defend a right. This man, too, had a purpose in life, and was willing to die that he might accomplish it. Miller was willing to give up his life to a cause. Would he be equally willing, he asked himself, to die for it? Miller had no prophetic instinct to tell him how soon he would have the opportunity to answer his own question. But he could not encourage Josh to carry out this dark and revengeful purpose. Every worthy consideration required him to dissuade his patient from such a desperate course. "You had better put away these murderous fancies, Josh," he said seriously. "The Bible says that we should 'forgive our enemies, bless them that curse us, and do good to them that despitefully use us.'" "Yas, suh, I've l'arnt all dat in Sunday-school, an' I've heared de preachers say it time an' time ag'in. But it 'pears ter me dat dis fergitfulniss an' fergivniss is mighty one-sided. De w'ite folks don' fergive nothin' de niggers does. Dey got up de Ku-Klux, dey said, on 'count er de kyarpit-baggers. Dey be'n talkin' 'bout de kyarpit-baggers ever sence, an' dey 'pears ter fergot all 'bout de Ku-Klux. But I ain' fergot. De niggers is be'n train' ter fergiveniss; an' fer fear dey might fergit how ter fergive, de w'ite folks gives 'em somethin' new ev'y now an' den, ter practice on. A w'ite man kin do w'at he wants ter a nigger, but de minute de nigger gits back at 'im, up goes de nigger, an' don' come down tell somebody cuts 'im down. If a nigger gits a' office, er de race 'pears ter be prosperin' too much, de w'ite folks up an' kills a few, so dat de res' kin keep on fergivin' an' bein' thankful dat dey're lef alive. Don' talk ter me 'bout dese w'ite folks,--I knows 'em, I does! Ef a nigger wants ter git down on his marrow-bones, an' eat dirt, an' call 'em 'marster,' _he's_ a good nigger, dere's room fer _him_. But I ain' no w'ite folks' nigger, I ain'. I don' call no man 'marster.' I don' wan' nothin' but w'at I wo'k fer, but I wants all er dat. I never moles's no w'ite man, 'less 'n he moles's me fus'. But w'en de ole 'oman dies, doctuh, an' I gits a good chance at dat w'ite man,--dere ain' no use talkin', suh!--dere's gwine ter be a mix-up, an' a fune'al, er two fune'als--er may be mo', ef anybody is keerliss enough to git in de way." "Josh," said the doctor, laying a cool hand on the other's brow, "you 're feverish, and don't know what you're talking about. I shouldn't let my mind dwell on such things, and you must keep quiet until this arm is well, or you may never be able to hit any one with it again." Miller determined that when Josh got better he would talk to him seriously and dissuade him from this dangerous design. He had not asked the name of Josh's enemy, but the look of murderous hate which the dust-begrimed tramp of the railway journey had cast at Captain George McBane rendered any such question superfluous. McBane was probably deserving of any evil fate which might befall him; but such a revenge would do no good, would right no wrong; while every such crime, committed by a colored man, would be imputed to the race, which was already staggering under a load of obloquy because, in the eyes of a prejudiced and undiscriminating public, it must answer as a whole for the offenses of each separate individual. To die in defense of the right was heroic. To kill another for revenge was pitifully human and weak: "Vengeance is mine, I will repay," saith the Lord. XIII THE CAKEWALK Old Mr. Delamere's servant, Sandy Campbell, was in deep trouble. A party of Northern visitors had been staying for several days at the St. James Hotel. The gentlemen of the party were concerned in a projected cotton mill, while the ladies were much interested in the study of social conditions, and especially in the negro problem. As soon as their desire for information became known, they were taken courteously under the wing of prominent citizens and their wives, who gave them, at elaborate luncheons, the Southern white man's views of the negro, sighing sentimentally over the disappearance of the good old negro of before the war, and gravely deploring the degeneracy of his descendants. They enlarged upon the amount of money the Southern whites had spent for the education of the negro, and shook their heads over the inadequate results accruing from this unexampled generosity. It was sad, they said, to witness this spectacle of a dying race, unable to withstand the competition of a superior type. The severe reprisals taken by white people for certain crimes committed by negroes were of course not the acts of the best people, who deplored them; but still a certain charity should be extended towards those who in the intense and righteous anger of the moment should take the law into their own hands and deal out rough but still substantial justice; for no negro was ever lynched without incontestable proof of his guilt. In order to be perfectly fair, and give their visitors an opportunity to see both sides of the question, they accompanied the Northern visitors to a colored church where they might hear a colored preacher, who had won a jocular popularity throughout the whole country by an oft-repeated sermon intended to demonstrate that the earth was flat like a pancake. This celebrated divine could always draw a white audience, except on the days when his no less distinguished white rival in the field of sensationalism preached his equally famous sermon to prove that hell was exactly one half mile, linear measure, from the city limits of Wellington. Whether accidentally or not, the Northern visitors had no opportunity to meet or talk alone with any colored person in the city except the servants at the hotel. When one of the party suggested a visit to the colored mission school, a Southern friend kindly volunteered to accompany them. The visitors were naturally much impressed by what they learned from their courteous hosts, and felt inclined to sympathize with the Southern people, for the negro is not counted as a Southerner, except to fix the basis of congressional representation. There might of course be things to criticise here and there, certain customs for which they did not exactly see the necessity, and which seemed in conflict with the highest ideals of liberty but surely these courteous, soft-spoken ladies and gentlemen, entirely familiar with local conditions, who descanted so earnestly and at times pathetically upon the grave problems confronting them, must know more about it than people in the distant North, without their means of information. The negroes who waited on them at the hotel seemed happy enough, and the teachers whom they had met at the mission school had been well-dressed, well-mannered, and apparently content with their position in life. Surely a people who made no complaints could not be very much oppressed. In order to give the visitors, ere they left Wellington, a pleasing impression of Southern customs, and particularly of the joyous, happy-go-lucky disposition of the Southern darky and his entire contentment with existing conditions, it was decided by the hotel management to treat them, on the last night of their visit, to a little diversion, in the shape of a genuine negro cakewalk. On the afternoon of this same day Tom Delamere strolled into the hotel, and soon gravitated to the bar, where he was a frequent visitor. Young men of leisure spent much of their time around the hotel, and no small part of it in the bar. Delamere had been to the club, but had avoided the card-room. Time hanging heavy on his hands, he had sought the hotel in the hope that some form of distraction might present itself. "Have you heard the latest, Mr. Delamere?" asked the bartender, as he mixed a cocktail for his customer. "No, Billy; what is it?" "There's to be a big cakewalk upstairs to-night. The No'the'n gentlemen an' ladies who are down here to see about the new cotton fact'ry want to study the nigger some more, and the boss has got up a cakewalk for 'em, 'mongst the waiters and chambermaids, with a little outside talent." "Is it to be public?" asked Delamere. "Oh, no, not generally, but friends of the house won't be barred out. The clerk 'll fix it for you. Ransom, the head waiter, will be floor manager." Delamere was struck with a brilliant idea. The more he considered it, the brighter it seemed. Another cocktail imparted additional brilliancy to the conception. He had been trying, after a feeble fashion, to keep his promise to Clara, and was really suffering from lack of excitement. He left the bar-room, found the head waiter, held with him a short conversation, and left in his intelligent and itching palm a piece of money. The cakewalk was a great success. The most brilliant performer was a late arrival, who made his appearance just as the performance was about to commence. The newcomer was dressed strikingly, the conspicuous features of his attire being a long blue coat with brass buttons and a pair of plaid trousers. He was older, too, than the other participants, which made his agility the more remarkable. His partner was a new chambermaid, who had just come to town, and whom the head waiter introduced to the newcomer upon his arrival. The cake was awarded to this couple by a unanimous vote. The man presented it to his partner with a grandiloquent flourish, and returned thanks in a speech which sent the Northern visitors into spasms of delight at the quaintness of the darky dialect and the darky wit. To cap the climax, the winner danced a buck dance with a skill and agility that brought a shower of complimentary silver, which he gathered up and passed to the head waiter. Ellis was off duty for the evening. Not having ventured to put in an appearance at Carteret's since his last rebuff, he found himself burdened with a superfluity of leisure, from which he essayed to find relief by dropping into the hotel office at about nine o'clock. He was invited up to see the cakewalk, which he rather enjoyed, for there was some graceful dancing and posturing. But the grotesque contortions of one participant had struck him as somewhat overdone, even for the comical type of negro. He recognized the fellow, after a few minutes' scrutiny, as the body-servant of old Mr. Delamere. The man's present occupation, or choice of diversion, seemed out of keeping with his employment as attendant upon an invalid old gentleman, and strangely inconsistent with the gravity and decorum which had been so noticeable when this agile cakewalker had served as butler at Major Carteret's table, upon the occasion of the christening dinner. There was a vague suggestion of unreality about this performance, too, which Ellis did not attempt to analyze, but which recurred vividly to his memory upon a subsequent occasion. Ellis had never pretended to that intimate knowledge of negro thought and character by which some of his acquaintances claimed the ability to fathom every motive of a negro's conduct, and predict in advance what any one of the darker race would do under a given set of circumstances. He would not have believed that a white man could possess two so widely varying phases of character; but as to negroes, they were as yet a crude and undeveloped race, and it was not safe to make predictions concerning them. No one could tell at what moment the thin veneer of civilization might peel off and reveal the underlying savage. The champion cakewalker, much to the surprise of his sable companions, who were about equally swayed by admiration and jealousy, disappeared immediately after the close of the performance. Any one watching him on his way home through the quiet streets to old Mr. Delamere's would have seen him now and then shaking with laughter. It had been excellent fun. Nevertheless, as he neared home, a certain aspect of the affair, hitherto unconsidered, occurred to him, and it was in a rather serious frame of mind that he cautiously entered the house and sought his own room. * * * * * The cakewalk had results which to Sandy were very serious. The following week he was summoned before the disciplinary committee of his church and charged with unchristian conduct, in the following particulars, to wit: dancing, and participating in a sinful diversion called a cakewalk, which was calculated to bring the church into disrepute and make it the mockery of sinners. Sandy protested his innocence vehemently, but in vain. The proof was overwhelming. He was positively identified by Sister 'Manda Patterson, the hotel cook, who had watched the whole performance from the hotel corridor for the sole, single, solitary, and only purpose, she averred, of seeing how far human wickedness could be carried by a professing Christian. The whole thing had been shocking and offensive to her, and only a stern sense of duty had sustained her in looking on, that she might be qualified to bear witness against the offender. She had recognized his face, his clothes, his voice, his walk--there could be no shadow of doubt that it was Brother Sandy. This testimony was confirmed by one of the deacons, whose son, a waiter at the hotel, had also seen Sandy at the cakewalk. Sandy stoutly insisted that he was at home the whole evening; that he had not been near the hotel for three months; that he had never in his life taken part in a cakewalk, and that he did not know how to dance. It was replied that wickedness, like everything else, must have a beginning; that dancing was an art that could be acquired in secret, and came natural to some people. In the face of positive proof, Sandy's protestations were of no avail; he was found guilty, and suspended from church fellowship until he should have repented and made full confession. Sturdily refusing to confess a fault of which he claimed to be innocent, Sandy remained in contumacy, thereby falling somewhat into disrepute among the members of his church, the largest in the city. The effect of a bad reputation being subjective as well as objective, and poor human nature arguing that one may as well have the game as the name, Sandy insensibly glided into habits of which the church would not have approved, though he took care that they should not interfere with his duties to Mr. Delamere. The consolation thus afforded, however, followed as it was by remorse of conscience, did not compensate him for the loss of standing in the church, which to him was a social club as well as a religious temple. At times, in conversation with young Delamere, he would lament his hard fate. Tom laughed until he cried at the comical idea which Sandy's plaint always brought up, of half-a-dozen negro preachers sitting in solemn judgment upon that cakewalk,--it had certainly been a good cakewalk!--and sending poor Sandy to spiritual Coventry. "Cheer up, Sandy, cheer up!" he would say when Sandy seemed most depressed. "Go into my room and get yourself a good drink of liquor. The devil's church has a bigger congregation than theirs, and we have the consolation of knowing that when we die, we'll meet all our friends on the other side. Brace up, Sandy, and be a man, or, if you can't be a man, be as near a man as you can!" Hoping to revive his drooping spirits, Sandy too often accepted the proffered remedy. XIV THE MAUNDERINGS OF OLD MRS. OCHILTREE When Mrs. Carteret had fully recovered from the shock attendant upon the accident at the window, where little Dodie had so narrowly escaped death or serious injury, she ordered her carriage one afternoon and directed the coachman to drive her to Mrs. Ochiltree's. Mrs. Carteret had discharged her young nurse only the day before, and had sent for Mammy Jane, who was now recovered from her rheumatism, to stay until she could find another girl. The nurse had been ordered not to take the child to negroes' houses. Yesterday, in driving past the old homestead of her husband's family, now occupied by Dr. Miller and his family, Mrs. Carteret had seen her own baby's carriage standing in the yard. When the nurse returned home, she was immediately discharged. She offered some sort of explanation, to the effect that her sister worked for Mrs. Miller, and that some family matter had rendered it necessary for her to see her sister. The explanation only aggravated the offense: if Mrs. Carteret could have overlooked the disobedience, she would by no means have retained in her employment a servant whose sister worked for the Miller woman. Old Mrs. Ochiltree had within a few months begun to show signs of breaking up. She was over seventy years old, and had been of late, by various afflictions, confined to the house much of the time. More than once within the year, Mrs. Carteret had asked her aunt to come and live with her; but Mrs. Ochiltree, who would have regarded such a step as an acknowledgment of weakness, preferred her lonely independence. She resided in a small, old-fashioned house, standing back in the middle of a garden on a quiet street. Two old servants made up her modest household. This refusal to live with her niece had been lightly borne, for Mrs. Ochiltree was a woman of strong individuality, whose comments upon her acquaintance, present or absent, were marked by a frankness at times no less than startling. This characteristic caused her to be more or less avoided. Mrs. Ochiltree was aware of this sentiment on the part of her acquaintance, and rather exulted in it. She hated fools. Only fools ran away from her, and that because they were afraid she would expose their folly. If most people were fools, it was no fault of hers, and she was not obliged to indulge them by pretending to believe that they knew anything. She had once owned considerable property, but was reticent about her affairs, and told no one how much she was worth, though it was supposed that she had considerable ready money, besides her house and some other real estate. Mrs. Carteret was her nearest living relative, though her grand-nephew Tom Delamere had been a great favorite with her. If she did not spare him her tongue-lashings, it was nevertheless expected in the family that she would leave him something handsome in her will. Mrs. Ochiltree had shared in the general rejoicing upon the advent of the Carteret baby. She had been one of his godmothers, and had hinted at certain intentions held by her concerning him. During Mammy Jane's administration she had tried the old nurse's patience more or less by her dictatorial interference. Since her partial confinement to the house, she had gone, when her health and the weather would permit, to see the child, and at other times had insisted that it be sent to her in charge of the nurse at least every other day. Mrs. Ochiltree's faculties had shared insensibly in the decline of her health. This weakness manifested itself by fits of absent-mindedness, in which she would seemingly lose connection with the present, and live over again, in imagination, the earlier years of her life. She had buried two husbands, had tried in vain to secure a third, and had never borne any children. Long ago she had petrified into a character which nothing under heaven could change, and which, if death is to take us as it finds us, and the future life to keep us as it takes us, promised anything but eternal felicity to those with whom she might associate after this life. Tom Delamere had been heard to say, profanely, that if his Aunt Polly went to heaven, he would let his mansion in the skies on a long lease, at a low figure. When the carriage drove up with Mrs. Carteret, her aunt was seated on the little front piazza, with her wrinkled hands folded in her lap, dozing the afternoon away in fitful slumber. "Tie the horse, William," said Mrs. Carteret, "and then go in and wake Aunt Polly, and tell her I want her to come and drive with me." Mrs. Ochiltree had not observed her niece's approach, nor did she look up when William drew near. Her eyes were closed, and she would let her head sink slowly forward, recovering it now and then with a spasmodic jerk. "Colonel Ochiltree," she muttered, "was shot at the battle of Culpepper Court House, and left me a widow for the second time. But I would not have married any man on earth after him." "Mis' Ochiltree!" cried William, raising his voice, "oh, Mis' Ochiltree!" "If I had found a man,--a real man,--I might have married again. I did not care for weaklings. I could have married John Delamere if I had wanted him. But pshaw! I could have wound him round"-- "Go round to the kitchen, William," interrupted Mrs. Carteret impatiently, "and tell Aunt Dinah to come and wake her up." William returned in a few moments with a fat, comfortable looking black woman, who curtsied to Mrs. Carteret at the gate, and then going up to her mistress seized her by the shoulder and shook her vigorously. "Wake up dere, Mis' Polly," she screamed, as harshly as her mellow voice would permit. "Mis' 'Livy wants you ter go drivin' wid 'er!" "Dinah," exclaimed the old lady, sitting suddenly upright with a defiant assumption of wakefulness, "why do you take so long to come when I call? Bring me my bonnet and shawl. Don't you see my niece waiting for me at the gate?" "Hyuh dey is, hyuh dey is!" returned Dinah, producing the bonnet and shawl, and assisting Mrs. Ochiltree to put them on. Leaning on William's arm, the old lady went slowly down the walk, and was handed to the rear seat with Mrs. Carteret. "How's the baby to-day, Olivia, and why didn't you bring him?" "He has a cold to-day, and is a little hoarse," replied Mrs. Carteret, "so I thought it best not to bring him out. Drive out the Weldon road, William, and back by Pine Street." The drive led past an eminence crowned by a handsome brick building of modern construction, evidently an institution of some kind, surrounded on three sides by a grove of venerable oaks. "Hugh Poindexter," Mrs. Ochiltree exclaimed explosively, after a considerable silence, "has been building a new house, in place of the old family mansion burned during the war." "It isn't Mr. Poindexter's house, Aunt Polly. That is the new colored hospital built by the colored doctor." "The new colored hospital, indeed, and the colored doctor! Before the war the negroes were all healthy, and when they got sick we took care of them ourselves! Hugh Poindexter has sold the graves of his ancestors to a negro,--I should have starved first!" "He had his grandfather's grave opened, and there was nothing to remove, except a few bits of heart-pine from the coffin. All the rest had crumbled into dust." "And he sold the dust to a negro! The world is upside down." "He had the tombstone transferred to the white cemetery, Aunt Polly, and he has moved away." "Esau sold his birthright for a mess of pottage. When I die, if you outlive me, Olivia, which is not likely, I shall leave my house and land to this child! He is a Carteret,--he would never sell them to a negro. I can't trust Tom Delamere, I'm afraid." The carriage had skirted the hill, passing to the rear of the new building. "Turn to the right, William," ordered Mrs. Carteret, addressing the coachman, "and come back past the other side of the hospital." A turn to the right into another road soon brought them to the front of the building, which stood slightly back from the street, with no intervening fence or inclosure. A sorrel pony in a light buggy was fastened to a hitching-post near the entrance. As they drove past, a lady came out of the front door and descended the steps, holding by the hand a very pretty child about six years old. "Who is that woman, Olivia?" asked Mrs. Ochiltree abruptly, with signs of agitation. The lady coming down the steps darted at the approaching carriage a look which lingered involuntarily. Mrs. Carteret, perceiving this glance, turned away coldly. With a sudden hardening of her own features the other woman lifted the little boy into the buggy and drove sharply away in the direction opposite to that taken by Mrs. Carteret's carriage. "Who is that woman, Olivia?" repeated Mrs. Ochiltree, with marked emotion. "I have not the honor of her acquaintance," returned Mrs. Carteret sharply. "Drive faster, William." "I want to know who that woman is," persisted Mrs. Ochiltree querulously. "William," she cried shrilly, poking the coachman in the back with the end of her cane, "who is that woman?" "Dat's Mis' Miller, ma'am," returned the coachman, touching his hat; "Doctuh Miller's wife." "What was her mother's name?" "Her mother's name wuz Julia Brown. She's be'n dead dese twenty years er mo'. Why, you knowed Julia, Mis' Polly!--she used ter b'long ter yo' own father befo' de wah; an' after de wah she kep' house fer"-- "Look to your horses, William!" exclaimed Mrs. Carteret sharply. "It's that hussy's child," said Mrs. Ochiltree, turning to her niece with great excitement. "When your father died, I turned the mother and the child out into the street. The mother died and went to--the place provided for such as she. If I hadn't been just in time, Olivia, they would have turned you out. I saved the property for you and your son! You can thank me for it all!" "Hush, Aunt Polly, for goodness' sake! William will hear you. Tell me about it when you get home." Mrs. Ochiltree was silent, except for a few incoherent mumblings. What she might say, what distressing family secret she might repeat in William's hearing, should she take another talkative turn, was beyond conjecture. Olivia looked anxiously around for something to distract her aunt's attention, and caught sight of a colored man, dressed in sober gray, who was coming toward the carriage. "There's Mr. Delamere's Sandy!" exclaimed Mrs. Carteret, touching her aunt on the arm. "I wonder how his master is? Sandy, oh, Sandy!" Sandy approached the carriage, lifting his hat with a slight exaggeration of Chesterfieldian elegance. Sandy, no less than his master, was a survival of an interesting type. He had inherited the feudal deference for his superiors in position, joined to a certain self-respect which saved him from sycophancy. His manners had been formed upon those of old Mr. Delamere, and were not a bad imitation; for in the man, as in the master, they were the harmonious reflection of a mental state. "How is Mr. Delamere, Sandy?" asked Mrs. Carteret, acknowledging Sandy's salutation with a nod and a smile. "He ain't ez peart ez he has be'n, ma'am," replied Sandy, "but he's doin' tol'able well. De doctuh say he's good fer a dozen years yit, ef he'll jes' take good keer of hisse'f an' keep f'm gittin' excited; fer sence dat secon' stroke, excitement is dange'ous fer 'im." "I'm sure you take the best care of him," returned Mrs. Carteret kindly. "You can't do anything for him, Sandy," interposed old Mrs. Ochiltree, shaking her head slowly to emphasize her dissent. "All the doctors in creation couldn't keep him alive another year. I shall outlive him by twenty years, though we are not far from the same age." "Lawd, ma'am!" exclaimed Sandy, lifting his hands in affected amazement,--his study of gentle manners had been more than superficial,--"whoever would 'a' s'picion' dat you an' Mars John wuz nigh de same age? I'd 'a' 'lowed you wuz ten years younger 'n him, easy, ef you wuz a day!" "Give my compliments to the poor old gentleman," returned Mrs. Ochiltree, with a simper of senile vanity, though her back was weakening under the strain of the effort to sit erect that she might maintain this illusion of comparative youthfulness. "Bring him to see me some day when he is able to walk." "Yas'm, I will," rejoined Sandy. "He's gwine out ter Belleview nex' week, fer ter stay a mont' er so, but I'll fetch him 'roun' w'en he comes back. I'll tell 'im dat you ladies 'quired fer 'im." Sandy made another deep bow, and held his hat in his hand until the carriage had moved away. He had not condescended to notice the coachman at all, who was one of the young negroes of the new generation; while Sandy regarded himself as belonging to the quality, and seldom stooped to notice those beneath him. It would not have been becoming in him, either, while conversing with white ladies, to have noticed a colored servant. Moreover, the coachman was a Baptist, while Sandy was a Methodist, though under a cloud, and considered a Methodist in poor standing as better than a Baptist of any degree of sanctity. "Lawd, Lawd!" chuckled Sandy, after the carriage had departed, "I never seed nothin' lack de way dat ole lady do keep up her temper! Wid one foot in de grave, an' de other hov'rin' on de edge, she talks 'bout my ole marster lack he wuz in his secon' chil'hood. But I'm jes' willin' ter bet dat he'll outlas' her! She ain't half de woman she wuz dat night I waited on de table at de christenin' pa'ty, w'en she 'lowed she wuzn' feared er no man livin'." XV MRS. CARTERET SEEKS AN EXPLANATION As a stone dropped into a pool of water sets in motion a series of concentric circles which disturb the whole mass in varying degree, so Mrs. Ochiltree's enigmatical remark had started in her niece's mind a disturbing train of thought. Had her words, Mrs. Carteret asked herself, any serious meaning, or were they the mere empty babblings of a clouded intellect? "William," she said to the coachman when they reached Mrs. Ochiltree's house, "you may tie the horse and help us out. I shall be here a little while." William helped the ladies down, assisted Mrs. Ochiltree into the house, and then went round to the kitchen. Dinah was an excellent hand at potato-pone and other culinary delicacies dear to the Southern heart, and William was a welcome visitor in her domain. "Now, Aunt Polly," said Mrs. Carteret resolutely, as soon as they were alone, "I want to know what you meant by what you said about my father and Julia, and this--this child of hers?" The old woman smiled cunningly, but her expression soon changed to one more grave. "Why do you want to know?" she asked suspiciously. "You've got the land, the houses, and the money. You've nothing to complain of. Enjoy yourself, and be thankful!" "I'm thankful to God," returned Olivia, "for all his good gifts,--and He has blessed me abundantly,--but why should I be thankful to _you_ for the property my father left me?" "Why should you be thankful to me?" rejoined Mrs. Ochiltree with querulous indignation. "You'd better ask why _shouldn't_ you be thankful to me. What have I not done for you?" "Yes, Aunt Polly, I know you've done a great deal. You reared me in your own house when I had been cast out of my father's; you have been a second mother to me, and I am very grateful,--you can never say that I have not shown my gratitude. But if you have done anything else for me, I wish to know it. Why should I thank you for my inheritance?" "Why should you thank me? Well, because I drove that woman and her brat away." "But she had no right to stay, Aunt Polly, after father died. Of course she had no moral right before, but it was his house, and he could keep her there if he chose. But after his death she surely had no right." "Perhaps not so surely as you think,--if she had not been a negro. Had she been white, there might have been a difference. When I told her to go, she said"-- "What did she say, Aunt Polly," demanded Olivia eagerly. It seemed for a moment as though Mrs. Ochiltree would speak no further: but her once strong will, now weakened by her bodily infirmities, yielded to the influence of her niece's imperious demand. "I'll tell you the whole story," she said, "and then you'll know what I did for you and yours." Mrs. Ochiltree's eyes assumed an introspective expression, and her story, as it advanced, became as keenly dramatic as though memory had thrown aside the veil of intervening years and carried her back directly to the events which she now described. "Your father," she said, "while living with that woman, left home one morning the picture of health. Five minutes later he tottered into the house groaning with pain, stricken unto death by the hand of a just God, as a punishment for his sins." Olivia gave a start of indignation, but restrained herself. "I was at once informed of what had happened, for I had means of knowing all that took place in the household. Old Jane--she was younger then--had come with you to my house; but her daughter remained, and through her I learned all that went on. "I hastened immediately to the house, entered without knocking, and approached Mr. Merkell's bedroom, which was on the lower floor and opened into the hall. The door was ajar, and as I stood there for a moment I heard your father's voice. "'Listen, Julia,' he was saying. 'I shall not live until the doctor comes. But I wish you to know, dear Julia!'--he called her 'dear Julia!'--'before I die, that I have kept my promise. You did me one great service, Julia,--you saved me from Polly Ochiltree!' Yes, Olivia, that is what he said! 'You have served me faithfully and well, and I owe you a great deal, which I have tried to pay.' "'Oh, Mr. Merkell, dear Mr. Merkell,' cried the hypocritical hussy, falling to her knees by his bedside, and shedding her crocodile tears, 'you owe me nothing. You have done more for me than I could ever repay. You will not die and leave me,--no, no, it cannot be!' "'Yes, I am going to die,--I am dying now, Julia. But listen,--compose yourself and listen, for this is a more important matter. Take the keys from under my pillow, open the desk in the next room, look in the second drawer on the right, and you will find an envelope containing three papers: one of them is yours, one is the paper I promised to make, and the third is a letter which I wrote last night. As soon as the breath has left my body, deliver the envelope to the address indorsed upon it. Do not delay one moment, or you may live to regret it. Say nothing until you have delivered the package, and then be guided by the advice which you receive,--it will come from a friend of mine who will not see you wronged.' "I slipped away from the door without making my presence known and entered, by a door from the hall, the room adjoining the one where Mr. Merkell lay. A moment later there was a loud scream. Returning quickly to the hall, I entered Mr. Merkell's room as though just arrived. "'How is Mr. Merkell?' I demanded, as I crossed the threshold. "'He is dead,' sobbed the woman, without lifting her head,--she had fallen on her knees by the bedside. She had good cause to weep, for my time had come. "'Get up,' I said. 'You have no right here. You pollute Mr. Merkell's dead body by your touch. Leave the house immediately,--your day is over!' "'I will not!' she cried, rising to her feet and facing me with brazen-faced impudence. 'I have a right to stay,--he has given me the right!' "'Ha, ha!' I laughed. 'Mr. Merkell is dead, and I am mistress here henceforth. Go, and go at once,--do you hear?' "'I hear, but I shall not heed. I can prove my rights! I shall not leave!' "'Very well,' I replied, 'we shall see. The law will decide.' "I left the room, but did not leave the house. On the contrary, I concealed myself where I could see what took place in the room adjoining the death-chamber. "She entered the room a moment later, with her child on one arm and the keys in the other hand. Placing the child on the floor, she put the key in the lock, and seemed surprised to find the desk already unfastened. She opened the desk, picked up a roll of money and a ladies' watch, which first caught her eye, and was reaching toward the drawer upon the right, when I interrupted her:-- "'Well, thief, are you trying to strip the house before you leave it?' "She gave an involuntary cry, clasped one hand to her bosom and with the other caught up her child, and stood like a wild beast at bay. "'I am not a thief,' she panted. 'The things are mine!' "'You lie,' I replied. 'You have no right to them,--no more right than you have to remain in this house!' "'I have a right,' she persisted, 'and I can prove it!' "She turned toward the desk, seized the drawer, and drew it open. Never shall I forget her look,--never shall I forget that moment; it was the happiest of my life. The drawer was empty! "Pale as death she turned and faced me. "'The papers!' she shrieked, 'the papers! _You_ have stolen them!' "'Papers?' I laughed, 'what papers? Do you take me for a thief, like yourself?' "'There were papers here,' she cried, 'only a minute since. They are mine,--give them back to me!' "'Listen, woman,' I said sternly, 'you are lying--or dreaming. My brother-in-law's papers are doubtless in his safe at his office, where they ought to be. As for the rest,--you are a thief.' "'I am not,' she screamed; 'I am his wife. He married me, and the papers that were in the desk will prove it.' "'Listen,' I exclaimed, when she had finished,--'listen carefully, and take heed to what I say. You are a liar. You have no proofs,--there never were any proofs of what you say, because it never happened,--it is absurd upon the face of it. Not one person in Wellington would believe it. Why should he marry you? He did not need to! You are merely lying,--you are not even self-deceived. If he had really married you, you would have made it known long ago. That you did not is proof that your story is false.' "She was hit so hard that she trembled and sank into a chair. But I had no mercy--she had saved your father from _me_--'dear Julia,' indeed! "'Stand up,' I ordered. 'Do not dare to sit down in my presence. I have you on the hip, my lady, and will teach you your place.' "She struggled to her feet, and stood supporting herself with one hand on the chair. I could have killed her, Olivia! She had been my father's slave; if it had been before the war, I would have had her whipped to death. "'You are a thief,' I said, 'and of that there _are_ proofs. I have caught you in the act. The watch in your bosom is my own, the money belongs to Mr. Merkell's estate, which belongs to my niece, his daughter Olivia. I saw you steal them. My word is worth yours a hundred times over, for I am a lady, and you are--what? And now hear me: if ever you breathe to a living soul one word of this preposterous story, I will charge you with the theft, and have you sent to the penitentiary. Your child will be taken from you, and you shall never see it again. I will give you now just ten minutes to take your brat and your rags out of this house forever. But before you go, put down your plunder there upon the desk!' "She laid down the money and the watch, and a few minutes later left the house with the child in her arms. "And now, Olivia, you know how I saved your estate, and why you should be grateful to me." Olivia had listened to her aunt's story with intense interest. Having perceived the old woman's mood, and fearful lest any interruption might break the flow of her narrative, she had with an effort kept back the one question which had been hovering upon her lips, but which could now no longer be withheld. "What became of the papers, Aunt Polly?" "Ha, ha!" chuckled Mrs. Ochiltree with a cunning look, "did I not tell you that she found no papers?" A change had come over Mrs. Ochiltree's face, marking the reaction from her burst of energy. Her eyes were half closed, and she was muttering incoherently. Olivia made some slight effort to arouse her, but in vain, and realizing the futility of any further attempt to extract information from her aunt at this time, she called William and drove homeward. XVI ELLIS TAKES A TRICK Late one afternoon a handsome trap, drawn by two spirited bays, drove up to Carteret's gate. Three places were taken by Mrs. Carteret, Clara, and the major, leaving the fourth seat vacant. "I've asked Ellis to drive out with us," said the major, as he took the lines from the colored man who had the trap in charge. "We'll go by the office and pick him up." Clara frowned, but perceiving Mrs. Carteret's eye fixed upon her, restrained any further expression of annoyance. The major's liking for Ellis had increased within the year. The young man was not only a good journalist, but possessed sufficient cleverness and tact to make him excellent company. The major was fond of argument, but extremely tenacious of his own opinions. Ellis handled the foils of discussion with just the requisite skill to draw out the major, permitting himself to be vanquished, not too easily, but, as it were, inevitably, by the major's incontrovertible arguments. Olivia had long suspected Ellis of feeling a more than friendly interest in Clara. Herself partial to Tom, she had more than once thought it hardly fair to Delamere, or even to Clara, who was young and impressionable, to have another young man constantly about the house. True, there had seemed to be no great danger, for Ellis had neither the family nor the means to make him a suitable match for the major's sister; nor had Clara made any secret of her dislike for Ellis, or of her resentment for his supposed depreciation of Delamere. Mrs. Carteret was inclined to a more just and reasonable view of Ellis's conduct in this matter, but nevertheless did not deem it wise to undeceive Clara. Dislike was a stout barrier, which remorse might have broken down. The major, absorbed in schemes of empire and dreams of his child's future, had not become cognizant of the affair. His wife, out of friendship for Tom, had refrained from mentioning it; while the major, with a delicate regard for Clara's feelings, had said nothing at home in regard to his interview with her lover. At the Chronicle office Ellis took the front seat beside the major. After leaving the city pavements, they bowled along merrily over an excellent toll-road, built of oyster shells from the neighboring sound, stopping at intervals to pay toll to the gate-keepers, most of whom were white women with tallow complexions and snuff-stained lips,--the traditional "poor-white." For part of the way the road was bordered with a growth of scrub oak and pine, interspersed with stretches of cleared land, white with the opening cotton or yellow with ripening corn. To the right, along the distant river-bank, were visible here and there groups of turpentine pines, though most of this growth had for some years been exhausted. Twenty years before, Wellington had been the world's greatest shipping port for naval stores. But as the turpentine industry had moved southward, leaving a trail of devastated forests in its rear, the city had fallen to a poor fifth or sixth place in this trade, relying now almost entirely upon cotton for its export business. Occasionally our party passed a person, or a group of persons,--mostly negroes approximating the pure type, for those of lighter color grew noticeably scarcer as the town was left behind. Now and then one of these would salute the party respectfully, while others glanced at them indifferently or turned away. There would have seemed, to a stranger, a lack, of spontaneous friendliness between the people of these two races, as though each felt that it had no part or lot in the other's life. At one point the carriage drew near a party of colored folks who were laughing and jesting among themselves with great glee. Paying no attention to the white people, they continued to laugh and shout boisterously as the carriage swept by. Major Carteret's countenance wore an angry look. "The negroes around this town are becoming absolutely insufferable," he averred. "They are sadly in need of a lesson in manners." Half an hour later they neared another group, who were also making merry. As the carriage approached, they became mute and silent as the grave until the major's party had passed. "The negroes are a sullen race," remarked the major thoughtfully. "They will learn their lesson in a rude school, and perhaps much sooner than they dream. By the way," he added, turning to the ladies, "what was the arrangement with Tom? Was he to come out this evening?" "He came out early in the afternoon," replied Clara, "to go a-fishing. He is to join us at the hotel." After an hour's drive they reached the hotel, in front of which stretched the beach, white and inviting, along the shallow sound. Mrs. Carteret and Clara found seats on the veranda. Having turned the trap over to a hostler, the major joined a group of gentlemen, among whom was General Belmont, and was soon deep in the discussion of the standing problem of how best to keep the negroes down. Ellis remained by the ladies. Clara seemed restless and ill at ease. Half an hour elapsed and Delamere had not appeared. "I wonder where Tom is," said Mrs. Carteret. "I guess he hasn't come in yet from fishing," said Clara. "I wish he would come. It's lonesome here. Mr. Ellis, would you mind looking about the hotel and seeing if there's any one here that we know?" For Ellis the party was already one too large. He had accepted this invitation eagerly, hoping to make friends with Clara during the evening. He had never been able to learn definitely the reason of her coldness, but had dated it from his meeting with old Mrs. Ochiltree, with which he felt it was obscurely connected. He had noticed Delamere's scowling look, too, at their last meeting. Clara's injustice, whatever its cause, he felt keenly. To Delamere's scowl he had paid little attention,--he despised Tom so much that, but for his engagement to Clara, he would have held his opinions in utter contempt. He had even wished that Clara might make some charge against him,--he would have preferred that to her attitude of studied indifference, the only redeeming feature about which was that it _was_ studied, showing that she, at least, had him in mind. The next best thing, he reasoned, to having a woman love you, is to have her dislike you violently,--the main point is that you should be kept in mind, and made the subject of strong emotions. He thought of the story of Hall Caine's, where the woman, after years of persecution at the hands of an unwelcome suitor, is on the point of yielding, out of sheer irresistible admiration for the man's strength and persistency, when the lover, unaware of his victory and despairing of success, seizes her in his arms and, springing into the sea, finds a watery grave for both. The analogy of this case with his own was, of course, not strong. He did not anticipate any tragedy in their relations; but he was glad to be thought of upon almost any terms. He would not have done a mean thing to make her think of him; but if she did so because of a misconception, which he was given no opportunity to clear up, while at the same time his conscience absolved him from evil and gave him the compensating glow of martyrdom, it was at least better than nothing. He would, of course, have preferred to be upon a different footing. It had been a pleasure to have her speak to him during the drive,--they had exchanged a few trivial remarks in the general conversation. It was a greater pleasure to have her ask a favor of him,--a pleasure which, in this instance, was partly offset when he interpreted her request to mean that he was to look for Tom Delamere. He accepted the situation gracefully, however, and left the ladies alone. Knowing Delamere's habits, he first went directly to the bar-room,--the atmosphere would be congenial, even if he were not drinking. Delamere was not there. Stepping next into the office, he asked the clerk if young Mr. Delamere had been at the hotel. "Yes, sir," returned the man at the desk, "he was here at luncheon, and then went out fishing in a boat with several other gentlemen. I think they came back about three o'clock. I'll find out for you." He rang the bell, to which a colored boy responded. "Front," said the clerk, "see if young Mr. Delamere's upstairs. Look in 255 or 256, and let me know at once." The bell-boy returned in a moment. "Yas, suh," he reported, with a suppressed grin, "he's in 256, suh. De do' was open, an' I seed 'im from de hall, suh." "I wish you'd go up and tell him," said Ellis, "that--What are you grinning about?" he asked suddenly, noticing the waiter's expression. "Nothin', suh, nothin' at all, suh," responded the negro, lapsing into the stolidity of a wooden Indian. "What shall I tell Mr. Delamere, suh?" "Tell him," resumed Ellis, still watching the boy suspiciously,--"no, I'll tell him myself." He ascended the broad stair to the second floor. There was an upper balcony and a parlor, with a piano for the musically inclined. To reach these one had to pass along the hall upon which the room mentioned by the bell-boy opened. Ellis was quite familiar with the hotel. He could imagine circumstances under which he would not care to speak to Delamere; he would merely pass through the hall and glance into the room casually, as any one else might do, and see what the darky downstairs might have meant by his impudence. It required but a moment to reach the room. The door was not wide open, but far enough ajar for him to see what was going on within. Two young men, members of the fast set at the Clarendon Club, were playing cards at a small table, near which stood another, decorated with an array of empty bottles and glasses. Sprawling on a lounge, with flushed face and disheveled hair, his collar unfastened, his vest buttoned awry, lay Tom Delamere, breathing stertorously, in what seemed a drunken sleep. Lest there should be any doubt of the cause of his condition, the fingers of his right hand had remained clasped mechanically around the neck of a bottle which lay across his bosom. Ellis turned away in disgust, and went slowly back to the ladies. "There seems to be no one here yet," he reported. "We came a little early for the evening crowd. The clerk says Tom Delamere was here to luncheon, but he hasn't seen him for several hours." "He's not a very gallant cavalier," said Mrs. Carteret severely. "He ought to have been waiting for us." Clara was clearly disappointed, and made no effort to conceal her displeasure, leaving Ellis in doubt as to whether or not he were its object. Perhaps she suspected him of not having made a very thorough search. Her next remark might have borne such a construction. "Sister Olivia," she said pettishly, "let's go up to the parlor. I can play the piano anyway, if there's no one to talk to." "I find it very comfortable here, Clara," replied her sister placidly. "Mr. Ellis will go with you. You'll probably find some one in the parlor, or they'll come when you begin to play." Clara's expression was not cordial, but she rose as if to go. Ellis was in a quandary. If she went through the hall, the chances were at least even that she would see Delamere. He did not care a rap for Delamere,--if he chose to make a public exhibition of himself, it was his own affair; but to see him would surely spoil Miss Pemberton's evening, and, in her frame of mind, might lead to the suspicion that Ellis had prearranged the exposure. Even if she should not harbor this unjust thought, she would not love the witness of her discomfiture. We had rather not meet the persons who have seen, even though they never mention, the skeletons in our closets. Delamere had disposed of himself for the evening. Ellis would have a fairer field with Delamere out of sight and unaccounted for, than with Delamere in evidence in his present condition. "Wouldn't you rather take a stroll on the beach, Miss Clara?" he asked, in the hope of creating a diversion. "No, I'm going to the parlor. _You_ needn't come, Mr. Ellis, if you'd rather go down to the beach. I can quite as well go alone." "I'd rather go with you," he said meekly. They were moving toward the door opening into the hall, from which the broad staircase ascended. Ellis, whose thoughts did not always respond quickly to a sudden emergency, was puzzling his brain as to how he should save her from any risk of seeing Delamere. Through the side door leading from the hall into the office, he saw the bell-boy to whom he had spoken seated on the bench provided for the servants. "Won't you wait for me just a moment, Miss Clara, while I step into the office? I'll be with you in an instant." Clara hesitated. "Oh, certainly," she replied nonchalantly. Ellis went direct to the bell-boy. "Sit right where you are," he said, "and don't move a hair. What is the lady in the hall doing?" "She's got her back tu'ned this way, suh. I 'spec' she's lookin' at the picture on the opposite wall, suh." "All right," whispered Ellis, pressing a coin into the servant's hand. "I'm going up to the parlor with the lady. You go up ahead of us, and keep in front of us along the hall. Don't dare to look back. I shall keep on talking to the lady, so that you can tell by my voice where we are. When you get to room 256, go in and shut the door behind you: pretend that you were called,--ask the gentlemen what they want,--tell any kind of a lie you like,--but keep the door shut until you're sure we've got by. Do you hear?" "Yes, suh," replied the negro intelligently. The plan worked without a hitch. Ellis talked steadily, about the hotel, the furnishings, all sorts of irrelevant subjects, to which Miss Pemberton paid little attention. She was angry with Delamere, and took no pains to conceal her feelings. The bell-boy entered room 256 just before they reached the door. Ellis had heard loud talking as they approached, and as they were passing there was a crash of broken glass, as though some object had been thrown at the door. "What is the matter there?" exclaimed Clara, quickening her footsteps and instinctively drawing closer to Ellis. "Some one dropped a glass, I presume," replied Ellis calmly. Miss Pemberton glanced at him suspiciously. She was in a decidedly perverse mood. Seating herself at the piano, she played brilliantly for a quarter of an hour. Quite a number of couples strolled up to the parlor, but Delamere was not among them. "Oh dear!" exclaimed Miss Pemberton, as she let her fingers fall upon the keys with a discordant crash, after the last note, "I don't see why we came out here to-night. Let's go back downstairs." Ellis felt despondent. He had done his utmost to serve and to please Miss Pemberton, but was not likely, he foresaw, to derive much benefit from his opportunity. Delamere was evidently as much or more in her thoughts by reason of his absence than if he had been present. If the door should have been opened, and she should see him from the hall upon their return, Ellis could not help it. He took the side next to the door, however, meaning to hurry past the room so that she might not recognize Delamere. Fortunately the door was closed and all quiet within the room. On the stairway they met the bellboy, rubbing his head with one hand and holding a bottle of seltzer upon a tray in the other. The boy was well enough trained to give no sign of recognition, though Ellis guessed the destination of the bottle. Ellis hardly knew whether to feel pleased or disappointed at the success of his manoeuvres. He had spared Miss Pemberton some mortification, but he had saved Tom Delamere from merited exposure. Clara ought to know the truth, for her own sake. On the beach, a few rods away, fires were burning, around which several merry groups had gathered. The smoke went mostly to one side, but a slight whiff came now and then to where Mrs. Carteret sat awaiting them. "They're roasting oysters," said Mrs. Carteret. "I wish you'd bring me some, Mr. Ellis." Ellis strolled down to the beach. A large iron plate, with a turned-up rim like a great baking-pan, supported by legs which held it off the ground, was set over a fire built upon the sand. This primitive oven was heaped with small oysters in the shell, taken from the neighboring sound, and hauled up to the hotel by a negro whose pony cart stood near by. A wet coffee-sack of burlaps was spread over the oysters, which, when steamed sufficiently, were opened by a colored man and served gratis to all who cared for them. Ellis secured a couple of plates of oysters, which he brought to Mrs. Carteret and Clara; they were small, but finely flavored. Meanwhile Delamere, who possessed a remarkable faculty of recuperation from the effects of drink, had waked from his sleep, and remembering his engagement, had exerted himself to overcome the ravages of the afternoon's debauch. A dash of cold water braced him up somewhat. A bottle of seltzer and a big cup of strong coffee still further strengthened his nerves. When Ellis returned to the veranda, after having taken away the plates, Delamere had joined the ladies and was explaining the cause of his absence. He had been overcome by the heat, he said, while out fishing, and had been lying down ever since. Perhaps he ought to have sent for a doctor, but the fellows had looked after him. He hadn't sent word to his friends because he hadn't wished to spoil their evening. "That was very considerate of you, Tom," said Mrs. Carteret dryly, "but you ought to have let us know. We have been worrying about you very much. Clara has found the evening dreadfully dull." "Indeed, no, sister Olivia," said the young lady cheerfully, "I've been having a lovely time. Mr. Ellis and I have been up in the parlor; I played the piano; and we've been eating oysters and having a most delightful time. Won't you take me down there to the beach, Mr. Ellis? I want to see the fires. Come on." "Can't I go?" asked Tom jealously. "No, indeed, you mustn't stir a foot! You must not overtax yourself so soon; it might do you serious injury. Stay here with sister Olivia." She took Ellis's arm with exaggerated cordiality. Delamere glared after them angrily. Ellis did not stop to question her motives, but took the goods the gods provided. With no very great apparent effort, Miss Pemberton became quite friendly, and they strolled along the beach, in sight of the hotel, for nearly half an hour. As they were coming up she asked him abruptly,-- "Mr. Ellis, did you know Tom was in the hotel?" Ellis was looking across the sound, at the lights of a distant steamer which was making her way toward the harbor. "I wonder," he said musingly, as though he had not heard her question, "if that is the Ocean Belle?" "And was he really sick?" she demanded. "She's later than usual this trip," continued Ellis, pursuing his thought. "She was due about five o'clock." Miss Pemberton, under cover of the darkness, smiled a fine smile, which foreboded ill for some one. When they joined the party on the piazza, the major had come up and was saying that it was time to go. He had been engaged in conversation, for most of the evening, with General Belmont and several other gentlemen. "Here comes the general now. Let me see. There are five of us. The general has offered me a seat in his buggy, and Tom can go with you-all." The general came up and spoke to the ladies. Tom murmured his thanks; it would enable him to make up a part of the delightful evening he had missed. When Mrs. Carteret had taken the rear seat, Clara promptly took the place beside her. Ellis and Delamere sat in front. When Delamere, who had offered to drive, took the reins, Ellis saw that his hands were shaking. "Give me the lines," he whispered. "Your nerves are unsteady and the road is not well lighted." Delamere prudently yielded the reins. He did not like Ellis's tone, which seemed sneering rather than expressive of sympathy with one who had been suffering. He wondered if the beggar knew anything about his illness. Clara had been acting strangely. It would have been just like Ellis to have slandered him. The upstart had no business with Clara anyway. He would cheerfully have strangled Ellis, if he could have done so with safety to himself and no chance of discovery. The drive homeward through the night was almost a silent journey. Mrs. Carteret was anxious about her baby. Clara did not speak, except now and then to Ellis with reference to some object in or near the road. Occasionally they passed a vehicle in the darkness, sometimes barely avoiding a collision. Far to the north the sky was lit up with the glow of a forest fire. The breeze from the Sound was deliciously cool. Soon the last toll-gate was passed and the lights of the town appeared. Ellis threw the lines to William, who was waiting, and hastened to help the ladies out. "Good-night, Mr. Ellis," said Clara sweetly, as she gave Ellis her hand. "Thank you for a very pleasant evening. Come up and see us soon." She ran into the house without a word to Tom. XVII THE SOCIAL ASPIRATIONS OF CAPTAIN McBANE It was only eleven o'clock, and Delamere, not being at all sleepy, and feeling somewhat out of sorts as the combined results of his afternoon's debauch and the snubbing he had received at Clara's hands, directed the major's coachman, who had taken charge of the trap upon its arrival, to drive him to the St. James Hotel before returning the horses to the stable. First, however, the coachman left Ellis at his boarding-house, which was near by. The two young men parted with as scant courtesy as was possible without an open rupture. Delamere hoped to find at the hotel some form of distraction to fill in an hour or two before going home. Ill fortune favored him by placing in his way the burly form of Captain George McBane, who was sitting in an armchair alone, smoking a midnight cigar, under the hotel balcony. Upon Delamere's making known his desire for amusement, the captain proposed a small game of poker in his own room. McBane had been waiting for some such convenient opportunity. We have already seen that the captain was desirous of social recognition, which he had not yet obtained beyond the superficial acquaintance acquired by association with men about town. He had determined to assault society in its citadel by seeking membership in the Clarendon Club, of which most gentlemen of the best families of the city were members. The Clarendon Club was a historic institution, and its membership a social cult, the temple of which was located just off the main street of the city, in a dignified old colonial mansion which had housed it for the nearly one hundred years during which it had maintained its existence unbroken. There had grown up around it many traditions and special usages. Membership in the Clarendon was the _sine qua non_ of high social standing, and was conditional upon two of three things,--birth, wealth, and breeding. Breeding was the prime essential, but, with rare exceptions, must be backed by either birth or money. Having decided, therefore, to seek admission into this social arcanum, the captain, who had either not quite appreciated the standard of the Clarendon's membership, or had failed to see that he fell beneath it, looked about for an intermediary through whom to approach the object of his desire. He had already thought of Tom Delamere in this connection, having with him such an acquaintance as one forms around a hotel, and having long ago discovered that Delamere was a young man of superficially amiable disposition, vicious instincts, lax principles, and a weak will, and, which was quite as much to the purpose, a member of the Clarendon Club. Possessing mental characteristics almost entirely opposite, Delamere and the captain had certain tastes in common, and had smoked, drunk, and played cards together more than once. Still more to his purpose, McBane had detected Delamere trying to cheat him at cards. He had said nothing about this discovery, but had merely noted it as something which at some future time might prove useful. The captain had not suffered by Delamere's deviation from the straight line of honor, for while Tom was as clever with the cards as might be expected of a young man who had devoted most of his leisure for several years to handling them, McBane was past master in their manipulation. During a stormy career he had touched more or less pitch, and had escaped few sorts of defilement. The appearance of Delamere at a late hour, unaccompanied, and wearing upon his countenance an expression in which the captain read aright the craving for mental and physical excitement, gave him the opportunity for which he had been looking. McBane was not the man to lose an opportunity, nor did Delamere require a second invitation. Neither was it necessary, during the progress of the game, for the captain to press upon his guest the contents of the decanter which stood upon the table within convenient reach. The captain permitted Delamere to win from him several small amounts, after which he gradually increased the stakes and turned the tables. Delamere, with every instinct of a gamester, was no more a match for McBane in self-control than in skill. When the young man had lost all his money, the captain expressed his entire willingness to accept notes of hand, for which he happened to have convenient blanks in his apartment. When Delamere, flushed with excitement and wine, rose from the gaming table at two o'clock, he was vaguely conscious that he owed McBane a considerable sum, but could not have stated how much. His opponent, who was entirely cool and collected, ran his eye carelessly over the bits of paper to which Delamere had attached his signature. "Just one thousand dollars even," he remarked. The announcement of this total had as sobering an effect upon Delamere as though he had been suddenly deluged with a shower of cold water. For a moment he caught his breath. He had not a dollar in the world with which to pay this sum. His only source of income was an allowance from his grandfather, the monthly installment of which, drawn that very day, he had just lost to McBane, before starting in upon the notes of hand. "I'll give you your revenge another time," said McBane, as they rose. "Luck is against you to-night, and I'm unwilling to take advantage of a clever young fellow like you. Meantime," he added, tossing the notes of hand carelessly on a bureau, "don't worry about these bits of paper. Such small matters shouldn't cut any figure between friends; but if you are around the hotel to-morrow, I should like to speak to you upon another subject." "Very well, captain," returned Tom somewhat ungraciously. Delamere had been completely beaten with his own weapons. He had tried desperately to cheat McBane. He knew perfectly well that McBane had discovered his efforts and had cheated him in turn, for the captain's play had clearly been gauged to meet his own. The biter had been bit, and could not complain of the outcome. The following afternoon McBane met Delamere at the hotel, and bluntly requested the latter to propose him for membership in the Clarendon Club. Delamere was annoyed at this request. His aristocratic gorge rose at the presumption of this son of an overseer and ex-driver of convicts. McBane was good enough to win money from, or even to lose money to, but not good enough to be recognized as a social equal. He would instinctively have blackballed McBane had he been proposed by some one else; with what grace could he put himself forward as the sponsor for this impossible social aspirant? Moreover, it was clearly a vulgar, cold-blooded attempt on McBane's part to use his power over him for a personal advantage. "Well, now, Captain McBane," returned Delamere diplomatically, "I've never put any one up yet, and it's not regarded as good form for so young a member as myself to propose candidates. I'd much rather you'd ask some older man." "Oh, well," replied McBane, "just as you say, only I thought you had cut your eye teeth." Delamere was not pleased with McBane's tone. His remark was not acquiescent, though couched in terms of assent. There was a sneering savagery about it, too, that left Delamere uneasy. He was, in a measure, in McBane's power. He could not pay the thousand dollars, unless it fell from heaven, or he could win it from some one else. He would not dare go to his grandfather for help. Mr. Delamere did not even know that his grandson gambled. He might not have objected, perhaps, to a gentleman's game, with moderate stakes, but he would certainly, Tom knew very well, have looked upon a thousand dollars as a preposterous sum to be lost at cards by a man who had nothing with which to pay it. It was part of Mr. Delamere's creed that a gentleman should not make debts that he was not reasonably able to pay. There was still another difficulty. If he had lost the money to a gentleman, and it had been his first serious departure from Mr. Delamere's perfectly well understood standard of honor, Tom might have risked a confession and thrown himself on his grandfather's mercy; but he owed other sums here and there, which, to his just now much disturbed imagination, loomed up in alarming number and amount. He had recently observed signs of coldness, too, on the part of certain members of the club. Moreover, like most men with one commanding vice, he was addicted to several subsidiary forms of iniquity, which in case of a scandal were more than likely to come to light. He was clearly and most disagreeably caught in the net of his own hypocrisy. His grandfather believed him a model of integrity, a pattern of honor; he could not afford to have his grandfather undeceived. He thought of old Mrs. Ochiltree. If she were a liberal soul, she could give him a thousand dollars now, when he needed it, instead of making him wait until she died, which might not be for ten years or more, for a legacy which was steadily growing less and might be entirely exhausted if she lived long enough,--some old people were very tenacious of life! She was a careless old woman, too, he reflected, and very foolishly kept her money in the house. Latterly she had been growing weak and childish. Some day she might be robbed, and then his prospective inheritance from that source would vanish into thin air! With regard to this debt to McBane, if he could not pay it, he could at least gain a long respite by proposing the captain at the club. True, he would undoubtedly be blackballed, but before this inevitable event his name must remain posted for several weeks, during which interval McBane would be conciliatory. On the other hand, to propose McBane would arouse suspicion of his own motives; it might reach his grandfather's ears, and lead to a demand for an explanation, which it would be difficult to make. Clearly, the better plan would be to temporize with McBane, with the hope that something might intervene to remove this cursed obligation. "Suppose, captain," he said affably, "we leave the matter open for a few days. This is a thing that can't be rushed. I'll feel the pulse of my friends and yours, and when we get the lay of the land, the affair can be accomplished much more easily." "Well, that's better," returned McBane, somewhat mollified,--"if you'll do that." "To be sure I will," replied Tom easily, too much relieved to resent, if not too preoccupied to perceive, the implied doubt of his veracity. McBane ordered and paid for more drinks, and they parted on amicable terms. "We'll let these notes stand for the time being, Tom," said McBane, with significant emphasis, when they separated. Delamere winced at the familiarity. He had reached that degree of moral deterioration where, while principles were of little moment, the externals of social intercourse possessed an exaggerated importance. McBane had never before been so personal. He had addressed the young aristocrat first as "Mr. Delamere," then, as their acquaintance advanced, as "Delamere." He had now reached the abbreviated Christian name stage of familiarity. There was no lower depth to which Tom could sink, unless McBane should invent a nickname by which to address him. He did not like McBane's manner,--it was characterized by a veiled insolence which was exceedingly offensive. He would go over to the club and try his luck with some honest player,--perhaps something might turn up to relieve him from his embarrassment. He put his hand in his pocket mechanically,--and found it empty! In the present state of his credit, he could hardly play without money. A thought struck him. Leaving the hotel, he hastened home, where he found Sandy dusting his famous suit of clothes on the back piazza. Mr. Delamere was not at home, having departed for Belleview about two o'clock, leaving Sandy to follow him in the morning. "Hello, Sandy," exclaimed Tom, with an assumed jocularity which he was very far from feeling, "what are you doing with those gorgeous garments?" "I'm a-dustin' of 'em, Mistuh Tom, dat's w'at I'm a-doin'. Dere's somethin' wrong 'bout dese clo's er mine--I don' never seem ter be able ter keep 'em clean no mo'. Ef I b'lieved in dem ole-timey sayin's, I'd 'low dere wuz a witch come here eve'y night an' tuk 'em out an' wo' 'em, er tuk me out an' rid me in 'em. Dere wuz somethin' wrong 'bout dat cakewalk business, too, dat I ain' never unde'stood an' don' know how ter 'count fer, 'less dere wuz some kin' er dev'lishness goin' on dat don' show on de su'face." "Sandy," asked Tom irrelevantly, "have you any money in the house?" "Yas, suh, I got de money Mars John give me ter git dem things ter take out ter Belleview in de mawnin." "I mean money of your own." "I got a qua'ter ter buy terbacker wid," returned Sandy cautiously. "Is that all? Haven't you some saved up?" "Well, yas, Mistuh Tom," returned Sandy, with evident reluctance, "dere's a few dollahs put away in my bureau drawer fer a rainy day,--not much, suh." "I'm a little short this afternoon, Sandy, and need some money right away. Grandfather isn't here, so I can't get any from him. Let me take what you have for a day or two, Sandy, and I'll return it with good interest." "Now, Mistuh Tom," said Sandy seriously, "I don' min' lettin' you take my money, but I hopes you ain' gwine ter use it fer none er dem rakehelly gwines-on er yo'n,--gamblin' an' bettin' an' so fo'th. Yo' grandaddy 'll fin' out 'bout you yit, ef you don' min' yo' P's an' Q's. I does my bes' ter keep yo' misdoin's f'm 'im, an' sense I b'en tu'ned out er de chu'ch--thoo no fault er my own, God knows!--I've tol' lies 'nuff 'bout you ter sink a ship. But it ain't right, Mistuh Tom, it ain't right! an' I only does it fer de sake er de fam'ly honuh, dat Mars John sets so much sto' by, an' ter save his feelin's; fer de doctuh says he mus'n' git ixcited 'bout nothin', er it mought bring on another stroke." "That's right, Sandy," replied Tom approvingly; "but the family honor is as safe in my hands as in grandfather's own, and I'm going to use the money for an excellent purpose, in fact to relieve a case of genuine distress; and I'll hand it back to you in a day or two,--perhaps to-morrow. Fetch me the money, Sandy,--that's a good darky!" "All right, Mistuh Tom, you shill have de money; but I wants ter tell you, suh, dat in all de yeahs I has wo'ked fer yo' gran'daddy, he has never called me a 'darky' ter my face, suh. Co'se I knows dere's w'ite folks an' black folks,--but dere's manners, suh, dere's manners, an' gent'emen oughter be de ones ter use 'em, suh, ef dey ain't ter be fergot enti'ely!" "There, there, Sandy," returned Tom in a conciliatory tone, "I beg your pardon! I've been associating with some Northern white folks at the hotel, and picked up the word from them. You're a high-toned colored gentleman, Sandy,--the finest one on the footstool." Still muttering to himself, Sandy retired to his own room, which was in the house, so that he might be always near his master. He soon returned with a time-stained leather pocket-book and a coarse-knit cotton sock, from which two receptacles he painfully extracted a number of bills and coins. "You count dat, Mistuh Tom, so I'll know how much I'm lettin' you have." "This isn't worth anything," said Tom, pushing aside one roll of bills. "It's Confederate money." "So it is, suh. It ain't wuth nothin' now; but it has be'n money, an' who kin tell but what it mought be money agin? De rest er dem bills is greenbacks,--dey'll pass all right, I reckon." The good money amounted to about fifty dollars, which Delamere thrust eagerly into his pocket. "You won't say anything to grandfather about this, will you, Sandy," he said, as he turned away. "No, suh, co'se I won't! Does I ever tell 'im 'bout yo' gwines-on? Ef I did," he added to himself, as the young man disappeared down the street, "I wouldn' have time ter do nothin' e'se ha'dly. I don' know whether I'll ever see dat money agin er no, do' I 'magine de ole gent'eman wouldn' lemme lose it ef he knowed. But I ain' gwine ter tell him, whether I git my money back er no, fer he is jes' so wrop' up in dat boy dat I b'lieve it'd jes' break his hea't ter fin' out how he's be'n gwine on. Doctuh Price has tol' me not ter let de ole gent'eman git ixcited, er e'se dere's no tellin' w'at mought happen. He's be'n good ter me, he has, an' I'm gwine ter take keer er him,--dat's w'at I is, ez long ez I has de chance." * * * * * Delamere went directly to the club, and soon lounged into the card-room, where several of the members were engaged in play. He sauntered here and there, too much absorbed in his own thoughts to notice that the greetings he received were less cordial than those usually exchanged between the members of a small and select social club. Finally, when Augustus, commonly and more appropriately called "Gus," Davidson came into the room, Tom stepped toward him. "Will you take a hand in a game, Gus?" "Don't care if I do," said the other. "Let's sit over here." Davidson led the way to a table near the fireplace, near which stood a tall screen, which at times occupied various places in the room. Davidson took the seat opposite the fireplace, leaving Delamere with his back to the screen. Delamere staked half of Sandy's money, and lost. He staked the rest, and determined to win, because he could not afford to lose. He had just reached out his hand to gather in the stakes, when he was charged with cheating at cards, of which two members, who had quietly entered the room and posted themselves behind the screen, had secured specific proof. A meeting of the membership committee was hastily summoned, it being an hour at which most of them might be found at the club. To avoid a scandal, and to save the feelings of a prominent family, Delamere was given an opportunity to resign quietly from the club, on condition that he paid all his gambling debts within three days, and took an oath never to play cards again for money. This latter condition was made at the suggestion of an elderly member, who apparently believed that a man who would cheat at cards would stick at perjury. Delamere acquiesced very promptly. The taking of the oath was easy. The payment of some fifteen hundred dollars of debts was a different matter. He went away from the club thoughtfully, and it may be said, in full justice to a past which was far from immaculate, that in his present thoughts he touched a depth of scoundrelism far beyond anything of which he had as yet deemed himself capable. When a man of good position, of whom much is expected, takes to evil courses, his progress is apt to resemble that of a well-bred woman who has started on the downward path,--the pace is all the swifter because of the distance which must be traversed to reach the bottom. Delamere had made rapid headway; having hitherto played with sin, his servant had now become his master, and held him in an iron grip. XVIII SANDY SEES HIS OWN HA'NT Having finished cleaning his clothes, Sandy went out to the kitchen for supper, after which he found himself with nothing to do. Mr. Delamere's absence relieved him from attendance at the house during the evening. He might have smoked his pipe tranquilly in the kitchen until bedtime, had not the cook intimated, rather pointedly, that she expected other company. To a man of Sandy's tact a word was sufficient, and he resigned himself to seeking companionship elsewhere. Under normal circumstances, Sandy would have attended prayer-meeting on this particular evening of the week; but being still in contumacy, and cherishing what he considered the just resentment of a man falsely accused, he stifled the inclination which by long habit led him toward the church, and set out for the house of a friend with whom it occurred to him that he might spend the evening pleasantly. Unfortunately, his friend proved to be not at home, so Sandy turned his footsteps toward the lower part of the town, where the streets were well lighted, and on pleasant evenings quite animated. On the way he met Josh Green, whom he had known for many years, though their paths did not often cross. In his loneliness Sandy accepted an invitation to go with Josh and have a drink,--a single drink. When Sandy was going home about eleven o'clock, three sheets in the wind, such was the potent effect of the single drink and those which had followed it, he was scared almost into soberness by a remarkable apparition. As it seemed to Sandy, he saw himself hurrying along in front of himself toward the house. Possibly the muddled condition of Sandy's intellect had so affected his judgment as to vitiate any conclusion he might draw, but Sandy was quite sober enough to perceive that the figure ahead of him wore his best clothes and looked exactly like him, but seemed to be in something more of a hurry, a discrepancy which Sandy at once corrected by quickening his own pace so as to maintain as nearly as possible an equal distance between himself and his double. The situation was certainly an incomprehensible one, and savored of the supernatural. "Ef dat's me gwine 'long in front," mused Sandy, in vinous perplexity, "den who is dis behin' here? Dere ain' but one er me, an' my ha'nt wouldn' leave my body 'tel I wuz dead. Ef dat's me in front, den I mus' be my own ha'nt; an' whichever one of us is de ha'nt, de yuther must be dead an' don' know it. I don' know what ter make er no sech gwines-on, I don't. Maybe it ain' me after all, but it certainly do look lack me." When the apparition disappeared in the house by the side door, Sandy stood in the yard for several minutes, under the shade of an elm-tree, before he could make up his mind to enter the house. He took courage, however, upon the reflection that perhaps, after all, it was only the bad liquor he had drunk. Bad liquor often made people see double. He entered the house. It was dark, except for a light in Tom Delamere's room. Sandy tapped softly at the door. "Who's there?" came Delamere's voice, in a somewhat startled tone, after a momentary silence. "It's me, suh; Sandy." They both spoke softly. It was the rule of the house when Mr. Delamere had retired, and though he was not at home, habit held its wonted sway. "Just a moment, Sandy." Sandy waited patiently in the hall until the door was opened. If the room showed any signs of haste or disorder, Sandy was too full of his own thoughts--and other things--to notice them. "What do you want, Sandy," asked Tom. "Mistuh Tom," asked Sandy solemnly, "ef I wuz in yo' place, an' you wuz in my place, an' we wuz bofe in de same place, whar would I be?" Tom looked at Sandy keenly, with a touch of apprehension. Did Sandy mean anything in particular by this enigmatical inquiry, and if so, what? But Sandy's face clearly indicated a state of mind in which consecutive thought was improbable; and after a brief glance Delamere breathed more freely. "I give it up, Sandy," he responded lightly. "That's too deep for me." "'Scuse me, Mistuh Tom, but is you heared er seed anybody er anything come in de house fer de las' ten minutes?" "Why, no, Sandy, I haven't heard any one. I came from the club an hour ago. I had forgotten my key, and Sally got up and let me in, and then went back to bed. I've been sitting here reading ever since. I should have heard any one who came in." "Mistuh Tom," inquired Sandy anxiously, "would you 'low dat I'd be'n drinkin' too much?" "No, Sandy, I should say you were sober enough, though of course you may have had a few drinks. Perhaps you'd like another? I've got something good here." "No, suh, Mistuh Tom, no, suh! No mo' liquor fer me, suh, never! When liquor kin make a man see his own ha'nt, it's 'bout time fer dat man ter quit drinkin', it sho' is! Good-night, Mistuh Tom." As Sandy turned to go, Delamere was struck by a sudden and daring thought. The creature of impulse, he acted upon it immediately. "By the way, Sandy," he exclaimed carelessly, "I can pay you back that money you were good enough to lend me this afternoon. I think I'll sleep better if I have the debt off my mind, and I shouldn't wonder if you would. You don't mind having it in gold, do you?" "No, indeed, suh," replied Sandy. "I ain' seen no gol' fer so long dat de sight er it'd be good fer my eyes." Tom counted out ten five-dollar gold pieces upon the table at his elbow. "And here's another, Sandy," he said, adding an eleventh, "as interest for the use of it." "Thank y', Mistuh Tom. I didn't spec' no in-trus', but I don' never 'fuse gol' w'en I kin git it." "And here," added Delamere, reaching carelessly into a bureau drawer, "is a little old silk purse that I've had since I was a boy. I'll put the gold in it, Sandy; it will hold it very nicely." "Thank y', Mistuh Tom. You're a gentleman, suh, an' wo'thy er de fam'ly name. Good-night, suh, an' I hope yo' dreams 'll be pleasanter 'n' mine. Ef it wa'n't fer dis gol' kinder takin' my min' off'n dat ha'nt, I don' s'pose I'd be able to do much sleepin' ter-night. Good-night, suh." "Good-night, Sandy." Whether or not Delamere slept soundly, or was troubled by dreams, pleasant or unpleasant, it is nevertheless true that he locked his door, and sat up an hour later, looking through the drawers of his bureau, and burning several articles in the little iron stove which constituted part of the bedroom furniture. It is also true that he rose very early, before the household was stirring. The cook slept in a room off the kitchen, which was in an outhouse in the back yard. She was just stretching herself, preparatory to getting up, when Tom came to her window and said that he was going off fishing, to be gone all day, and that he would not wait for breakfast. XIX A MIDNIGHT WALK Ellis left the office of the Morning Chronicle about eleven o'clock the same evening and set out to walk home. His boarding-house was only a short distance beyond old Mr. Delamere's residence, and while he might have saved time and labor by a slightly shorter route, he generally selected this one because it led also by Major Carteret's house. Sometimes there would be a ray of light from Clara's room, which was on one of the front corners; and at any rate he would have the pleasure of gazing at the outside of the casket that enshrined the jewel of his heart. It was true that this purely sentimental pleasure was sometimes dashed with bitterness at the thought of his rival; but one in love must take the bitter with the sweet, and who would say that a spice of jealousy does not add a certain zest to love? On this particular evening, however, he was in a hopeful mood. At the Clarendon Club, where he had gone, a couple of hours before, to verify a certain news item for the morning paper, he had heard a story about Tom Delamere which, he imagined, would spike that gentleman's guns for all time, so far as Miss Pemberton was concerned. So grave an affair as cheating at cards could never be kept secret,--it was certain to reach her ears; and Ellis was morally certain that Clara would never marry a man who had been proved dishonorable. In all probability there would be no great sensation about the matter. Delamere was too well connected; too many prominent people would be involved--even Clara, and the editor himself, of whom Delamere was a distant cousin. The reputation of the club was also to be considered. Ellis was not the man to feel a malicious delight in the misfortunes of another, nor was he a pessimist who welcomed scandal and disgrace with open arms, as confirming a gloomy theory of human life. But, with the best intentions in the world, it was no more than human nature that he should feel a certain elation in the thought that his rival had been practically disposed of, and the field left clear; especially since this good situation had been brought about merely by the unmasking of a hypocrite, who had held him at an unfair disadvantage in the race for Clara's favor. The night was quiet, except for the faint sound of distant music now and then, or the mellow laughter of some group of revelers. Ellis met but few pedestrians, but as he neared old Mr. Delamere's, he saw two men walking in the same direction as his own, on the opposite side of the street. He had observed that they kept at about an equal distance apart, and that the second, from the stealthy manner in which he was making his way, was anxious to keep the first in sight, without disclosing his own presence. This aroused Ellis's curiosity, which was satisfied in some degree when the man in advance stopped beneath a lamp-post and stood for a moment looking across the street, with his face plainly visible in the yellow circle of light. It was a dark face, and Ellis recognized it instantly as that of old Mr. Delamere's body servant, whose personal appearance had been very vividly impressed upon Ellis at the christening dinner at Major Carteret's. He had seen Sandy once since, too, at the hotel cakewalk. The negro had a small bundle in his hand, the nature of which Ellis could not make out. When Sandy had stopped beneath the lamp-post, the man who was following him had dodged behind a tree-trunk. When Sandy moved on, Ellis, who had stopped in turn, saw the man in hiding come out and follow Sandy. When this second man came in range of the light, Ellis wondered that there should be two men so much alike. The first of the two had undoubtedly been Sandy. Ellis had recognized the peculiar, old-fashioned coat that Sandy had worn upon the two occasions when he had noticed him. Barring this difference, and the somewhat unsteady gait of the second man, the two were as much alike as twin brothers. When they had entered Mr. Delamere's house, one after the other,--in the stillness of the night Ellis could perceive that each of them tried to make as little noise as possible,--Ellis supposed that they were probably relatives, both employed as servants, or that some younger negro, taking Sandy for a model, was trying to pattern himself after his superior. Why all this mystery, of course he could not imagine, unless the younger man had been out without permission and was trying to avoid the accusing eye of Sandy. Ellis was vaguely conscious that he had seen the other negro somewhere, but he could not for the moment place him,--there were so many negroes, nearly three negroes to one white man in the city of Wellington! The subject, however, while curious, was not important as compared with the thoughts of his sweetheart which drove it from his mind. Clara had been kind to him the night before,--whatever her motive, she had been kind, and could not consistently return to her attitude of coldness. With Delamere hopelessly discredited, Ellis hoped to have at least fair play,--with fair play, he would take his chances of the outcome. XX A SHOCKING CRIME On Friday morning, when old Mrs. Ochiltree's cook Dinah went to wake her mistress, she was confronted with a sight that well-nigh blanched her ebony cheek and caused her eyes almost to start from her head with horror. As soon as she could command her trembling limbs sufficiently to make them carry her, she rushed out of the house and down the street, bareheaded, covering in an incredibly short time the few blocks that separated Mrs. Ochiltree's residence from that of her niece. She hastened around the house, and finding the back door open and the servants stirring, ran into the house and up the stairs with the familiarity of an old servant, not stopping until she reached the door of Mrs. Carteret's chamber, at which she knocked in great agitation. Entering in response to Mrs. Carteret's invitation, she found the lady, dressed in a simple wrapper, superintending the morning toilet of little Dodie, who was a wakeful child, and insisted upon rising with the birds, for whose music he still showed a great fondness, in spite of his narrow escape while listening to the mockingbird. "What is it, Dinah?" asked Mrs. Carteret, alarmed at the frightened face of her aunt's old servitor. "O my Lawd, Mis' 'Livy, my Lawd, my Lawd! My legs is trim'lin' so dat I can't ha'dly hol' my han's stiddy 'nough ter say w'at I got ter say! O Lawd have mussy on us po' sinners! W'atever is gwine ter happen in dis worl' er sin an' sorrer!" "What in the world is the matter, Dinah?" demanded Mrs. Carteret, whose own excitement had increased with the length of this preamble. "Has anything happened to Aunt Polly?" "Somebody done broke in de house las' night, Mis' 'Livy, an' kill' Mis' Polly, an' lef' her layin' dead on de flo', in her own blood, wid her cedar chis' broke' open, an' eve'thing scattered roun' de flo'! O my Lawd, my Lawd, my Lawd, my Lawd!" Mrs. Carteret was shocked beyond expression. Perhaps the spectacle of Dinah's unrestrained terror aided her to retain a greater measure of self-control than she might otherwise have been capable of. Giving the nurse some directions in regard to the child, she hastily descended the stairs, and seizing a hat and jacket from the rack in the hall, ran immediately with Dinah to the scene of the tragedy. Before the thought of this violent death all her aunt's faults faded into insignificance, and only her good qualities were remembered. She had reared Olivia; she had stood up for the memory of Olivia's mother when others had seemed to forget what was due to it. To her niece she had been a second mother, and had never been lacking in affection. More than one motive, however, lent wings to Mrs. Carteret's feet. Her aunt's incomplete disclosures on the day of the drive past the hospital had been weighing upon Mrs. Carteret's mind, and she had intended to make another effort this very day, to get an answer to her question about the papers which the woman had claimed were in existence. Suppose her aunt had really found such papers,--papers which would seem to prove the preposterous claim made by her father's mulatto mistress? Suppose that, with the fatuity which generally leads human beings to keep compromising documents, her aunt had preserved these papers? If they should be found there in the house, there might be a scandal, if nothing worse, and this was to be avoided at all hazards. Guided by some fortunate instinct, Dinah had as yet informed no one but Mrs. Carteret of her discovery. If they could reach the house before the murder became known to any third person, she might be the first to secure access to the remaining contents of the cedar chest, which would be likely to be held as evidence in case the officers of the law forestalled her own arrival. They found the house wrapped in the silence of death. Mrs. Carteret entered the chamber of the dead woman. Upon the floor, where it had fallen, lay the body in a pool of blood, the strongly marked countenance scarcely more grim in the rigidity of death than it had been in life. A gaping wound in the head accounted easily for the death. The cedar chest stood open, its strong fastenings having been broken by a steel bar which still lay beside it. Near it were scattered pieces of old lace, antiquated jewelry, tarnished silverware,--the various mute souvenirs of the joys and sorrows of a long and active life. Kneeling by the open chest, Mrs. Carteret glanced hurriedly through its contents. There were no papers there except a few old deeds and letters. She had risen with a sigh of relief, when she perceived the end of a paper projecting from beneath the edge of a rug which had been carelessly rumpled, probably by the burglar in his hasty search for plunder. This paper, or sealed envelope as it proved to be, which evidently contained some inclosure, she seized, and at the sound of approaching footsteps thrust hastily into her own bosom. The sight of two agitated women rushing through the quiet streets at so early an hour in the morning had attracted attention and aroused curiosity, and the story of the murder, having once become known, spread with the customary rapidity of bad news. Very soon a policeman, and a little later a sheriff's officer, arrived at the house and took charge of the remains to await the arrival of the coroner. By nine o'clock a coroner's jury had been summoned, who, after brief deliberation, returned a verdict of willful murder at the hands of some person or persons unknown, while engaged in the commission of a burglary. No sooner was the verdict announced than the community, or at least the white third of it, resolved itself spontaneously into a committee of the whole to discover the perpetrator of this dastardly crime, which, at this stage of the affair, seemed merely one of robbery and murder. Suspicion was at once directed toward the negroes, as it always is when an unexplained crime is committed in a Southern community. The suspicion was not entirely an illogical one. Having been, for generations, trained up to thriftlessness, theft, and immorality, against which only thirty years of very limited opportunity can be offset, during which brief period they have been denied in large measure the healthful social stimulus and sympathy which holds most men in the path of rectitude, colored people might reasonably be expected to commit at least a share of crime proportionate to their numbers. The population of the town was at least two thirds colored. The chances were, therefore, in the absence of evidence, at least two to one that a man of color had committed the crime. The Southern tendency to charge the negroes with all the crime and immorality of that region, unjust and exaggerated as the claim may be, was therefore not without a logical basis to the extent above indicated. It must not be imagined that any logic was needed, or any reasoning consciously worked out. The mere suggestion that the crime had been committed by a negro was equivalent to proof against any negro that might be suspected and could not prove his innocence. A committee of white men was hastily formed. Acting independently of the police force, which was practically ignored as likely to favor the negroes, this committee set to work to discover the murderer. The spontaneous activity of the whites was accompanied by a visible shrinkage of the colored population. This could not be taken as any indication of guilt, but was merely a recognition of the palpable fact that the American habit of lynching had so whetted the thirst for black blood that a negro suspected of crime had to face at least the possibility of a short shrift and a long rope, not to mention more gruesome horrors, without the intervention of judge or jury. Since to have a black face at such a time was to challenge suspicion, and since there was neither the martyr's glory nor the saint's renown in being killed for some one else's crime, and very little hope of successful resistance in case of an attempt at lynching, it was obviously the part of prudence for those thus marked to seek immunity in a temporary disappearance from public view. XXI THE NECESSITY OF AN EXAMPLE About ten o'clock on the morning of the discovery of the murder, Captain McBane and General Belmont, as though moved by a common impulse, found themselves at the office of the Morning Chronicle. Carteret was expecting them, though there had been no appointment made. These three resourceful and energetic minds, representing no organized body, and clothed with no legal authority, had so completely arrogated to themselves the leadership of white public sentiment as to come together instinctively when an event happened which concerned the public, and, as this murder presumably did, involved the matter of race. "Well, gentlemen," demanded McBane impatiently, "what are we going to do with the scoundrel when we catch him?" "They've got the murderer," announced a reporter, entering the room. "Who is he?" they demanded in a breath. "A nigger by the name of Sandy Campbell, a servant of old Mr. Delamere." "How did they catch him?" "Our Jerry saw him last night, going toward Mrs. Ochiltree's house, and a white man saw him coming away, half an hour later." "Has he confessed?" "No, but he might as well. When the posse went to arrest him, they found him cleaning the clothes he had worn last night, and discovered in his room a part of the plunder. He denies it strenuously, but it seems a clear case." "There can be no doubt," said Ellis, who had come into the room behind the reporter. "I saw the negro last night, at twelve o'clock, going into Mr. Delamere's yard, with a bundle in his hand." "He is the last negro I should have suspected," said Carteret. "Mr. Delamere had implicit confidence in him." "All niggers are alike," remarked McBane sententiously. "The only way to keep them from stealing is not to give them the chance. A nigger will steal a cent off a dead man's eye. He has assaulted and murdered a white woman,--an example should be made of him." Carteret recalled very distinctly the presence of this negro at his own residence on the occasion of little Theodore's christening dinner. He remembered having questioned the prudence of letting a servant know that Mrs. Ochiltree kept money in the house. Mr. Delamere had insisted strenuously upon the honesty of this particular negro. The whole race, in the major's opinion, was morally undeveloped, and only held within bounds by the restraining influence of the white people. Under Mr. Delamere's thumb this Sandy had been a model servant,--faithful, docile, respectful, and self-respecting; but Mr. Delamere had grown old, and had probably lost in a measure his moral influence over his servant. Left to his own degraded ancestral instincts, Sandy had begun to deteriorate, and a rapid decline had culminated in this robbery and murder,--and who knew what other horror? The criminal was a negro, the victim a white woman;--it was only reasonable to expect the worst. "He'll swing for it," observed the general. Ellis went into another room, where his duty called him. "He should burn for it," averred McBane. "I say, burn the nigger." "This," said Carteret, "is something more than an ordinary crime, to be dealt with by the ordinary processes of law. It is a murderous and fatal assault upon a woman of our race,--upon our race in the person of its womanhood, its crown and flower. If such crimes are not punished with swift and terrible directness, the whole white womanhood of the South is in danger." "Burn the nigger," repeated McBane automatically. "Neither is this a mere sporadic crime," Carteret went on. "It is symptomatic; it is the logical and inevitable result of the conditions which have prevailed in this town for the past year. It is the last straw." "Burn the nigger," reiterated McBane. "We seem to have the right nigger, but whether we have or not, burn _a_ nigger. It is an assault upon the white race, in the person of old Mrs. Ochiltree, committed by the black race, in the person of some nigger. It would justify the white people in burning _any_ nigger. The example would be all the more powerful if we got the wrong one. It would serve notice on the niggers that we shall hold the whole race responsible for the misdeeds of each individual." "In ancient Rome," said the general, "when a master was killed by a slave, all his slaves were put to the sword." "We couldn't afford that before the war," said McBane, "but the niggers don't belong to anybody now, and there's nothing to prevent our doing as we please with them. A dead nigger is no loss to any white man. I say, burn the nigger." "I do not believe," said Carteret, who had gone to the window and was looking out,--"I do not believe that we need trouble ourselves personally about his punishment. I should judge, from the commotion in the street, that the public will take the matter into its own hands. I, for one, would prefer that any violence, however justifiable, should take place without my active intervention." "It won't take place without mine, if I know it," exclaimed McBane, starting for the door. "Hold on a minute, captain," exclaimed Carteret. "There's more at stake in this matter than the life of a black scoundrel. Wellington is in the hands of negroes and scalawags. What better time to rescue it?" "It's a trifle premature," replied the general. "I should have preferred to have this take place, if it was to happen, say three months hence, on the eve of the election,--but discussion always provokes thirst with me; I wonder if I could get Jerry to bring us some drinks?" Carteret summoned the porter. Jerry's usual manner had taken on an element of self-importance, resulting in what one might describe as a sort of condescending obsequiousness. Though still a porter, he was also a hero, and wore his aureole. "Jerry," said the general kindly, "the white people are very much pleased with the assistance you have given them in apprehending this scoundrel Campbell. You have rendered a great public service, Jerry, and we wish you to know that it is appreciated." "Thank y', gin'l, thank y', suh! I alluz tries ter do my duty, suh, an' stan' by dem dat stan's by me. Dat low-down nigger oughter be lynch', suh, don't you think, er e'se bu'nt? Dere ain' nothin' too bad ter happen ter 'im." "No doubt he will be punished as he deserves, Jerry," returned the general, "and we will see that you are suitably rewarded. Go across the street and get me three Calhoun cocktails. I seem to have nothing less than a two-dollar bill, but you may keep the change, Jerry,--all the change." Jerry was very happy. He had distinguished himself in the public view, for to Jerry, as to the white people themselves, the white people were the public. He had won the goodwill of the best people, and had already begun to reap a tangible reward. It is true that several strange white men looked at him with lowering brows as he crossed the street, which was curiously empty of colored people; but he nevertheless went firmly forward, panoplied in the consciousness of his own rectitude, and serenely confident of the protection of the major and the major's friends. "Jerry is about the only negro I have seen since nine o'clock," observed the general when the porter had gone. "If this were election day, where would the negro vote be?" "In hiding, where most of the negro population is to-day," answered McBane. "It's a pity, if old Mrs. Ochiltree had to go this way, that it couldn't have been deferred a month or six weeks." Carteret frowned at this remark, which, coming from McBane, seemed lacking in human feeling, as well as in respect to his wife's dead relative. "But," resumed the general, "if this negro is lynched, as he well deserves to be, it will not be without its effect. We still have in reserve for the election a weapon which this affair will only render more effective. What became of the piece in the negro paper?" "I have it here," answered Carteret. "I was just about to use it as the text for an editorial." "Save it awhile longer," responded the general. "This crime itself will give you text enough for a four-volume work." When this conference ended, Carteret immediately put into press an extra edition of the Morning Chronicle, which was soon upon the streets, giving details of the crime, which was characterized as an atrocious assault upon a defenseless old lady, whose age and sex would have protected her from harm at the hands of any one but a brute in the lowest human form. This event, the Chronicle suggested, had only confirmed the opinion, which had been of late growing upon the white people, that drastic efforts were necessary to protect the white women of the South against brutal, lascivious, and murderous assaults at the hands of negro men. It was only another significant example of the results which might have been foreseen from the application of a false and pernicious political theory, by which ignorance, clothed in a little brief authority, was sought to be exalted over knowledge, vice over virtue, an inferior and degraded race above the heaven-crowned Anglo-Saxon. If an outraged people, justly infuriated, and impatient of the slow processes of the courts, should assert their inherent sovereignty, which the law after all was merely intended to embody, and should choose, in obedience to the higher law, to set aside, temporarily, the ordinary judicial procedure, it would serve as a warning and an example to the vicious elements of the community, of the swift and terrible punishment which would fall, like the judgment of God, upon any one who laid sacrilegious hands upon white womanhood. XXII HOW NOT TO PREVENT A LYNCHING Dr. Miller, who had sat up late the night before with a difficult case at the hospital, was roused, about eleven o'clock, from a deep and dreamless sleep. Struggling back into consciousness, he was informed by his wife, who stood by his bedside, that Mr. Watson, the colored lawyer, wished to see him upon a matter of great importance. "Nothing but a matter of life and death would make me get up just now," he said with a portentous yawn. "This is a matter of life and death," replied Janet. "Old Mrs. Polly Ochiltree was robbed and murdered last night, and Sandy Campbell has been arrested for the crime,--and they are going to lynch him!" "Tell Watson to come right up," exclaimed Miller, springing out of bed. "We can talk while I'm dressing." While Miller made a hasty toilet Watson explained the situation. Campbell had been arrested on the charge of murder. He had been seen, during the night, in the neighborhood of the scene of the crime, by two different persons, a negro and a white man, and had been identified later while entering Mr. Delamere's house, where he lived, and where damning proofs of his guilt had been discovered; the most important item of which was an old-fashioned knit silk purse, recognized as Mrs. Ochiltree's, and several gold pieces of early coinage, of which the murdered woman was known to have a number. Watson brought with him one of the first copies procurable of the extra edition of the Chronicle, which contained these facts and further information. They were still talking when Mrs. Miller, knocking at the door, announced that big Josh Green wished to see the doctor about Sandy Campbell. Miller took his collar and necktie in his hand and went downstairs, where Josh sat waiting. "Doctuh," said Green, "de w'ite folks is talkin' 'bout lynchin' Sandy Campbell fer killin' ole Mis' Ochiltree. He never done it, an' dey oughtn' ter be 'lowed ter lynch 'im." "They ought not to lynch him, even if he committed the crime," returned Miller, "but still less if he didn't. What do you know about it?" "I know he was wid me, suh, las' night, at de time when dey say ole Mis' Ochiltree wuz killed. We wuz down ter Sam Taylor's place, havin' a little game of kyards an' a little liquor. Den we lef dere an' went up ez fur ez de corner er Main an' Vine Streets, where we pa'ted, an' Sandy went 'long to'ds home. Mo'over, dey say he had on check' britches an' a blue coat. When Sandy wuz wid me he had on gray clo's, an' when we sep'rated he wa'n't in no shape ter be changin' his clo's, let 'lone robbin' er killin' anybody." "Your testimony ought to prove an alibi for him," declared Miller. "Dere ain' gwine ter be no chance ter prove nothin', 'less'n we kin do it mighty quick! Dey say dey're gwine ter lynch 'im ter-night,--some on 'em is talkin' 'bout burnin' 'im. My idee is ter hunt up de niggers an' git 'em ter stan' tergether an' gyard de jail." "Why shouldn't we go to the principal white people of the town and tell them Josh's story, and appeal to them to stop this thing until Campbell can have a hearing?" "It wouldn't do any good," said Watson despondently; "their blood is up. It seems that some colored man attacked Mrs. Ochiltree,--and he was a murderous villain, whoever he may be. To quote Josh would destroy the effect of his story,--we know he never harmed any one but himself"-- "An' a few keerliss people w'at got in my way," corrected Josh. "He has been in court several times for fighting,--and that's against him. To have been at Sam Taylor's place is against Sandy, too, rather than in his favor. No, Josh, the white people would believe that you were trying to shield Sandy, and you would probably be arrested as an accomplice." "But look a-here, Mr. Watson,--Dr. Miller, is we-all jes' got ter set down here, widout openin' ou' mouths, an' let dese w'ite folks hang er bu'n a man w'at we _know_ ain' guilty? Dat ain't no law, ner jestice, ner nothin'! Ef you-all won't he'p, I'll do somethin' myse'f! Dere's two niggers ter one white man in dis town, an' I'm sho' I kin fin' fifty of 'em w'at 'll fight, ef dey kin fin' anybody ter lead 'em." "Now hold on, Josh," argued Miller; "what is to be gained by fighting? Suppose you got your crowd together and surrounded the jail,--what then?" "There'd be a clash," declared Watson, "and instead of one dead negro there'd be fifty. The white people are claiming now that Campbell didn't stop with robbery and murder. A special edition of the Morning Chronicle, just out, suggests a further purpose, and has all the old shopworn cant about race purity and supremacy and imperative necessity, which always comes to the front whenever it is sought to justify some outrage on the colored folks. The blood of the whites is up, I tell you!" "Is there anything to that suggestion?" asked Miller incredulously. "It doesn't matter whether there is or not," returned Watson. "Merely to suggest it proves it. "Nothing was said about this feature until the paper came out,--and even its statement is vague and indefinite,--but now the claim is in every mouth. I met only black looks as I came down the street. White men with whom I have long been on friendly terms passed me without a word. A negro has been arrested on suspicion,--the entire race is condemned on general principles." "The whole thing is profoundly discouraging," said Miller sadly. "Try as we may to build up the race in the essentials of good citizenship and win the good opinion of the best people, some black scoundrel comes along, and by a single criminal act, committed in the twinkling of an eye, neutralizes the effect of a whole year's work." "It's mighty easy neut'alize', er whatever you call it," said Josh sullenly. "De w'ite folks don' want too good an opinion er de niggers,--ef dey had a good opinion of 'em, dey wouldn' have no excuse f er 'busin' an' hangin' an' burnin' 'em. But ef dey can't keep from doin' it, let 'em git de right man! Dis way er pickin' up de fus' nigger dey comes across, an' stringin' 'im up rega'dliss, ought ter be stop', an' stop' right now!" "Yes, that's the worst of lynch law," said Watson; "but we are wasting valuable time,--it's hardly worth while for us to discuss a subject we are all agreed upon. One of our race, accused of certain acts, is about to be put to death without judge or jury, ostensibly because he committed a crime,--really because he is a negro, for if he were white he would not be lynched. It is thus made a race issue, on the one side as well as on the other. What can we do to protect him?" "We kin fight, ef we haf ter," replied Josh resolutely. "Well, now, let us see. Suppose the colored people armed themselves? Messages would at once be sent to every town and county in the neighborhood. White men from all over the state, armed to the teeth, would at the slightest word pour into town on every railroad train, and extras would be run for their benefit." "They're already coming in," said Watson. "We might go to the sheriff," suggested Miller, "and demand that he telegraph the governor to call out the militia." "I spoke to the sheriff an hour ago," replied Watson. "He has a white face and a whiter liver. He does not dare call out the militia to protect a negro charged with such a brutal crime;--and if he did, the militia are white men, and who can say that their efforts would not be directed to keeping the negroes out of the way, in order that the white devils might do their worst? The whole machinery of the state is in the hands of white men, elected partly by our votes. When the color line is drawn, if they choose to stand together with the rest of their race against us, or to remain passive and let the others work their will, we are helpless,--our cause is hopeless." "We might call on the general government," said Miller. "Surely the President would intervene." "Such a demand would be of no avail," returned Watson. "The government can only intervene under certain conditions, of which it must be informed through designated channels. It never sees anything that is not officially called to its attention. The whole negro population of the South might be slaughtered before the necessary red tape could be spun out to inform the President that a state of anarchy prevailed. There's no hope there." "Den w'at we gwine ter do?" demanded Josh indignantly; "jes' set here an' let 'em hang Sandy, er bu'n 'im?" "God knows!" exclaimed Miller. "The outlook is dark, but we should at least try to do something. There must be some white men in the town who would stand for law and order,--there's no possible chance for Sandy to escape hanging by due process of law, if he is guilty. We might at least try half a dozen gentlemen." "We'd better leave Josh here," said Watson. "He's too truculent. If he went on the street he'd make trouble, and if he accompanied us he'd do more harm than good. Wait for us here, Josh, until we 'we seen what we can do. We'll be back in half an hour." In half an hour they had both returned. "It's no use," reported Watson gloomily. "I called at the mayor's office and found it locked. He is doubtless afraid on his own account, and would not dream of asserting his authority. I then looked up Judge Everton, who has always seemed to be fair. My reception was cold. He admitted that lynching was, as a rule, unjustifiable, but maintained that there were exceptions to all rules,--that laws were made, after all, to express the will of the people in regard to the ordinary administration of justice, but that in an emergency the sovereign people might assert itself and take the law into its own hands,--the creature was not greater than the creator. He laughed at my suggestion that Sandy was innocent. 'If he is innocent,' he said, 'then produce the real criminal. You negroes are standing in your own light when you try to protect such dastardly scoundrels as this Campbell, who is an enemy of society and not fit to live. I shall not move in the matter. If a negro wants the protection of the law, let him obey the law.' A wise judge,--a second Daniel come to judgment! If this were the law, there would be no need of judges or juries." "I called on Dr. Price," said Miller, "my good friend Dr. Price, who would rather lie than hurt my feelings. 'Miller,' he declared, 'this is no affair of mine, or yours. I have too much respect for myself and my profession to interfere in such a matter, and you will accomplish nothing, and only lessen your own influence, by having anything to say.' 'But the man may be innocent,' I replied; 'there is every reason to believe that he is.' He shook his head pityingly. 'You are self-deceived, Miller; your prejudice has warped your judgment. The proof is overwhelming that he robbed this old lady, laid violent hands upon her, and left her dead. If he did no more, he has violated the written and unwritten law of the Southern States. I could not save him if I would, Miller, and frankly, I would not if I could. If he is innocent, his people can console themselves with the reflection that Mrs. Ochiltree was also innocent, and balance one crime against the other, the white against the black. Of course I shall take no part in whatever may be done,--but it is not my affair, nor yours. Take my advice, Miller, and keep out of it.' "That is the situation," added Miller, summing up. "Their friendship for us, a slender stream at the best, dries up entirely when it strikes their prejudices. There is seemingly not one white man in Wellington who will speak a word for law, order, decency, or humanity. Those who do not participate will stand idly by and see an untried man deliberately and brutally murdered. Race prejudice is the devil unchained." "Well, den, suh," said Josh, "where does we stan' now? W'at is we gwine ter do? I wouldn' min' fightin', fer my time ain't come yit,--I feels dat in my bones. W'at we gwine ter do, dat's w'at I wanter know." "What does old Mr. Delamere have to say about the matter?" asked Miller suddenly. "Why haven't we thought of him before? Has he been seen?" "No," replied Watson gloomily, "and for a good reason,--he is not in town. I came by the house just now, and learned that he went out to his country place yesterday afternoon, to remain a week. Sandy was to have followed him out there this morning,--it's a pity he didn't go yesterday. The old gentleman has probably heard nothing about the matter." "How about young Delamere?" "He went away early this morning, down the river, to fish. He'll probably not hear of it before night, and he's only a boy anyway, and could very likely do nothing," said Watson. Miller looked at his watch. "Belleview is ten miles away," he said. "It is now eleven o'clock. I can drive out there in an hour and a half at the farthest. I'll go and see Mr. Delamere,--he can do more than any living man, if he is able to do anything at all. There's never been a lynching here, and one good white man, if he choose, may stem the flood long enough to give justice a chance. Keep track of the white people while I'm gone, Watson; and you, Josh, learn what the colored folks are saying, and do nothing rash until I return. In the meantime, do all that you can to find out who did commit this most atrocious murder." XXIII BELLEVIEW Miller did not reach his destination without interruption. At one point a considerable stretch of the road was under repair, which made it necessary for him to travel slowly. His horse cast a shoe, and threatened to go lame; but in the course of time he arrived at the entrance gate of Belleview, entering which he struck into a private road, bordered by massive oaks, whose multitudinous branches, hung with long streamers of trailing moss, formed for much of the way a thick canopy above his head. It took him only a few minutes to traverse the quarter of a mile that lay between the entrance gate and the house itself. This old colonial plantation, rich in legendary lore and replete with historic distinction, had been in the Delamere family for nearly two hundred years. Along the bank of the river which skirted its domain the famous pirate Blackbeard had held high carnival, and was reputed to have buried much treasure, vague traditions of which still lingered among the negroes and poor-whites of the country roundabout. The beautiful residence, rising white and stately in a grove of ancient oaks, dated from 1750, and was built of brick which had been brought from England. Enlarged and improved from generation to generation, it stood, like a baronial castle, upon a slight eminence from which could be surveyed the large demesne still belonging to the estate, which had shrunk greatly from its colonial dimensions. While still embracing several thousand acres, part forest and part cleared land, it had not of late years been profitable; in spite of which Mr. Delamere, with the conservatism of his age and caste, had never been able to make up his mind to part with any considerable portion of it. His grandson, he imagined, could make the estate pay and yet preserve it in its integrity. Here, in pleasant weather, surrounded by the scenes which he loved, old Mr. Delamere spent much of the time during his declining years. Dr. Miller had once passed a day at Belleview, upon Mr. Delamere's invitation. For this old-fashioned gentleman, whose ideals not even slavery had been able to spoil, regarded himself as a trustee for the great public, which ought, in his opinion, to take as much pride as he in the contemplation of this historic landmark. In earlier years Mr. Delamere had been a practicing lawyer, and had numbered Miller's father among his clients. He had always been regarded as friendly to the colored people, and, until age and ill health had driven him from active life, had taken a lively interest in their advancement since the abolition of slavery. Upon the public opening of Miller's new hospital, he had made an effort to be present, and had made a little speech of approval and encouragement which had manifested his kindliness and given Miller much pleasure. It was with the consciousness, therefore, that he was approaching a friend, as well as Sandy's master, that Miller's mind was chiefly occupied as his tired horse, scenting the end of his efforts, bore him with a final burst of speed along the last few rods of the journey; for the urgency of Miller's errand, involving as it did the issues of life and death, did not permit him to enjoy the charm of mossy oak or forest reaches, or even to appreciate the noble front of Belleview House when it at last loomed up before him. "Well, William," said Mr. Delamere, as he gave his hand to Miller from the armchair in which he was seated under the broad and stately portico, "I didn't expect to see you out here. You'll excuse my not rising,--I'm none too firm on my legs. Did you see anything of my man Sandy back there on the road? He ought to have been here by nine o'clock, and it's now one. Sandy is punctuality itself, and I don't know how to account for his delay." Clearly there need be no time wasted in preliminaries. Mr. Delamere had gone directly to the subject in hand. "He will not be here to-day, sir," replied Miller. "I have come to you on his account." In a few words Miller stated the situation. "Preposterous!" exclaimed the old gentleman, with more vigor than Miller had supposed him to possess. "Sandy is absolutely incapable of such a crime as robbery, to say nothing of murder; and as for the rest, that is absurd upon the face of it! And so the poor old woman is dead! Well, well, well! she could not have lived much longer anyway; but Sandy did not kill her,--it's simply impossible! Why, _I_ raised that boy! He was born on my place. I'd as soon believe such a thing of my own grandson as of Sandy! No negro raised by a Delamere would ever commit such a crime. I really believe, William, that Sandy has the family honor of the Delameres quite as much at heart as I have. Just tell them I say Sandy is innocent, and it will be all right." "I'm afraid, sir," rejoined Miller, who kept his voice up so that the old gentleman could understand without having it suggested that Miller knew he was hard of hearing, "that you don't quite appreciate the situation. _I_ believe Sandy innocent; _you_ believe him innocent; but there are suspicious circumstances which do not explain themselves, and the white people of the city believe him guilty, and are going to lynch him before he has a chance to clear himself." "Why doesn't he explain the suspicious circumstances?" asked Mr. Delamere. "Sandy is truthful and can be believed. I would take Sandy's word as quickly as another man's oath." "He has no chance to explain," said Miller. "The case is prejudged. A crime has been committed. Sandy is charged with it. He is black, and therefore he is guilty. No colored lawyer would be allowed in the jail, if one should dare to go there. No white lawyer will intervene. He'll be lynched to-night, without judge, jury, or preacher, unless we can stave the thing off for a day or two." "Have you seen my grandson?" asked the old gentleman. "Is he not looking after Sandy?" "No, sir. It seems he went down the river this morning to fish, before the murder was discovered; no one knows just where he has gone, or at what hour he will return." "Well, then," said Mr. Delamere, rising from his chair with surprising vigor, "I shall have to go myself. No faithful servant of mine shall be hanged for a crime he didn't commit, so long as I have a voice to speak or a dollar to spend. There'll be no trouble after I get there, William. The people are naturally wrought up at such a crime. A fine old woman,--she had some detestable traits, and I was always afraid she wanted to marry me, but she was of an excellent family and had many good points,--an old woman of one of the best families, struck down by the hand of a murderer! You must remember, William, that blood is thicker than water, and that the provocation is extreme, and that a few hotheads might easily lose sight of the great principles involved and seek immediate vengeance, without too much discrimination. But they are good people, William, and when I have spoken, and they have an opportunity for the sober second thought, they will do nothing rashly, but will wait for the operation of the law, which will, of course, clear Sandy." "I'm sure I hope so," returned Miller. "Shall I try to drive you back, sir, or will you order your own carriage?" "My horses are fresher, William, and I'll have them brought around. You can take the reins, if you will,--I'm rather old to drive,--and my man will come behind with your buggy." In a few minutes they set out along the sandy road. Having two fresh horses, they made better headway than Miller had made coming out, and reached Wellington easily by three o'clock. "I think, William," said Mr. Delamere, as they drove into the town, "that I had first better talk with Sandy. He may be able to explain away the things that seem to connect him with this atrocious affair; and that will put me in a better position to talk to other people about it." Miller drove directly to the county jail. Thirty or forty white men, who seemed to be casually gathered near the door, closed up when the carriage approached. The sheriff, who had seen them from the inside, came to the outer door and spoke to the visitor through a grated wicket. "Mr. Wemyss," said Mr. Delamere, when he had made his way to the entrance with the aid of his cane, "I wish to see my servant, Sandy Campbell, who is said to be in your custody." The sheriff hesitated. Meantime there was some parleying in low tones among the crowd outside. No one interfered, however, and in a moment the door opened sufficiently to give entrance to the old gentleman, after which it closed quickly and clangorously behind him. Feeling no desire to linger in the locality, Miller, having seen his companion enter the jail, drove the carriage round to Mr. Delamere's house, and leaving it in charge of a servant with instructions to return for his master in a quarter of an hour, hastened to his own home to meet Watson and Josh and report the result of his efforts. XXIV TWO SOUTHERN GENTLEMEN The iron bolt rattled in the lock, the door of a cell swung open, and when Mr. Delamere had entered was quickly closed again. "Well, Sandy!" "Oh, Mars John! Is you fell from hebben ter he'p me out er here? I prayed de Lawd ter sen' you, an' He answered my prayer, an' here you is, Mars John,--here you is! Oh, Mars John, git me out er dis place!" "Tut, tut, Sandy!" answered his master; "of course I'll get you out. That's what I've come for. How in the world did such a mistake ever happen? You would no more commit such a crime than I would!" "No, suh, 'deed I wouldn', an' you know I wouldn'! I wouldn' want ter bring no disgrace on de fam'ly dat raise' me, ner ter make no trouble fer you, suh; but here I is, suh, lock' up in jail, an' folks talkin' 'bout hangin' me fer somethin' dat never entered my min', suh. I swea' ter God I never thought er sech a thing!" "Of course you didn't, Sandy," returned Mr. Delamere soothingly; "and now the next thing, and the simplest thing, is to get you out of this. I'll speak to the officers, and at the preliminary hearing to-morrow I'll tell them all about you, and they will let you go. You won't mind spending one night in jail for your sins." "No, suh, ef I wuz sho' I'd be 'lowed ter spen' it here. But dey say dey 're gwine ter lynch me ternight,--I kin hear 'em talkin' f'm de winders er de cell, suh." "Well, _I_ say, Sandy, that they shall do no such thing! Lynch a man brought up by a Delamere, for a crime of which he is innocent? Preposterous! I'll speak to the authorities and see that you are properly protected until this mystery is unraveled. If Tom had been here, he would have had you out before now, Sandy. My grandson is a genuine Delamere, is he not, Sandy?" "Yas, suh, yas, suh," returned Sandy, with a lack of enthusiasm which he tried to conceal from his master. "An' I s'pose ef he hadn' gone fishin' so soon dis mawnin', he'd 'a' be'n lookin' after me, suh." "It has been my love for him and your care of me, Sandy," said the old gentleman tremulously, "that have kept me alive so long; but now explain to me everything concerning this distressing matter, and I shall then be able to state your case to better advantage." "Well, suh," returned Sandy, "I mought's well tell de whole tale an' not hol' nothin' back. I wuz kind er lonesome las' night, an' sence I be'n tu'ned outen de chu'ch on account er dat cakewalk I didn' go ter, so he'p me God! I didn' feel like gwine ter prayer-meetin', so I went roun' ter see Solomon Williams, an' he wa'n't home, an' den I walk' down street an' met Josh Green, an' he ax' me inter Sam Taylor's place, an' I sot roun' dere wid Josh till 'bout 'leven o'clock, w'en I sta'ted back home. I went straight ter de house, suh, an' went ter bed an' ter sleep widout sayin' a wo'd ter a single soul excep' Mistuh Tom, who wuz settin' up readin' a book w'en I come in. I wish I may drap dead in my tracks, suh, ef dat ain't de God's truf, suh, eve'y wo'd of it!" "I believe every word of it, Sandy; now tell me about the clothes that you are said to have been found cleaning, and the suspicious articles that were found in your room?" "Dat's w'at beats me, Mars John," replied Sandy, shaking his head mournfully. "Wen I lef home las' night after supper, my clo's wuz all put erway in de closet in my room, folded up on de she'f ter keep de moths out. Dey wuz my good clo's,--de blue coat dat you wo' ter de weddin' fo'ty years ago, an' dem dere plaid pants I gun Mistuh Cohen fo' dollars fer three years ago; an' w'en I looked in my closet dis mawnin', suh, befo' I got ready ter sta't fer Belleview, dere wuz my clo's layin' on de flo', all muddy an' crumple' up, des lack somebody had wo' 'em in a fight! Somebody e'se had wo' my clo's,--er e'se dere'd be'n some witchcraf, er some sort er devilment gwine on dat I can't make out, suh, ter save my soul!" "There was no witchcraft, Sandy, but that there was some deviltry might well be. Now, what other negro, who might have been mistaken for you, could have taken your clothes? Surely no one about the house?" "No, suh, no, suh. It couldn't 'a' be'n Jeff, fer he wuz at Belleview wid you; an' it couldn't 'a' be'n Billy, fer he wuz too little ter wear my clo's; an' it couldn't 'a' be'n Sally, fer she's a 'oman. It's a myst'ry ter me, suh!" "Have you no enemies? Is there any one in Wellington whom you imagine would like to do you an injury?" "Not a livin' soul dat I knows of, suh. I've be'n tu'ned out'n de chu'ch, but I don' know who my enemy is dere, er ef it wuz all a mistake, like dis yer jailin' is; but de Debbil is in dis somewhar, Mars John,--an' I got my reasons fer sayin' so." "What do you mean, Sandy?" Sandy related his experience of the preceding evening: how he had seen the apparition preceding him to the house, and how he had questioned Tom upon the subject. "There's some mystery here, Sandy," said Mr. Delamere reflectively. "Have you told me all, now, upon your honor? I am trying to save your life, Sandy, and I must be able to trust your word implicitly. You must tell me every circumstance; a very little and seemingly unimportant bit of evidence may sometimes determine the issue of a great lawsuit. There is one thing especially, Sandy: where did you get the gold which was found in your trunk?" Sandy's face lit up with hopefulness. "Why, Mars John, I kin 'splain dat part easy. Dat wuz money I had lent out, an' I got back f'm--But no, suh, I promise' not ter tell." "Circumstances absolve you from your promise, Sandy. Your life is of more value to you than any other thing. If you will explain where you got the gold, and the silk purse that contained it, which is said to be Mrs. Ochiltree's, you will be back home before night." Old Mr. Delamere's faculties, which had been waning somewhat in sympathy with his health, were stirred to unusual acuteness by his servant's danger. He was watching Sandy with all the awakened instincts of the trial lawyer. He could see clearly enough that, in beginning to account for the possession of the gold, Sandy had started off with his explanation in all sincerity. At the mention of the silk purse, however, his face had blanched to an ashen gray, and the words had frozen upon his lips. A less discerning observer might have taken these things as signs of guilt, but not so Mr. Delamere. "Well, Sandy," said his master encouragingly, "go on. You got the gold from"-- Sandy remained silent. He had had a great shock, and had taken a great resolution. "Mars John," he asked dreamily, "you don' b'lieve dat I done dis thing?" "Certainly not, Sandy, else why should I be here?" "An' nothin' wouldn' make you b'lieve it, suh?" "No, Sandy,--I could not believe it of you. I've known you too long and too well." "An' you wouldn' b'lieve it, not even ef I wouldn' say one wo'd mo' about it?" "No, Sandy, I believe you no more capable of this crime than I would be,--or my grandson, Tom. I wish Tom were here, that he might help me overcome your stubbornness; but you'll not be so foolish, so absurdly foolish, Sandy, as to keep silent and risk your life merely to shield some one else, when by speaking you might clear up this mystery and be restored at once to liberty. Just tell me where you got the gold," added the old gentleman persuasively. "Come, now, Sandy, that's a good fellow!" "Mars John," asked Sandy softly, "w'en my daddy, 'way back yander befo' de wah, wuz about ter be sol' away f'm his wife an' child'en, you bought him an' dem, an' kep' us all on yo' place tergether, didn't you, suh?" "Yes, Sandy, and he was a faithful servant, and proved worthy of all I did for him." "And w'en he had wo'ked fer you ten years, suh, you sot 'im free?" "Yes, Sandy, he had earned his freedom." "An' w'en de wah broke out, an' my folks wuz scattered, an' I didn' have nothin' ter do ner nowhar ter go, you kep' me on yo' place, and tuck me ter wait on you, suh, didn't you?" "Yes, Sandy, and you have been a good servant and a good friend; but tell me now about this gold, and I'll go and get you out of this, right away, for I need you, Sandy, and you'll not be of any use to me shut up here!" "Jes' hol' on a minute befo' you go, Mars John; fer ef dem people outside should git holt er me befo' you _does_ git me out er here, I may never see you no mo', suh, in dis worl'. W'en Mars Billy McLean shot me by mistake, w'ile we wuz out huntin' dat day, who wuz it boun' up my woun's an' kep' me from bleedin' ter def, an' kyar'ed me two miles on his own shoulders ter a doctuh?" "Yes, Sandy, and when black Sally ran away with your young mistress and Tom, when Tom was a baby, who stopped the runaway, and saved their lives at the risk of his own?" "Dat wa'n't nothin', suh; anybody could 'a' done dat, w'at wuz strong ernuff an' swif' ernuff. You is be'n good ter me, suh, all dese years, an' I've tried ter do my duty by you, suh, an' by Mistuh Tom, who wuz yo' own gran'son, an' de las' one er de fam'ly." "Yes, you have, Sandy, and when I am gone, which will not be very long, Tom will take care of you, and see that you never want. But we are wasting valuable time, Sandy, in these old reminiscences. Let us get back to the present. Tell me about the gold, now, so that I may at once look after your safety. It may not even be necessary for you to remain here all night." "Jes' one wo'd mo', Mars John, befo' you go! I know you're gwine ter do de bes' you kin fer me, an' I'm sorry I can't he'p you no mo' wid it; but ef dere should be any accident, er ef you _can't_ git me out er here, don' bother yo' min' 'bout it no mo', suh, an' don' git yo'se'f ixcited, fer you know de doctuh says, suh, dat you can't stan' ixcitement; but jes' leave me in de han's er de Lawd, suh,--_He'll_ look after me, here er hereafter. I know I've fell f'm grace mo' d'n once, but I've done made my peace wid Him in dis here jail-house, suh, an' I ain't 'feared ter die--ef I haf ter. I ain' got no wife ner child'n ter mo'n fer me, an' I'll die knowin' dat I've done my duty ter dem dat hi'ed me, an' trusted me, an' had claims on me. Fer I wuz raise' by a Delamere, suh, an' all de ole Delameres wuz gent'emen, an' deir principles spread ter de niggers 'round 'em, suh; an' ef I has ter die fer somethin' I didn' do,--I kin die, suh, like a gent'eman! But ez fer dat gol', suh, I ain' gwine ter say one wo'd mo' 'bout it ter nobody in dis worl'!" Nothing could shake Sandy's determination. Mr. Delamere argued, expostulated, but all in vain. Sandy would not speak. More and more confident of some mystery, which would come out in time, if properly investigated, Mr. Delamere, strangely beset by a vague sense of discomfort over and beyond that occasioned by his servant's danger, hurried away upon his errand of mercy. He felt less confident of the outcome than when he had entered the jail, but was quite as much resolved that no effort should be spared to secure protection for Sandy until there had been full opportunity for the truth to become known. "Take good care of your prisoner, sheriff," he said sternly, as he was conducted to the door. "He will not be long in your custody, and I shall see that you are held strictly accountable for his safety." "I'll do what I can, sir," replied the sheriff in an even tone and seemingly not greatly impressed by this warning. "If the prisoner is taken from me, it will be because the force that comes for him is too strong for resistance." "There should be no force too strong for an honest man in your position to resist,--whether successfully or not is beyond the question. The officer who is intimidated by threats, or by his own fears, is recreant to his duty, and no better than the mob which threatens him. But you will have no such test, Mr. Wemyss! I shall see to it myself that there is no violence!" XXV THE HONOR OF A FAMILY Mr. Delamere's coachman, who, in accordance with instructions left by Miller, had brought the carriage around to the jail and was waiting anxiously at the nearest corner, drove up with some trepidation as he saw his master emerge from the prison. The old gentleman entered the carriage and gave the order to be driven to the office of the Morning Chronicle. According to Jerry, the porter, whom he encountered at the door, Carteret was in his office, and Mr. Delamere, with the aid of his servant, climbed the stairs painfully and found the editor at his desk. "Carteret," exclaimed Mr. Delamere, "what is all this talk about lynching my man for murder and robbery and criminal assault? It's perfectly absurd! The man was raised by me; he has lived in my house forty years. He has been honest, faithful, and trustworthy. He would no more be capable of this crime than you would, or my grandson Tom. Sandy has too much respect for the family to do anything that would reflect disgrace upon it." "My dear Mr. Delamere," asked Carteret, with an indulgent smile, "how could a negro possibly reflect discredit upon a white family? I should really like to know." "How, sir? A white family raised him. Like all the negroes, he has been clay in the hands of the white people. They are what we have made them, or permitted them to become." "We are not God, Mr. Delamere! We do not claim to have created these--masterpieces." "No; but we thought to overrule God's laws, and we enslaved these people for our greed, and sought to escape the manstealer's curse by laying to our souls the flattering unction that we were making of barbarous negroes civilized and Christian men. If we did not, if instead of making them Christians we have made some of them brutes, we have only ourselves to blame, and if these prey upon society, it is our just punishment! But my negroes, Carteret, were well raised and well behaved. This man is innocent of this offense, I solemnly affirm, and I want your aid to secure his safety until a fair trial can be had." "On your bare word, sir?" asked Carteret, not at all moved by this outburst. Old Mr. Delamere trembled with anger, and his withered cheek flushed darkly, but he restrained his feelings, and answered with an attempt at calmness:-- "Time was, sir, when the word of a Delamere was held as good as his bond, and those who questioned it were forced to maintain their skepticism upon the field of honor. Time was, sir, when the law was enforced in this state in a manner to command the respect of the world! Our lawyers, our judges, our courts, were a credit to humanity and civilization. I fear I have outlasted my epoch,--I have lived to hear of white men, the most favored of races, the heirs of civilization, the conservators of liberty, howling like red Indians around a human being slowly roasting at the stake." "My dear sir," said Carteret soothingly, "you should undeceive yourself. This man is no longer your property. The negroes are no longer under our control, and with their emancipation ceased our responsibility. Their insolence and disregard for law have reached a point where they must be sternly rebuked." "The law," retorted Mr. Delamere, "furnishes a sufficient penalty for any crime, however heinous, and our code is by no means lenient. To my old-fashioned notions, death would seem an adequate punishment for any crime, and torture has been abolished in civilized countries for a hundred years. It would be better to let a crime go entirely unpunished, than to use it as a pretext for turning the whole white population into a mob of primitive savages, dancing in hellish glee around the mangled body of a man who has never been tried for a crime. All this, however, is apart from my errand, which is to secure your assistance in heading off this mob until Sandy can have a fair hearing and an opportunity to prove his innocence." "How can I do that, Mr. Delamere?" "You are editor of the Morning Chronicle. The Chronicle is the leading newspaper of the city. This morning's issue practically suggested the mob; the same means will stop it. I will pay the expense of an extra edition, calling off the mob, on the ground that newly discovered evidence has shown the prisoner's innocence." "But where is the evidence?" asked Carteret. Again Mr. Delamere flushed and trembled. "My evidence, sir! I say the negro was morally incapable of the crime. A man of forty-five does not change his nature over-night. He is no more capable of a disgraceful deed than my grandson would be!" Carteret smiled sadly. "I am sorry, Mr. Delamere," he said, "that you should permit yourself to be so exercised about a worthless scoundrel who has forfeited his right to live. The proof against him is overwhelming. As to his capability of crime, we will apply your own test. You have been kept in the dark too long, Mr. Delamere,--indeed, we all have,--about others as well as this negro. Listen, sir: last night, at the Clarendon Club, Tom Delamere was caught cheating outrageously at cards. He had been suspected for some time; a trap was laid for him, and be fell into it. Out of regard for you and for my family, he has been permitted to resign quietly, with the understanding that he first pay off his debts, which are considerable." Mr. Delamere's face, which had taken on some color in the excitement of the interview, had gradually paled to a chalky white while Carteret was speaking. His head sunk forward; already an old man, he seemed to have aged ten years in but little more than as many seconds. "Can this be true?" he demanded in a hoarse whisper. "Is it--entirely authentic?" "True as gospel; true as it is that Mrs. Ochiltree has been murdered, and that this negro killed her. Ellis was at the club a few minutes after the affair happened, and learned the facts from one of the participants. Tom made no attempt at denial. We have kept the matter out of the other papers, and I would have spared your feelings,--I surely would not wish to wound them,--but the temptation proved too strong for me, and it seemed the only way to convince you: it was your own test. If a gentleman of a distinguished name and an honorable ancestry, with all the restraining forces of social position surrounding him, to hold him in check, can stoop to dishonor, what is the improbability of an illiterate negro's being at least capable of crime?" "Enough, sir," said the old gentleman. "You have proved enough. My grandson may be a scoundrel,--I can see, in the light of this revelation, how he might be; and he seems not to have denied it. I maintain, nevertheless, that my man Sandy is innocent of the charge against him. He has denied it, and it has not been proved. Carteret, I owe that negro my life; he, and his father before him, have served me and mine faithfully and well. I cannot see him killed like a dog, without judge or jury,--no, not even if he were guilty, which I do not believe!" Carteret felt a twinge of remorse for the pain he had inflicted upon this fine old man, this ideal gentleman of the ideal past,--the past which he himself so much admired and regretted. He would like to spare his old friend any further agitation; he was in a state of health where too great excitement might prove fatal. But how could he? The negro was guilty, and sure to die sooner or later. He had not meant to interfere, and his intervention might be fruitless. "Mr. Delamere," he said gently, "there is but one way to gain time. You say the negro is innocent. Appearances are against him. The only way to clear him is to produce the real criminal, or prove an alibi. If you, or some other white man of equal standing, could swear that the negro was in your presence last night at any hour when this crime could have taken place, it might be barely possible to prevent the lynching for the present; and when he is tried, which will probably be not later than next week, he will have every opportunity to defend himself, with you to see that he gets no less than justice. I think it can be managed, though there is still a doubt. I will do my best, for your sake, Mr. Delamere,--solely for your sake, be it understood, and not for that of the negro, in whom you are entirely deceived." "I shall not examine your motives, Carteret," replied the other, "if you can bring about what I desire." "Whatever is done," added Carteret, "must be done quickly. It is now four o'clock; no one can answer for what may happen after seven. If he can prove an alibi, there may yet be time to save him. White men might lynch a negro on suspicion; they would not kill a man who was proven, by the word of white men, to be entirely innocent." "I do not know," returned Mr. Delamere, shaking his head sadly. "After what you have told me, it is no longer safe to assume what white men will or will not do;--what I have learned here has shaken my faith in humanity. I am going away, but shall return in a short time. Shall I find you here?" "I will await your return," said Carteret. He watched Mr. Delamere pityingly as the old man moved away on the arm of the coachman waiting in the hall. He did not believe that Mr. Delamere could prove an alibi for his servant, and without some positive proof the negro would surely die,--as he well deserved to die. XXVI THE DISCOMFORT OF ELLIS Mr. Ellis was vaguely uncomfortable. In the first excitement following the discovery of the crime, he had given his bit of evidence, and had shared the universal indignation against the murderer. When public feeling took definite shape in the intention to lynch the prisoner, Ellis felt a sudden sense of responsibility growing upon himself. When he learned, an hour later, that it was proposed to burn the negro, his part in the affair assumed a still graver aspect; for his had been the final word to fix the prisoner's guilt. Ellis did not believe in lynch law. He had argued against it, more than once, in private conversation, and had written several editorials against the practice, while in charge of the Morning Chronicle during Major Carteret's absence. A young man, however, and merely representing another, he had not set up as a reformer, taking rather the view that this summary method of punishing crime, with all its possibilities of error, to say nothing of the resulting disrespect of the law and contempt for the time-honored methods of establishing guilt, was a mere temporary symptom of the unrest caused by the unsettled relations of the two races at the South. There had never before been any special need for any vigorous opposition to lynch law, so far as the community was concerned, for there had not been a lynching in Wellington since Ellis had come there, eight years before, from a smaller town, to seek a place for himself in the world of action. Twenty years before, indeed, there had been wild doings, during the brief Ku-Klux outbreak, but that was before Ellis's time,--or at least when he was but a child. He had come of a Quaker family,--the modified Quakers of the South,--and while sharing in a general way the Southern prejudice against the negro, his prejudices had been tempered by the peaceful tenets of his father's sect. His father had been a Whig, and a non-slaveholder; and while he had gone with the South in the civil war so far as a man of peace could go, he had not done so for love of slavery. As the day wore on, Ellis's personal responsibility for the intended _auto-da-fé_ bore more heavily upon him. Suppose he had been wrong? He had seen the accused negro; he had recognized him by his clothes, his whiskers, his spectacles, and his walk; but he had also seen another man, who resembled Sandy so closely that but for the difference in their clothes, he was forced to acknowledge, he could not have told them apart. Had he not seen the first man, he would have sworn with even greater confidence that the second was Sandy. There had been, he recalled, about one of the men--he had not been then nor was he now able to tell which--something vaguely familiar, and yet seemingly discordant to whichever of the two it was, or, as it seemed to him now, to any man of that race. His mind reverted to the place where he had last seen Sandy, and then a sudden wave of illumination swept over him, and filled him with a thrill of horror. The cakewalk,--the dancing,--the speech,--they were not Sandy's at all, nor any negro's! It was a white man who had stood in the light of the street lamp, so that the casual passer-by might see and recognize in him old Mr. Delamere's servant. The scheme was a dastardly one, and worthy of a heart that was something worse than weak and vicious. Ellis resolved that the negro should not, if he could prevent it, die for another's crime; but what proof had he himself to offer in support of his theory? Then again, if he denounced Tom Delamere as the murderer, it would involve, in all probability, the destruction of his own hopes with regard to Clara. Of course she could not marry Delamere after the disclosure,--the disgraceful episode at the club would have been enough to make that reasonably certain; it had put a nail in Delamere's coffin, but this crime had driven it in to the head and clinched it. On the other hand, would Miss Pemberton ever speak again to the man who had been the instrument of bringing disgrace upon the family? Spies, detectives, police officers, may be useful citizens, but they are rarely pleasant company for other people. We fee the executioner, but we do not touch his bloody hand. We might feel a certain tragic admiration for Brutus condemning his sons to death, but we would scarcely invite Brutus to dinner after the event. It would harrow our feelings too much. Perhaps, thought Ellis, there might be a way out of the dilemma. It might be possible to save this innocent negro without, for the time being, involving Delamere. He believed that murder will out, but it need not be through his initiative. He determined to go to the jail and interview the prisoner, who might give such an account of himself as would establish his innocence beyond a doubt. If so, Ellis would exert himself to stem the tide of popular fury. If, as a last resort, he could save Sandy only by denouncing Delamere, he would do his duty, let it cost him what it might. The gravity of his errand was not lessened by what he saw and heard on the way to the jail. The anger of the people was at a white heat. A white woman had been assaulted and murdered by a brutal negro. Neither advanced age, nor high social standing, had been able to protect her from the ferocity of a black savage. Her sex, which should have been her shield and buckler, had made her an easy mark for the villainy of a black brute. To take the time to try him would be a criminal waste of public money. To hang him would be too slight a punishment for so dastardly a crime. An example must be made. Already the preparations were under way for the impending execution. A T-rail from the railroad yard had been procured, and men were burying it in the square before the jail. Others were bringing chains, and a load of pine wood was piled in convenient proximity. Some enterprising individual had begun the erection of seats from which, for a pecuniary consideration, the spectacle might be the more easily and comfortably viewed. Ellis was stopped once or twice by persons of his acquaintance. From one he learned that the railroads would run excursions from the neighboring towns in order to bring spectators to the scene; from another that the burning was to take place early in the evening, so that the children might not be kept up beyond their usual bedtime. In one group that he passed he heard several young men discussing the question of which portions of the negro's body they would prefer for souvenirs. Ellis shuddered and hastened forward. Whatever was to be done must be done quickly, or it would be too late. He saw that already it would require a strong case in favor of the accused to overcome the popular verdict. Going up the steps of the jail, he met Mr. Delamere, who was just coming out, after a fruitless interview with Sandy. "Mr. Ellis," said the old gentleman, who seemed greatly agitated, "this is monstrous!" "It is indeed, sir!" returned the younger man. "I mean to stop it if I can. The negro did not kill Mrs. Ochiltree." Mr. Delamere looked at Ellis keenly, and, as Ellis recalled afterwards, there was death in his eyes. Unable to draw a syllable from Sandy, he had found his servant's silence more eloquent than words. Ellis felt a presentiment that this affair, however it might terminate, would be fatal to this fine old man, whom the city could ill spare, in spite of his age and infirmities. "Mr. Ellis," asked Mr. Delamere, in a voice which trembled with ill-suppressed emotion, "do you know who killed her?" Ellis felt a surging pity for his old friend; but every step that he had taken toward the jail had confirmed and strengthened his own resolution that this contemplated crime, which he dimly felt to be far more atrocious than that of which Sandy was accused, in that it involved a whole community rather than one vicious man, should be stopped at any cost. Deplorable enough had the negro been guilty, it became, in view of his certain innocence, an unspeakable horror, which for all time would cover the city with infamy. "Mr. Delamere," he replied, looking the elder man squarely in the eyes, "I think I do,--and I am very sorry." "And who was it, Mr. Ellis?" He put the question hopelessly, as though the answer were a foregone conclusion. "I do not wish to say at present," replied Ellis, with a remorseful pang, "unless it becomes absolutely necessary, to save the negro's life. Accusations are dangerous,--as this case proves,--unless the proof, be certain." For a moment it seemed as though Mr. Delamere would collapse upon the spot. Rallying almost instantly, however, he took the arm which Ellis involuntarily offered, and said with an effort:-- "Mr. Ellis, you are a gentleman whom it is an honor to know. If you have time, I wish you would go with me to my house,--I can hardly trust myself alone,--and thence to the Chronicle office. This thing shall be stopped, and you will help me stop it." It required but a few minutes to cover the half mile that lay between the prison and Mr. Delamere's residence. XXVII THE VAGARIES OF THE HIGHER LAW Mr. Delamere went immediately to his grandson's room, which he entered alone, closing and locking the door behind him. He had requested Ellis to wait in the carriage. The bed had been made, and the room was apparently in perfect order. There was a bureau in the room, through which Mr. Delamere proceeded to look thoroughly. Finding one of the drawers locked, he tried it with a key of his own, and being unable to unlock it, took a poker from beside the stove and broke it ruthlessly open. The contents served to confirm what he had heard concerning his grandson's character. Thrown together in disorderly confusion were bottles of wine and whiskey; soiled packs of cards; a dice-box with dice; a box of poker chips, several revolvers, and a number of photographs and paper-covered books at which the old gentleman merely glanced to ascertain their nature. So far, while his suspicion had been strengthened, he had found nothing to confirm it. He searched the room more carefully, and found, in the wood-box by the small heating-stove which stood in the room, a torn and crumpled bit of paper. Stooping to pick this up, his eye caught a gleam of something yellow beneath the bureau, which lay directly in his line of vision. First he smoothed out the paper. It was apparently the lower half of a label, or part of the cover of a small box, torn diagonally from corner to corner. From the business card at the bottom, which gave the name, of a firm of manufacturers of theatrical supplies in a Northern city, and from the letters remaining upon the upper and narrower half, the bit of paper had plainly formed part of the wrapper of a package of burnt cork. Closing his fingers spasmodically over this damning piece of evidence, Mr. Delamere knelt painfully, and with the aid of his cane drew out from under the bureau the yellow object which, had attracted his attention. It was a five-dollar gold piece of a date back toward the beginning of the century. To make assurance doubly sure, Mr. Delamere summoned the cook from the kitchen in the back yard. In answer to her master's questions, Sally averred that Mr. Tom had got up very early, had knocked at her window,--she slept in a room off the kitchen in the yard,--and had told her that she need not bother about breakfast for him, as he had had a cold bite from the pantry; that he was going hunting and fishing, and would be gone all day. According to Sally, Mr. Tom had come in about ten o'clock the night before. He had forgotten his night-key, Sandy was out, and she had admitted him with her own key. He had said that he was very tired and was going, immediately to bed. Mr. Delamere seemed perplexed; the crime had been committed later in the evening than ten o'clock. The cook cleared up the mystery. "I reckon he must 'a' be'n dead ti'ed, suh, fer I went back ter his room fifteen er twenty minutes after he come in fer ter fin' out w'at he wanted fer breakfus'; an' I knock' two or three times, rale ha'd, an' Mistuh Tom didn' wake up no mo' d'n de dead. He sho'ly had a good sleep, er he'd never 'a' got up so ea'ly." "Thank you, Sally," said Mr. Delamere, when the woman had finished, "that will do." "Will you be home ter suppah, suh?" asked the cook. "Yes." It was a matter of the supremest indifference to Mr. Delamere whether he should ever eat again, but he would not betray his feelings to a servant. In a few minutes he was driving rapidly with Ellis toward the office of the Morning Chronicle. Ellis could see that Mr. Delamere had discovered something of tragic import. Neither spoke. Ellis gave all his attention to the horses, and Mr. Delamere remained wrapped in his own sombre reflections. When they reached the office, they were informed by Jerry that Major Carteret was engaged with General Belmont and Captain McBane. Mr. Delamere knocked peremptorily at the door of the inner office, which was opened by Carteret in person. "Oh, it is you, Mr. Delamere." "Carteret," exclaimed Mr. Delamere, "I must speak to you immediately, and alone." "Excuse me a moment, gentlemen," said Carteret, turning to those within the room. "I'll be back in a moment--don't go away." Ellis had left the room, closing the door behind him. Mr. Delamere and Carteret were quite alone. "Carteret," declared the old gentleman, "this murder must not take place." "'Murder' is a hard word," replied the editor, frowning slightly. "It is the right word," rejoined Mr. Delamere, decidedly. "It would be a foul and most unnatural murder, for Sandy did not kill Mrs. Ochiltree." Carteret with difficulty restrained a smile of pity. His old friend was very much excited, as the tremor in his voice gave proof. The criminal was his trusted servant, who had proved unworthy of confidence. No one could question Mr. Delamere's motives; but he was old, his judgment was no longer to be relied upon. It was a great pity that he should so excite and overstrain himself about a worthless negro, who had forfeited his life for a dastardly crime. Mr. Delamere had had two paralytic strokes, and a third might prove fatal. He must be dealt with gently. "Mr. Delamere," he said, with patient tolerance, "I think you are deceived. There is but one sure way to stop this execution. If your servant is innocent, you must produce the real criminal. If the negro, with such overwhelming proofs against him, is not guilty, who is?" "I will tell you who is," replied Mr. Delamere. "The murderer is,"--the words came with a note of anguish, as though torn from his very heart,--"the murderer is Tom Delamere, my own grandson!" "Impossible, sir!" exclaimed Carteret, starting back involuntarily. "That could not be! The man was seen leaving the house, and he was black!" "All cats are gray in the dark, Carteret; and, moreover, nothing is easier than for a white man to black his face. God alone knows how many crimes have been done in this guise! Tom Delamere, to get the money to pay his gambling debts, committed this foul murder, and then tried to fasten it upon as honest and faithful a soul as ever trod the earth." Carteret, though at first overwhelmed by this announcement, perceived with quick intuition that it might easily be true. It was but a step from fraud to crime, and in Delamere's need of money there lay a palpable motive for robbery,--the murder may have been an afterthought. Delamere knew as much about the cedar chest as the negro could have known, and more. But a white man must not be condemned without proof positive. "What foundation is there, sir," he asked, "for this astounding charge?" Mr. Delamere related all that had taken place since he had left Belleview a couple of hours before, and as he proceeded, step by step, every word carried conviction to Carteret. Tom Delamere's skill as a mimic and a negro impersonator was well known; he had himself laughed at more than one of his performances. There had been a powerful motive, and Mr. Delamere's discoveries had made clear the means. Tom's unusual departure, before breakfast, on a fishing expedition was a suspicious circumstance. There was a certain devilish ingenuity about the affair which he would hardly have expected of Tom Delamere, but for which the reason was clear enough. One might have thought that Tom would have been satisfied with merely blacking his face, and leaving to chance the identification of the negro who might be apprehended. He would hardly have implicated, out of pure malignity, his grandfather's old servant, who had been his own care-taker for many years. Here, however, Carteret could see where Tom's own desperate position operated to furnish a probable motive for the crime. The surest way to head off suspicion from himself was to direct it strongly toward some particular person, and this he had been able to do conclusively by his access to Sandy's clothes, his skill in making up to resemble him, and by the episode of the silk purse. By placing himself beyond reach during the next day, he would not be called upon to corroborate or deny any inculpating statements which Sandy might make, and in the very probable case that the crime should be summarily avenged, any such statements on Sandy's part would be regarded as mere desperate subterfuges of the murderer to save his own life. It was a bad affair. "The case seems clear," said Carteret reluctantly but conclusively. "And now, what shall we do about it?" "I want you to print a handbill," said Mr. Delamere, "and circulate it through the town, stating that Sandy Campbell is innocent and Tom Delamere guilty of this crime. If this is not done, I will go myself and declare it to all who will listen, and I will publicly disown the villain who is no more grandson of mine. There is no deeper sink of iniquity into which he could fall." Carteret's thoughts were chasing one another tumultuously. There could be no doubt that the negro was innocent, from the present aspect of affairs, and he must not be lynched; but in what sort of position would the white people be placed, if Mr. Delamere carried out his Spartan purpose of making the true facts known? The white people of the city had raised the issue of their own superior morality, and had themselves made this crime a race question. The success of the impending "revolution," for which he and his _confrères_ had labored so long, depended in large measure upon the maintenance of their race prestige, which would be injured in the eyes of the world by such a fiasco. While they might yet win by sheer force, their cause would suffer in the court of morals, where they might stand convicted as pirates, instead of being applauded as patriots. Even the negroes would have the laugh on them,--the people whom they hoped to make approve and justify their own despoilment. To be laughed at by the negroes was a calamity only less terrible than failure or death. Such an outcome of an event which had already been heralded to the four corners of the earth would throw a cloud of suspicion upon the stories of outrage which had gone up from the South for so many years, and had done so much to win the sympathy of the North for the white South and to alienate it from the colored people. The reputation of the race was threatened. They must not lynch the negro, and yet, for the credit of the town, its aristocracy, and the race, the truth of this ghastly story must not see the light,--at least not yet. "Mr. Delamere," he exclaimed, "I am shocked and humiliated. The negro must be saved, of course, but--consider the family honor." "Tom is no longer a member of my family. I disown him. He has covered the family name--my name, sir--with infamy. We have no longer a family honor. I wish never to hear his name spoken again!" For several minutes Carteret argued with his old friend. Then he went into the other room and consulted with General Belmont. As a result of these conferences, and of certain urgent messages sent out, within half an hour thirty or forty of the leading citizens of Wellington were gathered in the Morning Chronicle office. Several other curious persons, observing that there was something in the wind, and supposing correctly that it referred to the projected event of the evening, crowded in with those who had been invited. Carteret was in another room, still arguing with Mr. Delamere. "It's a mere formality, sir," he was saying suavely, "accompanied by a mental reservation. We know the facts; but this must be done to justify us, in the eyes of the mob, in calling them off before they accomplish their purpose." "Carteret," said the old man, in a voice eloquent of the struggle through which he had passed, "I would not perjure myself to prolong my own miserable existence another day, but God will forgive a sin committed to save another's life. Upon your head be it, Carteret, and not on mine!" "Gentlemen," said Carteret, entering with Mr. Delamere the room where the men were gathered, and raising his hand for silence, "the people of Wellington were on the point of wreaking vengeance upon a negro who was supposed to have been guilty of a terrible crime. The white men of this city, impelled by the highest and holiest sentiments, were about to take steps to defend their hearthstones and maintain the purity and ascendency of their race. Your purpose sprung from hearts wounded in their tenderest susceptibilities." "'Rah, 'rah!" shouted a tipsy sailor, who had edged in with the crowd. "But this same sense of justice," continued Carteret oratorically, "which would lead you to visit swift and terrible punishment upon the guilty, would not permit you to slay an innocent man. Even a negro, as long as he behaves himself and keeps in his place, is entitled to the protection of the law. We may be stern and unbending in the punishment of crime, as befits our masterful race, but we hold the scales of justice with even and impartial hand." "'Rah f' 'mpa'tial ban'!" cried the tipsy sailor, who was immediately ejected with slight ceremony. "We have discovered, beyond a doubt, that the negro Sandy Campbell, now in custody, did not commit this robbery and murder, but that it was perpetrated by some unknown man, who has fled from the city. Our venerable and distinguished fellow townsman, Mr. Delamere, in whose employment this Campbell has been for many years, will vouch for his character, and states, furthermore, that Campbell was with him all last night, covering any hour at which this crime could have been committed." "If Mr. Delamere will swear to that," said some one in the crowd, "the negro should not be lynched." There were murmurs of dissent. The preparations had all been made. There would be great disappointment if the lynching did not occur. "Let Mr. Delamere swear, if he wants to save the nigger," came again from the crowd. "Certainly," assented Carteret. "Mr. Delamere can have no possible objection to taking the oath. Is there a notary public present, or a justice of the peace?" A man stepped forward. "I am a justice of the peace," he announced. "Very well, Mr. Smith," said Carteret, recognizing the speaker. "With your permission, I will formulate the oath, and Mr. Delamere may repeat it after me, if he will. I solemnly swear,"-- "I solemnly swear,"-- Mr. Delamere's voice might have come from the tomb, so hollow and unnatural did it sound. "So help me God,"-- "So help me God,"-- "That the negro Sandy Campbell, now in jail on the charge of murder, robbery, and assault, was in my presence last night between the hours of eight and two o'clock." Mr. Delamere repeated this statement in a firm voice; but to Ellis, who was in the secret, his words fell upon the ear like clods dropping upon the coffin in an open grave. "I wish to add," said General Belmont, stepping forward, "that it is not our intention to interfere, by anything which may be done at this meeting, with the orderly process of the law, or to advise the prisoner's immediate release. The prisoner will remain in custody, Mr. Delamere, Major Carteret, and I guaranteeing that he will be proved entirely innocent at the preliminary hearing to-morrow morning." Several of those present looked relieved; others were plainly, disappointed; but when the meeting ended, the news went out that the lynching had been given up. Carteret immediately wrote and had struck off a handbill giving a brief statement of the proceedings, and sent out a dozen boys to distribute copies among the people in the streets. That no precaution might be omitted, a call was issued to the Wellington Grays, the crack independent military company of the city, who in an incredibly short time were on guard at the jail. Thus a slight change in the point of view had demonstrated the entire ability of the leading citizens to maintain the dignified and orderly processes of the law whenever they saw fit to do so. * * * * * The night passed without disorder, beyond the somewhat rough handling of two or three careless negroes that came in the way of small parties of the disappointed who had sought alcoholic consolation. At ten o'clock the next morning, a preliminary hearing of the charge against Campbell was had before a magistrate. Mr. Delamere, perceptibly older and more wizened than he had seemed the day before, and leaning heavily on the arm of a servant, repeated his statement of the evening before. Only one or two witnesses were called, among whom was Mr. Ellis, who swore positively that in his opinion the prisoner was not the man whom he had seen and at first supposed to be Campbell. The most sensational piece of testimony was that of Dr. Price, who had examined the body, and who swore that the wound in the head was not necessarily fatal, and might have been due to a fall,--that she had more than likely died of shock attendant upon the robbery, she being of advanced age and feeble health. There was no evidence, he said, of any other personal violence. Sandy was not even bound over to the grand jury, but was discharged upon the ground that there was not sufficient evidence upon which to hold him. Upon his release he received the congratulations of many present, some of whom would cheerfully have done him to death a few hours before. With the childish fickleness of a mob, they now experienced a satisfaction almost as great as, though less exciting than, that attendant upon taking life. We speak of the mysteries of inanimate nature. The workings of the human heart are the profoundest mystery of the universe. One moment they make us despair of our kind, and the next we see in them the reflection of the divine image. Sandy, having thus escaped from the Mr. Hyde of the mob, now received the benediction of its Dr. Jekyll. Being no cynical philosopher, and realizing how nearly the jaws of death had closed upon him, he was profoundly grateful for his escape, and felt not the slightest desire to investigate or criticise any man's motives. With the testimony of Dr. Price, the worst feature of the affair came to an end. The murder eliminated or rendered doubtful, the crime became a mere vulgar robbery, the extent of which no one could estimate, since no living soul knew how much money Mrs. Ochiltree had had in the cedar chest. The absurdity of the remaining charge became more fully apparent in the light of the reaction from the excitement of the day before. Nothing further was ever done about the case; but though the crime went unpunished, it carried evil in its train. As we have seen, the charge against Campbell had been made against the whole colored race. All over the United States the Associated Press had flashed the report of another dastardly outrage by a burly black brute,--all black brutes it seems are burly,--and of the impending lynching with its prospective horrors. This news, being highly sensational in its character, had been displayed in large black type on the front pages of the daily papers. The dispatch that followed, to the effect that the accused had been found innocent and the lynching frustrated, received slight attention, if any, in a fine-print paragraph on an inside page. The facts of the case never came out at all. The family honor of the Delameres was preserved, and the prestige of the white race in Wellington was not seriously impaired. * * * * * Upon leaving the preliminary hearing, old Mr. Delamere had requested General Belmont to call at his house during the day upon professional business. This the general did in the course of the afternoon. "Belmont," said Mr. Delamere, "I wish to make my will. I should have drawn it with my own hand; but you know my motives, and can testify to my soundness of mind and memory." He thereupon dictated a will, by the terms of which he left to his servant, Sandy Campbell, three thousand dollars, as a mark of the testator's appreciation of services rendered and sufferings endured by Sandy on behalf of his master. After some minor dispositions, the whole remainder of the estate was devised to Dr. William Miller, in trust for the uses of his hospital and training-school for nurses, on condition that the institution be incorporated and placed under the management of competent trustees. Tom Delamere was not mentioned in the will. "There, Belmont," he said, "that load is off my mind. Now, if you will call in some witnesses,--most of my people can write,--I shall feel entirely at ease." The will was signed by Mr. Delamere, and witnessed by Jeff and Billy, two servants in the house, neither of whom received any information as to its contents, beyond the statement that they were witnessing their master's will. "I wish to leave that with you for safe keeping, Belmont," said Mr. Delamere, after the witnesses had retired. "Lock it up in your safe until I die, which will not be very long, since I have no further desire to live." An hour later Mr. Delamere suffered a third paralytic stroke, from which he died two days afterwards, without having in the meantime recovered the power of speech. The will was never produced. The servants stated, and General Belmont admitted, that Mr. Delamere had made a will a few days before his death; but since it was not discoverable, it seemed probable that the testator had destroyed it. This was all the more likely, the general was inclined to think, because the will had been of a most unusual character. What the contents of the will were, he of course did not state, it having been made under the seal of professional secrecy. This suppression was justified by the usual race argument: Miller's hospital was already well established, and, like most negro institutions, could no doubt rely upon Northern philanthropy for any further support it might need. Mr. Delamere's property belonged of right to the white race, and by the higher law should remain in the possession of white people. Loyalty to one's race was a more sacred principle than deference to a weak old man's whims. Having reached this conclusion, General Belmont's first impulse was to destroy the will; on second thoughts he locked it carefully away in his safe. He would hold it awhile. It might some time be advisable to talk the matter over with young Delamere, who was of a fickle disposition and might wish to change his legal adviser. XXVIII IN SEASON AND OUT Wellington soon resumed its wonted calm, and in a few weeks the intended lynching was only a memory. The robbery and assault, however, still remained a mystery to all but a chosen few. The affair had been dropped as absolutely as though it had never occurred. No colored man ever learned the reason of this sudden change of front, and Sandy Campbell's loyalty to his old employer's memory kept him silent. Tom Delamere did not offer to retain Sandy in his service, though he presented him with most of the old gentleman's wardrobe. It is only justice to Tom to state that up to this time he had not been informed of the contents of his grandfather's latest will. Major Carteret gave Sandy employment as butler, thus making a sort of vicarious atonement, on the part of the white race, of which the major felt himself in a way the embodiment, for the risk to which Sandy had been subjected. Shortly after these events Sandy was restored to the bosom of the church, and, enfolded by its sheltering arms, was no longer tempted to stray from the path of rectitude, but became even a more rigid Methodist than before his recent troubles. Tom Delamere did not call upon Clara again in the character of a lover. Of course they could not help meeting, from time to time, but he never dared presume upon their former relations. Indeed, the social atmosphere of Wellington remained so frigid toward Delamere that he left town, and did not return for several months. Ellis was aware that Delamere had been thrown over, but a certain delicacy restrained him from following up immediately the advantage which the absence of his former rival gave him. It seemed to him, with the quixotry of a clean, pure mind, that Clara would pass through a period of mourning for her lost illusion, and that it would be indelicate, for the time being, to approach her with a lover's attentions. The work of the office had been unusually heavy of late. The major, deeply absorbed in politics, left the detail work of the paper to Ellis. Into the intimate counsels of the revolutionary committee Ellis had not been admitted, nor would he have desired to be. He knew, of course, in a general way, the results that it was sought to achieve; and while he did not see their necessity, he deferred to the views of older men, and was satisfied to remain in ignorance of anything which he might disapprove. Moreover, his own personal affairs occupied his mind to an extent that made politics or any other subject a matter of minor importance. As for Dr. Miller, he never learned of Mr. Delamere's good intentions toward his institution, but regretted the old gentleman's death as the loss of a sincere friend and well-wisher of his race in their unequal struggle. Despite the untiring zeal of Carteret and his associates, the campaign for the restriction of the suffrage, which was to form the basis of a permanent white supremacy, had seemed to languish for a while after the Ochiltree affair. The lull, however, was only temporary, and more apparent than real, for the forces adverse to the negro were merely gathering strength for a more vigorous assault. While little was said in Wellington, public sentiment all over the country became every day more favorable to the views of the conspirators. The nation was rushing forward with giant strides toward colossal wealth and world-dominion, before the exigencies of which mere abstract ethical theories must not be permitted to stand. The same argument that justified the conquest of an inferior nation could not be denied to those who sought the suppression of an inferior race. In the South, an obscure jealousy of the negro's progress, an obscure fear of the very equality so contemptuously denied, furnished a rich soil for successful agitation. Statistics of crime, ingeniously manipulated, were made to present a fearful showing against the negro. Vital statistics were made to prove that he had degenerated from an imaginary standard of physical excellence which had existed under the benign influence of slavery. Constant lynchings emphasized his impotence, and bred everywhere a growing contempt for his rights. At the North, a new Pharaoh had risen, who knew not Israel,--a new generation, who knew little of the fierce passions which had played around the negro in a past epoch, and derived their opinions of him from the "coon song" and the police reports. Those of his old friends who survived were disappointed that he had not flown with clipped wings; that he had not in one generation of limited opportunity attained the level of the whites. The whole race question seemed to have reached a sort of _impasse_, a blind alley, of which no one could see the outlet. The negro had become a target at which any one might try a shot. Schoolboys gravely debated the question as to whether or not the negro should exercise the franchise. The pessimist gave him up in despair; while the optimist, smilingly confident that everything would come out all right in the end, also turned aside and went his buoyant way to more pleasing themes. For a time there were white men in the state who opposed any reactionary step unless it were of general application. They were conscientious men, who had learned the ten commandments and wished to do right; but this class was a small minority, and their objections were soon silenced by the all-powerful race argument. Selfishness is the most constant of human motives. Patriotism, humanity, or the love of God may lead to sporadic outbursts which sweep away the heaped-up wrongs of centuries; but they languish at times, while the love of self works on ceaselessly, unwearyingly, burrowing always at the very roots of life, and heaping up fresh wrongs for other centuries to sweep away. The state was at the mercy of venal and self-seeking politicians, bent upon regaining their ascendency at any cost, stultifying their own minds by vague sophistries and high-sounding phrases, which deceived none but those who wished to be deceived, and these but imperfectly; and dulling the public conscience by a loud clamor in which the calm voice of truth was for the moment silenced. So the cause went on. Carteret, as spokesman of the campaign, and sincerest of all its leaders, performed prodigies of labor. The Morning Chronicle proclaimed, in season and out, the doctrine of "White Supremacy." Leaving the paper in charge of Ellis, the major made a tour of the state, rousing the white people of the better class to an appreciation of the terrible danger which confronted them in the possibility that a few negroes might hold a few offices or dictate the terms upon which white men should fill them. Difficulties were explained away. The provisions of the Federal Constitution, it was maintained, must yield to the "higher law," and if the Constitution could neither be altered nor bent to this end, means must be found to circumvent it. The device finally hit upon for disfranchising the colored people in this particular state was the notorious "grandfather clause." After providing various restrictions of the suffrage, based upon education, character, and property, which it was deemed would in effect disfranchise the colored race, an exception was made in favor of all citizens whose fathers or grandfathers had been entitled to vote prior to 1867. Since none but white men could vote prior to 1867, this exception obviously took in the poor and ignorant whites, while the same class of negroes were excluded. It was ingenious, but it was not fair. In due time a constitutional convention was called, in which the above scheme was adopted and submitted to a vote of the people for ratification. The campaign was fought on the color line. Many white Republicans, deluded with the hope that by the elimination of the negro vote their party might receive accessions from the Democratic ranks, went over to the white party. By fraud in one place, by terrorism in another, and everywhere by the resistless moral force of the united whites, the negroes were reduced to the apathy of despair, their few white allies demoralized, and the amendment adopted by a large majority. The negroes were taught that this is a white man's country, and that the sooner they made up their minds to this fact, the better for all concerned. The white people would be good to them so long as they behaved themselves and kept their place. As theoretical equals,--practical equality being forever out of the question, either by nature or by law,--there could have been nothing but strife between them, in which the weaker party would invariably have suffered most. Some colored men accepted the situation thus outlined, if not as desirable, at least as inevitable. Most of them, however, had little faith in this condescending friendliness which was to take the place of constitutional rights. They knew they had been treated unfairly; that their enemies had prevailed against them; that their whilom friends had stood passively by and seen them undone. Many of the most enterprising and progressive left the state, and those who remain still labor under a sense of wrong and outrage which renders them distinctly less valuable as citizens. The great steal was made, but the thieves did not turn honest,--the scheme still shows the mark of the burglar's tools. Sins, like chickens, come home to roost. The South paid a fearful price for the wrong of negro slavery; in some form or other it will doubtless reap the fruits of this later iniquity. Drastic as were these "reforms," the results of which we have anticipated somewhat, since the new Constitution was not to take effect immediately, they moved all too slowly for the little coterie of Wellington conspirators, whose ambitions and needs urged them to prompt action. Under the new Constitution it would be two full years before the "nigger amendment" became effective, and meanwhile the Wellington district would remain hopelessly Republican. The committee decided, about two months before the fall election, that an active local campaign must be carried on, with a view to discourage the negroes from attending the polls on election day. The question came up for discussion one forenoon in a meeting at the office of the Morning Chronicle, at which all of the "Big Three" were present. "Something must be done," declared McBane, "and that damn quick. Too many white people are saying that it will be better to wait until the amendment goes into effect. That would mean to leave the niggers in charge of this town for two years after the state has declared for white supremacy! I'm opposed to leaving it in their hands one hour,--them's my sentiments!" This proved to be the general opinion, and the discussion turned to the subject of ways and means. "What became of that editorial in the nigger paper?" inquired the general in his blandest tones, cleverly directing a smoke ring toward the ceiling. "It lost some of its point back there, when we came near lynching that nigger; but now that that has blown over, why wouldn't it be a good thing to bring into play at the present juncture? Let's read it over again." Carteret extracted the paper from the pigeon-hole where he had placed it some months before. The article was read aloud with emphasis and discussed phrase by phrase. Of its wording there could be little criticism,--it was temperately and even cautiously phrased. As suggested by the general, the Ochiltree affair had proved that it was not devoid of truth. Its great offensiveness lay in its boldness: that a negro should publish in a newspaper what white people would scarcely acknowledge to themselves in secret was much as though a Russian _moujik_ or a German peasant should rush into print to question the divine right of the Lord's Anointed. The article was racial _lèse-majesté_ in the most aggravated form. A peg was needed upon which to hang a _coup d'état_, and this editorial offered the requisite opportunity. It was unanimously decided to republish the obnoxious article, with comment adapted to fire the inflammable Southern heart and rouse it against any further self-assertion of the negroes in politics or elsewhere. "The time is ripe!" exclaimed McBane. "In a month we can have the niggers so scared that they won't dare stick their heads out of doors on 'lection day." "I wonder," observed the general thoughtfully, after this conclusion had been reached, "if we couldn't have Jerry fetch us some liquor?" Jerry appeared in response to the usual summons. The general gave him the money, and ordered three Calhoun cocktails. When Jerry returned with the glasses on a tray, the general observed him with pointed curiosity. "What, in h--ll is the matter with you, Jerry? Your black face is splotched with brown and yellow patches, and your hair shines as though you had fallen head-foremost into a firkin of butter. What's the matter with you?" Jerry seemed much embarrassed by this inquiry. "Nothin', suh, nothin'," he stammered. "It's--it's jes' somethin' I be'n puttin' on my hair, suh, ter improve de quality, suh." "Jerry," returned the general, bending a solemn look upon the porter, "you have been playing with edged tools, and your days are numbered. You have been reading the Afro-American Banner." He shook open the paper, which he had retained in his hand, and read from one of the advertisements:-- "'Kinky, curly hair made straight in two applications. Dark skins lightened two shades; mulattoes turned perfectly white.' "This stuff is rank poison, Jerry," continued the general with a mock solemnity which did not impose upon Jerry, who nevertheless listened with an air of great alarm. He suspected that the general was making fun of him; but he also knew that the general would like to think that Jerry believed him in earnest; and to please the white folks was Jerry's consistent aim in life. "I can see the signs of decay in your face, and your hair will all fall out in a week or two at the latest,--mark my words!" McBane had listened to this pleasantry with a sardonic sneer. It was a waste of valuable time. To Carteret it seemed in doubtful taste. These grotesque advertisements had their tragic side. They were proof that the negroes had read the handwriting on the wall. These pitiful attempts to change their physical characteristics were an acknowledgment, on their own part, that the negro was doomed, and that the white man was to inherit the earth and hold all other races under his heel. For, as the months had passed, Carteret's thoughts, centring more and more upon the negro, had led him farther and farther, until now he was firmly convinced that there was no permanent place for the negro in the United States, if indeed anywhere in the world, except under the ground. More pathetic even than Jerry's efforts to escape from the universal doom of his race was his ignorance that even if he could, by some strange alchemy, bleach his skin and straighten his hair, there would still remain, underneath it all, only the unbleached darky,--the ass in the lion's skin. When the general had finished his facetious lecture, Jerry backed out of the room shamefacedly, though affecting a greater confusion than he really felt. Jerry had not reasoned so closely as Carteret, but he had realized that it was a distinct advantage to be white,--an advantage which white people had utilized to secure all the best things in the world; and he had entertained the vague hope that by changing his complexion he might share this prerogative. While he suspected the general's sincerity, he nevertheless felt a little apprehensive lest the general's prediction about the effects of the face-bleach and other preparations might prove true,--the general was a white gentleman and ought to know,--and decided to abandon their use. This purpose was strengthened by his next interview with the major. When Carteret summoned him, an hour later, after the other gentlemen had taken their leave, Jerry had washed his head thoroughly and there remained no trace of the pomade. An attempt to darken the lighter spots in his cuticle by the application of printer's ink had not proved equally successful,--the retouching left the spots as much too dark as they had formerly been too light. "Jerry," said Carteret sternly, "when I hired you to work for the Chronicle, you were black. The word 'negro' means 'black.' The best negro is a black negro, of the pure type, as it came from the hand of God. If you wish to get along well with the white people, the blacker you are the better,--white people do not like negroes who want to be white. A man should be content to remain as God made him and where God placed him. So no more of this nonsense. Are you going to vote at the next election?" "What would you 'vise me ter do, suh?" asked Jerry cautiously. "I do not advise you. You ought to have sense enough to see where your own interests lie. I put it to you whether you cannot trust yourself more safely in the hands of white gentlemen, who are your true friends, than in the hands of ignorant and purchasable negroes and unscrupulous white scoundrels?" "Dere's no doubt about it, suh," assented Jerry, with a vehemence proportioned to his desire to get back into favor. "I ain' gwine ter have nothin' ter do wid de 'lection, suh! Ef I don' vote, I kin keep my job, can't I, suh?" The major eyed Jerry with an air of supreme disgust. What could be expected of a race so utterly devoid of tact? It seemed as though this negro thought a white gentleman might want to bribe him to remain away from the polls; and the negro's willingness to accept the imaginary bribe demonstrated the venal nature of the colored race,--its entire lack of moral principle! "You will retain your place, Jerry," he said severely, "so long as you perform your duties to my satisfaction and behave yourself properly." With this grandiloquent subterfuge Carteret turned to his next article on white supremacy. Jerry did not delude himself with any fine-spun sophistry. He knew perfectly well that he held his job upon the condition that he stayed away from the polls at the approaching election. Jerry was a fool-- "The world of fools hath such a store, That he who would not see an ass, Must stay at home and shut his door And break his looking-glass." But while no one may be entirely wise, there are degrees of folly, and Jerry was not all kinds of a fool. XXIX MUTTERINGS OF THE STORM Events moved rapidly during the next few days. The reproduction, in the Chronicle, of the article from the Afro-American Banner, with Carteret's inflammatory comment, took immediate effect. It touched the Southern white man in his most sensitive spot. To him such an article was an insult to white womanhood, and must be resented by some active steps,--mere words would be no answer at all. To meet words with words upon such a subject would be to acknowledge the equality of the negro and his right to discuss or criticise the conduct of the white people. The colored people became alarmed at the murmurings of the whites, which seemed to presage a coming storm. A number of them sought to arm themselves, but ascertained, upon inquiring at the stores, that no white merchant would sell a negro firearms. Since all the dealers in this sort of merchandise were white men, the negroes had to be satisfied with oiling up the old army muskets which some of them possessed, and the few revolvers with which a small rowdy element generally managed to keep themselves supplied. Upon an effort being made to purchase firearms from a Northern city, the express company, controlled by local men, refused to accept the consignment. The white people, on the other hand, procured both arms and ammunition in large quantities, and the Wellington Grays drilled with great assiduity at their armory. All this went on without any public disturbance of the town's tranquillity. A stranger would have seen nothing to excite his curiosity. The white people did their talking among themselves, and merely grew more distant in their manner toward the colored folks, who instinctively closed their ranks as the whites drew away. With each day that passed the feeling grew more tense. The editor of the Afro-American Banner, whose office had been quietly garrisoned for several nights by armed negroes, became frightened, and disappeared from the town between two suns. The conspirators were jubilant at the complete success of their plans. It only remained for them to so direct this aroused public feeling that it might completely accomplish the desired end,--to change the political complexion of the city government and assure the ascendency of the whites until the amendment should go into effect. A revolution, and not a riot, was contemplated. With this end in view, another meeting was called at Carteret's office. "We are now ready," announced General Belmont, "for the final act of this drama. We must decide promptly, or events may run away from us." "What do you suggest?" asked Carteret. "Down in the American tropics," continued the general, "they have a way of doing things. I was in Nicaragua, ten years ago, when Paterno's revolution drove out Igorroto's government. It was as easy as falling off a log. Paterno had the arms and the best men. Igorroto was not looking for trouble, and the guns were at his breast before he knew it. We have the guns. The negroes are not expecting trouble, and are easy to manage compared with the fiery mixture that flourishes in the tropics." "I should not advocate murder," returned Carteret. "We are animated by high and holy principles. We wish to right a wrong, to remedy an abuse, to save our state from anarchy and our race from humiliation. I don't object to frightening the negroes, but I am opposed to unnecessary bloodshed." "I'm not quite so particular," struck in McBane. "They need to be taught a lesson, and a nigger more or less wouldn't be missed. There's too many of 'em now." "Of course," continued Carteret, "if we should decide upon a certain mode of procedure, and the negroes should resist, a different reasoning might apply; but I will have no premeditated murder." "In Central and South America," observed the general reflectively, "none are hurt except those who get in the way." "There'll be no niggers hurt," said McBane contemptuously, "unless they strain themselves running. One white man can chase a hundred of 'em. I've managed five hundred at a time. I'll pay for burying all the niggers that are killed." The conference resulted in a well-defined plan, to be put into operation the following day, by which the city government was to be wrested from the Republicans and their negro allies. "And now," said General Belmont, "while we are cleansing the Augean stables, we may as well remove the cause as the effect. There are several negroes too many in this town, which will be much the better without them. There's that yellow lawyer, Watson. He's altogether too mouthy, and has too much business. Every nigger that gets into trouble sends for Watson, and white lawyers, with families to support and social positions to keep up, are deprived of their legitimate source of income." "There's that damn nigger real estate agent," blurted out McBane. "Billy Kitchen used to get most of the nigger business, but this darky has almost driven him to the poorhouse. A white business man is entitled to a living in his own profession and his own home. That nigger don't belong here nohow. He came from the North a year or two ago, and is hand in glove with Barber, the nigger editor, which is enough of itself to damn him. _He'll_ have to go!" "How about the collector of the port?" "We'd better not touch him. It would bring the government down upon us, which we want to avoid. We don't need to worry about the nigger preachers either. They want to stay here, where the loaves and the fishes are. We can make 'em write letters to the newspapers justifying our course, as a condition of their remaining." "What about Billings?" asked McBane. Billings was the white Republican mayor. "Is that skunk to be allowed to stay in town?" "No," returned the general, "every white Republican office-holder ought to be made to go. This town is only big enough for Democrats, and negroes who can be taught to keep their place." "What about the colored doctor," queried McBane, "with the hospital, and the diamond ring, and the carriage, and the other fallals?" "I shouldn't interfere with Miller," replied the general decisively. "He's a very good sort of a negro, doesn't meddle with politics, nor tread on any one else's toes. His father was a good citizen, which counts in his favor. He's spending money in the community too, and contributes to its prosperity." "That sort of nigger, though, sets a bad example," retorted McBane. "They make it all the harder to keep the rest of 'em down." "'One swallow does not make a summer,'" quoted the general. "When we get things arranged, there'll be no trouble. A stream cannot rise higher than its fountain, and a smart nigger without a constituency will no longer be an object of fear. I say, let the doctor alone." "He'll have to keep mighty quiet, though," muttered McBane discontentedly. "I don't like smart niggers. I've had to shoot several of them, in the course of my life." "Personally, I dislike the man," interposed Carteret, "and if I consulted my own inclinations, would say expel him with the rest; but my grievance is a personal one, and to gratify it in that way would be a loss to the community. I wish to be strictly impartial in this matter, and to take no step which cannot be entirely justified by a wise regard for the public welfare." "What's the use of all this hypocrisy, gentlemen?" sneered McBane. "Every last one of us has an axe to grind! The major may as well put an edge on his. We'll never get a better chance to have things our way. If this nigger doctor annoys the major, we'll run him out with the rest. This is a white man's country, and a white man's city, and no nigger has any business here when a white man wants him gone!" Carteret frowned darkly at this brutal characterization of their motives. It robbed the enterprise of all its poetry, and put a solemn act of revolution upon the plane of a mere vulgar theft of power. Even the general winced. "I would not consent," he said irritably, "to Miller's being disturbed." McBane made no further objection. There was a discreet knock at the door. "Come in," said Carteret. Jerry entered. "Mistuh Ellis wants ter speak ter you a minute, suh," he said. Carteret excused himself and left the room. "Jerry," said the general, "you lump of ebony, the sight of you reminds me! If your master doesn't want you for a minute, step across to Mr. Brown's and tell him to send me three cocktails." "Yas, suh," responded Jerry, hesitating. The general had said nothing about paying. "And tell him, Jerry, to charge them. I'm short of change to-day." "Yas, suh; yas, suh," replied Jerry, as he backed out of the presence, adding, when he had reached the hall: "Dere ain' no change fer Jerry dis time, sho': I'll jes' make dat _fo_' cocktails, an' de gin'l won't never know de diffe'nce. I ain' gwine 'cross de road fer nothin', not ef I knows it." Half an hour later, the conspirators dispersed. They had fixed the hour of the proposed revolution, the course to be pursued, the results to be obtained; but in stating their equation they had overlooked one factor,--God, or Fate, or whatever one may choose to call the Power that holds the destinies of man in the hollow of his hand. XXX THE MISSING PAPERS Mrs. Carteret was very much disturbed. It was supposed that the shock of her aunt's death had affected her health, for since that event she had fallen into a nervous condition which gave the major grave concern. Much to the general surprise, Mrs. Ochiltree had left no will, and no property of any considerable value except her homestead, which descended to Mrs. Carteret as the natural heir. Whatever she may have had on hand in the way of ready money had undoubtedly been abstracted from the cedar chest by the midnight marauder, to whose visit her death was immediately due. Her niece's grief was held to mark a deep-seated affection for the grim old woman who had reared her. Mrs. Carteret's present state of mind, of which her nervousness was a sufficiently accurate reflection, did in truth date from her aunt's death, and also in part from the time of the conversation with Mrs. Ochiltree, one afternoon, during and after the drive past Miller's new hospital. Mrs. Ochiltree had grown steadily more and more childish after that time, and her niece had never succeeded in making her pick up the thread of thought where it had been dropped. At any rate, Mrs. Ochiltree had made no further disclosure upon the subject. An examination, not long after her aunt's death, of the papers found near the cedar chest on the morning after the murder had contributed to Mrs. Carteret's enlightenment, but had not promoted her peace of mind. When Mrs. Carteret reached home, after her hurried exploration of the cedar chest, she thrust into a bureau drawer the envelope she had found. So fully was her mind occupied, for several days, with the funeral, and with the excitement attending the arrest of Sandy Campbell, that she deferred the examination of the contents of the envelope until near the end of the week. One morning, while alone in her chamber, she drew the envelope from the drawer, and was holding it in her hand, hesitating as to whether or not she should open it, when the baby in the next room began to cry. The child's cry seemed like a warning, and yielding to a vague uneasiness, she put the paper back. "Phil," she said to her husband at luncheon, "Aunt Polly said some strange things to me one day before she died,--I don't know whether she was quite in her right mind or not; but suppose that my father had left a will by which it was provided that half his property should go to that woman and her child?" "It would never have gone by such a will," replied the major easily. "Your Aunt Polly was in her dotage, and merely dreaming. Your father would never have been such a fool; but even if he had, no such will could have stood the test of the courts. It would clearly have been due to the improper influence of a designing woman." "So that legally, as well as morally," said Mrs. Carteret, "the will would have been of no effect?" "Not the slightest. A jury would soon have broken down the legal claim. As for any moral obligation, there would have been nothing moral about the affair. The only possible consideration for such a gift was an immoral one. I don't wish to speak harshly of your father, my dear, but his conduct was gravely reprehensible. The woman herself had no right or claim whatever; she would have been whipped and expelled from the town, if justice--blind, bleeding justice, then prostrate at the feet of slaves and aliens--could have had her way!" "But the child"-- "The child was in the same category. Who was she, to have inherited the estate of your ancestors, of which, a few years before, she would herself have formed a part? The child of shame, it was hers to pay the penalty. But the discussion is all in the air, Olivia. Your father never did and never would have left such a will." This conversation relieved Mrs. Carteret's uneasiness. Going to her room shortly afterwards, she took the envelope from her bureau drawer and drew out a bulky paper. The haunting fear that it might be such a will as her aunt had suggested was now removed; for such an instrument, in the light of what her husband had said confirming her own intuitions, would be of no valid effect. It might be just as well, she thought, to throw the paper in the fire without looking at it. She wished to think as well as might be of her father, and she felt that her respect for his memory would not be strengthened by the knowledge that he had meant to leave his estate away from her; for her aunt's words had been open to the construction that she was to have been left destitute. Curiosity strongly prompted her to read the paper. Perhaps the will contained no such provision as she had feared, and it might convey some request or direction which ought properly to be complied with. She had been standing in front of the bureau while these thoughts passed through her mind, and now, dropping the envelope back into the drawer mechanically, she unfolded the document. It was written on legal paper, in her father's own hand. Mrs. Carteret was not familiar with legal verbiage, and there were several expressions of which she did not perhaps appreciate the full effect; but a very hasty glance enabled her to ascertain the purport of the paper. It was a will, by which, in one item, her father devised to his daughter Janet, the child of the woman known as Julia Brown, the sum of ten thousand dollars, and a certain plantation or tract of land a short distance from the town of Wellington. The rest and residue of his estate, after deducting all legal charges and expenses, was bequeathed to his beloved daughter, Olivia Merkell. Mrs. Carteret breathed a sigh of relief. Her father had not preferred another to her, but had left to his lawful daughter the bulk of his estate. She felt at the same time a growing indignation at the thought that that woman should so have wrought upon her father's weakness as to induce him to think of leaving so much valuable property to her bastard,--property which by right should go, and now would go, to her own son, to whom by every rule of law and decency it ought to descend. A fire was burning in the next room, on account of the baby,--there had been a light frost the night before, and the air was somewhat chilly. For the moment the room was empty. Mrs. Carteret came out from her chamber and threw the offending paper into the fire, and watched it slowly burn. When it had been consumed, the carbon residue of one sheet still retained its form, and she could read the words on the charred portion. A sentence, which had escaped her eye in her rapid reading, stood out in ghostly black upon the gray background:-- "All the rest and residue of my estate I devise and bequeath to my daughter Olivia Merkell, the child of my beloved first wife." Mrs. Carteret had not before observed the word "first." Instinctively she stretched toward the fire the poker which she held in her hand, and at its touch the shadowy remnant fell to pieces, and nothing but ashes remained upon the hearth. Not until the next morning did she think again of the envelope which had contained the paper she had burned. Opening the drawer where it lay, the oblong blue envelope confronted her. The sight of it was distasteful. The indorsed side lay uppermost, and the words seemed like a mute reproach:-- "The Last Will and Testament of Samuel Merkell." Snatching up the envelope, she glanced into it mechanically as she moved toward the next room, and perceived a thin folded paper which had heretofore escaped her notice. When opened, it proved to be a certificate of marriage, in due form, between Samuel Merkell and Julia Brown. It was dated from a county in South Carolina, about two years before her father's death. For a moment Mrs. Carteret stood gazing blankly at this faded slip of paper. Her father _had_ married this woman!--at least he had gone through the form of marriage with her, for to him it had surely been no more than an empty formality. The marriage of white and colored persons was forbidden by law. Only recently she had read of a case where both the parties to such a crime, a colored man and a white woman, had been sentenced to long terms in the penitentiary. She even recalled the circumstances. The couple had been living together unlawfully,--they were very low people, whose private lives were beneath the public notice,--but influenced by a religious movement pervading the community, had sought, they said at the trial, to secure the blessing of God upon their union. The higher law, which imperiously demanded that the purity and prestige of the white race be preserved at any cost, had intervened at this point. Mechanically she moved toward the fireplace, so dazed by this discovery as to be scarcely conscious of her own actions. She surely had not formed any definite intention of destroying this piece of paper when her fingers relaxed unconsciously and let go their hold upon it. The draught swept it toward the fireplace. Ere scarcely touching the flames it caught, blazed fiercely, and shot upward with the current of air. A moment later the record of poor Julia's marriage was scattered to the four winds of heaven, as her poor body had long since mingled with the dust of earth. The letter remained unread. In her agitation at the discovery of the marriage certificate, Olivia had almost forgotten the existence of the letter. It was addressed to "John Delamere, Esq., as Executor of my Last Will and Testament," while the lower left hand corner bore the direction: "To be delivered only after my death, with seal unbroken." The seal was broken already; Mr. Delamere was dead; the letter could never be delivered. Mrs. Carteret unfolded it and read:-- MY DEAR DELAMERE,--I have taken the liberty of naming you as executor of my last will, because you are my friend, and the only man of my acquaintance whom I feel that I can trust to carry out my wishes, appreciate my motives, and preserve the silence I desire. I have, first, a confession to make. Inclosed in this letter you will find a certificate of marriage between my child Janet's mother and myself. While I have never exactly repented of this marriage, I have never had the courage to acknowledge it openly. If I had not married Julia, I fear Polly Ochiltree would have married me by main force,--as she would marry you or any other gentleman unfortunate enough to fall in the way of this twice-widowed man-hunter. When my wife died, three years ago, her sister Polly offered to keep house for me and the child. I would sooner have had the devil in the house, and yet I trembled with alarm,--there seemed no way of escape,--it was so clearly and obviously the proper thing. But she herself gave me my opportunity. I was on the point of consenting, when she demanded, as a condition of her coming, that I discharge Julia, my late wife's maid. She was laboring under a misapprehension in regard to the girl, but I grasped at the straw, and did everything to foster her delusion. I declared solemnly that nothing under heaven would induce me to part with Julia. The controversy resulted in my permitting Polly to take the child, while I retained the maid. Before Polly put this idea into my head, I had scarcely looked at Julia, but this outbreak turned my attention toward her. She was a handsome girl, and, as I soon found out, a good girl. My wife, who raised her, was a Christian woman, and had taught her modesty and virtue. She was free. The air was full of liberty, and equal rights, and all the abolition claptrap, and she made marriage a condition of her remaining longer in the house. In a moment of weakness I took her away to a place where we were not known, and married her. If she had left me, I should have fallen a victim to Polly Ochiltree,--to which any fate was preferable. And then, old friend, my weakness kept to the fore. I was ashamed of this marriage, and my new wife saw it. Moreover, she loved me,--too well, indeed, to wish to make me unhappy. The ceremony had satisfied her conscience, had set her right, she said, with God; for the opinions of men she did not care, since I loved her,--she only wanted to compensate me, as best she could, for the great honor I had done my handmaiden,--for she had read her Bible, and I was the Abraham to her Hagar, compared with whom she considered herself at a great advantage. It was her own proposition that nothing be said of this marriage. If any shame should fall on her, it would fall lightly, for it would be undeserved. When the child came, she still kept silence. No one, she argued, could blame an innocent child for the accident of birth, and in the sight of God this child had every right to exist; while among her own people illegitimacy would involve but little stigma. I need not say that I was easily persuaded to accept this sacrifice; but touched by her fidelity, I swore to provide handsomely for them both. This I have tried to do by the will of which I ask you to act as executor. Had I left the child more, it might serve as a ground for attacking the will; my acknowledgment of the tie of blood is sufficient to justify a reasonable bequest. I have taken this course for the sake of my daughter Olivia, who is dear to me, and whom I would not wish to make ashamed; and in deference to public opinion, which it is not easy to defy. If, after my death, Julia should choose to make our secret known, I shall of course be beyond the reach of hard words; but loyalty to my memory will probably keep her silent. A strong man would long since have acknowledged her before the world and taken the consequences; but, alas! I am only myself, and the atmosphere I live in does not encourage moral heroism. I should like to be different, but it is God who hath made us, and not we ourselves! Nevertheless, old friend, I will ask of you one favor. If in the future this child of Julia's and of mine should grow to womanhood; if she should prove to have her mother's gentleness and love of virtue; if, in the new era which is opening up for her mother's race, to which, unfortunately, she must belong, she should become, in time, an educated woman; and if the time should ever come when, by virtue of her education or the development of her people, it would be to her a source of shame or unhappiness that she was an illegitimate child,--if you are still alive, old friend, and have the means of knowing or divining this thing, go to her and tell her, for me, that she is my lawful child, and ask her to forgive her father's weakness. When this letter comes to you, I shall have passed to--the Beyond; but I am confident that you will accept this trust, for which I thank you now, in advance, most heartily. The letter was signed with her father's name, the same signature which had been attached to the will. Having firmly convinced herself of the illegality of the papers, and of her own right to destroy them, Mrs. Carteret ought to have felt relieved that she had thus removed all traces of her dead father's folly. True, the other daughter remained,--she had seen her on the street only the day before. The sight of this person she had always found offensive, and now, she felt, in view of what she had just learned, it must be even more so. Never, while this woman lived in the town, would she be able to throw the veil of forgetfulness over this blot upon her father's memory. As the day wore on, Mrs. Carteret grew still less at ease. To herself, marriage was a serious thing,--to a right-thinking woman the most serious concern of life. A marriage certificate, rightfully procured, was scarcely less solemn, so far as it went, than the Bible itself. Her own she cherished as the apple of her eye. It was the evidence of her wifehood, the seal of her child's legitimacy, her patent of nobility,--the token of her own and her child's claim to social place and consideration. She had burned this pretended marriage certificate because it meant nothing. Nevertheless, she could not ignore the knowledge of another such marriage, of which every one in the town knew,--a celebrated case, indeed, where a white man, of a family quite as prominent as her father's, had married a colored woman during the military occupation of the state just after the civil war. The legality of the marriage had never been questioned. It had been fully consummated by twenty years of subsequent cohabitation. No amount of social persecution had ever shaken the position of the husband. With an iron will he had stayed on in the town, a living protest against the established customs of the South, so rudely interrupted for a few short years; and, though his children were negroes, though he had never appeared in public with his wife, no one had ever questioned the validity of his marriage or the legitimacy of his offspring. The marriage certificate which Mrs. Carteret had burned dated from the period of the military occupation. Hence Mrs. Carteret, who was a good woman, and would not have done a dishonest thing, felt decidedly uncomfortable. She had destroyed the marriage certificate, but its ghost still haunted her. Major Carteret, having just eaten a good dinner, was in a very agreeable humor when, that same evening, his wife brought up again the subject of their previous discussion. "Phil," she asked, "Aunt Polly told me that once, long before my father died, when she went to remonstrate with him for keeping that Woman in the house, he threatened to marry Julia if Aunt Polly ever said another word to him about the matter. Suppose he _had_ married her, and had then left a will,--would the marriage have made any difference, so far as the will was concerned?" Major Carteret laughed. "Your Aunt Polly," he said, "was a remarkable woman, with a wonderful imagination, which seems to have grown more vivid as her memory and judgment weakened. Why should your father marry his negro housemaid? Mr. Merkell was never rated as a fool,--he had one of the clearest heads in Wellington. I saw him only a day or two before he died, and I could swear before any court in Christendom that he was of sound mind and memory to the last. These notions of your aunt were mere delusions. Your father was never capable of such a folly." "Of course I am only supposing a case," returned Olivia. "Imagining such a case, just for the argument, would the marriage have been legal?" "That would depend. If he had married her during the military occupation, or over in South Carolina, the marriage would have been legally valid, though morally and socially outrageous." "And if he had died afterwards, leaving a will?" "The will would have controlled the disposition of his estate, in all probability." "Suppose he had left no will?" "You are getting the matter down pretty fine, my dear! The woman would have taken one third of the real estate for life, and could have lived in the homestead until she died. She would also have had half the other property,--the money and goods and furniture, everything except the land,--and the negro child would have shared with you the balance of the estate. That, I believe, is according to the law of descent and distribution." Mrs. Carteret lapsed into a troubled silence. Her father _had_ married the woman. In her heart she had no doubt of the validity of the marriage, so far as the law was concerned; if one marriage of such a kind would stand, another contracted under similar conditions was equally as good. If the marriage had been valid, Julia's child had been legitimate. The will she had burned gave this sister of hers--she shuddered at the word--but a small part of the estate. Under the law, which intervened now that there was no will, the property should have been equally divided. If the woman had been white,--but the woman had _not_ been white, and the same rule of moral conduct did not, _could_ not, in the very nature of things, apply, as between white people! For, if this were not so, slavery had been, not merely an economic mistake, but a great crime against humanity. If it had been such a crime, as for a moment she dimly perceived it might have been, then through the long centuries there had been piled up a catalogue of wrong and outrage which, if the law of compensation be a law of nature, must some time, somewhere, in some way, be atoned for. She herself had not escaped the penalty, of which, she realized, this burden placed upon her conscience was but another installment. If she should make known the facts she had learned, it would mean what?--a division of her father's estate, a recognition of the legality of her father's relations with Julia. Such a stain upon her father's memory would be infinitely worse than if he had _not_ married her. To have lived with her without marriage was a social misdemeanor, at which society in the old days had winked, or at most had frowned. To have married her was to have committed the unpardonable social sin. Such a scandal Mrs. Carteret could not have endured. Should she seek to make restitution, it would necessarily involve the disclosure of at least some of the facts. Had she not destroyed the will, she might have compromised with her conscience by producing it and acting upon its terms, which had been so stated as not to disclose the marriage. This was now rendered impossible by her own impulsive act; she could not mention the will at all, without admitting that she had destroyed it. Mrs. Carteret found herself in what might be called, vulgarly, a moral "pocket." She could, of course, remain silent. Mrs. Carteret was a good woman, according to her lights, with a cultivated conscience, to which she had always looked as her mentor and infallible guide. Hence Mrs. Carteret, after this painful discovery, remained for a long time ill at ease,--so disturbed, indeed, that her mind reacted upon her nerves, which had never been strong; and her nervousness affected her strength, which had never been great, until Carteret, whose love for her had been deepened and strengthened by the advent of his son, became alarmed for her health, and spoke very seriously to Dr. Price concerning it. XXXI THE SHADOW OF A DREAM Mrs. Carteret awoke, with a start, from a troubled dream. She had been sailing across a sunlit sea, in a beautiful boat, her child lying on a bright-colored cushion at her feet. Overhead the swelling sail served as an awning to keep off the sun's rays, which far ahead were reflected with dazzling brilliancy from the shores of a golden island. Her son, she dreamed, was a fairy prince, and yonder lay his kingdom, to which he was being borne, lying there at her feet, in this beautiful boat, across the sunlit sea. Suddenly and without warning the sky was overcast. A squall struck the boat and tore away the sail. In the distance a huge billow--a great white wall of water--came sweeping toward their frail craft, threatening it with instant destruction. She clasped her child to her bosom, and a moment later found herself struggling in the sea, holding the child's head above the water. As she floated there, as though sustained by some unseen force, she saw in the distance a small boat approaching over the storm-tossed waves. Straight toward her it came, and she had reached out her hand to grasp its side, when the rower looked back, and she saw that it was her sister. The recognition had been mutual. With a sharp movement of one oar the boat glided by, leaving her clutching at the empty air. She felt her strength begin to fail. Despairingly she signaled with her disengaged hand; but the rower, after one mute, reproachful glance, rowed on. Mrs. Carteret's strength grew less and less. The child became heavy as lead. Herself floating in the water, as though it were her native element, she could no longer support the child. Lower and lower it sank,--she was powerless to save it or to accompany it,--until, gasping wildly for breath, it threw up its little hands and sank, the cruel water gurgling over its head,--when she awoke with a start and a chill, and lay there trembling for several minutes before she heard little Dodie in his crib, breathing heavily. She rose softly, went to the crib, and changed the child's position to an easier one. He breathed more freely, and she went back to bed, but not to sleep. She had tried to put aside the distressing questions raised by the discovery of her father's will and the papers accompanying it. Why should she be burdened with such a responsibility, at this late day, when the touch of time had well-nigh healed these old sores? Surely, God had put his curse not alone upon the slave, but upon the stealer of men! With other good people she had thanked Him that slavery was no more, and that those who once had borne its burden upon their consciences could stand erect and feel that they themselves were free. The weed had been cut down, but its roots remained, deeply imbedded in the soil, to spring up and trouble a new generation. Upon her weak shoulders was placed the burden of her father's weakness, her father's folly. It was left to her to acknowledge or not this shameful marriage and her sister's rights in their father's estate. Balancing one consideration against another, she had almost decided that she might ignore this tie. To herself, Olivia Merkell,--Olivia Carteret,--the stigma of base birth would have meant social ostracism, social ruin, the averted face, the finger of pity or of scorn. All the traditional weight of public disapproval would have fallen upon her as the unhappy fruit of an unblessed union. To this other woman it could have had no such significance,--it had been the lot of her race. To them, twenty-five years before, sexual sin had never been imputed as more than a fault. She had lost nothing by her supposed illegitimacy; she would gain nothing by the acknowledgment of her mother's marriage. On the other hand, what would be the effect of this revelation upon Mrs. Carteret herself? To have it known that her father had married a negress would only be less dreadful than to have it appear that he had committed some terrible crime. It was a crime now, by the laws of every Southern State, for white and colored persons to intermarry. She shuddered before the possibility that at some time in the future some person, none too well informed, might learn that her father had married a colored woman, and might assume that she, Olivia Carteret, or her child, had sprung from this shocking _mésalliance_,--a fate to which she would willingly have preferred death. No, this marriage must never be made known; the secret should remain buried forever in her own heart! But there still remained the question of her father's property and her father's will. This woman was her father's child,--of that there could be no doubt, it was written in her features no less than in her father's will. As his lawful child,--of which, alas! there could also be no question,--she was entitled by law to half his estate. Mrs. Carteret's problem had sunk from the realm of sentiment to that of material things, which, curiously enough, she found much more difficult. For, while the negro, by the traditions of her people, was barred from the world of sentiment, his rights of property were recognized. The question had become, with Mrs. Carteret, a question of _meum_ and _tuum_. Had the girl Janet been poor, ignorant, or degraded, as might well have been her fate, Mrs. Carteret might have felt a vicarious remorse for her aunt's suppression of the papers; but fate had compensated Janet for the loss; she had been educated, she had married well; she had not suffered for lack of the money of which she had been defrauded, and did not need it now. She had a child, it is true, but this child's career would be so circumscribed by the accident of color that too much wealth would only be a source of unhappiness; to her own child, on the contrary, it would open every door of life. It would be too lengthy a task to follow the mind and conscience of this much-tried lady in their intricate workings upon this difficult problem; for she had a mind as logical as any woman's, and a conscience which she wished to keep void of offense. She had to confront a situation involving the element of race, upon which the moral standards of her people were hopelessly confused. Mrs. Carteret reached the conclusion, ere daylight dawned, that she would be silent upon the subject of her father's second marriage. Neither party had wished it known,--neither Julia nor her father,--and she would respect her father's wishes. To act otherwise would be to defeat his will, to make known what he had carefully concealed, and to give Janet a claim of title to one half her father's estate, while he had only meant her to have the ten thousand dollars named in the will. By the same reasoning, she must carry out her father's will in respect to this bequest. Here there was another difficulty. The mining investment into which they had entered shortly after the birth of little Dodie had tied up so much of her property that it would have been difficult to procure ten thousand dollars immediately; while a demand for half the property at once would mean bankruptcy and ruin. Moreover, upon what ground could she offer her sister any sum of money whatever? So sudden a change of heart, after so many years of silence, would raise the presumption of some right on the part of Janet in her father's estate. Suspicion once aroused, it might be possible to trace this hidden marriage, and establish it by legal proof. The marriage once verified, the claim for half the estate could not be denied. She could not plead her father's will to the contrary, for this would be to acknowledge the suppression of the will, in itself a criminal act. There was, however, a way of escape. This hospital which had recently been opened was the personal property of her sister's husband. Some time in the future, when their investments matured, she would present to the hospital a sum of money equal to the amount her father had meant his colored daughter to have. Thus indirectly both her father's will and her own conscience would be satisfied. Mrs. Carteret had reached this comfortable conclusion, and was falling asleep, when her attention was again drawn by her child's breathing. She took it in her own arms and soon fell asleep. "By the way, Olivia," said the major, when leaving the house next morning for the office, "if you have any business down town to-day, transact it this forenoon. Under no circumstances must you or Clara or the baby leave the house after midday." "Why, what's the matter, Phil?" "Nothing to alarm you, except that there may be a little political demonstration which may render the streets unsafe. You are not to say anything about it where the servants might hear." "Will there be any danger for you, Phil?" she demanded with alarm. "Not the slightest, Olivia dear. No one will be harmed; but it is best for ladies and children to stay indoors." Mrs. Carteret's nerves were still more or less unstrung from her mental struggles of the night, and the memory of her dream came to her like a dim foreboding of misfortune. As though in sympathy with its mother's feelings, the baby did not seem as well as usual. The new nurse was by no means an ideal nurse,--Mammy Jane understood the child much better. If there should be any trouble with the negroes, toward which her husband's remark seemed to point,--she knew the general political situation, though not informed in regard to her husband's plans,--she would like to have Mammy Jane near her, where the old nurse might be protected from danger or alarm. With this end in view she dispatched the nurse, shortly after breakfast, to Mammy Jane's house in the negro settlement on the other side of the town, with a message asking the old woman to come immediately to Mrs. Carteret's. Unfortunately, Mammy Jane had gone to visit a sick woman in the country, and was not expected to return for several hours. XXXII THE STORM BREAKS The Wellington riot began at three o'clock in the afternoon of a day as fair as was ever selected for a deed of darkness. The sky was clear, except for a few light clouds that floated, white and feathery, high in air, like distant islands in a sapphire sea. A salt-laden breeze from the ocean a few miles away lent a crisp sparkle to the air. At three o'clock sharp the streets were filled, as if by magic, with armed white men. The negroes, going about, had noted, with uneasy curiosity, that the stores and places of business, many of which closed at noon, were unduly late in opening for the afternoon, though no one suspected the reason for the delay; but at three o'clock every passing colored man was ordered, by the first white man he met, to throw up his hands. If he complied, he was searched, more or less roughly, for firearms, and then warned to get off the street. When he met another group of white men the scene was repeated. The man thus summarily held up seldom encountered more than two groups before disappearing across lots to his own home or some convenient hiding-place. If he resisted any demand of those who halted him--But the records of the day are historical; they may be found in the newspapers of the following date, but they are more firmly engraved upon the hearts and memories of the people of Wellington. For many months there were negro families in the town whose children screamed with fear and ran to their mothers for protection at the mere sight of a white man. Dr. Miller had received a call, about one o'clock, to attend a case at the house of a well-to-do colored farmer, who lived some three or four miles from the town, upon the very road, by the way, along which Miller had driven so furiously a few weeks before, in the few hours that intervened before Sandy Campbell would probably have been burned at the stake. The drive to his patient's home, the necessary inquiries, the filling of the prescription from his own medicine-case, which he carried along with him, the little friendly conversation about the weather and the crops, and, the farmer being an intelligent and thinking man, the inevitable subject of the future of their race,--these, added to the return journey, occupied at least two hours of Miller's time. As he neared the town on his way back, he saw ahead of him half a dozen men and women approaching, with fear written in their faces, in every degree from apprehension to terror. Women were weeping and children crying, and all were going as fast as seemingly lay in their power, looking behind now and then as if pursued by some deadly enemy. At sight of Miller's buggy they made a dash for cover, disappearing, like a covey of frightened partridges, in the underbrush along the road. Miller pulled up his horse and looked after them in startled wonder. "What on earth can be the matter?" he muttered, struck with a vague feeling of alarm. A psychologist, seeking to trace the effects of slavery upon the human mind, might find in the South many a curious illustration of this curse, abiding long after the actual physical bondage had terminated. In the olden time the white South labored under the constant fear of negro insurrections. Knowing that they themselves, if in the negroes' place, would have risen in the effort to throw off the yoke, all their reiterated theories of negro subordination and inferiority could not remove that lurking fear, founded upon the obscure consciousness that the slaves ought to have risen. Conscience, it has been said, makes cowards of us all. There was never, on the continent of America, a successful slave revolt, nor one which lasted more than a few hours, or resulted in the loss of more than a few white lives; yet never was the planter quite free from the fear that there might be one. On the other hand, the slave had before his eyes always the fear of the master. There were good men, according to their lights,--according to their training and environment,--among the Southern slaveholders, who treated their slaves kindly, as slaves, from principle, because they recognized the claims of humanity, even under the dark skin of a human chattel. There was many a one who protected or pampered his negroes, as the case might be, just as a man fondles his dog,--because they were his; they were a part of his estate, an integral part of the entity of property and person which made up the aristocrat; but with all this kindness, there was always present, in the consciousness of the lowest slave, the knowledge that he was in his master's power, and that he could make no effectual protest against the abuse of that authority. There was also the knowledge, among those who could think at all, that the best of masters was himself a slave to a system, which hampered his movements but scarcely less than those of his bondmen. When, therefore, Miller saw these men and women scampering into the bushes, he divined, with this slumbering race consciousness which years of culture had not obliterated, that there was some race trouble on foot. His intuition did not long remain unsupported. A black head was cautiously protruded from the shrubbery, and a black voice--if such a description be allowable--addressed him:-- "Is dat you, Doctuh Miller?" "Yes. Who are you, and what's the trouble?" "What's de trouble, suh? Why, all hell's broke loose in town yonduh. De w'ite folks is riz 'gins' de niggers, an' say dey're gwine ter kill eve'y nigger dey kin lay han's on." Miller's heart leaped to his throat, as he thought of his wife and child. This story was preposterous; it could not be true, and yet there must be something in it. He tried to question his informant, but the man was so overcome with excitement and fear that Miller saw clearly that he must go farther for information. He had read in the Morning Chronicle, a few days before, the obnoxious editorial quoted from the Afro-American Banner, and had noted the comment upon it by the white editor. He had felt, as at the time of its first publication, that the editorial was ill-advised. It could do no good, and was calculated to arouse the animosity of those whose friendship, whose tolerance, at least, was necessary and almost indispensable to the colored people. They were living, at the best, in a sort of armed neutrality with the whites; such a publication, however serviceable elsewhere, could have no other effect in Wellington than to endanger this truce and defeat the hope of a possible future friendship. The right of free speech entitled Barber to publish it; a larger measure of common-sense would have made him withhold it. Whether it was the republication of this article that had stirred up anew the sleeping dogs of race prejudice and whetted their thirst for blood, he could not yet tell; but at any rate, there was mischief on foot. "Fer God's sake, doctuh, don' go no closeter ter dat town," pleaded his informant, "er you'll be killt sho'. Come on wid us, suh, an' tek keer er yo'se'f. We're gwine ter hide in de swamps till dis thing is over!" "God, man!" exclaimed Miller, urging his horse forward, "my wife and child are in the town!" Fortunately, he reflected, there were no patients confined in the hospital,--if there should be anything in this preposterous story. To one unfamiliar with Southern life, it might have seemed impossible that these good Christian people, who thronged the churches on Sunday, and wept over the sufferings of the lowly Nazarene, and sent missionaries to the heathen, could be hungering and thirsting for the blood of their fellow men; but Miller cherished no such delusion. He knew the history of his country; he had the threatened lynching of Sandy Campbell vividly in mind; and he was fully persuaded that to race prejudice, once roused, any horror was possible. That women or children would be molested of set purpose he did not believe, but that they might suffer by accident was more than likely. As he neared the town, dashing forward at the top of his horse's speed, he heard his voice called in a loud and agitated tone, and, glancing around him, saw a familiar form standing by the roadside, gesticulating vehemently. He drew up the horse with a suddenness that threw the faithful and obedient animal back upon its haunches. The colored lawyer, Watson, came up to the buggy. That he was laboring under great and unusual excitement was quite apparent from his pale face and frightened air. "What's the matter, Watson?" demanded Miller, hoping now to obtain some reliable information. "Matter!" exclaimed the other. "Everything's the matter! The white people are up in arms. They have disarmed the colored people, killing half a dozen in the process, and wounding as many more. They have forced the mayor and aldermen to resign, have formed a provisional city government _à la Française_, and have ordered me and half a dozen other fellows to leave town in forty-eight hours, under pain of sudden death. As they seem to mean it, I shall not stay so long. Fortunately, my wife and children are away. I knew you were out here, however, and I thought I'd come out and wait for you, so that we might talk the matter over. I don't imagine they mean you any harm, personally, because you tread on nobody's toes; but you're too valuable a man for the race to lose, so I thought I'd give you warning. I shall want to sell you my property, too, at a bargain. For I'm worth too much to my family to dream of ever attempting to live here again." "Have you seen anything of my wife and child?" asked Miller, intent upon the danger to which they might be exposed. "No; I didn't go to the house. I inquired at the drugstore and found out where you had gone. You needn't fear for them,--it is not a war on women and children." "War of any kind is always hardest on the women and children," returned Miller; "I must hurry on and see that mine are safe." "They'll not carry the war so far into Africa as that," returned Watson; "but I never saw anything like it. Yesterday I had a hundred white friends in the town, or thought I had,--men who spoke pleasantly to me on the street, and sometimes gave me their hands to shake. Not one of them said to me today: 'Watson, stay at home this afternoon.' I might have been killed, like any one of half a dozen others who have bit the dust, for any word that one of my 'friends' had said to warn me. When the race cry is started in this neck of the woods, friendship, religion, humanity, reason, all shrivel up like dry leaves in a raging furnace." The buggy, into which Watson had climbed, was meanwhile rapidly nearing the town. "I think I'll leave you here, Miller," said Watson, as they approached the outskirts, "and make my way home by a roundabout path, as I should like to get there unmolested. Home!--a beautiful word that, isn't it, for an exiled wanderer? It might not be well, either, for us to be seen together. If you put the hood of your buggy down, and sit well back in the shadow, you may be able to reach home without interruption; but avoid the main streets. I'll see you again this evening, if we're both alive, and I can reach you; for my time is short. A committee are to call in the morning to escort me to the train. I am to be dismissed from the community with public honors." Watson was climbing down from the buggy, when a small party of men were seen approaching, and big Josh Green, followed by several other resolute-looking colored men, came up and addressed them. "Dr. Miller," cried Green, "Mr. Watson,--we're lookin' fer a leader. De w'ite folks are killin' de niggers, an' we ain' gwine ter stan' up an' be shot down like dogs. We're gwine ter defen' ou' lives, an' we ain' gwine ter run away f'm no place where we 'we got a right ter be; an' woe be ter de w'ite man w'at lays ban's on us! Dere's two niggers in dis town ter eve'y w'ite man, an' ef we 'we got ter be killt, we'll take some w'ite folks 'long wid us, ez sho' ez dere's a God in heaven,--ez I s'pose dere is, dough He mus' be 'sleep, er busy somewhar e'se ter-day. Will you-all come an' lead us?" "Gentlemen," said Watson, "what is the use? The negroes will not back you up. They haven't the arms, nor the moral courage, nor the leadership." "We'll git de arms, an' we'll git de courage, ef you'll come an' lead us! We wants leaders,--dat's w'y we come ter you!" "What's the use?" returned Watson despairingly. "The odds are too heavy. I've been ordered out of town; if I stayed, I'd be shot on sight, unless I had a body-guard around me." "We'll be yo' body-guard!" shouted half a dozen voices. "And when my body-guard was shot, what then? I have a wife and children. It is my duty to live for them. If I died, I should get no glory and no reward, and my family would be reduced to beggary,--to which they'll soon be near enough as it is. This affair will blow over in a day or two. The white people will be ashamed of themselves to-morrow, and apprehensive of the consequences for some time to come. Keep quiet, boys, and trust in God. You won't gain anything by resistance." "'God he'ps dem dat he'ps demselves,'" returned Josh stoutly. "Ef Mr. Watson won't lead us, will you, Dr. Miller?" said the spokesman, turning to the doctor. For Miller it was an agonizing moment. He was no coward, morally or physically. Every manly instinct urged him to go forward and take up the cause of these leaderless people, and, if need be, to defend their lives and their rights with his own,--but to what end? "Listen, men," he said. "We would only be throwing our lives away. Suppose we made a determined stand and won a temporary victory. By morning every train, every boat, every road leading into Wellington, would be crowded with white men,--as they probably will be any way,--with arms in their hands, curses on their lips, and vengeance in their hearts. In the minds of those who make and administer the laws, we have no standing in the court of conscience. They would kill us in the fight, or they would hang us afterwards,--one way or another, we should be doomed. I should like to lead you; I should like to arm every colored man in this town, and have them stand firmly in line, not for attack, but for defense; but if I attempted it, and they should stand by me, which is questionable,--for I have met them fleeing from the town,--my life would pay the forfeit. Alive, I may be of some use to you, and you are welcome to my life in that way,--I am giving it freely. Dead, I should be a mere lump of carrion. Who remembers even the names of those who have been done to death in the Southern States for the past twenty years?" "I 'members de name er one of 'em," said Josh, "an' I 'members de name er de man dat killt 'im, an' I s'pec' his time is mighty nigh come." "My advice is not heroic, but I think it is wise. In this riot we are placed as we should be in a war: we have no territory, no base of supplies, no organization, no outside sympathy,--we stand in the position of a race, in a case like this, without money and without friends. Our time will come,--the time when we can command respect for our rights; but it is not yet in sight. Give it up, boys, and wait. Good may come of this, after all." Several of the men wavered, and looked irresolute. "I reckon that's all so, doctuh," returned Josh, "an', de way you put it, I don' blame you ner Mr. Watson; but all dem reasons ain' got no weight wid me. I'm gwine in dat town, an' ef any w'ite man 'sturbs me, dere'll be trouble,--dere'll be double trouble,--I feels it in my bones!" "Remember your old mother, Josh," said Miller. "Yas, sub, I'll 'member her; dat's all I kin do now. I don' need ter wait fer her no mo', fer she died dis mo'nin'. I'd lack ter see her buried, suh, but I may not have de chance. Ef I gits killt, will you do me a favor?" "Yes, Josh; what is it?" "Ef I should git laid out in dis commotion dat's gwine on, will you collec' my wages f'm yo' brother, and see dat de ole 'oman is put away right?" "Yes, of course." "Wid a nice coffin, an' a nice fune'al, an' a head-bo'd an' a foot-bo'd?" "Yes." "All right, suh! Ef I don' live ter do it, I'll know it'll be 'tended ter right. Now we're gwine out ter de cotton compress, an' git a lot er colored men tergether, an' ef de w'ite folks 'sturbs me, I shouldn't be s'prise' ef dere'd be a mix-up;--an' ef dere is, me an _one_ w'ite man 'll stan' befo' de jedgment th'one er God dis day; an' it won't be me w'at'll be 'feared er de jedgment. Come along, boys! Dese gentlemen may have somethin' ter live fer; but ez fer my pa't, I'd ruther be a dead nigger any day dan a live dog!" XXXIII INTO THE LION'S JAWS The party under Josh's leadership moved off down the road. Miller, while entirely convinced that he had acted wisely in declining to accompany them, was yet conscious of a distinct feeling of shame and envy that he, too, did not feel impelled to throw away his life in a hopeless struggle. Watson left the buggy and disappeared by a path at the roadside. Miller drove rapidly forward. After entering the town, he passed several small parties of white men, but escaped scrutiny by sitting well back in his buggy, the presumption being that a well-dressed man with a good horse and buggy was white. Torn with anxiety, he reached home at about four o'clock. Driving the horse into the yard, he sprang down from the buggy and hastened to the house, which he found locked, front and rear. A repeated rapping brought no response. At length he broke a window, and entered the house like a thief. "Janet, Janet!" he called in alarm, "where are you? It is only I,--Will!" There was no reply. He ran from room to room, only to find them all empty. Again he called his wife's name, and was about rushing from the house, when a muffled voice came faintly to his ear,-- "Is dat you, Doctuh Miller?" "Yes. Who are you, and where are my wife and child?" He was looking around in perplexity, when the door of a low closet under the kitchen sink was opened from within, and a woolly head was cautiously protruded. "Are you _sho'_ dat's you, doctuh?" "Yes, Sally; where are"-- "An' not some w'ite man come ter bu'n down de house an' kill all de niggers?" "No, Sally, it's me all right. Where is my wife? Where is my child?" "Dey went over ter see Mis' Butler 'long 'bout two o'clock, befo' dis fuss broke out, suh. Oh, Lawdy, Lawdy, suh! Is all de cullud folks be'n killt 'cep'n' me an' you, suh? Fer de Lawd's sake, suh, you won' let 'em kill me, will you, suh? I'll wuk fer you fer nuthin', suh, all my bawn days, ef you'll save my life, suh!" "Calm yourself, Sally. You'll be safe enough if you stay right here, I 'we no doubt. They'll not harm women,--of that I'm sure enough, although I haven't yet got the bearings of this deplorable affair. Stay here and look after the house. I must find my wife and child!" The distance across the city to the home of the Mrs. Butler whom his wife had gone to visit was exactly one mile. Though Miller had a good horse in front of him, he was two hours in reaching his destination. Never will the picture of that ride fade from his memory. In his dreams he repeats it night after night, and sees the sights that wounded his eyes, and feels the thoughts--the haunting spirits of the thoughts--that tore his heart as he rode through hell to find those whom he was seeking. For a short distance he saw nothing, and made rapid progress. As he turned the first corner, his horse shied at the dead body of a negro, lying huddled up in the collapse which marks sudden death. What Miller shuddered at was not so much the thought of death, to the sight of which his profession had accustomed him, as the suggestion of what it signified. He had taken with allowance the wild statement of the fleeing fugitives. Watson, too, had been greatly excited, and Josh Green's group were desperate men, as much liable to be misled by their courage as the others by their fears; but here was proof that murder had been done,--and his wife and children were in the town. Distant shouts, and the sound of firearms, increased his alarm. He struck his horse with the whip, and dashed on toward the heart of the city, which he must traverse in order to reach Janet and the child. At the next corner lay the body of another man, with the red blood oozing from a ghastly wound in the forehead. The negroes seemed to have been killed, as the band plays in circus parades, at the street intersections, where the example would be most effective. Miller, with a wild leap of the heart, had barely passed this gruesome spectacle, when a sharp voice commanded him to halt, and emphasized the order by covering him with a revolver. Forgetting the prudence he had preached to others, he had raised his whip to strike the horse, when several hands seized the bridle. "Come down, you damn fool," growled an authoritative voice. "Don't you see we're in earnest? Do you want to get killed?" "Why should I come down?" asked Miller. "Because we've ordered you to come down! This is the white people's day, and when they order, a nigger must obey. We're going to search you for weapons." "Search away. You'll find nothing but a case of surgeon's tools, which I'm more than likely to need before this day is over, from all indications." "No matter; we'll make sure of it! That's what we're here for. Come down, if you don't want to be pulled down!" Miller stepped down from his buggy. His interlocutor, who made no effort at disguise, was a clerk in a dry-goods store where Miller bought most of his family and hospital supplies. He made no sign of recognition, however, and Miller claimed no acquaintance. This man, who had for several years emptied Miller's pockets in the course of more or less legitimate trade, now went through them, aided by another man, more rapidly than ever before, the searchers convincing themselves that Miller carried no deadly weapon upon his person. Meanwhile, a third ransacked the buggy with like result. Miller recognized several others of the party, who made not the slightest attempt at disguise, though no names were called by any one. "Where are you going?" demanded the leader. "I am looking for my wife and child," replied Miller. "Well, run along, and keep them out of the streets when you find them; and keep your hands out of this affair, if you wish to live in this town, which from now on will be a white man's town, as you niggers will be pretty firmly convinced before night." Miller drove on as swiftly as might be. At the next corner he was stopped again. In the white man who held him up, Miller recognized a neighbor of his own. After a short detention and a perfunctory search, the white man remarked apologetically:-- "Sorry to have had to trouble you, doctuh, but them's the o'ders. It ain't men like you that we're after, but the vicious and criminal class of niggers." Miller smiled bitterly as he urged his horse forward. He was quite well aware that the virtuous citizen who had stopped him had only a few weeks before finished a term in the penitentiary, to which he had been sentenced for stealing. Miller knew that he could have bought all the man owned for fifty dollars, and his soul for as much more. A few rods farther on, he came near running over the body of a wounded man who lay groaning by the wayside. Every professional instinct urged him to stop and offer aid to the sufferer; but the uncertainty concerning his wife and child proved a stronger motive and urged him resistlessly forward. Here and there the ominous sound of firearms was audible. He might have thought this merely a part of the show, like the "powder play" of the Arabs, but for the bloody confirmation of its earnestness which had already assailed his vision. Somewhere in this seething caldron of unrestrained passions were his wife and child, and he must hurry on. His progress was painfully slow. Three times he was stopped and searched. More than once his way was barred, and he was ordered to turn back, each such occasion requiring a detour which consumed many minutes. The man who last stopped him was a well-known Jewish merchant. A Jew--God of Moses!--had so far forgotten twenty centuries of history as to join in the persecution of another oppressed race! When almost reduced to despair by these innumerable delays, he perceived, coming toward him, Mr. Ellis, the sub-editor of the Morning Chronicle. Miller had just been stopped and questioned again, and Ellis came up as he was starting once more upon his endless ride. "Dr. Miller," said Ellis kindly, "it is dangerous for you on the streets. Why tempt the danger?" "I am looking for my wife and child," returned Miller in desperation. "They are somewhere in this town,--I don't know where,--and I must find them." Ellis had been horror-stricken by the tragedy of the afternoon, the wholly superfluous slaughter of a harmless people, whom a show of force would have been quite sufficient to overawe. Elaborate explanations were afterwards given for these murders, which were said, perhaps truthfully, not to have been premeditated, and many regrets were expressed. The young man had been surprised, quite as much as the negroes themselves, at the ferocity displayed. His own thoughts and feelings were attuned to anything but slaughter. Only that morning he had received a perfumed note, calling his attention to what the writer described as a very noble deed of his, and requesting him to call that evening and receive the writer's thanks. Had he known that Miss Pemberton, several weeks after their visit to the Sound, had driven out again to the hotel and made some inquiries among the servants, he might have understood better the meaning of this missive. When Miller spoke of his wife and child, some subtle thread of suggestion coupled the note with Miller's plight. "I'll go with you, Dr. Miller," he said, "if you'll permit me. In my company you will not be disturbed." He took a seat in Miller's buggy, after which it was not molested. Neither of them spoke. Miller was sick at heart; he could have wept with grief, even had the welfare of his own dear ones not been involved in this regrettable affair. With prophetic instinct he foresaw the hatreds to which this day would give birth; the long years of constraint and distrust which would still further widen the breach between two peoples whom fate had thrown together in one community. There was nothing for Ellis to say. In his heart he could not defend the deeds of this day. The petty annoyances which the whites had felt at the spectacle of a few negroes in office; the not unnatural resentment of a proud people at what had seemed to them a presumptuous freedom of speech and lack of deference on the part of their inferiors,--these things, which he knew were to be made the excuse for overturning the city government, he realized full well were no sort of justification for the wholesale murder or other horrors which might well ensue before the day was done. He could not approve the acts of his own people; neither could he, to a negro, condemn them. Hence he was silent. "Thank you, Mr. Ellis," exclaimed Miller, when they had reached the house where he expected to find his wife. "This is the place where I was going. I am--under a great obligation to you." "Not at all, Dr. Miller. I need not tell you how much I regret this deplorable affair." Ellis went back down the street. Fastening his horse to the fence, Miller sprang forward to find his wife and child. They would certainly be there, for no colored woman would be foolhardy enough to venture on the streets after the riot had broken out. As he drew nearer, he felt a sudden apprehension. The house seemed strangely silent and deserted. The doors were closed, and the Venetian blinds shut tightly. Even a dog which had appeared slunk timidly back under the house, instead of barking vociferously according to the usual habit of his kind. XXXIV THE VALLEY OF THE SHADOW Miller knocked at the door. There was no response. He went round to the rear of the house. The dog had slunk behind the woodpile. Miller knocked again, at the back door, and, receiving no reply, called aloud. "Mrs. Butler! It is I, Dr. Miller. Is my wife here?" The slats of a near-by blind opened cautiously. "Is it really you, Dr. Miller?" "Yes, Mrs. Butler. I am looking for my wife and child,--are they here?" "No, sir; she became alarmed about you, soon after the shooting commenced, and I could not keep her. She left for home half an hour ago. It is coming on dusk, and she and the child are so near white that she did not expect to be molested." "Which way did she go?" "She meant to go by the main street. She thought it would be less dangerous than the back streets. I tried to get her to stay here, but she was frantic about you, and nothing I could say would keep her. Is the riot almost over, Dr. Miller? Do you think they will murder us all, and burn down our houses?" "God knows," replied Miller, with a groan. "But I must find her, if I lose my own life in the attempt." Surely, he thought, Janet would be safe. The white people of Wellington were not savages; or at least their temporary reversion to savagery would not go as far as to include violence to delicate women and children. Then there flashed into his mind Josh Green's story of his "silly" mother, who for twenty years had walked the earth as a child, as the result of one night's terror, and his heart sank within him. Miller realized that his buggy, by attracting attention, had been a hindrance rather than a help in his progress across the city. In order to follow his wife, he must practically retrace his steps over the very route he had come. Night was falling. It would be easier to cross the town on foot. In the dusk his own color, slight in the daytime, would not attract attention, and by dodging in the shadows he might avoid those who might wish to intercept him. But he must reach Janet and the boy at any risk. He had not been willing to throw his life away hopelessly, but he would cheerfully have sacrificed it for those whom he loved. He had gone but a short distance, and had not yet reached the centre of mob activity, when he intercepted a band of negro laborers from the cotton compress, with big Josh Green at their head. "Hello, doctuh!" cried Josh, "does you wan' ter jine us?" "I'm looking for my wife and child, Josh. They're somewhere in this den of murderers. Have any of you seen them?" No one had seen them. "You men are running a great risk," said Miller. "You are rushing on to certain death." "Well, suh, maybe we is; but we're gwine ter die fightin'. Dey say de w'ite folks is gwine ter bu'n all de cullud schools an' chu'ches, an' kill all de niggers dey kin ketch. Dey're gwine ter bu'n yo' new hospittle, ef somebody don' stop 'em." "Josh--men--you are throwing your lives away. It is a fever; it will wear off to-morrow, or to-night. They'll not burn the schoolhouses, nor the hospital--they are not such fools, for they benefit the community; and they'll only kill the colored people who resist them. Every one of you with a gun or a pistol carries his death warrant in his own hand. I'd rather see the hospital burn than have one of you lose his life. Resistance only makes the matter worse,--the odds against you are too long." "Things can't be any wuss, doctuh," replied one of the crowd sturdily. "A gun is mo' dange'ous ter de man in front of it dan ter de man behin' it. Dey're gwine ter kill us anyhow; an' we're tired,--we read de newspapers,--an' we're tired er bein' shot down like dogs, widout jedge er jury. We'd ruther die fightin' dan be stuck like pigs in a pen!" "God help you!" said Miller. "As for me, I must find my wife and child." "Good-by, doctuh," cried Josh, brandishing a huge knife. "'Member 'bout de ole 'oman, ef you lives thoo dis. Don' fergit de headbo'd an' de footbo'd, an' a silver plate on de coffin, ef dere's money ernuff." They went their way, and Miller hurried on. They might resist attack; he thought it extremely unlikely that they would begin it; but he knew perfectly well that the mere knowledge that some of the negroes contemplated resistance would only further inflame the infuriated whites. The colored men might win a momentary victory, though it was extremely doubtful; and they would as surely reap the harvest later on. The qualities which in a white man would win the applause of the world would in a negro be taken as the marks of savagery. So thoroughly diseased was public opinion in matters of race that the negro who died for the common rights of humanity might look for no meed of admiration or glory. At such a time, in the white man's eyes, a negro's courage would be mere desperation; his love of liberty, a mere animal dislike of restraint. Every finer human instinct would be interpreted in terms of savagery. Or, if forced to admire, they would none the less repress. They would applaud his courage while they stretched his neck, or carried off the fragments of his mangled body as souvenirs, in much the same way that savages preserve the scalps or eat the hearts of their enemies. But concern for the fate of Josh and his friends occupied only a secondary place in Miller's mind for the moment. His wife and child were somewhere ahead of him. He pushed on. He had covered about a quarter of a mile more, and far down the street could see the signs of greater animation, when he came upon the body of a woman lying upon the sidewalk. In the dusk he had almost stumbled over it, and his heart came up in his mouth. A second glance revealed that it could not be his wife. It was a fearful portent, however, of what her fate might be. The "war" had reached the women and children. Yielding to a professional instinct, he stooped, and saw that the prostrate form was that of old Aunt Jane Letlow. She was not yet quite dead, and as Miller, with a tender touch, placed her head in a more comfortable position, her lips moved with a last lingering flicker of consciousness:-- "Comin', missis, comin'!" Mammy Jane had gone to join the old mistress upon whose memory her heart was fixed; and yet not all her reverence for her old mistress, nor all her deference to the whites, nor all their friendship for her, had been able to save her from this raging devil of race hatred which momentarily possessed the town. Perceiving that he could do no good, Miller hastened onward, sick at heart. Whenever he saw a party of white men approaching,--these brave reformers never went singly,--he sought concealment in the shadow of a tree or the shrubbery in some yard until they had passed. He had covered about two thirds of the distance homeward, when his eyes fell upon a group beneath a lamp-post, at sight of which he turned pale with horror, and rushed forward with a terrible cry. XXXV "MINE ENEMY, O MINE ENEMY!" The proceedings of the day--planned originally as a "demonstration," dignified subsequently as a "revolution," under any name the culmination of the conspiracy formed by Carteret and his colleagues--had by seven o'clock in the afternoon developed into a murderous riot. Crowds of white men and half-grown boys, drunk with whiskey or with license, raged through the streets, beating, chasing, or killing any negro so unfortunate as to fall into their hands. Why any particular negro was assailed, no one stopped to inquire; it was merely a white mob thirsting for black blood, with no more conscience or discrimination than would be exercised by a wolf in a sheepfold. It was race against race, the whites against the negroes; and it was a one-sided affair, for until Josh Green got together his body of armed men, no effective resistance had been made by any colored person, and the individuals who had been killed had so far left no marks upon the enemy by which they might be remembered. "Kill the niggers!" rang out now and then through the dusk, and far down the street and along the intersecting thoroughfares distant voices took up the ominous refrain,--"Kill the niggers! Kill the damned niggers!" Now, not a dark face had been seen on the street for half an hour, until the group of men headed by Josh made their appearance in the negro quarter. Armed with guns and axes, they presented quite a formidable appearance as they made their way toward the new hospital, near which stood a schoolhouse and a large church, both used by the colored people. They did not reach their destination without having met a number of white men, singly or in twos or threes; and the rumor spread with incredible swiftness that the negroes in turn were up in arms, determined to massacre all the whites and burn the town. Some of the whites became alarmed, and recognizing the power of the negroes, if armed and conscious of their strength, were impressed by the immediate necessity of overpowering and overawing them. Others, with appetites already whetted by slaughter, saw a chance, welcome rather than not, of shedding more black blood. Spontaneously the white mob flocked toward the hospital, where rumor had it that a large body of desperate negroes, breathing threats of blood and fire, had taken a determined stand. It had been Josh's plan merely to remain quietly and peaceably in the neighborhood of the little group of public institutions, molesting no one, unless first attacked, and merely letting the white people see that they meant to protect their own; but so rapidly did the rumor spread, and so promptly did the white people act, that by the time Josh and his supporters had reached the top of the rising ground where the hospital stood, a crowd of white men much more numerous than their own party were following them at a short distance. Josh, with the eye of a general, perceived that some of his party were becoming a little nervous, and decided that they would feel safer behind shelter. "I reckon we better go inside de hospittle, boys," he exclaimed. "Den we'll be behind brick walls, an' dem other fellows 'll be outside, an' ef dere's any fightin', we'll have de bes' show. We ain' gwine ter do no shootin' till we're pestered, an' dey'll be less likely ter pester us ef dey can't git at us widout runnin' some resk. Come along in! Be men! De gov'ner er de President is gwine ter sen' soldiers ter stop dese gwines-on, an' meantime we kin keep dem white devils f'm bu'nin' down our hospittles an' chu'ch-houses. Wen dey comes an' fin's out dat we jes' means ter pertect ou' prope'ty, dey'll go 'long 'bout deir own business. Er, ef dey wants a scrap, dey kin have it! Come erlong, boys!" Jerry Letlow, who had kept out of sight during the day, had started out, after night had set in, to find Major Carteret. Jerry was very much afraid. The events of the day had filled him with terror. Whatever the limitations of Jerry's mind or character may have been, Jerry had a keen appreciation of the danger to the negroes when they came in conflict with the whites, and he had no desire to imperil his own skin. He valued his life for his own sake, and not for any altruistic theory that it might be of service to others. In other words, Jerry was something of a coward. He had kept in hiding all day, but finding, toward evening, that the riot did not abate, and fearing, from the rumors which came to his ears, that all the negroes would be exterminated, he had set out, somewhat desperately, to try to find his white patron and protector. He had been cautious to avoid meeting any white men, and, anticipating no danger from those of his own race, went toward the party which he saw approaching, whose path would cross his own. When they were only a few yards apart, Josh took a step forward and caught Jerry by the arm. "Come along, Jerry, we need you! Here's another man, boys. Come on now, and fight fer yo' race!" In vain Jerry protested. "I don' wan' ter fight," he howled. "De w'ite folks ain' gwine ter pester me; dey're my frien's. Tu'n me loose,--tu'n me loose, er we all gwine ter git killed!" The party paid no attention to Jerry's protestations. Indeed, with the crowd of whites following behind, they were simply considering the question of a position from which they could most effectively defend themselves and the building which they imagined to be threatened. If Josh had released his grip of Jerry, that worthy could easily have escaped from the crowd; but Josh maintained his hold almost mechanically, and, in the confusion, Jerry found himself swept with the rest into the hospital, the doors of which were promptly barricaded with the heavier pieces of furniture, and the windows manned by several men each, Josh, with the instinct of a born commander, posting his forces so that they could cover with their guns all the approaches to the building. Jerry still continuing to make himself troublesome, Josh, in a moment of impatience, gave him a terrific box on the ear, which stretched him out upon the floor unconscious. "Shet up," he said; "ef you can't stan' up like a man, keep still, and don't interfere wid men w'at will fight!" The hospital, when Josh and his men took possession, had been found deserted. Fortunately there were no patients for that day, except one or two convalescents, and these, with the attendants, had joined the exodus of the colored people from the town. A white man advanced from the crowd without toward the main entrance to the hospital. Big Josh, looking out from a window, grasped his gun more firmly, as his eyes fell upon the man who had murdered his father and darkened his mother's life. Mechanically he raised his rifle, but lowered it as the white man lifted up his hand as a sign that he wished to speak. "You niggers," called Captain McBane loudly,--it was that worthy,--"you niggers are courtin' death, an' you won't have to court her but a minute er two mo' befo' she'll have you. If you surrender and give up your arms, you'll be dealt with leniently,--you may get off with the chain-gang or the penitentiary. If you resist, you'll be shot like dogs." "Dat's no news, Mr. White Man," replied Josh, appearing boldly at the window. "We're use' ter bein' treated like dogs by men like you. If you w'ite people will go 'long an' ten' ter yo' own business an' let us alone, we'll ten' ter ou'n. You've got guns, an' we've got jest as much right ter carry 'em as you have. Lay down yo'n, an' we'll lay down ou'n,--we didn' take 'em up fust; but we ain' gwine ter let you bu'n down ou' chu'ches an' school'ouses, er dis hospittle, an' we ain' comin' out er dis house, where we ain' disturbin' nobody, fer you ter shoot us down er sen' us ter jail. You hear me!" "All right," responded McBane. "You've had fair warning. Your blood be on your"--His speech was interrupted by a shot from the crowd, which splintered the window-casing close to Josh's head. This was followed by half a dozen other shots, which were replied to, almost simultaneously, by a volley from within, by which one of the attacking party was killed and another wounded. This roused the mob to frenzy. "Vengeance! vengeance!" they yelled. "Kill the niggers!" A negro had killed a white man,--the unpardonable sin, admitting neither excuse, justification, nor extenuation. From time immemorial it had been bred in the Southern white consciousness, and in the negro consciousness also, for that matter, that the person of a white man was sacred from the touch of a negro, no matter what the provocation. A dozen colored men lay dead in the streets of Wellington, inoffensive people, slain in cold blood because they had been bold enough to question the authority of those who had assailed them, or frightened enough to flee when they had been ordered to stand still; but their lives counted nothing against that of a riotous white man, who had courted death by attacking a body of armed men. The crowd, too, surrounding the hospital, had changed somewhat in character. The men who had acted as leaders in the early afternoon, having accomplished their purpose of overturning the local administration and establishing a provisional government of their own, had withdrawn from active participation in the rioting, deeming the negroes already sufficiently overawed to render unlikely any further trouble from that source. Several of the ringleaders had indeed begun to exert themselves to prevent further disorder, or any loss of property, the possibility of which had become apparent; but those who set in motion the forces of evil cannot always control them afterwards. The baser element of the white population, recruited from the wharves and the saloons, was now predominant. Captain McBane was the only one of the revolutionary committee who had remained with the mob, not with any purpose to restore or preserve order, but because he found the company and the occasion entirely congenial. He had had no opportunity, at least no tenable excuse, to kill or maim a negro since the termination of his contract with the state for convicts, and this occasion had awakened a dormant appetite for these diversions. We are all puppets in the hands of Fate, and seldom see the strings that move us. McBane had lived a life of violence and cruelty. As a man sows, so shall he reap. In works of fiction, such men are sometimes converted. More often, in real life, they do not change their natures until they are converted into dust. One does well to distrust a tamed tiger. On the outskirts of the crowd a few of the better class, or at least of the better clad, were looking on. The double volley described had already been fired, when the number of these was augmented by the arrival of Major Carteret and Mr. Ellis, who had just come from the Chronicle office, where the next day's paper had been in hasty preparation. They pushed their way towards the front of the crowd. "This must be stopped, Ellis," said Carteret. "They are burning houses and killing women and children. Old Jane, good old Mammy Jane, who nursed my wife at her bosom, and has waited on her and my child within a few weeks, was killed only a few rods from my house, to which she was evidently fleeing for protection. It must have been by accident,--I cannot believe that any white man in town would be dastard enough to commit such a deed intentionally! I would have defended her with my own life! We must try to stop this thing!" "Easier said than done," returned Ellis. "It is in the fever stage, and must burn itself out. We shall be lucky if it does not burn the town out. Suppose the negroes should also take a hand at the burning? We have advised the people to put the negroes down, and they are doing the job thoroughly." "My God!" replied the other, with a gesture of impatience, as he continued to elbow his way through the crowd; "I meant to keep them in their places,--I did not intend wholesale murder and arson." Carteret, having reached the front of the mob, made an effort to gain their attention. "Gentlemen!" he cried in his loudest tones. His voice, unfortunately, was neither loud nor piercing. "Kill the niggers!" clamored the mob. "Gentlemen, I implore you"-- The crash of a dozen windows, broken by stones and pistol shots, drowned his voice. "Gentlemen!" he shouted; "this is murder, it is madness; it is a disgrace to our city, to our state, to our civilization!" "That's right!" replied several voices. The mob had recognized the speaker. "It _is_ a disgrace, and we'll not put up with it a moment longer. Burn 'em out! Hurrah for Major Carteret, the champion of 'white supremacy'! Three cheers for the Morning Chronicle and 'no nigger domination'!" "Hurrah, hurrah, hurrah!" yelled the crowd. In vain the baffled orator gesticulated and shrieked in the effort to correct the misapprehension. Their oracle had spoken; not hearing what he said, they assumed it to mean encouragement and coöperation. Their present course was but the logical outcome of the crusade which the Morning Chronicle had preached, in season and out of season, for many months. When Carteret had spoken, and the crowd had cheered him, they felt that they had done all that courtesy required, and he was good-naturedly elbowed aside while they proceeded with the work in hand, which was now to drive out the negroes from the hospital and avenge the killing of their comrade. Some brought hay, some kerosene, and others wood from a pile which had been thrown into a vacant lot near by. Several safe ways of approach to the building were discovered, and the combustibles placed and fired. The flames, soon gaining a foothold, leaped upward, catching here and there at the exposed woodwork, and licking the walls hungrily with long tongues of flame. Meanwhile a desultory firing was kept up from the outside, which was replied to scatteringly from within the hospital. Those inside were either not good marksmen, or excitement had spoiled their aim. If a face appeared at a window, a dozen pistol shots from the crowd sought the spot immediately. Higher and higher leaped the flames. Suddenly from one of the windows sprang a black figure, waving a white handkerchief. It was Jerry Letlow. Regaining consciousness after the effect of Josh's blow had subsided, Jerry had kept quiet and watched his opportunity. From a safe vantage-ground he had scanned the crowd without, in search of some white friend. When he saw Major Carteret moving disconsolately away after his futile effort to stem the torrent, Jerry made a dash for the window. He sprang forth, and, waving his handkerchief as a flag of truce, ran toward Major Carteret, shouting frantically:-- "Majah Carteret--_O_ majah! It's me, suh, Jerry, suh! I didn' go in dere myse'f, suh--I wuz drag' in dere! I wouldn' do nothin' 'g'inst de w'ite folks, suh,--no, 'ndeed, I wouldn', suh!" Jerry's cries were drowned in a roar of rage and a volley of shots from the mob. Carteret, who had turned away with Ellis, did not even hear his servant's voice. Jerry's poor flag of truce, his explanations, his reliance upon his white friends, all failed him in the moment of supreme need. In that hour, as in any hour when the depths of race hatred are stirred, a negro was no more than a brute beast, set upon by other brute beasts whose only instinct was to kill and destroy. "Let us leave this inferno, Ellis," said Carteret, sick with anger and disgust. He had just become aware that a negro was being killed, though he did not know whom. "We can do nothing. The negroes have themselves to blame,--they tempted us beyond endurance. I counseled firmness, and firm measures were taken, and our purpose was accomplished. I am not responsible for these subsequent horrors,--I wash my hands of them. Let us go!" The flames gained headway and gradually enveloped the burning building, until it became evident to those within as well as those without that the position of the defenders was no longer tenable. Would they die in the flames, or would they be driven out? The uncertainty soon came to an end. The besieged had been willing to fight, so long as there seemed a hope of successfully defending themselves and their property; for their purpose was purely one of defense. When they saw the case was hopeless, inspired by Josh Green's reckless courage, they were still willing to sell their lives dearly. One or two of them had already been killed, and as many more disabled. The fate of Jerry Letlow had struck terror to the hearts of several others, who could scarcely hide their fear. After the building had been fired, Josh's exhortations were no longer able to keep them in the hospital. They preferred to fight and be killed in the open, rather than to be smothered like rats in a hole. "Boys!" exclaimed Josh,--"men!--fer nobody but men would do w'at you have done,--the day has gone 'g'inst us. We kin see ou' finish; but fer my part, I ain' gwine ter leave dis worl' widout takin' a w'ite man 'long wid me, an' I sees my man right out yonder waitin',--I be'n waitin' fer him twenty years, but he won' have ter wait fer me mo' 'n 'bout twenty seconds. Eve'y one er you pick yo' man! We'll open de do', an' we'll give some w'ite men a chance ter be sorry dey ever started dis fuss!" The door was thrown open suddenly, and through it rushed a dozen or more black figures, armed with knives, pistols, or clubbed muskets. Taken by sudden surprise, the white people stood motionless for a moment, but the approaching negroes had scarcely covered half the distance to which the heat of the flames had driven back the mob, before they were greeted with a volley that laid them all low but two. One of these, dazed by the fate of his companions, turned instinctively to flee, but had scarcely faced around before he fell, pierced in the back by a dozen bullets. Josh Green, the tallest and biggest of them all, had not apparently been touched. Some of the crowd paused in involuntary admiration of this black giant, famed on the wharves for his strength, sweeping down upon them, a smile upon his face, his eyes lit up with a rapt expression which seemed to take him out of mortal ken. This impression was heightened by his apparent immunity from the shower of lead which less susceptible persons had continued to pour at him. Armed with a huge bowie-knife, a relic of the civil war, which he had carried on his person for many years for a definite purpose, and which he had kept sharpened to a razor edge, he reached the line of the crowd. All but the bravest shrank back. Like a wedge he dashed through the mob, which parted instinctively before him, and all oblivious of the rain of lead which fell around him, reached the point where Captain McBane, the bravest man in the party, stood waiting to meet him. A pistol-flame flashed in his face, but he went on, and raising his powerful right arm, buried his knife to the hilt in the heart of his enemy. When the crowd dashed forward to wreak vengeance on his dead body, they found him with a smile still upon his face. One of the two died as the fool dieth. Which was it, or was it both? "Vengeance is mine," saith the Lord, and it had not been left to Him. But they that do violence must expect to suffer violence. McBane's death was merciful, compared with the nameless horrors he had heaped upon the hundreds of helpless mortals who had fallen into his hands during his career as a contractor of convict labor. Sobered by this culminating tragedy, the mob shortly afterwards dispersed. The flames soon completed their work, and this handsome structure, the fruit of old Adam Miller's industry, the monument of his son's philanthropy, a promise of good things for the future of the city, lay smouldering in ruins, a melancholy witness to the fact that our boasted civilization is but a thin veneer, which cracks and scales off at the first impact of primal passions. XXXVI FIAT JUSTITIA By the light of the burning building, which illuminated the street for several blocks, Major Carteret and Ellis made their way rapidly until they turned into the street where the major lived. Reaching the house, Carteret tried the door and found it locked. A vigorous ring at the bell brought no immediate response. Carteret had begun to pound impatiently upon the door, when it was cautiously opened by Miss Pemberton, who was pale, and trembled with excitement. "Where is Olivia?" asked the major. "She is upstairs, with Dodie and Mrs. Albright's hospital nurse. Dodie has the croup. Virgie ran away after the riot broke out. Sister Olivia had sent for Mammy Jane, but she did not come. Mrs. Albright let her white nurse come over." "I'll go up at once," said the major anxiously. "Wait for me, Ellis,--I'll be down in a few minutes." "Oh, Mr. Ellis," exclaimed Clara, coming toward him with both hands extended, "can nothing be done to stop this terrible affair?" "I wish I could do something," he murmured fervently, taking both her trembling hands in his own broad palms, where they rested with a surrendering trustfulness which he has never since had occasion to doubt. "It has gone too far, already, and the end, I fear, is not yet; but it cannot grow much worse." The editor hurried upstairs. Mrs. Carteret, wearing a worried and haggard look, met him at the threshold of the nursery. "Dodie is ill," she said. "At three o'clock, when the trouble began, I was over at Mrs. Albright's,--I had left Virgie with the baby. When I came back, she and all the other servants had gone. They had heard that the white people were going to kill all the negroes, and fled to seek safety. I found Dodie lying in a draught, before an open window, gasping for breath. I ran back to Mrs. Albright's,--I had found her much better to-day,--and she let her nurse come over. The nurse says that Dodie is threatened with membranous croup." "Have you sent for Dr. Price?" "There was no one to send,--the servants were gone, and the nurse was afraid to venture out into the street. I telephoned for Dr. Price, and found that he was out of town; that he had gone up the river this morning to attend a patient, and would not be back until to-morrow. Mrs. Price thought that he had anticipated some kind of trouble in the town to-day, and had preferred to be where he could not be called upon to assume any responsibility." "I suppose you tried Dr. Ashe?" "I could not get him, nor any one else, after that first call. The telephone service is disorganized on account of the riot. We need medicine and ice. The drugstores are all closed on account of the riot, and for the same reason we couldn't get any ice." Major Carteret stood beside the brass bedstead upon which his child was lying,--his only child, around whose curly head clustered all his hopes; upon whom all his life for the past year had been centred. He stooped over the bed, beside which the nurse had stationed herself. She was wiping the child's face, which was red and swollen and covered with moisture, the nostrils working rapidly, and the little patient vainly endeavoring at intervals to cough up the obstruction to his breathing. "Is it serious?" he inquired anxiously. He had always thought of the croup as a childish ailment, that yielded readily to proper treatment; but the child's evident distress impressed him with sudden fear. "Dangerous," replied the young woman laconically. "You came none too soon. If a doctor isn't got at once, the child will die,--and it must be a good doctor." "Whom can I call?" he asked. "You know them all, I suppose. Dr. Price, our family physician, is out of town." "Dr. Ashe has charge of his cases when he is away," replied the nurse. "If you can't find him, try Dr. Hooper. The child is growing worse every minute. On your way back you'd better get some ice, if possible." The major hastened downstairs. "Don't wait for me, Ellis," he said. "I shall be needed here for a while. I'll get to the office as soon as possible. Make up the paper, and leave another stick out for me to the last minute, but fill it up in case I'm not on hand by twelve. We must get the paper out early in the morning." Nothing but a matter of the most vital importance would have kept Major Carteret away from his office this night. Upon the presentation to the outer world of the story of this riot would depend the attitude of the great civilized public toward the events of the last ten hours. The Chronicle was the source from which the first word would be expected; it would give the people of Wellington their cue as to the position which they must take in regard to this distressful affair, which had so far transcended in ferocity the most extreme measures which the conspirators had anticipated. The burden of his own responsibility weighed heavily upon him, and could not be shaken off; but he must do first the duty nearest to him,--he must first attend to his child. Carteret hastened from the house, and traversed rapidly the short distance to Dr. Ashe's office. Far down the street he could see the glow of the burning hospital, and he had scarcely left his own house when the fusillade of shots, fired when the colored men emerged from the burning building, was audible. Carteret would have hastened back to the scene of the riot, to see what was now going on, and to make another effort to stem the tide of bloodshed; but before the dread of losing his child, all other interests fell into the background. Not all the negroes in Wellington could weigh in the balance for one instant against the life of the feeble child now gasping for breath in the house behind him. Reaching the house, a vigorous ring brought the doctor's wife to the door. "Good evening, Mrs. Ashe. Is the doctor at home?" "No, Major Carteret. He was called to attend Mrs. Wells, who was taken suddenly ill, as a result of the trouble this afternoon. He will be there all night, no doubt." "My child is very ill, and I must find some one." "Try Dr. Yates. His house is only four doors away." A ring at Dr. Yates's door brought out a young man. "Is Dr. Yates in?" "Yes, sir." "Can I see him?" "You might see him, sir, but that would be all. His horse was frightened by the shooting on the streets, and ran away and threw the doctor, and broke his right arm. I have just set it; he will not be able to attend any patients for several weeks. He is old and nervous, and the shock was great." "Are you not a physician?" asked Carteret, looking at the young man keenly. He was a serious, gentlemanly looking young fellow, whose word might probably be trusted. "Yes, I am Dr. Evans, Dr. Yates's assistant. I'm really little more than a student, but I'll do what I can." "My only child is sick with the croup, and requires immediate attention." "I ought to be able to handle a case of the croup," answered Dr. Evans, "at least in the first stages. I'll go with you, and stay by the child, and if the case is beyond me, I may keep it in check until another physician comes." He stepped back into another room, and returning immediately with his hat, accompanied Carteret homeward. The riot had subsided; even the glow from the smouldering hospital was no longer visible. It seemed that the city, appalled at the tragedy, had suddenly awakened to a sense of its own crime. Here and there a dark face, emerging cautiously from some hiding-place, peered from behind fence or tree, but shrank hastily away at the sight of a white face. The negroes of Wellington, with the exception of Josh Green and his party, had not behaved bravely on this critical day in their history; but those who had fought were dead, to the last man; those who had sought safety in flight or concealment were alive to tell the tale. "We pass right by Dr. Thompson's," said Dr. Evans. "If you haven't spoken to him, it might be well to call him for consultation, in case the child should be very bad." "Go on ahead," said Carteret, "and I'll get him." Evans hastened on, while Carteret sounded the old-fashioned knocker upon the doctor's door. A gray-haired negro servant, clad in a dress suit and wearing a white tie, came to the door. "De doctuh, suh," he replied politely to Carteret's question, "has gone ter ampitate de ahm er a gent'eman who got one er his bones smashed wid a pistol bullet in de--fightin' dis atternoon, suh. He's jes' gone, suh, an' lef' wo'd dat he'd be gone a' hour er mo', suh." Carteret hastened homeward. He could think of no other available physician. Perhaps no other would be needed, but if so, he could find out from Evans whom it was best to call. When he reached the child's room, the young doctor was bending anxiously over the little frame. The little lips had become livid, the little nails, lying against the white sheet, were blue. The child's efforts to breathe were most distressing, and each gasp cut the father like a knife. Mrs. Carteret was weeping hysterically. "How is he, doctor?" asked the major. "He is very low," replied the young man. "Nothing short of tracheotomy--an operation to open the windpipe--will relieve him. Without it, in half or three quarters of an hour he will be unable to breathe. It is a delicate operation, a mistake in which would be as fatal as the disease. I have neither the knowledge nor the experience to attempt it, and your child's life is too valuable for a student to practice upon. Neither have I the instruments here." "What shall we do?" demanded Carteret. "We have called all the best doctors, and none are available." The young doctor's brow was wrinkled with thought. He knew a doctor who could perform the operation. He had heard, also, of a certain event at Carteret's house some months before, when an unwelcome physician had been excluded from a consultation,--but it was the last chance. "There is but one other doctor in town who has performed the operation, so far as I know," he declared, "and that is Dr. Miller. If you can get him, he can save your child's life." Carteret hesitated involuntarily. All the incidents, all the arguments, of the occasion when he had refused to admit the colored doctor to his house, came up vividly before his memory. He had acted in accordance with his lifelong beliefs, and had carried his point; but the present situation was different,--this was a case of imperative necessity, and every other interest or consideration must give way before the imminence of his child's peril. That the doctor would refuse the call, he did not imagine: it would be too great an honor for a negro to decline,--unless some bitterness might have grown out of the proceedings of the afternoon. That this doctor was a man of some education he knew; and he had been told that he was a man of fine feeling,--for a negro,--and might easily have taken to heart the day's events. Nevertheless, he could hardly refuse a professional call,--professional ethics would require him to respond. Carteret had no reason to suppose that Miller had ever learned of what had occurred at the house during Dr. Burns's visit to Wellington. The major himself had never mentioned the controversy, and no doubt the other gentlemen had been equally silent. "I'll go for him myself," said Dr. Evans, noting Carteret's hesitation and suspecting its cause. "I can do nothing here alone, for a little while, and I may be able to bring the doctor back with me. He likes a difficult operation." * * * * * It seemed an age ere the young doctor returned, though it was really only a few minutes. The nurse did what she could to relieve the child's sufferings, which grew visibly more and more acute. The mother, upon the other side of the bed, held one of the baby's hands in her own, and controlled her feelings as best she might. Carteret paced the floor anxiously, going every few seconds to the head of the stairs to listen for Evans's footsteps on the piazza without. At last the welcome sound was audible, and a few strides took him to the door. "Dr. Miller is at home, sir," reported Evans, as he came in. "He says that he was called to your house once before, by a third person who claimed authority to act, and that he was refused admittance. He declares that he will not consider such a call unless it come from you personally." "That is true, quite true," replied Carteret. "His position is a just one. I will go at once. Will--will--my child live until I can get Miller here?" "He can live for half an hour without an operation. Beyond that I could give you little hope." Seizing his hat, Carteret dashed out of the yard and ran rapidly to Miller's house; ordinarily a walk of six or seven minutes, Carteret covered it in three, and was almost out of breath when he rang the bell of Miller's front door. The ring was answered by the doctor in person. "Dr. Miller, I believe?" asked Carteret. "Yes, sir." "I am Major Carteret. My child is seriously ill, and you are the only available doctor who can perform the necessary operation." "Ah! You have tried all the others,--and then you come to me!" "Yes, I do not deny it," admitted the major, biting his lip. He had not counted on professional jealousy as an obstacle to be met. "But I _have_ come to you, as a physician, to engage your professional services for my child,--my only child. I have confidence in your skill, or I should not have come to you. I request--nay, I implore you to lose no more time, but come with me at once! My child's life is hanging by a thread, and you can save it!" "Ah!" replied the other, "as a father whose only child's life is in danger, you implore me, of all men in the world, to come and save it!" There was a strained intensity in the doctor's low voice that struck Carteret, in spite of his own pre-occupation. He thought he heard, too, from the adjoining room, the sound of some one sobbing softly. There was some mystery here which he could not fathom unaided. Miller turned to the door behind him and threw it open. On the white cover of a low cot lay a childish form in the rigidity of death, and by it knelt, with her back to the door, a woman whose shoulders were shaken by the violence of her sobs. Absorbed in her grief, she did not turn, or give any sign that she had recognized the intrusion. "There, Major Carteret!" exclaimed Miller, with the tragic eloquence of despair, "there lies a specimen of your handiwork! There lies _my_ only child, laid low by a stray bullet in this riot which you and your paper have fomented; struck down as much by your hand as though you had held the weapon with which his life was taken!" "My God!" exclaimed Carteret, struck with horror. "Is the child dead?" "There he lies," continued the other, "an innocent child,--there he lies dead, his little life snuffed out like a candle, because you and a handful of your friends thought you must override the laws and run this town at any cost!--and there kneels his mother, overcome by grief. We are alone in the house. It is not safe to leave her unattended. My duty calls me here, by the side of my dead child and my suffering wife! I cannot go with you. There is a just God in heaven!--as you have sown, so may you reap!" Carteret possessed a narrow, but a logical mind, and except when confused or blinded by his prejudices, had always tried to be a just man. In the agony of his own predicament,--in the horror of the situation at Miller's house,--for a moment the veil of race prejudice was rent in twain, and he saw things as they were, in their correct proportions and relations,--saw clearly and convincingly that he had no standing here, in the presence of death, in the home of this stricken family. Miller's refusal to go with him was pure, elemental justice; he could not blame the doctor for his stand. He was indeed conscious of a certain involuntary admiration for a man who held in his hands the power of life and death, and could use it, with strict justice, to avenge his own wrongs. In Dr. Miller's place he would have done the same thing. Miller had spoken the truth,--as he had sown, so must he reap! He could not expect, could not ask, this father to leave his own household at such a moment. Pressing his lips together with grim courage, and bowing mechanically, as though to Fate rather than the physician, Carteret turned and left the house. At a rapid pace he soon reached home. There was yet a chance for his child: perhaps some one of the other doctors had come; perhaps, after all, the disease had taken a favorable turn,--Evans was but a young doctor, and might have been mistaken. Surely, with doctors all around him, his child would not be permitted to die for lack of medical attention! He found the mother, the doctor, and the nurse still grouped, as he had left them, around the suffering child. "How is he now?" he asked, in a voice that sounded like a groan. "No better," replied the doctor; "steadily growing worse. He can go on probably for twenty minutes longer without an operation." "Where is the doctor?" demanded Mrs. Carteret, looking eagerly toward the door. "You should have brought him right upstairs. There's not a minute to spare! Phil, Phil, our child will die!" Carteret's heart swelled almost to bursting with an intense pity. Even his own great sorrow became of secondary importance beside the grief which his wife must soon feel at the inevitable loss of her only child. And it was his fault! Would that he could risk his own life to spare her and to save the child! Briefly, and as gently as might be, he stated the result of his errand. The doctor had refused to come, for a good reason. He could not ask him again. Young Evans felt the logic of the situation, which Carteret had explained sufficiently. To the nurse it was even clearer. If she or any other woman had been in the doctor's place, she would have given the same answer. Mrs. Carteret did not stop to reason. In such a crisis a mother's heart usurps the place of intellect. For her, at that moment, there were but two facts in all the world. Her child lay dying. There was within the town, and within reach, a man who could save him. With an agonized cry she rushed wildly from the room. Carteret sought to follow her, but she flew down the long stairs like a wild thing. The least misstep might have precipitated her to the bottom; but ere Carteret, with a remonstrance on his lips, had scarcely reached the uppermost step, she had thrown open the front door and fled precipitately out into the night. XXXVII THE SISTERS Miller's doorbell rang loudly, insistently, as though demanding a response. Absorbed in his own grief, into which he had relapsed upon Carteret's departure, the sound was an unwelcome intrusion. Surely the man could not be coming back! If it were some one else--What else might happen to the doomed town concerned him not. His child was dead,--his distracted wife could not be left alone. The doorbell rang--clamorously--appealingly. Through the long hall and the closed door of the room where he sat, he could hear some one knocking, and a faint voice calling. "Open, for God's sake, open!" It was a woman's voice,--the voice of a woman in distress. Slowly Miller rose and went to the door, which he opened mechanically. A lady stood there, so near the image of his own wife, whom he had just left, that for a moment he was well-nigh startled. A little older, perhaps, a little fairer of complexion, but with the same form, the same features, marked by the same wild grief. She wore a loose wrapper, which clothed her like the drapery of a statue. Her long dark hair, the counterpart of his wife's, had fallen down, and hung disheveled about her shoulders. There was blood upon her knuckles, where she had beaten with them upon the door. "Dr. Miller," she panted, breathless from her flight and laying her hand upon his arm appealingly,--when he shrank from the contact she still held it there,--"Dr. Miller, you will come and save my child? You know what it is to lose a child! I am so sorry about your little boy! You will come to mine!" "Your sorrow comes too late, madam," he said harshly. "My child is dead. I charged your husband with his murder, and he could not deny it. Why should I save your husband's child?" "Ah, Dr. Miller!" she cried, with his wife's voice,--she never knew how much, in that dark hour, she owed to that resemblance--"it is _my_ child, and I have never injured you. It is my child, Dr. Miller, my only child. I brought it into the world at the risk of my own life! I have nursed it, I have watched over it, I have prayed for it,--and it now lies dying! Oh, Dr. Miller, dear Dr. Miller, if you have a heart, come and save my child!" "Madam," he answered more gently, moved in spite of himself, "my heart is broken. My people lie dead upon the streets, at the hands of yours. The work of my life is in ashes,--and, yonder, stretched out in death, lies my own child! God! woman, you ask too much of human nature! Love, duty, sorrow, _justice_, call me here. I cannot go!" She rose to her full height. "Then you are a murderer," she cried wildly. "His blood be on your head, and a mother's curse beside!" The next moment, with a sudden revulsion of feeling, she had thrown herself at his feet,--at the feet of a negro, this proud white woman,--and was clasping his knees wildly. "O God!" she prayed, in tones which quivered with anguish, "pardon my husband's sins, and my own, and move this man's hard heart, by the blood of thy Son, who died to save us all!" It was the last appeal of poor humanity. When the pride of intellect and caste is broken; when we grovel in the dust of humiliation; when sickness and sorrow come, and the shadow of death falls upon us, and there is no hope elsewhere,--we turn to God, who sometimes swallows the insult, and answers the appeal. Miller raised the lady to her feet. He had been deeply moved,--but he had been more deeply injured. This was his wife's sister,--ah, yes! but a sister who had scorned and slighted and ignored the existence of his wife for all her life. Only Miller, of all the world, could have guessed what this had meant to Janet, and he had merely divined it through the clairvoyant sympathy of love. This woman could have no claim upon him because of this unacknowledged relationship. Yet, after all, she was his wife's sister, his child's kinswoman. She was a fellow creature, too, and in distress. "Rise, madam," he said, with a sudden inspiration, lifting her gently. "I will listen to you on one condition. My child lies dead in the adjoining room, his mother by his side. Go in there, and make your request of her. I will abide by her decision." The two women stood confronting each other across the body of the dead child, mute witness of this first meeting between two children of the same father. Standing thus face to face, each under the stress of the deepest emotions, the resemblance between them was even more striking than it had seemed to Miller when he had admitted Mrs. Carteret to the house. But Death, the great leveler, striking upon the one hand and threatening upon the other, had wrought a marvelous transformation in the bearing of the two women. The sad-eyed Janet towered erect, with menacing aspect, like an avenging goddess. The other, whose pride had been her life, stood in the attitude of a trembling suppliant. "_You_ have come here," cried Janet, pointing with a tragic gesture to the dead child,--"_you_, to gloat over your husband's work. All my life you have hated and scorned and despised me. Your presence here insults me and my dead. What are you doing here?" "Mrs. Miller," returned Mrs. Carteret tremulously, dazed for a moment by this outburst, and clasping her hands with an imploring gesture, "my child, my only child, is dying, and your husband alone can save his life. Ah, let me have my child," she moaned, heart-rendingly. "It is my only one--my sweet child--my ewe lamb!" "This was _my_ only child!" replied the other mother; "and yours is no better to die than mine!" "You are young," said Mrs. Carteret, "and may yet have many children,--this is my only hope! If you have a human heart, tell your husband to come with me. He leaves it to you; he will do as you command." "Ah," cried Janet, "I have a human heart, and therefore I will not let him go. _My_ child is dead--O God, my child, my child!" She threw herself down by the bedside, sobbing hysterically. The other woman knelt beside her, and put her arm about her neck. For a moment Janet, absorbed in her grief, did not repulse her. "Listen," pleaded Mrs. Carteret. "You will not let my baby die? You are my sister;--the child is your own near kin!" "My child was nearer," returned Janet, rising again to her feet and shaking off the other woman's arm. "He was my son, and I have seen him die. I have been your sister for twenty-five years, and you have only now, for the first time, called me so!" "Listen--sister," returned Mrs. Carteret. Was there no way to move this woman? Her child lay dying, if he were not dead already. She would tell everything, and leave the rest to God. If it would save her child, she would shrink at no sacrifice. Whether the truth would still further incense Janet, or move her to mercy, she could not tell; she would leave the issue to God. "Listen, sister!" she said. "I have a confession to make. You are my lawful sister. My father was married to your mother. You are entitled to his name, and to half his estate." Janet's eyes flashed with bitter scorn. "And you have robbed me all these years, and now tell me that as a reason why I should forgive the murder of my child?" "No, no!" cried the other wildly, fearing the worst. "I have known of it only a few weeks,--since my Aunt Polly's death. I had not meant to rob you,--I had meant to make restitution. Sister! for our father's sake, who did you no wrong, give me my child's life!" Janet's eyes slowly filled with tears--bitter tears--burning tears. For a moment even her grief at her child's loss dropped to second place in her thoughts. This, then, was the recognition for which, all her life, she had longed in secret. It had come, after many days, and in larger measure than she had dreamed; but it had come, not with frank kindliness and sisterly love, but in a storm of blood and tears; not freely given, from an open heart, but extorted from a reluctant conscience by the agony of a mother's fears. Janet had obtained her heart's desire, and now that it was at her lips, found it but apples of Sodom, filled with dust and ashes! "Listen!" she cried, dashing her tears aside. "I have but one word for you,--one last word,--and then I hope never to see your face again! My mother died of want, and I was brought up by the hand of charity. Now, when I have married a man who can supply my needs, you offer me back the money which you and your friends have robbed me of! You imagined that the shame of being a negro swallowed up every other ignominy,--and in your eyes I am a negro, though I am your sister, and you are white, and people have taken me for you on the streets,--and you, therefore, left me nameless all my life! Now, when an honest man has given me a name of which I can be proud, you offer me the one of which you robbed me, and of which I can make no use. For twenty-five years I, poor, despicable fool, would have kissed your feet for a word, a nod, a smile. Now, when this tardy recognition comes, for which I have waited so long, it is tainted with fraud and crime and blood, and I must pay for it with my child's life!" "And I must forfeit that of mine, it seems, for withholding it so long," sobbed the other, as, tottering, she turned to go. "It is but just." "Stay--do not go yet!" commanded Janet imperiously, her pride still keeping back her tears. "I have not done. I throw you back your father's name, your father's wealth, your sisterly recognition. I want none of them,--they are bought too dear! ah, God, they are bought too dear! But that you may know that a woman may be foully wronged, and yet may have a heart to feel, even for one who has injured her, you may have your child's life, if my husband can save it! Will," she said, throwing open the door into the next room, "go with her!" "God will bless you for a noble woman!" exclaimed Mrs. Carteret. "You do not mean all the cruel things you have said,--ah, no! I will see you again, and make you take them back; I cannot thank you now! Oh, doctor, let us go! I pray God we may not be too late!" Together they went out into the night. Mrs. Carteret tottered under the stress of her emotions, and would have fallen, had not Miller caught and sustained her with his arm until they reached the house, where he turned over her fainting form to Carteret at the door. "Is the child still alive?" asked Miller. "Yes, thank God," answered the father, "but nearly gone." "Come on up, Dr. Miller," called Evans from the head of the stairs. "There's time enough, but none to spare." 
39346	----	[Illustration: MAP SHOWING ROUTE OF RAIL ROAD THROUGH BALTIMORE FROM PRESIDENT ST. STATION TO CAMDEN ST. STATION.] BALTIMORE AND THE NINETEENTH OF APRIL, 1861 A Study of the War By GEORGE WILLIAM BROWN _Chief Judge of the Supreme Bench of Baltimore, and Mayor of the City in 1861_ BALTIMORE N. MURRAY, PUBLICATION AGENT, JOHNS HOPKINS UNIVERSITY 1887 COPYRIGHT, 1887, BY N. MURRAY. ISAAC FRIEDENWALD, PRINTER, BALTIMORE. CONTENTS. Page CHAPTER I. 1. INTRODUCTION, 9 2. THE FIRST BLOOD SHED IN THE WAR, 10 3. THE SUPPOSED PLOT TO ASSASSINATE THE INCOMING PRESIDENT, 11 4. THE MIDNIGHT RIDE TO WASHINGTON, 17 CHAPTER II. 1. THE COMPROMISES OF THE CONSTITUTION IN REGARD TO SLAVERY, 20 2. A DIVIDED HOUSE, 23 3. THE BROKEN COMPACT, 25 4. THE RIGHT OF REVOLUTION, 27 CHAPTER III. 1. MARYLAND'S DESIRE FOR PEACE, 30 2. EVENTS WHICH FOLLOWED THE ELECTION OF PRESIDENT LINCOLN, 31 3. HIS PROCLAMATION CALLING FOR TROOPS, 32 4. THE CITY AUTHORITIES AND POLICE OF BALTIMORE, 34 5. INCREASING EXCITEMENT IN BALTIMORE, 39 CHAPTER IV. 1. THE SIXTH MASSACHUSETTS REGIMENT IN BALTIMORE, 42 2. THE FIGHT, 47 3. THE DEPARTURE FOR WASHINGTON, 52 4. CORRESPONDENCE IN REGARD TO THE KILLED AND WOUNDED, 54 5. PUBLIC MEETING, 56 6. TELEGRAM TO THE PRESIDENT, 57 7. NO REPLY, 58 8. BURNING OF BRIDGES, 59 CHAPTER V. 1. APRIL 20th--INCREASING EXCITEMENT, 60 2. APPROPRIATION OF $500,000 FOR DEFENSE OF THE CITY, 60 3. CORRESPONDENCE WITH PRESIDENT AND GOVERNOR, 61 4. MEN ENROLLED, 63 5. APPREHENDED ATTACK ON FORT McHENRY, 66 6. MARSHAL KANE, 69 7. INTERVIEW WITH PRESIDENT, CABINET, AND GENERAL SCOTT, 71 8. GENERAL BUTLER, WITH THE EIGHTH MASSACHUSETTS, PROCEEDS TO ANNAPOLIS AND WASHINGTON, 76 9. BALTIMORE IN A STATE OF ARMED NEUTRALITY, 77 CHAPTER VI. 1. SESSION OF THE GENERAL ASSEMBLY, 79 2. REPORT OF THE BOARD OF POLICE, 80 3. SUPPRESSION OF THE FLAGS, 82 4. ON THE 5th OF MAY GENERAL BUTLER TAKES POSITION SIX MILES FROM BALTIMORE, 83 5. ON THE 13th OF MAY HE ENTERS BALTIMORE AND FORTIFIES FEDERAL HILL, 84 6. THE GENERAL ASSEMBLY WILL TAKE NO STEPS TOWARD SECESSION, 85 7. MANY YOUNG MEN JOIN THE ARMY OF THE CONFEDERACY, 85 CHAPTER VII. 1. CHIEF JUSTICE TANEY AND THE WRIT OF HABEAS CORPUS, 87 2. A UNION CONVENTION, 92 3. CONSEQUENCE OF THE SUSPENSION OF THE WRIT, 93 4. INCIDENTS OF THE WAR, 95 5. THE WOMEN IN THE WAR, 95 CHAPTER VIII. 1. GENERAL BANKS IN COMMAND, 97 2. MARSHAL KANE ARRESTED, 97 3. POLICE COMMISSIONERS SUPERSEDED, 97 4. RESOLUTIONS PASSED BY THE GENERAL ASSEMBLY, 98 5. POLICE COMMISSIONERS ARRESTED, 98 6. RESOLUTIONS PASSED BY THE GENERAL ASSEMBLY, 100 7. GENERAL DIX IN COMMAND, 100 8. ARREST OF THE MEMBERS OF THE GENERAL ASSEMBLY, THE MAYOR, AND OTHERS, 102 9. RELEASE OF PRISONERS, 108 10. COLONEL DIMICK, 111 CHAPTER IX.--A PERSONAL CHAPTER. 113 APPENDIX I. ACCOUNT OF THE ALLEGED CONSPIRACY TO ASSASSINATE ABRAHAM LINCOLN ON HIS JOURNEY TO BALTIMORE, FROM THE "LIFE OF ABRAHAM LINCOLN," BY WARD H. LAMON, pp. 511-526, 120 APPENDIX II. EXTRACT FROM THE OPINION OF THE SUPREME COURT OF THE UNITED STATES, DELIVERED BY CHIEF JUSTICE TANEY, IN THE CASE OF DRED SCOTT VS. SANFORD (19 HOW. 407), 138 APPENDIX III. THE HABEAS CORPUS CASE.--OPINION OF THE CHIEF JUSTICE OF THE UNITED STATES (_Ex Parte_ JOHN MERRYMAN), 139 APPENDIX IV. MESSAGE OF THE 12th OF JULY, 1861, TO THE FIRST AND SECOND BRANCHES OF THE CITY COUNCIL, REFERRING TO THE EVENTS OF THE 19th OF APRIL AND THOSE WHICH FOLLOWED.--THE FIRST PARAGRAPH AND THE CONCLUDING PARAGRAPHS OF THIS DOCUMENT, 157 APPENDIX V. AS A PART OF THE HISTORY OF THE TIMES, REPRODUCTION FROM THE BALTIMORE "AMERICAN" OF DECEMBER 5, 1860, OF THE RECEPTION OF THE PUTNAM PHALANX, OF HARTFORD, CONNECTICUT, IN THE CITY OF BALTIMORE, 160 APPENDIX VI. VISIT OF A PORTION OF THE MEMBERS OF THE SIXTH MASSACHUSETTS REGIMENT TO BALTIMORE ON THE 19th OF APRIL, 1880, AND AN ACCOUNT OF ITS RECEPTION, FROM THE BALTIMORE "SUN" AND THE BALTIMORE "AMERICAN," 167 INDEX, 171 BALTIMORE AND THE NINETEENTH OF APRIL, 1861. _A STUDY OF THE WAR._ CHAPTER I. INTRODUCTION. -- THE FIRST BLOOD SHED IN THE WAR. -- THE SUPPOSED PLOT TO ASSASSINATE THE INCOMING PRESIDENT. -- THE MIDNIGHT RIDE TO WASHINGTON. I have often been solicited by persons of widely opposite political opinions to write an account of the events which occurred in Baltimore on the 19th of April, 1861, about which much that is exaggerated and sensational has been circulated; but, for different reasons, I have delayed complying with the request until this time. These events were not isolated facts, but were the natural result of causes which had roots deep in the past, and they were followed by serious and important consequences. The narrative, to be complete, must give some account of both cause and consequence, and to do this briefly and with a proper regard to historical proportion is no easy task. Moreover, it is not pleasant to disturb the ashes of a great conflagration, which, although they have grown cold on the surface, cover embers still capable of emitting both smoke and heat; and especially is it not pleasant when the disturber of the ashes was himself an actor in the scenes which he is asked to describe. But more than twenty-five years have passed, and with them have passed away most of the generation then living; and, as one of the rapidly diminishing survivors, I am admonished by the lengthening shadows that anything I may have to say should be said speedily. The nation has learned many lessons of wisdom from its civil war, and not the least among them is that every truthful contribution to its annals or to its teachings is not without some value. I have accordingly undertaken the task, but not without reluctance, because it necessarily revives recollections of the most trying and painful experiences of my life--experiences which for a long time I have not unwillingly permitted to fade in the dim distance. There was another 19th of April--that of Lexington in 1775--which has become memorable in history for a battle between the Minute Men of Massachusetts and a column of British troops, in which the first blood was shed in the war of the Revolution. It was the heroic beginning of that contest. The fight which occurred in the streets of Baltimore on the 19th of April, 1861, between the 6th Regiment of Massachusetts Volunteers and a mob of citizens, was also memorable, because then was shed the first blood in a conflict between the North and the South; then a step was taken which made compromise or retreat almost impossible; then passions on both sides were aroused which could not be controlled.[1] In each case the outbreak was an explosion of conflicting forces long suppressed, but certain, sooner or later, to occur. Here the coincidence ends. The Minute Men of Massachusetts were so called because they were prepared to rise on a minute's notice. They had anticipated and had prepared for the strife. The attack by the mob in Baltimore was a sudden uprising of popular fury. The events themselves were magnified as the tidings flashed over the whole country, and the consequences were immediate. The North became wild with astonishment and rage, and the South rose to fever-heat from the conviction that Maryland was about to fall into line as the advance guard of the Southern Confederacy. [Footnote 1: At Fort Sumter, it is true, one week earlier, the first collision of arms had taken place; but strangely, that bombardment was unattended with loss of life. And it did not necessarily mean war between North and South: accommodation still seemed possible.] * * * * * In February, 1861, when Mr. Lincoln was on his way to Washington to prepare for his inauguration as President of the United States, an unfortunate incident occurred which had a sinister influence on the State of Maryland, and especially on the city of Baltimore. Some superserviceable persons, carried away, honestly no doubt, by their own frightened imaginations, and perhaps in part stimulated by the temptation of getting up a sensation of the first class, succeeded in persuading Mr. Lincoln that a formidable conspiracy existed to assassinate him on his way through Maryland. It was announced publicly that he was to come from Philadelphia, not by the usual route through Wilmington, but by a circuitous journey through Harrisburg, and thence by the Northern Central Railroad to Baltimore. Misled by this statement, I, as Mayor of the city, accompanied by the Police Commissioners and supported by a strong force of police, was at the Calvert-street station on Saturday morning, February 23d, at half-past eleven o'clock, the appointed time of arrival, ready to receive with due respect the incoming President. An open carriage was in waiting, in which I was to have the honor of escorting Mr. Lincoln through the city to the Washington station, and of sharing in any danger which he might encounter. It is hardly necessary to say that I apprehended none. When the train came it appeared, to my great astonishment, that Mrs. Lincoln and her three sons had arrived safely and without hindrance or molestation of any kind, but that Mr. Lincoln could not be found. It was then announced that he had passed through the city _incognito_ in the night train by the Philadelphia, Wilmington and Baltimore Railroad, and had reached Washington in safety at the usual hour in the morning. For this signal deliverance from an imaginary peril, those who devised the ingenious plan of escape were of course devoutly thankful, and they accordingly took to themselves no little amount of credit for its success. If Mr. Lincoln had arrived in Baltimore at the time expected, and had spoken a few words to the people who had gathered to hear him, expressing the kind feelings which were in his heart with the simple eloquence of which he was so great a master, he could not have failed to make a very different impression from that which was produced not only by the want of confidence and respect manifested towards the city of Baltimore by the plan pursued, but still more by the manner in which it was carried out. On such an occasion as this even trifles are of importance, and this incident was not a trifle. The emotional part of human nature is its strongest side and soonest leads to action. It was so with the people of Baltimore. Fearful accounts of the conspiracy flew all over the country, creating a hostile feeling against the city, from which it soon afterwards suffered. A single specimen of the news thus spread will suffice. A dispatch from Harrisburg, Pennsylvania, to the New York _Times_, dated February 23d, 8 A. M., says: "Abraham Lincoln, the President-elect of the United States, is safe in the capital of the nation." Then, after describing the dreadful nature of the conspiracy, it adds: "The list of the names of the conspirators presented a most astonishing array of persons high in Southern confidence, and some whose fame is not confined to this country alone." Of course, the list of names was never furnished, and all the men in buckram vanished in air. This is all the notice which this matter would require except for the extraordinary narrative contributed by Mr. Samuel M. Felton, at that time President of the Philadelphia, Wilmington and Baltimore Railroad Company, to the volume entitled "A History of Massachusetts in the Civil War," published in 1868. Early in 1861, Mr. Felton had made, as he supposed, a remarkable discovery of "a deep-laid conspiracy to capture Washington and break up the Government." Soon afterwards Miss Dix, the philanthropist, opportunely came to his office on a Saturday afternoon, stating that she had an important communication to make to him personally, and then, with closed doors and for more than an hour, she poured into his ears a thrilling tale, to which he attentively listened. "The sum of all was (I quote the language of Mr. Felton) that there was then an extensive and organized conspiracy throughout the South to seize upon Washington, with its archives and records, and then declare the Southern conspirators _de facto_ the Government of the United States. The whole was to be a _coup d'état_. At the same time they were to cut off all modes of communication between Washington and the North, East or West, and thus prevent the transportation of troops to wrest the capital from the hands of the insurgents. Mr. Lincoln's inauguration was thus to be prevented, or his life was to fall a sacrifice to the attempt at inauguration. In fact, troops were then drilling on the line of our own road, and the Washington and Annapolis line and other lines." It was clear that the knowledge of a treasonable conspiracy of such vast proportions, which had already begun its operations, ought not to be confined solely to the keeping of Mr. Felton and Miss Dix. Mr. N. P. Trist, an officer of the road, was accordingly admitted into the secret, and was dispatched in haste to Washington, to lay all the facts before General Scott, the Commander-in-Chief. The General, however, would give no assurances except that he would do all he could to bring sufficient troops to Washington to make it secure. Matters stood in this unsatisfactory condition for some time, until a new rumor reached the ears of Mr. Felton. A gentleman from Baltimore, he says, came out to Back River Bridge, about five miles east of the city, and told the bridgekeeper that he had information which had come to his knowledge, of vital importance to the road, which he wished communicated to Mr. Felton. The nature of this communication was that a party was then organized in Baltimore to burn the bridges in case Mr. Lincoln came over the road, or in case an attempt was made to carry troops for the defense of Washington. The party at that time had combustible materials prepared to pour over the bridges, and were to disguise themselves as negroes and be at the bridge just before the train in which Mr. Lincoln travelled had arrived. The bridge was then to be burned, the train attacked, and Mr. Lincoln to be put out of the way. The man appeared several times, always, it seems, to the bridgekeeper, and he always communicated new information about the conspirators, but he would never give his name nor place of abode, and both still remain a mystery. Mr. Felton himself then went to Washington, where he succeeded in obtaining from a prominent gentleman from Baltimore whom he there saw, the judicious advice to apply to Marshal Kane, the Chief of Police in Baltimore, with the assurance that he was a perfectly reliable person. Marshal Kane was accordingly seen, but he scouted the idea that there was any such thing on foot as a conspiracy to burn the bridges and cut off Washington, and said he had thoroughly investigated the whole matter, and there was not the slightest foundation for such rumors. Mr. Felton was not satisfied, but he would have nothing more to do with Marshal Kane. He next sent for a celebrated detective in the West, whose name is not given, and through this chief and his subordinates every nook and corner of the road and its vicinity was explored. They reported that they had joined the societies of the conspirators in Baltimore and got into their secrets, and that the secret working of secession and treason was laid bare, with all its midnight plottings and daily consultations. The conspiracy being thus proved to Mr. Felton's satisfaction, he at once organized and armed a force of two hundred men and scattered them along the line of the railroad between the Susquehanna and Baltimore, principally at the bridges. But, strange to say, all that was accomplished by this formidable body was an enormous job of whitewashing. The narrative proceeds: "These men were drilled secretly and regularly by drill-masters, and were apparently employed in whitewashing the bridges, patting on some six or seven coats of whitewash saturated with salt and alum, to make the outside of the bridges as nearly fireproof as possible. This whitewashing, so extensive in its application, became (continues Mr. Felton) the nine days' wonder of the neighborhood." And well it might. After the lapse of twenty-five years the wonder over this feat of strategy can hardly yet have ceased in that rural and peaceful neighborhood. But, unfortunately for Mr. Felton's peace of mind, the programme of Mr. Lincoln's journey was suddenly changed. He had selected a different route. He had decided to go to Harrisburg from Philadelphia, and thence by day to Baltimore, over another and a rival road, known as the Northern Central. Then the chief detective discovered that the attention of the conspirators was suddenly turned to the Northern Central road. The mysterious unknown gentleman from Baltimore appeared again on the scene and confirmed this statement. He gave warning that Mr. Lincoln was to be waylaid and his life sacrificed on that road, on which no whitewash had been used, and where there were no armed men to protect him. Mr. Felton hurried to Philadelphia, and there, in a hotel, joined his chief detective, who was registered under a feigned name. Mr. Lincoln, cheered by a dense crowd, was, at that moment, passing through the streets of Philadelphia. A sub-detective was sent to bring Mr. Judd, Mr. Lincoln's intimate friend, to the hotel to hold a consultation. Mr. Judd was in the procession with Mr. Lincoln, but the emergency admitted no delay. The eagerness of the sub-detective was so great that he was three times arrested and carried out of the crowd by the police before he could reach Mr. Judd. The fourth attempt succeeded, and Mr. Judd was at last brought to the hotel, where he met both Mr. Felton and the chief detective. The narrative then proceeds in the words of Mr. Felton: "We lost no time in making known to him (Mr. Judd) all the facts which had come to our knowledge in reference to the conspiracy, and I most earnestly advised sleeping-car. Mr. Judd fully entered into the plan, and said he would urge Mr. Lincoln to adopt it. On his communicating with Mr. Lincoln, after the services of the evening were over, he answered that he had engaged to go to Harrisburg and speak the next day, and that he would not break his engagement, even in the face of such peril, but that after he had fulfilled his engagement he would follow such advice as we might give him in reference to his journey to Washington." Mr. Lincoln accordingly went to Harrisburg the next day and made an address. After that the arrangements for the journey were shrouded in the profoundest mystery. It was given out that he was to go to Governor Curtin's house for the night, but he was, instead, conducted to a point about two miles out of Harrisburg, where an extra car and engine waited to take him to Philadelphia. The telegraph lines east, west, north and south from Harrisburg were cut, so that no message as to his movements could be sent off in any direction. But all this caused a detention, and the night train from Philadelphia to Baltimore had to be held back until the arrival of Mr. Lincoln at the former place. If, however, the delay proved to be considerable, when Mr. Lincoln reached Baltimore the connecting train to Washington might leave without him. But Mr. Felton was equal to the occasion. He devised a plan which was communicated to only three or four on the road. A messenger was sent to Baltimore by an earlier train to say to the officials of the Washington road that a very important package must be delivered in Washington early in the morning, and to request them to wait for the night train from Philadelphia. To give color to this statement, a package of old railroad reports, done up with great care, and with a large seal attached, marked by Mr. Felton's own hand, "Very Important," was sent in the train which carried Mr. Lincoln on his famous night ride from Philadelphia through Maryland and Baltimore to the city of Washington. The only remarkable incident of the journey was the mysterious behavior of the few officials who were entrusted with the portentous secret. I do not know how others may be affected by this narrative, but I confess even now to a feeling of indignation that Mr. Lincoln, who was no coward, but proved himself on many an occasion to be a brave man, was thus prevented from carrying out his original intention of journeying to Baltimore in the light of day, in company with his wife and children, relying as he always did on the honor and manhood of the American people. It is true we have, to our sorrow, learned by the manner of his death, as well as by the fate of still another President, that no one occupying so high a place can be absolutely safe, even in this country, from the danger of assassination, but it is still true that as a rule the best way to meet such danger is boldly to defy it. Mr. C. C. Felton, son of Mr. Samuel M. Felton, in an article entitled "The Baltimore Plot," published in December, 1885, in the _Harvard Monthly_, has attempted to revive this absurd story. He repeats the account of whitewashing the bridges, and of the astonishment created among the good people of the neighborhood. He has faith in "the unknown Baltimorean" who visited the bridgekeeper, but would never give his name, and in the spies employed, who, he tells us, were "the well-known detective Pinkerton and eight assistants," and he leaves his readers to infer that Mr. Lincoln's life was saved by the extraordinary vigilance which had been exercised and the ingenious plan which had been devised by his worthy father, but alas!-- "The earth hath bubbles as the water has," and this was of them. Colonel Lamon, a close friend of President Lincoln, and the only person who accompanied him on his night ride to Washington, has written his biography, a very careful and conscientious work, which unfortunately was left unfinished, and he of course had the strongest reasons for carefully examining the subject. After a full examination of all the documents, Colonel Lamon pronounces the conspiracy to be a mere fiction, and adds in confirmation the mature opinion of Mr. Lincoln himself. Colonel Lamon says:[2] "Mr. Lincoln soon learned to regret the midnight ride. His friends reproached him, his enemies taunted him. He was convinced that he had committed a grave mistake in yielding to the solicitations of a professional spy and of friends too easily alarmed. He saw that he had fled from a danger purely imaginary, and felt the shame and mortification natural to a brave man under such circumstances. But he was not disposed to take all the responsibility to himself, and frequently upbraided the writer for having aided and assisted him to demean himself at the very moment in all his life when his behavior should have exhibited the utmost dignity and composure." As Colonel Lamon's biography, a work of absorbing interest, is now out of print, and as his account of the ride and of the results of the investigation of the conspiracy is too long to be inserted here, it is added in an Appendix. The account above given has its appropriateness here, for the midnight ride through Baltimore, and the charge that its citizens were plotting the President's assassination, helped to feed the flame of excitement which, in the stirring events of that time, was already burning too high all over the land, and especially in a border city with divided sympathies. [Footnote 2: The Life of Abraham Lincoln, p. 526; and see Appendix I.] CHAPTER II. THE COMPROMISES OF THE CONSTITUTION IN REGARD TO SLAVERY. -- A DIVIDED HOUSE. -- THE BROKEN COMPACT. -- THE RIGHT OF REVOLUTION. For a period the broad provisions of the Constitution of the United States, as expounded by the wise and broad decisions of the Supreme Court, had proved to be equal to every emergency. The thirteen feeble colonies had grown to be a great Republic, and no external obstacle threatened its majestic progress; foreign wars had been waged and vast territories had been annexed, but every strain on the Constitution only served to make it stronger. Yet there was a canker in a vital part which nothing could heal, which from day to day became more malignant, and which those who looked beneath the surface could perceive was surely leading, and at no distant day, to dissolution or war, or perhaps to both. The canker was the existence of negro slavery. In colonial days, kings, lords spiritual and temporal, and commons, all united in favoring the slave trade. In Massachusetts the Puritan minister might be seen on the Sabbath going to meeting in family procession, with his negro slave bringing up the rear. Boston was largely engaged in building ships and manufacturing rum, and a portion of the ships and much of the rum were sent to Africa, the rum to buy slaves, and the ships to bring them to a market in America. Newport was more largely, and until a more recent time, engaged in the same traffic. In Maryland, even the Friends were sometimes owners of slaves; and it is charged, and apparently with reason, that Wenlock Christison, the Quaker preacher, after being driven from Massachusetts by persecution and coming to Maryland by way of Barbadoes, sent or brought in with him a number of slaves, who cultivated his plantation until his death. In Georgia, the Calvinist Whitefield blessed God for his negro plantation, which was generously given to him to establish his "Bethesda" as a refuge for orphan children. In the Dred Scott case, Chief Justice Taney truly described the opinion, which he deplored, prevailing at the time of the adoption of the Constitution, as being that the colored man had no rights which the white man was bound to respect.[3] [Footnote 3: Judge Taney's utterance on this subject has been frequently and grossly misrepresented. In Appendix II. will be found what he really did say.] The Constitution had endeavored to settle the question of slavery by a compromise. As the difficulty in regard to it arose far more from political than moral grounds, so in the settlement the former were almost exclusively considered. It was, however, the best that could be made at that time. It is certain that without such a compromise the Constitution would not have been adopted. The existence of slavery in a State was left in the discretion of the State itself. If a slave escaped to another State, he was to be returned to his master. Laws were passed by Congress to carry out this provision, and the Supreme Court decided that they were constitutional. For a long time the best people at the North stood firmly by the compromise. It was a national compact, and must be respected. But ideas, and especially moral ideas, cannot be forever fettered by a compact, no matter how solemn may be its sanctions. The change of opinion at the North was first slow, then rapid, and then so powerful as to overwhelm all opposition. John Brown, who was executed for raising a negro insurrection in Virginia, in which men were wounded and killed, was reverenced by many at the North as a hero, a martyr and a saint. It had long been a fixed fact that no fugitive slave could by process of law be returned from the North into slavery. With the advent to power of the Republican party--a party based on opposition to slavery--another breach in the outworks of the Constitution, as interpreted by the Supreme Court, had been made. Sooner or later the same hands would capture the citadel. Sooner or later it was plain that slavery was doomed. In the memorable Senatorial campaign in Illinois between Stephen A. Douglas and Abraham Lincoln, the latter, in his speech before the Republican State Convention at Springfield, June 17, 1858, struck the keynote of his party by the bold declaration on the subject of slavery which he then made and never recalled. This utterance was the more remarkable because on the previous day the convention had passed unanimously a resolution declaring that Mr. Lincoln was their first and only choice for United States Senator, to fill the vacancy about to be created by the expiration of Mr. Douglas's term of office, but the convention had done nothing which called for the advanced ground on which Mr. Lincoln planted himself in that speech. It was carefully prepared. The narrative of Colonel Lamon in his biography of Lincoln is intensely interesting and dramatic.[4] [Footnote 4: Lamon's Life of Lincoln, p. 808.] About a dozen gentlemen, he says, were called to meet in the library of the State House. After seating them at the round table, Mr. Lincoln read his entire speech, dwelling slowly on that part which speaks of a divided house, so that every man fully understood it. After he had finished, he asked for the opinion of his friends. All but William H. Herndon, the law partner of Mr. Lincoln, declared that the whole speech was too far in advance of the times, and they especially condemned that part which referred to a divided house. Mr. Herndon sat still while they were giving their respective opinions; then he sprang to his feet and said: "Lincoln, deliver it just as it reads. If it is in advance of the times, let us--you and I, if no one else--lift the people to the level of this speech now, higher hereafter. The speech is true, wise and politic, and will succeed now, or in the future. Nay, it will aid you, if it will not make you President of the United States."... "Mr. Lincoln sat still a short moment, rose from his chair, walked backward and forward in the hall, stopped and said: 'Friends, I have thought about this matter a great deal, have weighed the question well from all corners, and am thoroughly convinced the time has come when it should be uttered; and if it must be that I must go down because of this speech, then let me go down linked to truth--die in the advocacy of what is right and just. This nation cannot live on injustice. A house divided against itself cannot stand, I say again and again.'" The opening paragraph of the speech is as follows: "If we could first know where we are and whither we are tending, we could then better judge what to do and how to do it. We are now far on into the fifth year since a policy was initiated with the avowed object and confident promise of putting an end to slavery agitation. Under the operation of that policy that agitation has not only not ceased, but is constantly augmented. In my opinion, it will not cease until a crisis shall have been reached and passed. A house divided against itself cannot stand. I believe this Government can not endure permanently half slave and half free. I do not expect the Union to be dissolved. I do not expect the house to fall; but I do expect it will cease to be divided. It will become all one thing, or all the other. Either the opponents of slavery will arrest the further spread of it, and place it where the public mind shall rest in the belief that it is in the course of ultimate extinction, or its advocates will push it forward till it shall become alike lawful in all the States, old as well as new, North as well as South." The blast of the trumpet gave no uncertain sound. The far-seeing suggestion of Mr. Herndon came true to the letter. I believe this speech made Abraham Lincoln President of the United States. But the founders of the Constitution of the United States had built a house which was divided against itself from the beginning. They had framed a union of States which was part free and part slave, and that union was intended to last forever. Here was an irreconcilable conflict between the Constitution and the future President of the United States. When the Republican Convention assembled at Chicago in May, 1860, in the heat of the contest, which soon became narrowed down to a choice between Mr. Seward and Mr. Lincoln, the latter dispatched a friend to Chicago with a message in writing, which was handed either to Judge Davis or Judge Logan, both members of the convention, which runs as follows: "Lincoln agrees with Seward in his irrepressible-conflict idea, and in negro equality; but he is opposed to Seward's higher law." But there was no substantial difference between the position of the two: Lincoln's "divided house" and Seward's "higher law" placed them really in the same attitude. The seventh resolution in the Chicago platform condemned what it described as the "new dogma that the Constitution, of its own force, carries slavery into any or all of the Territories of the United States." This resolution was a direct repudiation by a National Convention of the decision of the Supreme Court in the Dred Scott case. On the 6th of November, 1860, Abraham Lincoln was elected President of the United States. Of the actual votes cast there was a majority against him of 930,170. Next came Mr. Douglas, who lost the support of the Southern Democrats by his advocacy of the doctrine of "squatter sovereignty," as it was called, which was in effect, although not in form, as hostile to the decision of the Supreme Court in the Dred Scott case as the seventh resolution of the Chicago Convention itself. Mr. Breckinridge, of Kentucky, the candidate of the Southern Democracy, fell very far, and Mr. Bell, of Tennessee, the candidate of the Union party, as it was called, a short-lived successor of the old Whig party, fell still farther in the rear of the two Northern candidates. The great crisis had come at last. The Abolition party had become a portion of the victorious Republican party. The South, politically, was overwhelmed. Separated now from its only ally, the Northern Democracy, it stood at last alone. It matters not that Mr. Lincoln, after his election, in sincerity of heart held out the olive branch to the nation, and that during his term of office the South, so far as his influence could avail, would have been comparatively safe from direct aggressions. Mr. Lincoln was not known then as he is known now, and, moreover, his term of office would be but four years. What course, then, was left to the South if it was determined to maintain its rights under the Constitution? What but the right of self-defense? The house of every man is his castle, and he may defend it to the death against all aggressors. When a hostile hand is raised to strike a blow, he who is assaulted need not wait until the blow falls, but on the instant may protect himself as best he can. These are the rights of self-defense known, approved and acted on by all freemen. And where constitutional rights of a people are in jeopardy, a kindred right of self-defense belongs to them. Although revolutionary in its character, it is not the less a right. Wendell Phillips, abolitionist as he was, in a speech made at New Bedford on the 9th of April, 1861, three days before the bombardment of Fort Sumter, fully recognized this right. He said: "Here are a series of States girding the Gulf, who think that their peculiar institutions require that they should have a separate government. They have a right to decide that question without appealing to you or me. A large body of the people, sufficient to make a nation, have come to the conclusion that they will have a government of a certain form. Who denies them the right? Standing with the principles of '76 behind us, who can deny them the right? What is a matter of a few millions of dollars or a few forts? It is a mere drop in the bucket of the great national question. It is theirs just as much as ours. I maintain, on the principles of '76, that Abraham Lincoln has no right to a soldier in Fort Sumter." And such was the honest belief of the people who united in establishing the Southern Confederacy. Wendell Phillips was not wrong in declaring the principles of '76 to be kindred to those of '61. The men of '76 did not fight to get rid of the petty tax of three pence a pound on tea, which was the only tax left to quarrel about. They were determined to pay no taxes, large or small, then or thereafter. Whether the tax was lawful or not was a doubtful question, about which there was a wide difference of opinion, but they did not care for that. Nothing would satisfy them but the relinquishment of any claim of right to tax the colonies, and this they could not obtain. They maintained that their rights were violated. They were, moreover, embittered by a long series of disputes with the mother country, and they wanted to be independent and to have a country of their own. They thought they were strong enough to maintain that position. Neither were the Southern men of '61 fighting for money. And they too were deeply embittered, not against a mother country, but against a brother country. The Northern people had published invectives of the most exasperating character broadcast against the South in their speeches, sermons, newspapers and books. The abolitionists had proceeded from words to deeds and were unwearied in tampering with the slaves and carrying them off. The Southern people, on their part, were not less violent in denunciation of the North. The slavery question had divided the political parties throughout the nation, and on this question the South was practically a unit. They could get no security that the provisions of the Constitution would be kept either in letter or in spirit, and this they demanded as their right. The Southern men thought that they also were strong enough to wage successfully a defensive war. Like the men of '76, they in great part were of British stock; they lived in a thinly settled country, led simple lives, were accustomed to the use of arms, and knew how to protect themselves. Such men make good soldiers, and when their armies were enrolled the ranks were filled with men of all classes, the rich as well as the poor, the educated as well as the ignorant. It is a mistake to suppose that they were inveigled into secession by ambitious leaders. On the contrary, it is probable that they were not as much under the influence of leaders as the men of '76, and that there were fewer disaffected among them. At times the scales trembled in the balance. There are always mistakes in war. It is an easy and ungrateful task to point them out afterward. We can now see that grave errors, both financial and military, were made, and that opportunities were thrown away. How far these went to settle the contest, we can never certainly know, but it does not need great boldness to assert that the belief which the Southern people entertained that they were strong enough to defend themselves, was not unreasonable. The determination of the South to maintain slavery was undoubtedly the main cause of secession, but another deep and underlying cause was the firm belief of the Southern people in the doctrine of States' rights, and their jealousy of any attack upon those rights. Devotion to their State first of all, a conviction that paramount obligation--in case of any conflict of allegiance--was due not to the Union but to the State, had been part of the political creed of very many in the South ever since the adoption of the Constitution. An ignoble love of slavery was not the general and impelling motive. The slaveholders, who were largely in the minority, acted as a privileged class always does act. They were determined to maintain their privileges at all hazards. But they, as well as the great mass of the people who had no personal interest in slavery, fought the battles of the war with the passionate earnestness of men who believed with an undoubting conviction that they were the defenders not only of home rule and of their firesides, but also of their constitutional rights. And behind the money question, the constitutional question and the moral question, there was still another of the gravest import. Was it possible for two races nearly equal in number, but widely different in character and civilization, to live together in a republic in peace and equality of rights without mingling in blood? The answer of the Southern man was, "It is not possible." CHAPTER III. MARYLAND'S DESIRE FOR PEACE. -- EVENTS WHICH FOLLOWED THE ELECTION OF PRESIDENT LINCOLN. -- HIS PROCLAMATION CALLING FOR TROOPS. -- THE CITY AUTHORITIES AND POLICE OF BALTIMORE. -- INCREASING EXCITEMENT IN BALTIMORE. I now come to consider the condition of affairs in Maryland. As yet the Republican party had obtained a very slight foothold. Only 2,294 votes had in the whole State been cast for Mr. Lincoln. Her sympathies were divided between the North and the South, with a decided preponderance on the Southern side. For many years her conscience had been neither dead nor asleep on the subject of slavery. Families had impoverished themselves to free their slaves. In 1860 there were 83,942 free colored people in Maryland and 87,189 slaves, the white population being 515,918. Thus there were nearly as many free as slaves of the colored race. Emancipation, in spite of harsh laws passed to discountenance it, had rapidly gone on. In the northern part of the State and in the city of Baltimore there were but few slaveholders, and the slavery was hardly more than nominal. The patriarchal institution, as it has been derisively called, had a real existence in many a household. Not a few excellent people have I known and respected who were born and bred in slavery and had been freed by their masters. In 1831 the State incorporated the Maryland Colonization Society, which founded on the west coast of Africa a successful republican colony of colored people, now known as the State of Maryland in Liberia, and for twenty-six years, and until the war broke out, the State contributed $10,000 a year to its support. This amount was increased by the contributions of individuals. The board, of which Mr. John H. B. Latrobe was for many years president, was composed of our best citizens. A code of laws for the government of the colony was prepared by the excellent and learned lawyer, Hugh Davey Evans. While there was on the part of a large portion of the people a deep-rooted and growing dislike to slavery, agitation on the subject had not commenced. It was in fact suppressed by reason of the violence of Northern abolitionists with whom the friends of emancipation were not able to unite. It is not surprising that Maryland was in no mood for war, but that her voice was for compromise and peace--compromise and peace at any price consistent with honor. The period immediately following the election of Mr. Lincoln in November, 1860, was throughout the country one of intense agitation and of important events. A large party at the North preferred compromise to war, even at the cost of dissolution of the Union. If dissolution began, no one could tell where it would stop. South Carolina seceded on the 17th of December, 1860. Georgia and the five Gulf States soon followed. On the 6th of January, 1861, Fernando Wood, mayor of the city of New York, sent a message to the common council advising that New York should secede and become a free city.[5] [Footnote 5: John P. Kennedy, of Baltimore, the well-known author, who had been member of Congress and Secretary of the Navy, published early in 1861 a pamphlet entitled "The Border States, Their Power and Duty in the Present Disordered Condition of the Country." His idea was that if concert of action could be had between the Border States and concurring States of the South which had not seceded, stipulations might be obtained from the Free States, with the aid of Congress, and, if necessary, an amendment of the Constitution, which would protect the rights of the South; but if this failed, that the Border States and their allies of the South would then be forced to consider the Union impracticable and to organize a separate confederacy of the Border States, with the association of such of the Southern and Free States as might be willing to accede to the proposed conditions. He hoped that the Union would thus be "reconstructed by the healthy action of the Border States." The necessary result, however, would have been that in the meantime three confederacies would have been in existence. And yet Mr. Kennedy had always been a Union man, and when the war broke out was its consistent advocate. These proposals, from such different sources as Fernando Wood and John P. Kennedy, tend to show the uncertainty and bewilderment which had taken possession of the minds of men, and in which few did not share to a greater or less degree.] On February the 9th, Jefferson Davis was elected President of the Southern Confederacy, a Confederacy to which other States would perhaps soon be added. But the Border States were as yet debatable ground; they might be retained by conciliation and compromise or alienated by hostile measures, whether directed against them or against the seceded States. In Virginia a convention had been called to consider the momentous question of union or secession, and an overwhelming majority of the delegates chosen were in favor of remaining in the Union. Other States were watching Virginia's course, in order to decide whether to stay in the Union or go out of it with her. On the 12th and 13th of April occurred the memorable bombardment and surrender of Fort Sumter. On the 15th of April, President Lincoln issued his celebrated proclamation calling out seventy-five thousand militia, and appealing "to all loyal citizens to favor, facilitate and aid this effort to maintain the honor, the integrity and existence of our National Union, and the perpetuity of popular government, and to redress wrongs already long enough endured." What these wrongs were is not stated. "The first service assigned to the forces hereby called forth," said the proclamation, "will probably be to re-possess the forts, places and property which have been seized from the Union." On the same day there was issued from the War Department a request addressed to the Governors of the different States, announcing what the quota of each State would be, and that the troops were to serve for three months unless sooner discharged. Maryland's quota was four regiments. The proclamation was received with exultation at the North--many dissentient voices being silenced in the general acclaim--with defiance at the South, and in Maryland with mingled feelings in which astonishment, dismay and disapprobation were predominant. On all sides it was agreed that the result must be war, or a dissolution of the Union, and I may safely say that a large majority of our people then preferred the latter. An immediate effect of the proclamation was to intensify the feeling of hostility in the wavering States, and to drive four of them into secession. Virginia acted promptly. On April 17th her convention passed an ordinance of secession--subject to ratification by a vote of the people--and Virginia became the head and front of the Confederacy. North Carolina, Tennessee and Arkansas soon followed her lead. Meanwhile, and before the formal acts of secession, the Governors of Virginia, North Carolina and Tennessee sent prompt and defiant answers to the requisition, emphatically refusing to furnish troops, as did also the Governors of Kentucky and Missouri. The position of Maryland was most critical. This State was especially important, because the capital of the nation lay within her borders, and all the roads from the North leading to it passed through her territory. After the President's proclamation was issued, no doubt a large majority of her people sympathized with the South; but even had that sentiment been far more preponderating, there was an underlying feeling that by a sort of geographical necessity her lot was cast with the North, that the larger and stronger half of the nation would not allow its capital to be quietly disintegrated away by her secession. Delaware and Maryland were the only Border States which did not attempt to secede. Kentucky at first took the impossible stand of an armed neutrality. When this failed, a portion of her people passed an ordinance of secession, and a portion of the people of Missouri passed a similar ordinance. It is now proper to give some explanation of the condition of affairs in Baltimore, at that time a city of 215,000 inhabitants. Thomas Holliday Hicks, who had been elected by the American, or Know-Nothing party, three years before, was the Governor of the State. The city authorities, consisting of the mayor and city council, had been elected in October, 1860, a few weeks before the Presidential election, not as representatives of any of the national parties, but as the candidates of an independent reform party, and in opposition to the Know-Nothing party. This party, which then received its quietus, had been in power for some years, and had maintained itself by methods which made its rule little better than a reign of terror.[6] No one acquainted with the history of that period can doubt that the reform was greatly needed. A large number of the best men of the American party united in the movement, and with their aid it became triumphantly successful, carrying every ward in the city. The city council was composed of men of unusually high character. "Taken as a whole" (Scharf's "History of Maryland," Vol. III., p. 284), "a better ticket has seldom, if ever, been brought out. In the selection of candidates all party tests were discarded, and all thought of rewarding partisan services repudiated." Four police commissioners, appointed by the Legislature--Charles Howard, William H. Gatchell, Charles D. Hinks and John W. Davis--men of marked ability and worth, had, with the mayor, who was _ex officio_ a member of the board, the appointment and control of the police force. Mr. S. Teackle Wallis was the legal adviser of the board. The entire police force consisted of 398 men, and had been raised to a high degree of discipline and efficiency under the command of Marshal Kane. They were armed with revolvers. [Footnote 6: The culmination of this period of misrule was at the election in November, 1859, when the fraud and violence were so flagrant that the Legislature of the State unseated the whole Baltimore delegation--ten members. The city being thus without representation, it became necessary, when a special session of the Legislature was called in April, 1861, that a new delegation from Baltimore should be chosen. It was this same Legislature (elected in 1859), which took away from the mayor of the city the control of its police, and entrusted that force to a board of police commissioners. This change, a most fortunate one for the city at that crisis, resulted in the immediate establishment of good order, and made possible the reform movement of the next autumn.] Immediately after the call of the President for troops, including four regiments from Maryland, a marked division among the people manifested itself. Two large and excited crowds, eager for news, and nearly touching each other, stood from morning until late at night before two newspaper offices on Baltimore street which advocated contrary views and opinions. Strife was in the air. It was difficult for the police to keep the peace. Business was almost suspended. Was there indeed to be war between the sections, or could it yet, by some unlooked-for interposition, be averted? Would the Border States interfere and demand peace? There was a deep and pervading impression of impending evil. And now an immediate fear was as to the effect on the citizens of the passage of Northern troops through the city. Should they be permitted to cross the soil of Maryland, to make war on sister States of the South, allied to her by so many ties of affection, as well as of kindred institutions? On the other hand, when the capital of the nation was in danger, should not the kindest greeting and welcome be extended to those who were first to come to the rescue? Widely different were the answers given to these questions. The Palmetto flag had several times been raised by some audacious hands in street and harbor, but it was soon torn down. The National flag and the flag of the State, with its black and orange, the colors of Lord Baltimore, waved unmolested, but not side by side, for they had become symbols of different ideas, although the difference was, as yet, not clearly defined. On the 17th of April, the state of affairs became so serious that I, as mayor, issued a proclamation earnestly invoking all good citizens to refrain from every act which could lead to outbreak or violence of any kind; to refrain from harshness of speech, and to render in all cases prompt and efficient aid, as by law they were required to do, to the public authorities, whose constant efforts would be exerted to maintain unbroken the peace and order of the city, and to administer the laws with fidelity and impartiality. I cannot flatter myself that this appeal produced much effect. The excitement was too great for any words to allay it. On the 18th of April, notice was received from Harrisburg that two companies of United States artillery, commanded by Major Pemberton, and also four companies of militia, would arrive by the Northern Central Railroad at Bolton Station, in the northern part of the city, at two o'clock in the afternoon. The militia had neither arms nor uniforms. Before the troops arrived at the station, where I was waiting to receive them, I was suddenly called away by a message from Governor Hicks stating that he desired to see me on business of urgent importance, and this prevented my having personal knowledge of what immediately afterward occurred. The facts, however, are that a large crowd assembled at the station and followed the soldiers in their march to the Washington station with abuse and threats. The regulars were not molested, but the wrath of the mob was directed against the militia, and an attack would certainly have been made but for the vigilance and determination of the police, under the command of Marshal Kane. "These proceedings," says Mr. Scharf, in the third volume of his "History of Maryland," page 401, "were an earnest of what might be expected on the arrival of other troops, the excitement growing in intensity with every hour. Numerous outbreaks occurred in the neighborhood of the newspaper offices during the day, and in the evening a meeting of the States Rights Convention was held in Taylor's building, on Fayette street near Calvert, where, it is alleged, very strong ground was taken against the passage of any more troops through Baltimore, and armed resistance to it threatened. On motion of Mr. Ross Winans, the following resolutions were unanimously adopted: "_Resolved_, That in the opinion of this convention the prosecution of the design announced by the President in his late proclamation, of recapturing the forts in the seceded States, will inevitably lead to a sanguinary war, the dissolution of the Union, and the irreconcilable estrangement of the people of the South from the people of the North. "_Resolved_, That we protest in the name of the people of Maryland against the garrisoning of Southern forts by militia drawn from the free States; or the quartering of militia from the free States in any of the towns or places of the slaveholding States. "_Resolved_, That in the opinion of this convention the massing of large bodies of militia, exclusively from the free States, in the District of Columbia, is uncalled for by any public danger or exigency, is a standing menace to the State of Maryland, and an insult to her loyalty and good faith, and will, if persisted in, alienate her people from a government which thus attempts to overawe them by the presence of armed men and treats them with contempt and distrust. "_Resolved_, That the time has arrived when it becomes all good citizens to unite in a common effort to obliterate all party lines which have heretofore unhappily divided us, and to present an unbroken front in the preservation and defense of our interests, our homes and our firesides, to avert the horrors of civil war, and to repel, if need be, any invader who may come to establish a military despotism over us. "A. C. ROBINSON, _Chairman_." "G. HARLAN WILLIAMS, "ALBERT RITCHIE, "_Secretaries_." The names of the members who composed this convention are not given, but the mover of the resolutions and the officers of the meeting were men well known and respected in this community. The bold and threatening character of the resolutions did not tend to calm the public mind. They did not, however, advocate an attack on the troops. In Putnam's "Record of the Rebellion," Volume I, page 29, the following statement is made of a meeting which was held on the morning of the 18th of April: "An excited secession meeting was held at Baltimore, Maryland. T. Parkin Scott occupied the chair, and speeches denunciatory of the Administration and the North were made by Wilson C. N. Carr, William Byrne [improperly spelled Burns], President of the National Volunteer Association, and others." An account of the meeting is before me, written by Mr. Carr, lately deceased, a gentleman entirely trustworthy. He did not know, he says, of the existence of such an association, but on his way down town having seen the notice of a town meeting to be held at Taylor's Hall, to take into consideration the state of affairs, he went to the meeting. Mr. Scott was in the chair and was speaking. He was not making an excited speech, but, on the contrary, was urging the audience to do nothing rashly, but to be moderate and not to interfere with any troops that might attempt to pass through the city. As soon as he had finished, Mr. Carr was urged to go up to the platform and reply to Mr. Scott. I now give Mr. Carr's words. "I went up," he says, "but had no intention of saying anything in opposition to what Mr. Scott had advised the people to do. I was not there as an advocate of secession, but was anxious to see some way opened for reconciliation between the North and South. I did not make an excited speech nor did I denounce the Administration. I saw that I was disappointing the crowd. Some expressed their disapprobation pretty plainly and I cut my speech short. As soon as I finished speaking the meeting adjourned." After the war was over, Mr. Scott was elected Chief Judge of the Supreme Bench of Baltimore City. He was a strong sympathizer with the South, and had the courage of his convictions, but he had been also an opponent of slavery, and I have it from his own lips that years before the war, on a Fourth of July, he had persuaded his mother to liberate all her slaves, although she depended largely on their services for her support. And yet he lived and died a poor man. On the 16th of April, Marshal Kane addressed a letter to William Crawford, the Baltimore agent of the Philadelphia, Wilmington and Baltimore Railroad Company, in the following terms: "_Dear Sir_:--Is it true as stated that an attempt will be made to pass the volunteers from New York intended to war upon the South over your road to-day? It is important that we have explicit understanding on the subject. Your friend, GEORGE P. KANE." This letter was not submitted to me, nor to the board of police. If it had been, it would have been couched in very different language. Mr. Crawford forwarded it to the President of the road, who, on the same day, sent it to Simon Cameron, the Secretary of War. Mr. Cameron, on April 18th, wrote to Governor Hicks, giving him notice that there were unlawful combinations of citizens of Maryland to impede the transit of United States troops across Maryland on their way to the defense of the capital, and that the President thought it his duty to make it known to the Governor, so that all loyal and patriotic citizens might be warned in time, and that he might be prepared to take immediate and effective measures against it. On the afternoon of the 18th, Governor Hicks arrived in town. He had prepared a proclamation as Governor of the State, and wished me to issue another as mayor of the city, which I agreed to do. In it he said, among other things, that the unfortunate state of affairs now existing in the country had greatly excited the people of Maryland; that the emergency was great, and that the consequences of a rash step would be fearful. He therefore counselled the people in all earnestness to withhold their hands from whatever might tend to precipitate us into the gulf of discord and ruin gaping to receive us. All powers vested in the Governor of the State would be strenuously exerted to preserve peace and maintain inviolate the honor and integrity of Maryland. He assured the people that no troops would be sent from Maryland, unless it might be for the defense of the national capital. He concluded by saying that the people of this State would in a short time have the opportunity afforded them, in a special election for members of Congress, to express their devotion to the Union, or their desire to see it broken up. This proclamation is of importance in several respects. It shows the great excitement of the people and the imminent danger of domestic strife. It shows, moreover, that even the Governor of the State had then little idea of the course which he himself was soon about to pursue. If this was the case with the Governor, it could not have been different with thousands of the people. Very soon he became a thorough and uncompromising upholder of the war. In my proclamation I concurred with the Governor in his determination to preserve the peace and maintain inviolate the honor and integrity of Maryland, and added that I could not withhold my expression of satisfaction at his resolution that no troops should be sent from Maryland to the soil of any other State. Simultaneously with the passage of the first Northern regiments on their way to Washington, came the news that Virginia had seceded. Two days were crowded with stirring news--a proclamation from the President of the Southern Confederacy offering to issue commissions or letters of marque to privateers, President Lincoln's proclamation declaring a blockade of Southern ports, the Norfolk Navy Yard abandoned, Harper's Ferry evacuated and the arsenal in the hands of Virginia troops. These events, so exciting in themselves, and coming together with the passage of the first troops, greatly increased the danger of an explosion. CHAPTER IV. THE SIXTH MASSACHUSETTS REGIMENT IN BALTIMORE. -- THE FIGHT. -- THE DEPARTURE FOR WASHINGTON. -- CORRESPONDENCE IN REGARD TO THE KILLED AND WOUNDED. -- PUBLIC MEETING. -- TELEGRAM TO THE PRESIDENT. -- NO REPLY. -- BURNING OF BRIDGES. The Sixth Massachusetts Regiment had the honor of being the first to march in obedience to the call of the President, completely equipped and organized. It had a full band and regimental staff. Mustered at Lowell on the morning of the 16th, the day after the proclamation was issued, four companies from Lowell presented themselves, and to these were added two from Lawrence, one from Groton, one from Acton, and one from Worcester; and when the regiment reached Boston, at one o'clock, an additional company was added from that city and another from Stoneham, making eleven in all--about seven hundred men.[7] It was addressed by the Governor of the State in front of the State House. In the city and along the line of the railroad, on the 17th, everywhere, ovations attended them. In the march down Broadway, in New York, on the 18th, the wildest enthusiasm inspired all classes. Similar scenes occurred in the progress through New Jersey and through the city of Philadelphia. At midnight on the 18th, reports reached Philadelphia that the passage of the regiment through Baltimore would be disputed. [Footnote 7: Hanson's Sixth Massachusetts Regiment, p. 14.] An unarmed and un-uniformed Pennsylvania regiment, under Colonel Small, was added to the train, either in Philadelphia or when the train reached the Susquehanna--it has been stated both ways, and I am not sure which account is correct--and the two regiments made the force about seventeen hundred men. The proper course for the Philadelphia, Wilmington and Baltimore Railroad Company was to have given immediate notice to the mayor or board of police of the number of the troops, and the time when they were expected to arrive in the city, so that preparation might have been made to receive them, but no such notice was given. On the contrary, it was purposely withheld, and no information could be obtained from the office of the company, although the marshal of police repeatedly telegraphed to Philadelphia to learn when the troops were to be expected. No news was received until from a half hour to an hour of the time at which they were to arrive. Whatever was the reason that no notice of the approach of the troops was given, it was not because they had no apprehensions of trouble. Mr. Felton, the president of the railroad company, says that _before_ the troops left Philadelphia he called the colonel and principal officers into his office, and told them of the dangers they would probably encounter, and advised that each soldier should load his musket before leaving and be ready for any emergency. Colonel Jones's official report, which is dated, "Capitol, Washington, April 22, 1861," says, "_After_ leaving Philadelphia, I received intimation that the passage through the city of Baltimore would be resisted. I caused ammunition to be distributed and arms loaded, and went personally through the cars, and issued the following order--viz.: "'The regiment will march through Baltimore in columns of sections, arms at will. You will undoubtedly be insulted, abused, and perhaps assaulted, to which you must pay no attention whatever, but march with your faces square to the front, and pay no attention to the mob, even if they throw stones, bricks, or other missiles; but if you are fired upon, and any of you are hit, your officers will order you to fire. Do not fire into any promiscuous crowds, but select any man whom you may see aiming at you, and be sure you drop him.'" If due notice had been given, and if this order had been carried out, the danger of a serious disturbance would have been greatly diminished. The plainest dictates of prudence required the Massachusetts and Pennsylvania regiments to march through the city in a body. The Massachusetts regiment was armed with muskets, and could have defended itself, and would also have had aid from the police; and although the Pennsylvania troops were unarmed, they would have been protected by the police just as troops from the same State had been protected on the day before. The mayor and police commissioners would have been present, adding the sanction and authority of their official positions. But the plan adopted laid the troops open to be attacked in detail when they were least able to defend themselves and were out of the reach of assistance from the police. This plan was that when the train reached the President-street or Philadelphia station, in the southeastern part of Baltimore, each car should, according to custom, be detached from the engine and be drawn through the city by four horses for the distance of more than a mile to the Camden-street or Washington station, in the southwestern part of the city. Some one had blundered. The train of thirty-five cars arrived at President-street Station at about eleven o'clock. The course which the troops had to take was first northerly on President street, four squares to Pratt street, a crowded thoroughfare leading along the heads of the docks, then along Pratt street west for nearly a mile to Howard street, and then south, on Howard street, one square to the Camden-street station. Drawn by horses across the city at a rapid pace, about nine[8] cars, containing seven companies of the Massachusetts Sixth, reached the Camden-street station, the first carloads being assailed only with jeers and hisses; but the last car, containing Company "K" and Major Watson, was delayed on its passage--according to one account was thrown off the track by obstructions, and had to be replaced with the help of a passing team; paving-stones and other missiles were thrown, the windows were broken, and some of the soldiers were struck. Colonel Jones was in one of the cars which passed through. Near Gay street, it happened that a number of laborers were at work repaving Pratt street, and had taken up the cobble-stones for the purpose of relaying them. As the troops kept passing, the crowd of bystanders grew larger, the excitement and--among many--the feeling of indignation grew more intense; each new aggressive act was the signal and example for further aggression. A cart coming by with a load of sand, the track was blocked by dumping the cartload upon it--I have been told that this was the act of some merchants and clerks of the neighborhood--and then, as a more effectual means of obstruction, some anchors lying near the head of the Gay-street dock were dragged up to and placed across the track.[9] [Footnote 8: According to some of the published accounts _seven_ cars got through, which would have been one to each company, but I believe that the number of the cars and of the companies did not correspond. Probably the larger companies were divided.] [Footnote 9: For participation in placing this obstruction, a wealthy merchant of long experience, usually a very peaceful man, was afterward indicted for treason by the Grand Jury of the Circuit Court of the United States in Baltimore, but his trial was not pressed.] The next car being stopped by these obstructions, the driver attached the horses to the rear end of the car and drove it back, with the soldiers, to the President-street station, the rest of the cars also, of course, having to turn back, or--if any of them had not yet started--to remain where they were at the depot. In the cars thus stopped and turned back there were four companies, "C," "D," "I" and "L," under Captains Follansbee, Hart, Pickering and Dike; also the band, which, I believe, did not leave the depot, and which remained there with the unarmed Pennsylvania regiment. These four companies, in all about 220 men, formed on President street, in the midst of a dense and angry crowd, which threatened and pressed upon the troops, uttering cheers for Jefferson Davis and the Southern Confederacy, and groans for Lincoln and the North, with much abusive language. As the soldiers advanced along President street, the commotion increased; one of the band of rioters appeared bearing a Confederate flag, and it was carried a considerable distance before it was torn from its staff by citizens. Stones were thrown in great numbers, and at the corner of Fawn street two of the soldiers were knocked down by stones and seriously injured. In crossing Pratt-street bridge, the troops had to pick their way over joists and scantling, which by this time had been placed on the bridge to obstruct their passage. Colonel Jones's official report, from which I have already quoted, thus describes what happened after the four companies left the cars. As Colonel Jones was not present during the march, but obtained the particulars from others, it is not surprising that his account contains errors. These will be pointed out and corrected later: "They proceeded to march in accordance with orders, and had proceeded but a short distance before they were furiously attacked by a shower of missiles, which came faster as they advanced. They increased their step to double-quick, which seemed to infuriate the mob, as it evidently impressed the mob with the idea that the soldiers dared not fire or had no ammunition, and pistol-shots were numerously fired into the ranks, and one soldier fell dead. The order "Fire!" was given, and it was executed; in consequence several of the mob fell, and the soldiers again advanced hastily. The mayor of Baltimore placed himself at the head of the column beside Captain Follansbee, and proceeded with them a short distance, assuring him that he would protect them, and begging him not to let the men fire. But the mayor's patience was soon exhausted, and he seized a musket from the hands of one of the men, and killed a man therewith; and a policeman, who was in advance of the column, also shot a man with a revolver. They at last reached the cars, and they started immediately for Washington. On going through the train I found there were about one hundred and thirty missing, including the band and field music. Our baggage was seized, and we have not as yet been able to recover any of it. I have found it very difficult to get reliable information in regard to the killed and wounded, but believe there were only three killed. "As the men went into the cars" [meaning the men who had marched through the city to Camden Station], "I caused the blinds to the cars to be closed, and took every precaution to prevent any shadow of offense to the people of Baltimore, but still the stones flew thick and fast into the train, and it was with the utmost difficulty that I could prevent the troops from leaving the cars and revenging the death of their comrades. After a volley of stones, some one of the soldiers fired and killed a Mr. Davis, who, I ascertained by reliable witnesses, threw a stone into the car." This is incorrectly stated, as will hereafter appear. It is proper that I should now go back and take up the narration from my own point of view. On the morning of the 19th of April I was at my law office in Saint Paul street after ten o'clock, when three members of the city council came to me with a message from Marshal Kane, informing me that he had just received intelligence that troops were about to arrive--I did not learn how many--and that he apprehended a disturbance, and requesting me to go to the Camden-street station. I immediately hastened to the office of the board of police, and found that they had received a similar notice. The Counsellor of the City, Mr. George M. Gill, and myself then drove rapidly in a carriage to the Camden-street station. The police commissioners followed, and, on reaching the station, we found Marshal Kane on the ground and the police coming in in squads. A large and angry crowd had assembled, but were restrained by the police from committing any serious breach of the peace. After considerable delay seven of the eleven companies of the Massachusetts regiment arrived at the station, as already mentioned, and I saw that the windows of the last car were badly broken. No one to whom I applied could inform me whether more troops were expected or not. At this time an alarm was given that the mob was about to tear up the rails in advance of the train on the Washington road, and Marshal Kane ordered some of his men to go out the road as far as necessary to protect the track. Soon afterward, and when I was about to leave the Camden-street station, supposing all danger to be over, news was brought to Police Commissioner Davis and myself, who were standing together, that some troops had been left behind, and that the mob was tearing up the track on Pratt street, so as to obstruct the progress of the cars, which were coming to the Camden-street station. Mr. Davis immediately ran to summon the marshal, who was at the station with a body of police, to be sent to the point of danger, while I hastened alone in the same direction. On arriving at about Smith's Wharf, foot of Gay street, I found that anchors had been placed on the track, and that Sergeant McComas and four policemen who were with him were not allowed by a group of rioters to remove the obstruction. I at once ordered the anchors to be removed, and my authority was not resisted. I hurried on, and, approaching Pratt-street bridge, I saw a battalion, which proved to be four companies of the Massachusetts regiment which had crossed the bridge, coming towards me in double-quick time. They were firing wildly, sometimes backward, over their shoulders. So rapid was the march that they could not stop to take aim. The mob, which was not very large, as it seemed to me, was pursuing with shouts and stones, and, I think, an occasional pistol-shot. The uproar was furious. I ran at once to the head of the column, some persons in the crowd shouting, "Here comes the mayor." I shook hands with the officer in command, Captain Follansbee, saying as I did so, "I am the mayor of Baltimore." The captain greeted me cordially. I at once objected to the double-quick, which was immediately stopped. I placed myself by his side, and marched with him. He said, "We have been attacked without provocation," or words to that effect. I replied, "You must defend yourselves." I expected that he would face his men to the rear, and, after giving warning, would fire if necessary. But I said no more, for I immediately felt that, as mayor of the city, it was not my province to volunteer such advice. Once before in my life I had taken part in opposing a formidable riot, and had learned by experience that the safest and most humane manner of quelling a mob is to meet it at the beginning with armed resistance. The column continued its march. There was neither concert of action nor organization among the rioters. They were armed only with such stones or missiles as they could pick up, and a few pistols. My presence for a short time had some effect, but very soon the attack was renewed with greater violence. The mob grew bolder. Stones flew thick and fast. Rioters rushed at the soldiers and attempted to snatch their muskets, and at least on two occasions succeeded. With one of these muskets a soldier was killed. Men fell on both sides. A young lawyer, then and now known as a quiet citizen, seized a flag of one of the companies and nearly tore it from its staff. He was shot through the thigh, and was carried home apparently a dying man, but he survived to enter the army of the Confederacy, where he rose to the rank of captain, and he afterward returned to Baltimore, where he still lives. The soldiers fired at will. There was no firing by platoons, and I heard no order given to fire. I remember that at the corner of South street several citizens standing in a group fell, either killed or wounded. It was impossible for the troops to discriminate between the rioters and the by-standers, but the latter seemed to suffer most, because, as the main attack was from the mob pursuing the soldiers from the rear, they, in their march, could not easily face backward to fire, but could shoot at those whom they passed on the street. Near the corner of Light street a soldier was severely wounded, who afterward died, and a boy on a vessel lying in the dock was killed, and about the same place three soldiers at the head of the column leveled their muskets and fired into a group standing on the sidewalk, who, as far as I could see, were taking no active part. The shots took effect, but I cannot say how many fell. I cried out, waving my umbrella to emphasize my words, "For God's sake don't shoot!" but it was too late. The statement that I begged Captain Follansbee not to let the men fire is incorrect, although on this occasion I did say, "Don't shoot." It then seemed to me that I was in the wrong place, for my presence did not avail to protect either the soldiers or the citizens, and I stepped out from the column. Just at this moment a boy ran forward and handed to me a discharged musket which had fallen from one of the soldiers. I took it from him and hastened into the nearest shop, asking the person in charge to keep it safely, and returned immediately to the street. This boy was far from being alone in his sympathy for the troops, but their friends were powerless, except to care for the wounded and remove the dead. The statement in Colonel Jones's report that I seized a musket and killed one of the rioters is entirely incorrect. The smoking musket seen in my hands was no doubt the foundation for it. There is no foundation for the other statement that one of the police shot a man with a revolver. At the moment when I returned to the street, Marshal Kane, with about fifty policemen (as I then supposed, but I have since ascertained that in fact there were not so many), came at a run from the direction of the Camden-street station, and throwing themselves in the rear of the troops, they formed a line in front of the mob, and with drawn revolvers kept it back. This was between Light and Charles streets. Marshal Kane's voice shouted, "Keep back, men, or I shoot!" This movement, which I saw myself, was gallantly executed, and was perfectly successful. The mob recoiled like water from a rock. One of the leading rioters, then a young man, now a peaceful merchant, tried, as he has himself told me, to pass the line, but the marshal seized him and vowed he would shoot if the attempt was made. This nearly ended the fight, and the column passed on under the protection of the police, without serious molestation, to Camden Station.[10] I had accompanied the troops for more than a third of a mile, and regarded the danger as now over. At Camden-street Station there was rioting and confusion. Commissioner Davis assisted in placing the soldiers in the cars for Washington. Some muskets were pointed out of the windows by the soldiers. To this he earnestly objected, as likely to bring on a renewal of the fight, and he advised the blinds to be closed. The muskets were then withdrawn and the blinds closed, by military order, as stated by Colonel Jones. [Footnote 10: The accounts in some of our newspapers describe serious fighting at a point beyond this, but I am satisfied they are incorrect.] At last, about a quarter before one o'clock, the train, consisting of thirteen cars filled with troops, moved out of Camden Station amid the hisses and groans of the multitude, and passed safely on to Washington. At the outskirts of the city, half a mile or more beyond the station, occurred the unfortunate incident of the killing of Robert W. Davis. This gentleman, a well-known dry-goods merchant, was standing on a vacant lot near the track with two friends, and as the train went by they raised a cheer for Jefferson Davis and the South, when he was immediately shot dead by one of the soldiers from a car-window, several firing at once. There were no rioters near them, and they did not know that the troops had been attacked on their march through the city. There was no "volley of stones" thrown just before Mr. Davis was killed, nor did he or his friends throw any.[11] This was the last of the casualties of the day, and was by far the most serious and unfortunate in its consequences, for it was not unnaturally made the most of to inflame the minds of the people against the Northern troops. Had it not been for this incident, there would perhaps have been among many of our people a keener sense of blame attaching to themselves as the aggressors. Four of the Massachusetts regiment were killed and thirty-six wounded. Twelve citizens were killed, including Mr. Davis. The number of wounded among the latter has never been ascertained. As the fighting was at close quarters, the small number of casualties shows that it was not so severe as has generally been supposed. [Footnote 11: Testimony of witnesses at the coroner's inquest.] But peace even for the day had not come. The unarmed Pennsylvanians and the band of the Massachusetts regiment were still at the President-street station, where a mob had assembled, and the police at that point were not sufficient to protect them. Stones were thrown, and some few of the Pennsylvania troops were hurt, not seriously, I believe. A good many of them were, not unnaturally, seized with a panic, and scattered through the city in different directions. Marshal Kane again appeared on the scene with an adequate force, and an arrangement was made with the railroad company by which the troops were sent back in the direction of Philadelphia. During the afternoon and night a number of stragglers sought the aid of the police and were cared for at one of the station-houses. The following card of Captain Dike, who commanded Company "C" of the Sixth Massachusetts Regiment, appeared in the Boston _Courier_: "BALTIMORE, _April 25, 1861_. "It is but an act of justice that induces me to say to my friends who may feel any interest, and to the community generally, that in the affair which occurred in this city on Friday, the 19th instant, the mayor and city authorities should be exonerated from blame or censure, as they did all in their power, as far as my knowledge extends, to quell the riot, and Mayor Brown attested the sincerity of his desire to preserve the peace, and pass our regiment safely through the city, by marching at the head of its column, and remaining there at the risk of his life. Candor could not permit me to say less, and a desire to place the conduct of the authorities here on the occasion in a right position, as well as to allay feelings, urges me to this sheer act of justice. JOHN H. DIKE, "_Captain Company 'C,' Seventh Regiment, attached to Sixth Regiment Massachusetts V. M._" In a letter to Marshal Kane, Colonel Jones wrote as follows: "HEADQUARTERS SIXTH REGIMENT M. V. M. "WASHINGTON, D. C., _April 28, 1861_. "_Marshal Kane, Baltimore, Maryland._ "Please deliver the bodies of the deceased soldiers belonging to my regiment to Murrill S. Wright, Esq., who is authorized to receive them, and take charge of them through to Boston, and thereby add one more to the many favors for which, in connection with this matter, I am, with my command, much indebted to you. Many, many thanks for the Christian conduct of the authorities of Baltimore in this truly unfortunate affair. "I am, with much respect, your obedient servant, "EDWARD F. JONES, "_Colonel Sixth Regiment M. V. M._" The following correspondence with the Governor of Massachusetts seems to be entitled to a place in this paper. Gov. Andrew's first telegram cannot be found. The second, which was sent by me in reply, is as follows: "BALTIMORE, _April 20, 1861_. "_To the Honorable John A. Andrew, Governor of Massachusetts._ "_Sir_:--No one deplores the sad events of yesterday in this city more deeply than myself, but they were inevitable. Our people viewed the passage of armed troops to another State through the streets as an invasion of our soil, and could not be restrained. The authorities exerted themselves to the best of their ability, but with only partial success. Governor Hicks was present, and concurs in all my views as to the proceedings now necessary for our protection. When are these scenes to cease? Are we to have a war of sections? God forbid! The bodies of the Massachusetts soldiers could not be sent out to Boston, as you requested, all communication between this city and Philadelphia by railroad and with Boston by steamer having ceased, but they have been placed in cemented coffins, and will be placed with proper funeral ceremonies in the mausoleum of Greenmount Cemetery, where they shall be retained until further directions are received from you. The wounded are tenderly cared for. I appreciate your offer, but Baltimore will claim it as her right to pay all expenses incurred." "Very respectfully, your obedient servant, "GEO. WM. BROWN, "_Mayor of Baltimore._" To this the following reply was returned by the Governor: "_To His Honor George W. Brown, Mayor of Baltimore._ "_Dear Sir_:--I appreciate your kind attention to our wounded and our dead, and trust that at the earliest moment the remains of our fallen will return to us. I am overwhelmed with surprise that a peaceful march of American citizens over the highway to the defense of our common capital should be deemed aggressive to Baltimoreans. Through New York the march was triumphal. JOHN A. ANDREW, "_Governor of Massachusetts._" This correspondence carries the narrative beyond the nineteenth of April, and I now return to the remaining events of that day. After the news spread through the city of the fight in the streets, and especially of the killing of Mr. Davis, the excitement became intense. It was manifest that no more troops, while the excitement lasted, could pass through without a bloody conflict. All citizens, no matter what were their political opinions, appeared to agree in this--the strongest friends of the Union as well as its foes. However such a conflict might terminate, the result would be disastrous. In each case it might bring down the vengeance of the North upon the city. If the mob succeeded, it would probably precipitate the city, and perhaps the State, into a temporary secession. Such an event all who had not lost their reason deprecated. The immediate and pressing necessity was that no more troops should arrive. Governor Hicks called out the military for the preservation of the peace and the protection of the city. An immense public meeting assembled in Monument Square. Governor Hicks, the mayor, Mr. S. Teackle Wallis, and others, addressed it. In my speech I insisted on the maintenance of peace and order in the city. I denied that the right of a State to secede from the Union was granted by the Constitution. This was received with groans and shouts of disapproval by a part of the crowd, but I maintained my ground. I deprecated war on the seceding States, and strongly expressed the opinion that the South could not be conquered. I approved of Governor Hicks's determination to send no troops from Maryland to invade the South. I further endeavored to calm the people by informing them of the efforts made by Governor Hicks and myself to prevent the passage of more troops through the city. Governor Hicks said: "I coincide in the sentiment of your worthy mayor. After three conferences we have agreed, and I bow in submission to the people. I am a Marylander; I love my State and I love the Union, but I will suffer my right arm to be torn from my body before I will raise it to strike a sister State." A dispatch had previously been sent by Governor Hicks and myself to the President of the United States as follows: "A collision between the citizens and the Northern troops has taken place in Baltimore, and the excitement is fearful. Send no troops here. We will endeavor to prevent all bloodshed. A public meeting of citizens has been called, and the troops of the State have been called out to preserve the peace. They will be enough." Immediately afterward, Messrs. H. Lennox Bond, a Republican, then Judge of the Criminal Court of Baltimore, and now Judge of the Circuit Court of the United States; George W. Dobbin, an eminent lawyer, and John C. Brune, President of the Board of Trade, went to Washington at my request, bearing the following letter to the President: "MAYOR'S OFFICE, BALTIMORE, _April 19, 1861_. "_Sir_:--This will be presented to you by the Hon. H. Lennox Bond, and George W. Dobbin, and John C. Brune, Esqs., who will proceed to Washington by an express train at my request, in order to explain fully the fearful condition of affairs in this city. The people are exasperated to the highest degree by the passage of troops, and the citizens are universally decided in the opinion that no more should be ordered to come. The authorities of the city did their best to-day to protect both strangers and citizens and to prevent a collision, but in vain, and, but for their great efforts, a fearful slaughter would have occurred. Under these circumstances it is my solemn duty to inform you that it is not possible for more soldiers to pass through Baltimore unless they fight their way at every step. I therefore hope and trust and most earnestly request that no more troops be permitted or ordered by the Government to pass through the city. If they should attempt it, the responsibility for the blood shed will not rest upon me. "With great respect, your obedient servant, "GEO. WM. BROWN, _Mayor_. "_To His Excellency Abraham Lincoln, President United States._" To this Governor Hicks added: "I have been in Baltimore City since Tuesday evening last, and coöperated with Mayor G. W. Brown in his untiring efforts to allay and prevent the excitement and suppress the fearful outbreak as indicated above, and I fully concur in all that is said by him in the above communication." No reply came from Washington. The city authorities were left to act on their own responsibility. Late at night reports came of troops being on their way both from Harrisburg and Philadelphia. It was impossible that they could pass through the city without fighting and bloodshed. In this emergency, the board of police, including the mayor, immediately assembled for consultation, and came to the conclusion that it was necessary to burn or disable the bridges on both railroads so far as was required to prevent the ingress of troops. This was accordingly done at once, some of the police and a detachment of the Maryland Guard being sent out to do the work. Governor Hicks was first consulted and urged to give his consent, for we desired that he should share with us the responsibility of taking this grave step. This consent he distinctly gave in my presence and in the presence of several others, and although there was an attempt afterward to deny the fact that he so consented, there can be no doubt whatever about the matter. He was in my house at the time, where, on my invitation, he had taken refuge, thinking that he was in some personal danger at the hotel where he was staying. Early the next morning the Governor returned to Annapolis, and after this the city authorities had to bear alone the responsibilities which the anomalous state of things in Baltimore had brought upon them. On the Philadelphia Railroad the detachment sent out by special train for the purpose of burning the bridges went as far as the Bush River, and the long bridge there, and the still longer one over the wide estuary of the Gunpowder, a few miles nearer Baltimore, were partially burned. It is an interesting fact that just as this party arrived at the Bush River bridge, a volunteer party of five gentlemen from Baltimore reached the same place on the same errand. They had ridden on horseback by night to the river, and had then gone by boat to the bridge for the purpose of burning it, and in fact they stayed at the bridge and continued the work of burning until the afternoon. CHAPTER V. APRIL 20th, INCREASING EXCITEMENT. -- APPROPRIATION OF $500,000 FOR DEFENSE OF THE CITY. -- CORRESPONDENCE WITH PRESIDENT AND GOVERNOR. -- MEN ENROLLED. -- APPREHENDED ATTACK ON FORT McHENRY. -- MARSHAL KANE. -- INTERVIEW WITH PRESIDENT, CABINET AND GENERAL SCOTT. -- GENERAL BUTLER, WITH THE EIGHTH MASSACHUSETTS, PROCEEDS TO ANNAPOLIS AND WASHINGTON. -- BALTIMORE IN A STATE OF ARMED NEUTRALITY. On Saturday morning, the 20th, the excitement and alarm had greatly increased. Up to this time no answer had been received from Washington. The silence became unbearable. Were more troops to be forced through the city at any cost? If so, how were they to come, by land or water? Were the guns of Fort McHenry to be turned upon the inhabitants? Was Baltimore to be compelled at once to determine whether she would side with the North or with the South? Or was she temporarily to isolate herself and wait until the frenzy had in some measure spent its force and reason had begun to resume its sway? In any case it was plain that the authorities must have the power placed in their hands of controlling any outbreak which might occur. This was the general opinion. Union men and disunion men appeared on the streets with arms in their hands. A time like that predicted in Scripture seemed to have come, when he who had no sword would sell his garment to buy one. About ten A. M. the city council assembled and immediately appropriated $500,000, to be expended under my direction as mayor, for the purpose of putting the city in a complete state of defense against any description of danger arising or which might arise out of the present crisis. The banks of the city promptly held a meeting, and a few hours afterward a committee appointed by them, consisting of three bank presidents, Johns Hopkins, John Clark and Columbus O'Donnell, all wealthy Union men, placed the whole sum in advance at my disposal. Mr. Scharf, in his "History of Maryland," Volume 3, page 416, says, in a footnote, that this action of the city authorities was endorsed by the editors of the _Sun_, _American_, _Exchange_, _German Correspondent_, _Clipper_, _South_, etc. Other considerable sums were contributed by individuals and firms without respect to party. On the same morning I received a dispatch from Messrs. Bond, Dobbin and Brune, the committee who had gone to Washington, which said: "We have seen the President and General Scott. We have from the former a letter to the mayor and Governor declaring that no troops shall be brought to Baltimore, if, in a military point of view and without interruption from opposition, they can be marched around Baltimore." As the Governor had left Baltimore for Annapolis early in the morning, I telegraphed him as follows: "BALTIMORE, _April 20, 1861_. "_To Governor Hicks._ "Letter from President and General Scott. No troops to pass through Baltimore if as a military force they can march around. I will answer that every effort will be made to prevent parties leaving the city to molest them, but cannot guarantee against acts of individuals not organized. Do you approve? GEO. WM. BROWN." This telegram was based on that from Messrs. Bond, Dobbin and Brune. The letter referred to had not been received when my telegram to Governor Hicks was dispatched. I was mistaken in supposing that General Scott had signed the letter as well as the President. President Lincoln's letter was as follows: "WASHINGTON, _April 20, 1861_. "_Governor Hicks and Mayor Brown._ "_Gentlemen_:--Your letter by Messrs. Bond, Dobbin and Brune is received. I tender you both my sincere thanks for your efforts to keep the peace in the trying situation in which you are placed. For the future troops _must_ be brought here, but I make no point of bringing them _through_ Baltimore. "Without any military knowledge myself, of course I must leave details to General Scott. He hastily said this morning, in presence of these gentlemen, 'March them _around_ Baltimore, and not through it.' "I sincerely hope the General, on fuller reflection, will consider this practical and proper, and that you will not object to it. "By this, a collision of the people of Baltimore with the troops will be avoided unless they go out of their way to seek it. I hope you will exert your influence to prevent this. "Now and ever I shall do all in my power for peace consistently with the maintenance of government. "Your obedient servant, A. LINCOLN." Governor Hicks replied as follows to my telegram: "ANNAPOLIS, _April 20, 1861_. "_To the Mayor of Baltimore._ "Your dispatch received. I hoped they would send no more troops through Maryland, but as we have no right to demand that, I am glad no more are to be sent through Baltimore. I know you will do all in your power to preserve the peace. THOS. H. HICKS." I then telegraphed to the President as follows: "BALTIMORE, MARYLAND, _April 20, 1861_. "_To President Lincoln._ "Every effort will be made to prevent parties leaving the city to molest troops marching to Washington. Baltimore seeks only to protect herself. Governor Hicks has gone to Annapolis, but I have telegraphed to him. "GEO. WM. BROWN, _Mayor of Baltimore_." After the receipt of the dispatch from Messrs. Bond, Dobbin and Brune, another committee was sent to Washington, consisting of Messrs. Anthony Kennedy, Senator of the United States, and J. Morrison Harris, member of the House of Representatives, both Union men, who sent a dispatch to me saying that they "had seen the President, Secretaries of State, Treasury and War, and also General Scott. The result is the transmission of orders that will stop the passage of troops through or around the city." Preparations for the defense of the city were nevertheless continued. With this object I issued a notice in which I said: "All citizens having arms suitable for the defense of the city, and which they are willing to contribute for the purpose, are requested to deposit them at the office of the marshal of police." The board of police enrolled temporarily a considerable number of men and placed them under the command of Colonel Isaac R. Trimble. He informs me that the number amounted to more than fifteen thousand, about three-fourths armed with muskets, shotguns and pistols. This gentleman was afterward a Major-General in the Confederate Army, where he distinguished himself. He lost a leg at Gettysburg. By this means not only was the inadequate number of the police supplemented, but many who would otherwise have been the disturbers of the peace became its defenders. And, indeed, not a few of the men enrolled, who thought and hoped that their enrollment meant war, were disappointed to find that the prevention of war was the object of the city authorities, and afterwards found their way into the Confederacy. For some days it looked very much as if Baltimore had taken her stand decisively with the South; at all events, the outward expressions of Southern feeling were very emphatic, and the Union sentiment temporarily disappeared. Early on the morning of Saturday, the 20th, a large Confederate flag floated from the headquarters of a States Rights club on Fayette street near Calvert, and on the afternoon of the same day the Minute Men, a Union club, whose headquarters were on Baltimore street, gave a most significant indication of the strength of the wave of feeling which swept over our people by hauling down the National colors and running up in their stead the State flag of Maryland, amid the cheers of the crowd.[12] Everywhere on the streets men and boys were wearing badges which displayed miniature Confederate flags, and were cheering the Southern cause. Military companies began to arrive from the counties. On Saturday, first came a company of seventy men from Frederick, under Captain Bradley T. Johnson, afterward General in the Southern Army, and next two cavalry companies from Baltimore County, and one from Anne Arundel County. These last, the Patapsco Dragoons, some thirty men, a sturdy-looking body of yeomanry, rode straight to the City Hall and drew up, expecting to be received with a speech of welcome from the mayor. I made them a very brief address, and informed them that dispatches received from Washington had postponed the necessity for their services, whereupon they started homeward amid cheers, their bugler striking up "Dixie," which was the first time I heard that tune. A few days after, they came into Baltimore again. On Sunday came in the Howard County Dragoons, and by steamboat that morning two companies from Talbot County, and soon it was reported that from Harford, Cecil, Carroll and Prince George's, companies were on their way. All the city companies of uniformed militia were, of course, under arms. Three batteries of light artillery were in the streets, among them the light field-pieces belonging to the military school at Catonsville, but these the reverend rector of the school, a strong Union man, had thoughtfully spiked. [Footnote 12: Baltimore _American_, April 22.] The United States arsenal at Pikesville, at the time unoccupied, was taken possession of by some Baltimore County troops. From the local columns of the _American_ of the 22d, a paper which was strongly on the Union side, I take the following paragraph: "WAR SPIRIT ON SATURDAY. "The war spirit raged throughout the city and among all classes during Saturday with an ardor which seemed to gather fresh force each hour.... All were united in a determination to resist at every hazard the passage of troops through Baltimore.... Armed men were marching through the streets, and the military were moving about in every direction, and it is evident that Baltimore is to be the battlefield of the Southern revolution." And from the _American_ of Tuesday, 23d: "At the works of the Messrs. Winans their entire force is engaged in the making of pikes, and in casting balls of every description for cannon, the steam gun,[13] rifles, muskets, etc., which they are turning out very rapidly." [Footnote 13: Winans's steam gun, a recently invented, and, it was supposed, very formidable engine, was much talked about at this time. It was not very long afterwards seized and confiscated by the military authorities.] And a very significant paragraph from the _Sun_ of the same day: "Yesterday morning between 300 and 400 of our most respectable colored residents made a tender of their services to the city authorities. The mayor thanked them for their offer, and informed them that their services will be called for if they can be made in any way available." Officers from Maryland in the United States Army were sending in their resignations. Colonel (afterward General) Huger, of South Carolina, who had recently resigned, and was in Baltimore at the time, was made Colonel of the Fifty-third Regiment, composed of the Independent Greys and the six companies of the Maryland Guard. On Monday morning, the 22d, I issued an order directing that all the drinking-saloons should be closed that day, and the order was enforced. On Saturday, April 20th, Captain John C. Robinson, now Major-General, then in command at Fort McHenry, which stands at the entrance of the harbor, wrote to Colonel L. Thomas, Adjutant-General of the United States Army, that he would probably be attacked that night, but he believed he could hold the fort. In the September number, for the year 1885, of _American History_ there is an article written by General Robinson, entitled "Baltimore in 1861," in which he speaks of the apprehended attack on the fort, and of the conduct of the Baltimore authorities. He says that about nine o'clock on the evening of the 20th, Police Commissioner Davis called at the fort, bringing a letter, dated eight o'clock P. M. of the same evening, from Charles Howard, the president of the board, which he quotes at length, and which states that, from rumors that had reached the board, they were apprehensive that the commander of the fort might be annoyed by lawless and disorderly characters approaching the walls of the fort, and they proposed to send a guard of perhaps two hundred men to station themselves on Whetstone Point, of course beyond the outer limits of the fort, with orders to arrest and hand over to the civil authorities any evil-disposed and disorderly persons who might approach the fort. The letter further stated that this duty would have been confided to the police force, but their services were so imperatively required elsewhere that it would be impossible to detail a sufficient number, and this duty had therefore been entrusted to a detachment of the regular organized militia of the State, then called out pursuant to law, and actually in the service of the State. It was added that the commanding officer of the detachment would be ordered to communicate with Captain Robinson. The letter closed with repeating the assurance verbally given to Captain Robinson in the morning that no disturbance at or near the post should be made with the sanction of any of the constituted authorities of the city of Baltimore; but, on the contrary, all their powers should be exerted to prevent anything of the kind by any parties. A postscript stated that there might perhaps be a troop of volunteer cavalry with the detachment. General Robinson continues: "I did not question the good faith of Mr. Howard, but Commissioner Davis verbally stated that they proposed to send the Maryland Guards to help protect the fort. Having made the acquaintance of some of the officers of that organization, and heard them freely express their opinions, I declined the offered support, and then the following conversation occurred: "_Commandant._ I am aware, sir, that we are to be attacked to-night. I received notice of it before sundown. If you will go outside with me you will see we are prepared for it. You will find the guns loaded, and men standing by them. As for the Maryland Guards, they cannot come here. I am acquainted with some of those gentlemen, and know what their sentiments are. "_Commissioner Davis._ Why, Captain, we are anxious to avoid a collision. "_Commandant._ So am I, sir. If you wish to avoid a collision, place your city military anywhere between the city and that chapel on the road, but if they come this side of it, I shall fire on them. "_Commissioner Davis._ Would you fire into the city of Baltimore? "_Commandant._ I should be sorry to do it, sir, but if it becomes necessary in order to hold this fort, I shall not hesitate for one moment. "_Commissioner Davis_ (excitedly). I assure you, Captain Robinson, if there is a woman or child killed in that city, there will not be one of you left alive here, sir. "_Commandant._ Very well, sir, I will take the chances. Now, I assure you, Mr. Davis, if your Baltimore mob comes down here to-night, you will not have another mob in Baltimore for ten years to come, sir." Mr. Davis is a well-known and respected citizen of Baltimore, who has filled various important public offices with credit, and at present holds a high position in the Baltimore and Ohio Railroad Company. According to his recollection, the interview was more courteous and less dramatic than would be supposed from the account given by General Robinson. Mr. Davis says that the people of Baltimore were acquainted with the defenseless condition of the fort, and that in the excited state of the public mind this fact probably led to the apprehension and consequent rumor that an attempt would be made to capture it. The police authorities believed, and, as it turned out, correctly, that the rumor was without foundation; yet, to avoid the danger of any disturbance whatever, the precautions were taken which are described in the letter of Mr. Howard, and Mr. Davis went in person to deliver it to Captain Robinson. His interview was not, however, confined to Captain Robinson, but included also other officers of the fort, and Mr. Davis was hospitably received. A conversation ensued in regard to the threatened attack, and, with one exception, was conducted without asperity. A junior officer threatened, in case of an attack, to direct the fire of a cannon on the Washington Monument, which stands in the heart of the city, and to this threat Mr. Davis replied with heat, "If you do that, and if a woman or child is killed, there will be nothing left of you but your brass buttons to tell who you were." The commandant insisted that the military sent by the board should not approach the fort nearer than the Roman Catholic chapel, a demand to which Mr. Davis readily assented, as that situation commanded the only approach from the city to the fort. In the midst of the conversation the long roll was sounded, and the whole garrison rushed to arms. For a long time, and until the alarm was over, Mr. Davis was left alone. General Robinson was mistaken in his conjecture, "when it seemed to him that for hours of the night mounted men from the country were crossing the bridges of the Patapsco." There was but one bridge over the Patapsco, known as the Long Bridge, from which any sound of passing horsemen or vehicles of any description could possibly have been heard at the fort. The sounds which did reach the fort from the Long Bridge during the hours of the night were probably the market wagons of Anne Arundel County passing to and from the city on their usual errand, and the one or two companies from that county, which came to Baltimore during the period of disturbance, no doubt rode in over the Long Bridge by daylight. General Robinson, after describing in his paper the riot of the 19th of April and the unfortunate event of the killing of Mr. Davis, adds: "It is impossible to describe the intense excitement that now prevailed. Only those who saw and felt it can understand or conceive any adequate idea of its extent"; and in this connection he mentions the fact that Marshal Kane, chief of the police force, on the evening of the 19th of April, telegraphed to Bradley T. Johnson, at Frederick, as follows: "Streets red with Maryland blood; send expresses over the mountains of Maryland and Virginia for the riflemen to come without delay. Fresh hordes will be down on us to-morrow. We will fight them and whip them, or die." The sending of this dispatch was indeed a startling event, creating a new complication and embarrassing in the highest degree to the city authorities. The marshal of police, who had gallantly and successfully protected the national troops on the 18th and 19th, was so carried away by the frenzy of the hour that he had thus on his own responsibility summoned volunteers from Virginia and Maryland to contest the passage of national troops through the city. Different views were taken by members of the board of police. It was considered, on the one hand, that the services of Colonel Kane were, in that crisis, indispensable, because no one could control as he could the secession element of the city, which was then in the ascendant and might get control of the city, and, on the other, that his usefulness had ceased, because not only had the gravest offense been given to the Union sentiment of the city by this dispatch, but the authorities in Washington, while he was at the head of the police, could no longer have any confidence in the police, or perhaps in the board itself. The former consideration prevailed. It is due to Marshal Kane to say that subsequently, and while he remained in office, he performed his duty to the satisfaction of the Board. Some years after the war was over he was elected sheriff, and still later mayor of the city, and in both capacities he enjoyed the respect and regard of the community. It may with propriety be added that the conservative position and action of the police board were so unsatisfactory to many of the more heated Southern partisans, that a scheme was at one time seriously entertained by them to suppress the board, and transfer the control of the police force to other hands. Happily for all parties, better counsels prevailed. On Sunday, the 21st of April, with three prominent citizens of Baltimore, I went to Washington, and we there had an interview with the President and Cabinet and General Scott. This interview was of so much importance, that a statement of what occurred was prepared on the same day and was immediately published. It is here given at length: BALTIMORE, _April 21_. Mayor Brown received a dispatch from the President of the United States at three o'clock A. M. (this morning), directed to himself and Governor Hicks, requesting them to go to Washington by special train, in order to consult with Mr. Lincoln for the preservation of the peace of Maryland. The mayor replied that Governor Hicks was not in the city, and inquired if he should go alone. Receiving an answer by telegraph in the affirmative, his Honor, accompanied by George W. Dobbin, John C. Brune and S. T. Wallis, Esqs., whom he had summoned to attend him, proceeded at once to the station. After a series of delays they were enabled to procure a special train about half-past seven o'clock, in which they arrived at Washington about ten. They repaired at once to the President's house, where they were admitted to an immediate interview, to which the Cabinet and General Scott were summoned. A long conversation and discussion ensued. The President, upon his part, recognized the good faith of the city and State authorities, and insisted upon his own. He admitted the excited state of feeling in Baltimore, and his desire and duty to avoid the fatal consequences of a collision with the people. He urged, on the other hand, the absolute, irresistible necessity of having a transit through the State for such troops as might be necessary for the protection of the Federal capital. The protection of Washington, he asserted with great earnestness, was the sole object of concentrating troops there, and he protested that none of the troops brought through Maryland were intended for any purposes hostile to the State, or aggressive as against the Southern States. Being now unable to bring them up the Potomac in security, the President must either bring them through Maryland or abandon the capital. He called on General Scott for his opinion, which the General gave at length, to the effect that troops might be brought through Maryland without going through Baltimore, by either carrying them from Perryville to Annapolis, and thence by rail to Washington, or by bringing them to the Relay House on the Northern Central Railroad [about seven miles north of the city], and marching them to the Relay House on the Washington Railroad [about seven miles south-west of the city], and thence by rail to the capital. If the people would permit them to go by either of these routes uninterruptedly, the necessity of their passing through Baltimore would be avoided. If the people would not permit them a transit thus remote from the city, they must select their own best route, and, if need be, fight their own way through Baltimore--a result which the General earnestly deprecated. The President expressed his hearty concurrence in the desire to avoid a collision, and said that no more troops should be ordered through Baltimore if they were permitted to go uninterrupted by either of the other routes suggested. In this disposition the Secretary of War expressed his participation. Mayor Brown assured the President that the city authorities would use all lawful means to prevent their citizens from leaving Baltimore to attack the troops in passing at a distance; but he urged, at the same time, the impossibility of their being able to promise anything more than their best efforts in that direction. The excitement was great, he told the President, the people of all classes were fully aroused, and it was impossible for any one to answer for the consequences of the presence of Northern troops anywhere within our borders. He reminded the President also that the jurisdiction of the city authorities was confined to their own population, and that he could give no promises for the people elsewhere, because he would be unable to keep them if given. The President frankly acknowledged this difficulty, and said that the Government would only ask the city authorities to use their best efforts with respect to those under their jurisdiction. The interview terminated with the distinct assurance on the part of the President that no more troops would be sent through Baltimore, unless obstructed in their transit in other directions, and with the understanding that the city authorities should do their best to restrain their own people. The Mayor and his companions availed themselves of the President's full discussion of the day to urge upon him respectfully, but in the most earnest manner, a course of policy which would give peace to the country, and especially the withdrawal of all orders contemplating the passage of troops through any part of Maryland. On returning to the cars, and when just about to leave, about 2 P. M., the Mayor received a dispatch from Mr. Garrett (the President of the Baltimore and Ohio Railroad) announcing the approach of troops to Cockeysville [about fourteen miles from Baltimore on the Northern Central Railroad], and the excitement consequent upon it in the city. Mr. Brown and his companions returned at once to the President and asked an immediate audience, which was promptly given. The Mayor exhibited Mr. Garrett's dispatch, which gave the President great surprise. He immediately summoned the Secretary of War and General Scott, who soon appeared with other members of the Cabinet. The dispatch was submitted. The President at once, in the most decided way, urged the recall of the troops, saying he had no idea they would be there. Lest there should be the slightest suspicion of bad faith on his part in summoning the Mayor to Washington and allowing troops to march on the city during his absence, he desired that the troops should, if it were practicable, be sent back at once to York or Harrisburg. General Scott adopted the President's views warmly, and an order was accordingly prepared by the Lieutenant-General to that effect, and forwarded by Major Belger, of the Army, who also accompanied the Mayor to this city. The troops at Cockeysville, the Mayor was assured, were not brought there for transit through the city, but were intended to be marched to the Relay House on the Baltimore and Ohio Railroad. They will proceed to Harrisburg, from there to Philadelphia, and thence by the Chesapeake and Delaware Canal or by Perryville, as Major-General Patterson may direct. This statement is made by the authority of the Mayor and Messrs. George W. Dobbin, John C. Brune and S. T. Wallis, who accompanied Mr. Brown, and who concurred with him in all particulars in the course adopted by him in the two interviews with Mr. Lincoln. GEO. WM. BROWN, _Mayor_. This statement was written by Mr. Wallis, at the request of his associates, on the train, and was given to the public immediately on their return to the city. In the course of the first conversation Mr. Simon Cameron called my attention to the fact that an iron bridge on the Northern Central Railway, which, he remarked, belonged to the city of Baltimore, had been disabled by a skilled person so as to inflict little injury on the bridge, and he desired to know by what authority this had been done. Up to this time nothing had been said about the disabling of the bridges. In reply I addressed myself to the President, and said, with much earnestness, that the disabling of this bridge, and of the other bridges, had been done by authority, as the reader has already been told, and that it was a measure of protection on a sudden emergency, designed to prevent bloodshed in the city of Baltimore, and not an act of hostility towards the General Government; that the people of Maryland had always been deeply attached to the Union, which had been shown on all occasions, but that they, including the citizens of Baltimore, regarded the proclamation calling for 75,000 troops as an act of war on the South, and a violation of its constitutional rights, and that it was not surprising that a high-spirited people, holding such opinions, should resent the passage of Northern troops through their city for such a purpose. Mr. Lincoln was greatly moved, and, springing up from his chair, walked backward and forward through the apartment. He said, with great feeling, "Mr. Brown, I am not a learned man! I am not a learned man!" that his proclamation had not been correctly understood; that he had no intention of bringing on war, but that his purpose was to defend the capital, which was in danger of being bombarded from the heights across the Potomac. I am giving here only a part of a frank and full conversation, in which others present participated. The telegram of Mr. Garrett to me referred to in the preceding statement is in the following words: "Three thousand Northern troops are reported to be at Cockeysville. Intense excitement prevails. Churches have been dismissed and the people are arming in mass. To prevent terrific bloodshed, the result of your interview and arrangement is awaited." To this the following reply to Mr. Garrett was made by me: "Your telegram received on our return from an interview with the President, Cabinet and General Scott. Be calm and do nothing until you hear from me again. I return to see the President at once and will telegraph again. Wallis, Brune and Dobbin are with me." Accordingly, after the second interview, the following dispatch was sent by me to Mr. Garrett: "We have again seen the President, General Scott, Secretary of War and other members of the Cabinet, and the troops are ordered to return forthwith to Harrisburg. A messenger goes with us from General Scott. We return immediately." Mr. Garrett's telegram was not exaggerated. It was a fearful day in Baltimore. Women and children, and men, too, were wild with excitement. A certainty of a fight in the streets if Northern troops should enter was the pressing danger. Those who were arming in hot haste to resist the passage of Northern troops little recked of the fearful risk to which they were exposing themselves and all they held dear. It was well for the city and State that the President had decided as he did. When the President gave his deliberate decision that the troops should pass around Baltimore and not through it, General Scott, stern soldier as he sometimes was, said with emotion, "Mr. President, I thank you for this, and God will bless you for it." From the depth of our hearts my colleagues and myself thanked both the General and the President. The troops on the line of the Northern Central Railway--some 2400 men, about half of them armed--did not receive their orders to return to Pennsylvania until after several days. As they had expected to make the journey to Washington by rail, they were naturally not well equipped or supplied for camp life. I take the following from the _Sun_ of April 23d: "By order of Marshal Kane, several wagon-loads of bread and meat were sent to the camp of the Pennsylvania troops, it being understood that a number were sick and suffering for proper food and nourishment.... One of the Pennsylvanians died on Sunday and was buried within the encampment. Two more died yesterday and a number of others were on the sick list. The troops were deficient in food, having nothing but crackers to feed upon." The Eighth Massachusetts Regiment, under command of General Butler, was the next which passed through Maryland. It reached Perryville, on the Susquehanna, by rail on the 20th, and there embarked on the steamboat _Maryland_, arriving at Annapolis early on the morning of the 21st. Governor Hicks addressed the General a note advising that he should not land his men, on account of the great excitement there, and stated that he had telegraphed to that effect to the Secretary of War. The Governor also wrote to the President, advising him to order elsewhere the troops then off Annapolis, and to send no more through Maryland, and added the surprising suggestion that Lord Lyons, the British Minister, be requested to act as mediator between the contending parties of the country. The troops, however, were landed without opposition. The railway from Annapolis leading to the Washington road had, in some places, been torn up, but it was promptly repaired by the soldiers, and by the 25th an unobstructed route was opened through Annapolis to Washington. Horace Greeley, in his book called "The American Conflict," denounces with characteristic vehemence and severity of language the proceedings of the city authorities. He scouts "the demands" of the Mayor and his associates, whom he designates as "Messrs. Brown & Co." He insists that practically on the morning of the 20th of April Maryland was a member of the Southern Confederacy, and that her Governor spoke and acted the bidding of a cabal of the ablest and most envenomed traitors. It is true that the city then, and for days afterwards, was in an anomalous condition, which may be best described as one of "armed neutrality"; but it is not true that in any sense it was, on the 20th of April, or at any other time, a member of the Southern Confederacy. On the contrary, while many, especially among the young and reckless, were doing their utmost to place it in that position, regardless of consequences, and would, if they could, have forced the hands of the city authorities, it was their conduct which prevented such a catastrophe. Temporizing and delay were necessary. As soon as passions had time to cool, a strong reaction set in and the people rapidly divided into two parties--one on the side of the North, and the other on the side of the South; but whatever might be their personal or political sympathies, it was clear to all who had not lost their reason that Maryland, which lay open from the North by both land and sea, would be kept in the Union for the sake of the national capital, even if it required the united power of the nation to accomplish the object. The telegraph wires on the lines leading to the North had been cut, and for some days the city was without regular telegraphic connection. For a longer time the mails were interrupted and travel was stopped. The buoys in the harbor were temporarily removed. The business interests of the city of course suffered under these interruptions, and would be paralyzed if such isolation were to continue, and the merchants soon began to demand that the channels of trade should be reopened to the north and east. The immediate duty of the city authorities was to keep the peace and protect the city, and, without going into details or discussing the conduct of individuals, I shall leave others to speak of the manner in which it was performed. Colonel Scharf, in his "History of Maryland," Volume III, p. 415, sums up the matter as follows: "In such a period of intense excitement, many foolish and unnecessary acts were undoubtedly done by persons in the employment of the city, as well as by private individuals, but it is undoubtedly true that the Mayor and board of police commissioners were inflexibly determined to resist all attempts to force the city into secession or into acts of hostility to the Federal Government, and that they successfully accomplished their purpose. If they had been otherwise disposed, they could easily have effected their object." CHAPTER VI. SESSION OF THE GENERAL ASSEMBLY. -- REPORT OF THE BOARD OF POLICE. -- SUPPRESSION OF THE FLAGS. -- ON THE 5th OF MAY, GENERAL BUTLER TAKES POSITION SEVEN MILES FROM BALTIMORE. -- ON THE 13TH OF MAY, HE ENTERS BALTIMORE AND FORTIFIES FEDERAL HILL. -- THE GENERAL ASSEMBLY WILL TAKE NO STEPS TOWARDS SECESSION. -- MANY YOUNG MEN JOIN THE ARMY OF THE CONFEDERACY. On the 22d of April, Governor Hicks convened the General Assembly of the State, to meet in special session at Annapolis on the 26th, to deliberate and consider of the condition of the State, and to take such measures as in their wisdom they might deem fit to maintain peace and order and security within its limits. On the 24th of April, "in consequence of the extraordinary state of affairs," Governor Hicks changed the meeting of the Assembly to Frederick. The candidates for the House of Delegates for the city of Baltimore, who had been returned as elected to the General Assembly in 1859, had been refused their seats, as previously stated, and a new election in the city had therefore become necessary to fill the vacancy. A special election for that purpose was accordingly held in the city on the 24th instant. Only a States Rights ticket was presented, for which nine thousand two hundred and forty-four votes were cast. The candidates elected were: John C. Brune, Ross Winans, Henry M. Warfield, J. Hanson Thomas, T. Parkin Scott, H. M. Morfit, S. Teackle Wallis, Charles H. Pitts, William G. Harrison and Lawrence Sangston, well-known and respected citizens, and the majority of them nominated because of their known conservatism and declared opposition to violent measures. This General Assembly, which contained men of unusual weight and force of character, will ever remain memorable in Maryland for the courage and ability with which it maintained the constitutional rights of the State. On the 3d of May, the board of police made a report of its proceedings to the Legislature of the State, signed by Charles Howard, President. After speaking of the disabling of the railroads, it concludes as follows: "The absolute necessity of the measures thus determined upon by the Governor, Mayor and Police Board, is fully illustrated by the fact that early on Sunday morning reliable information reached the city of the presence of a large body of Pennsylvania troops, amounting to about twenty-four hundred men, who had reached Ashland, near Cockeysville, by the way of the Northern Central Railroad, and was stopped in their progress towards Baltimore by the partial destruction of the Ashland bridge. Every intelligent citizen at all acquainted with the state of feeling then existing, must be satisfied that if these troops had attempted to march through the city, an immense loss of life would have ensued in the conflict which would necessarily have taken place. The bitter feelings already engendered would have been intensely increased by such a conflict; all attempts at conciliation would have been vain, and terrible destruction would have been the consequence, if, as is certain, other bodies of troops had insisted on forcing their way through the city. "The tone of the whole Northern press and the mass of the population was violent in the extreme. Incursions upon our city were daily threatened, not only by troops in the service of the Federal Government, but by the vilest and most reckless desperadoes, acting independently, and, as they threatened, in despite of the Government, backed by well-known influential citizens, and sworn to the commission of all kinds of excesses. In short, every possible effort was made to alarm this community. In this condition of things the Board felt it to be their solemn duty to continue the organization which had already been commenced, for the purpose of assuring the people of Baltimore that no effort would be spared to protect all within its borders, to the extent of their ability. All the means employed were devoted to this end, and with no view of producing a collision with the General Government, which the Board were particularly anxious to avoid, and an arrangement was happily effected by the Mayor with the General Government that no troops should be passed through the city. As an evidence of the determination of the Board to prevent such collision, a sufficient guard was sent in the neighborhood of Fort McHenry several nights to arrest all parties who might be engaged in a threatened attack upon it, and a steam-tug was employed, properly manned, to prevent any hostile demonstration upon the receiving-ship _Alleghany_, lying at anchor in the harbor, of all which the United States officers in command were duly notified. "Property of various descriptions belonging to the Government and individuals was taken possession of by the police force with a view to its security. The best care has been taken of it. Every effort has been made to discover the rightful owners, and a portion of it has already been forwarded to order. Arrangements have been made with the Government agents satisfactory to them for the portion belonging to it, and the balance is held subject to the order of its owners. "Amidst all the excitement and confusion which has since prevailed, the Board take great pleasure in stating that the good order and peace of the city have been preserved to an extraordinary degree. Indeed, to judge from the accounts given by the press of other cities of what has been the state of things in their own communities, Baltimore, during the whole of the past week and up to this date, will compare favorably, as to the protection which persons and property have enjoyed, with any other large city in the United States." Much has been said in regard to the suppression of the national flag in Baltimore during the disturbances, and it is proper that the facts should here be stated. General Robinson, in his description of the occurrences which took place after the 19th of April, says that meetings were held under the flag of the State of Maryland, at which the speeches were inflammatory secession harangues, and that the national flag disappeared, and no man dared to display it. Whether or not this statement exactly represents the condition of things, it at least approximates it, and on the 26th of April, an order was issued by the board of police reciting that the peace of the city was likely to be disturbed by the display of various flags, and directing that no flag of any description should be raised or carried through the streets. On April 29th, the city council passed an ordinance, signed by the Mayor, authorizing him, when in his opinion the peace of the city required it, to prohibit by proclamation for a limited period, to be designated by him, the public display of all flags or banners in the city of Baltimore, except on buildings or vessels occupied or employed by the Government of the United States. On the same day I, in pursuance of the ordinance, issued a proclamation prohibiting the display of flags for thirty days, with the exception stated in the ordinance, and on the 10th of May, when I was satisfied that all danger was over, I issued a proclamation removing the prohibition. The only violation of the order which came under my notice during the period of suppression was on the part of a military company which had the Maryland flag flying at its headquarters, on Lexington street near the City Hall. On my directing this flag to be taken down, the request was at once complied with. General Robinson says that "the first demonstration of returning loyalty was on the 28th day of April, when a sailing vessel came down the river crowded with men, and covered from stem to stern with national flags. She sailed past the fort, cheered and saluted our flag, which was dipped in return, after which she returned to the city." He then adds: "The tide had turned. Union men avowed themselves, the stars and stripes were again unfurled, and order was restored. Although after this time arrests were made of persons conspicuous for disloyalty, the return to reason was almost as sudden as the outbreak of rebellion. The railroads were repaired, trains ran regularly, and troops poured into Washington without hindrance or opposition of any sort. Thousands of men volunteered for the Union Army. Four regiments of Maryland troops afterwards served with me, and constituted the Third Brigade of my division. They fought gallantly the battles of the Union, and no braver soldiers ever marched under the flag." The tide indeed soon turned, but not quite so rapidly as this statement seems to indicate. On the 5th of May, General Butler, with two regiments and a battery of artillery, came from Washington and took possession of the Relay House on the Baltimore and Ohio Railroad at the junction of the Washington branch, about seven miles from Baltimore, and fortified the position. One of his first proceedings was highly characteristic. He issued a special order declaring that he had found well-authenticated evidence that one of his soldiers had "been poisoned by means of strychnine administered in the food brought into the camp," and he warned the people of Maryland that he could "put an agent, with a word, into every household armed with this terrible weapon." This statement sent a thrill of horror through the North, and the accompanying threat of course excited the indignation and disgust of our people. The case was carefully examined by the city physician, and it turned out that the man had an ordinary attack of cholera morbus, the consequence of imprudent diet and camp life, but the General never thought proper to correct the slander. On the evening of the 11th of May, General Butler being then at Annapolis, I received a note from Edward G. Parker, his aide-de-camp, stating that he had received intimations from many sources that an attack by the Baltimore roughs was intended that night; that these rumors had been confirmed by a gentleman from Baltimore, who gave his name and residence; that the attack would be made by more than a thousand men, every one sworn to kill a man; that they were coming in wagons, on horses and on foot, and that a considerable force from the west, probably the Point of Rocks in Maryland, was also expected, and I was requested to guard every avenue from the city, so as to prevent the Baltimore rioters from leaving town. Out of respect to the source from which the application came, I immediately sent for the marshal of police, and requested him to throw out bodies of his men so as to guard every avenue leading to the Relay House. No enemy, however, appeared. The threatened attack proved to be merely a groundless alarm, as I knew from the beginning it was. On the night of the 13th of May, when the city was as peaceful as it is to-day, General Butler, in the midst of a thunderstorm of unusual violence, entered Baltimore and took possession of Federal Hill, which overlooks the harbor and commands the city, and which he immediately proceeded to fortify. There was nobody to oppose him, and nobody thought of doing so; but, for this exploit, which he regarded as the capture of Baltimore, he was made a Major-General. He immediately issued a proclamation, as if he were in a conquered city subject to military law. Meantime, on the 26th of April, the General Assembly of the State had met at Frederick. "As soon as the General Assembly met" (Scharf's History of Maryland, Vol. III, p. 444), "the Hon. James M. Mason, formerly United States Senator from Virginia, waited on it as commissioner from that State, authorized to negotiate a treaty of alliance offensive and defensive with Maryland on her behalf." This proposition met with no acceptance. On the 27th, the Senate, by a unanimous vote, issued an address for the purpose of allaying the apprehensions of the people, declaring that it had no constitutional authority to take any action leading to secession, and on the next day the House of Delegates, by a vote of 53 to 12, made a similar declaration. Early in May, the General Assembly, by a vote in the House of 43 to 12, and in the Senate of 11 to 3, passed a series of resolutions proclaiming its position in the existing crisis. The resolutions protested against the war as unjust and unconstitutional, and announced a determination to take no part in its prosecution. They expressed a desire for the immediate recognition of the Confederate States; and while they protested against the military occupation of the State, and the arbitrary restrictions and illegalities with which it was attended, they called on all good citizens to abstain from violent and unlawful interference with the troops, and patiently and peacefully to leave to time and reason the ultimate and certain re-establishment and vindication of the right; and they declared it to be at that time inexpedient to call a Sovereign Convention of the State, or to take any measures for the immediate organization or arming of the militia. After it became plain that no movement would be made towards secession, a large number of young men, including not a few of the flower of the State, and representing largely the more wealthy and prominent families, escaped across the border and entered the ranks of the Confederacy. The number has been estimated at as many as twenty thousand, but this, perhaps, is too large a figure, and there are no means of ascertaining the truth. The muster-rolls have perished with the Confederacy. The great body of those who sympathized with the South had no disposition to take arms against the Union so long as Maryland remained a member of it. This was subsequently proved by their failure to enlist in the Southern armies on the different occasions in 1862, 1863 and 1864 when they crossed the Potomac and transferred the seat of war to Maryland and Pennsylvania, under the command twice of General Lee and once of General Early. The first of these campaigns ended in the bloody battle of Antietam. The Maryland men, as a tribute to their good conduct, were placed at the head of the army, and crossed the river with enthusiasm, the band playing and the soldiers singing "My Maryland." Great was their disappointment that the recruits did not even suffice to fill the gaps in their shattered ranks. CHAPTER VII. CHIEF JUSTICE TANEY AND THE WRIT OF HABEAS CORPUS. -- A UNION CONVENTION. -- CONSEQUENCE OF THE SUSPENSION OF THE WRIT. -- INCIDENTS OF THE WAR. -- THE WOMEN IN THE WAR. The suspension of the writ of _habeas corpus_, by order of the President, without the sanction of an Act of Congress, which had not then been given, was one of the memorable events of the war. On the 4th of May, 1861, Judge Giles, of the United States District Court of Maryland, issued a writ of _habeas corpus_ to Major Morris, then in command of Fort McHenry, to discharge a soldier who was under age. Major Morris refused to obey the writ. On the 14th of May the General Assembly adjourned, and Mr. Ross Winans, of Baltimore, a member of the House of Delegates, while returning to his home, was arrested by General Butler on a charge of high treason. He was conveyed to Annapolis, and subsequently to Fort McHenry, and was soon afterwards released. A case of the highest importance next followed. On the 25th of May, Mr. John Merryman, of Baltimore County, was arrested by order of General Keim, of Pennsylvania, and confined in Fort McHenry. The next day (Sunday, May 26th) his counsel, Messrs. George M. Gill and George H. Williams, presented a petition for the writ of _habeas corpus_ to Chief Justice Taney, who issued the writ immediately, directed to General Cadwallader, then in command in Maryland, ordering him to produce the body of Merryman in court on the following day (Monday, May 27th). On that day Colonel Lee, his aide-de-camp, came into court with a letter from General Cadwallader, directed to the Chief Justice, stating that Mr. Merryman had been arrested on charges of high treason, and that he (the General) was authorized by the President of the United States in such cases to suspend the writ of _habeas corpus_ for the public safety. Judge Taney asked Colonel Lee if he had brought with him the body of John Merryman. Colonel Lee replied that he had no instructions except to deliver the letter. _Chief Justice._--The commanding officer, then, declines to obey the writ? _Colonel Lee._--After making that communication my duty is ended, and I have no further power (rising and retiring). _Chief Justice._--The Court orders an attachment to issue against George Cadwallader for disobedience to the high writ of the Court, returnable at twelve o'clock to-morrow. The order was accordingly issued as directed. A startling issue was thus presented. The venerable Chief Justice had come from Washington to Baltimore for the purpose of issuing a writ of _habeas corpus_, and the President had thereupon authorized the commander of the fort to hold the prisoner and disregard the writ. A more important occasion could hardly have occurred. Where did the President of the United States acquire such a power? Was it true that a citizen held his liberty subject to the arbitrary will of any man? In what part of the Constitution could such a power be found? Why had it never been discovered before? What precedent existed for such an act? Judge Taney was greatly venerated in Baltimore, where he had formerly lived. The case created a profound sensation. On the next morning the Chief Justice, leaning on the arm of his grandson, walked slowly through the crowd which had gathered in front of the court-house, and the crowd silently and with lifted hats opened the way for him to pass. Roger B. Taney was one of the most self-controlled and courageous of judges. He took his seat with his usual quiet dignity. He called the case of John Merryman and asked the marshal for his return to the writ of attachment. The return stated that he had gone to Fort McHenry for the purpose of serving the writ on General Cadwallader; that he had sent in his name at the outer gate; that the messenger had returned with the reply that there was no answer to send; that he was not permitted to enter the gate, and, therefore, could not serve the writ, as he was commanded to do. The Chief Justice then read from his manuscript as follows: I ordered the attachment of yesterday because upon the face of the return the detention of the prisoner was unlawful upon two grounds: 1st. The President, under the Constitution and laws of the United States, cannot suspend the privilege of the writ of _habeas corpus_, nor authorize any military officer to do so. 2d. A military officer has no right to arrest and detain a person not subject to the rules and articles of war, for an offense against the laws of the United States, except in aid of the judicial authority and subject to its control; and if the party is arrested by the military, it is the duty of the officer to deliver him over immediately to the civil authority, to be dealt with according to law. I forbore yesterday to state the provisions of the Constitution of the United States which make these principles the fundamental law of the Union, because an oral statement might be misunderstood in some portions of it, and I shall therefore put my opinion in writing, and file it in the office of the clerk of this court, in the course of this week. The Chief Justice then orally remarked: In relation to the present return, it is proper to say that of course the marshal has legally the power to summon the _posse comitatus_ to seize and bring into court the party named in the attachment; but it is apparent he will be resisted in the discharge of that duty by a force notoriously superior to the _posse_, and, this being the case, such a proceeding can result in no good, and is useless. I will not, therefore, require the marshal to perform this duty. If, however, General Cadwallader were before me, I should impose on him the punishment which it is my province to inflict--that of fine and imprisonment. I shall merely say, to-day, that I shall reduce to writing the reasons under which I have acted, and which have led me to the conclusions expressed in my opinion, and shall direct the clerk to forward them with these proceedings to the President, so that he may discharge his constitutional duty "to take care that the laws are faithfully executed." It is due to my readers that they should have an opportunity of reading this opinion, and it is accordingly inserted in an Appendix. After the court had adjourned, I went up to the bench and thanked Judge Taney for thus upholding, in its integrity, the writ of _habeas corpus_. He replied, "Mr. Brown, I am an old man, a very old man" (he had completed his eighty-fourth year), "but perhaps I was preserved for this occasion." I replied, "Sir, I thank God that you were." He then told me that he knew that his own imprisonment had been a matter of consultation, but that the danger had passed, and he warned me, from information he had received, that my time would come. The charges against Merryman were discovered to be unfounded and he was soon discharged by military authority. The nation is now tired of war, and rests in the enjoyment of a harmony which has not been equalled since the days of James Monroe. When Judge Taney rendered this decision the Constitution was only seventy-two years old--twelve years younger than himself. It is now less than one hundred years old--a short period in a nation's life--and yet during that period there have been serious commotions--two foreign wars and a civil war. In the future, as in the past, offenses will come, and hostile parties and factions will arise, and the men who wield power will, if they dare, shut up in fort or prison, without reach of relief, those whom they regard as dangerous enemies. When that period arrives, then will those who wisely love their country thank the great Chief Justice, as I did, for his unflinching defense of _habeas corpus_, the supreme writ of right, and the corner-stone of personal liberty among all English-speaking people. In the Life of Benjamin R. Curtis, Vol. I, p. 240, his biographer says, speaking of Chief Justice Taney, with reference to the case of Merryman, "If he had never done anything else that was high, heroic and important, his noble vindication of the writ of _habeas corpus_ and the dignity and authority of his office against a rash minister of State, who, in the pride of a fancied executive power, came near to the commission of a great crime, will command the admiration and gratitude of every lover of constitutional liberty so long as our institutions shall endure." The crime referred to was the intended imprisonment of the Chief Justice. Although this crime was not committed, a criminal precedent had been set and was ruthlessly followed. "My lord," said Mr. Seward to Lord Lyons, "I can touch a bell on my right hand and order the imprisonment of a citizen of Ohio; I can touch a bell again and order the imprisonment of a citizen of New York; and no power on earth, except that of the President, can release them. Can the Queen of England do so much?" When such a power is wielded by any man, or set of men, nothing is left to protect the liberty of the citizen. On the 24th of May, a Union Convention, consisting of fourteen counties of the State, including the city of Baltimore, and leaving eight unrepresented, met in the city. The counties not represented were Washington, Montgomery, Prince George, Charles, St. Mary's, Dorchester, Somerset, and Worcester. The number of members does not appear to have been large, but it included the names of gentlemen well known and highly respected. The Convention adopted Resolutions which declared, among other things, that the revolution on the part of eleven States was without excuse or palliation, and that the redress of actual or supposed wrongs in connection with the slavery question formed no part of their views or purposes; that the people of this State were unalterably determined to defend the Government of the United States, and would support the Government in all legal and constitutional measures which might be necessary to resist the revolutionists; that the intimations made by the majority of the Legislature at its late session--that the people were humiliated or subjugated by the action of the Government--were gratuitous insults to that people; that the dignity of the State of Maryland, involved in a precise, persistent and effective recognition of all her rights, privileges and immunities under the Constitution of the United States, will be vindicated at all times and under all circumstances by those of her sons who are sincere in their fealty to her and the Government of the Union of which she is part, and to popular constitutional liberty; that while they concurred with the present Executive of the United States that the unity and integrity of the National Union must be preserved, their view of the nature and true principles of the Constitution, of the powers which it confers, and of the duties which it enjoins, and the rights which it secures, as it relates to and affects the question of slavery in many of the essential bearings, is directly opposed to the views of the Executive; that they are fixed in their conviction, amongst others, that a just comprehension of the true principles of the Constitution forbid utterly the formation of political parties on the foundation of the slavery question, and that the Union men will oppose to the utmost of their ability all attempts of the Federal Executive to commingle in any manner its peculiar views on the slavery question with that of maintaining the just powers of the Government. These resolutions are important as showing the stand taken by a large portion of the Union party of the State in regard to any interference, as the result of the war or otherwise, by the General Government with the provisions of the Constitution with regard to slavery. After the writ of _habeas corpus_ had been thus suspended, martial law, as a consequence, rapidly became all-powerful, and it continued in force during the war. That law is by Judge Black, in his argument before the Supreme Court in the case of _ex parte_ Milligan,[14] shown to be simply the rule of irresponsible force. Law becomes helpless before it. _Inter arma silent leges._ [Footnote 14: 4 Wallace Sup. Court R. 2.] On May 25, 1862, Judge Carmichael, an honored magistrate, while sitting in his court in Easton, was, by the provost marshal and his deputies, assisted by a body of military sent from Baltimore, beaten, and dragged bleeding from the bench, and then imprisoned, because he had on a previous occasion delivered a charge to the grand jury directing them to inquire into certain illegal acts and to indict the offenders. His imprisonment in Forts McHenry, Lafayette, and Delaware, lasted more than six months. On December 4, 1862, he was unconditionally released, no trial having been granted him, nor any charges made against him. On June 28, 1862, Judge Bartol, of the Court of Appeals of Maryland, was arrested and confined in Fort McHenry. He was released after a few days, without any charge being preferred against him, or any explanation given. Spies and informers abounded. A rigid supervision was established. Disloyalty, so called, of any kind was a punishable offense. Rebel colors, the red and white, were prohibited. They were not allowed to appear in shop-windows or on children's garments, or anywhere that might offend the Union sentiment. If a newspaper promulgated disloyal sentiments, the paper was suppressed and the editor imprisoned. If a clergyman was disloyal in prayer or sermon, or if he failed to utter a prescribed prayer, he was liable to be treated in the same manner, and was sometimes so treated. A learned and eloquent Lutheran clergyman came to me for advice because he had been summoned before the provost marshal for saying that a nation which incurred a heavy debt in the prosecution of war laid violent hands on the harvests of the future; but his offense was condoned, because it appeared that he had referred to the "Thirty Years' War" and had made no direct reference to the debt of the United States, and perhaps for a better reason--that he had strong Republican friends among his congregation. If horses and fodder, fences and timber, or houses and land, were taken for the use of the Army, the owner was not entitled to compensation unless he could prove that he was a loyal man; and the proof was required to be furnished through some well-known loyal person, who, of course, was usually paid for his services. Very soon no one was allowed to vote unless he was a loyal man, and soldiers at the polls assisted in settling the question of loyalty. Nearly all who approved of the war regarded these things as an inevitable military necessity; but those who disapproved deeply resented them as unwarrantable violations of sacred constitutional rights. The consequence was that friendships were dissolved, the ties of blood severed, and an invisible but well-understood line divided the people. The bitterness and even the common mention of these acts have long since ceased, but the tradition survives and still continues to be a factor, silent, but not without influence, in the politics of the State. History repeats itself. There were deeds done on both sides which bring to mind the wars of England and Scotland and the border strife between those countries. There were flittings to and fro, and adventures and hairbreadth escapes innumerable. Soldiers returned to visit their homes at the risk of their necks. Contraband of every description, and letters and newspapers, found their way across the border. The military lines were long and tortuous, and vulnerable points were not hard to find, and trusty carriers were ready to go anywhere for the love of adventure or the love of gain. The women were as deeply interested as the men, and were less apprehensive of personal consequences. In different parts of the city, not excepting its stateliest square, where stands the marble column from which the father of his country looked down, sadly as it were, on a divided people, there might have been found, by the initiated, groups of women who, with swift and skillful fingers, were fashioning and making garments strangely various in shape and kind--some for Northern prisons where captives were confined, some for destitute homes beyond the Southern border, in which only women and children were left, and some for Southern camps where ragged soldiers were waiting to be clad. The work was carried on not without its risks; but little cared the workers for that. Perhaps the sensation of danger itself, and a spirit of resistance to an authority which they refused to recognize, gave zest to their toil; nor did they always think it necessary to inform the good man of the house in which they were assembled either of their presence or of what was going on beneath his roof. The women who stood by the cause of the Union were not compelled to hide their charitable deeds from the light of day. No need for them to feed and clothe the soldiers of the Union, whose wants were amply supplied by a bountiful Government; but with untiring zeal they visited the military hospitals on missions of mercy, and when the bloody fields of Antietam and Gettysburg were fought, both they and their Southern sisters hastened, though not with a common purpose, to the aid of the wounded and dying, the victims of civil strife and children of a common country. CHAPTER VIII. GENERAL BANKS IN COMMAND. -- MARSHAL KANE ARRESTED. -- POLICE COMMISSIONERS SUPERSEDED. -- RESOLUTIONS PASSED BY THE GENERAL ASSEMBLY. -- POLICE COMMISSIONERS ARRESTED. -- MEMORIAL ADDRESSED BY THE MAYOR AND CITY COUNCIL TO CONGRESS. -- GENERAL DIX IN COMMAND. -- ARREST OF MEMBERS OF THE GENERAL ASSEMBLY, THE MAYOR AND OTHERS. -- RELEASE OF PRISONERS. -- COLONEL DIMICK. On the 10th of June, 1861, Major-General Nathaniel P. Banks, of Massachusetts, was appointed in the place of General Cadwallader to the command of the Department of Annapolis, with headquarters at Baltimore. On the 27th of June, General Banks arrested Marshal Kane and confined him in Fort McHenry. He then issued a proclamation announcing that he had superseded Marshal Kane and the commissioners of police, and that he had appointed Colonel John R. Kenly, of the First Regiment of Maryland Volunteers, provost marshal, with the aid and assistance of the subordinate officers of the police department. The police commissioners, including the mayor, offered no resistance, but adopted and published a resolution declaring that, in the opinion of the board, the forcible suspension of their functions suspended at the same time the active operation of the police law and put the officers and men off duty for the present, leaving them subject, however, to the rules and regulations of the service as to their personal conduct and deportment, and to the orders which the board might see fit thereafter to issue, when the present illegal suspension of their functions should be removed. The Legislature of Maryland, at its adjourned session on the 22d of June, passed a series of resolutions declaring that the unconstitutional and arbitrary proceedings of the Federal Executive had not been confined to the violation of the personal rights and liberties of the citizens of Maryland, but had been so extended that the property of no man was safe, the sanctity of no dwelling was respected, and that the sacredness of private correspondence no longer existed; that the Senate and House of Delegates of Maryland felt it due to her dignity and independence that history should not record the overthrow of public freedom for an instant within her borders, without recording likewise the indignant expression of her resentment and remonstrance, and they accordingly protested against the oppressive and tyrannical assertion and exercise of military jurisdiction within the limits of Maryland over the persons and property of her citizens by the Government of the United States, and solemnly declared the same to be subversive of the most sacred guarantees of the Constitution, and in flagrant violation of the fundamental and most cherished principles of American free government. On the first of July, the police commissioners were arrested and imprisoned by order of General Banks, on the ground, as he alleged in a proclamation, that the commissioners had refused to obey his decrees, or to recognize his appointees, and that they continued to hold the police force for some purpose not known to the Government. General Banks does not say what authority he had to make decrees, or what the decrees were which the commissioners had refused to obey; and as on the 27th of June he had imprisoned the marshal of police, and had put a provost marshal in his place, retaining only the subordinate officers of the police department, and had appointed instead of the men another body of police, all under the control of the provost marshal; and as the commissioners had no right to discharge the police force established by a law of the State, and were left with no duties in relation to the police which they could perform, it is very plain that, whatever motive General Banks may have had for the arrest and imprisonment of the commissioners, it is not stated in his proclamation. One of the commissioners, Charles D. Hinks, was soon released in consequence of failing health. On the day of the arrest of the police commissioners the city was occupied by troops, who in large detachments, infantry and artillery, took up positions in Monument Square, Exchange Place, at Camden-street Station and other points, and they mounted guard and bivouacked in the streets for more than a week. On July 18th, the police commissioners presented to Congress a memorial in which they protested very vigorously against their unlawful arrest and imprisonment. On the 23d day of July, 1861, the mayor and city council of Baltimore addressed a memorial to the Senate and House of Representatives of the United States, in which, after describing the condition of affairs in Baltimore, they respectfully, yet most earnestly, demanded, as matter of right, that their city might be governed according to the Constitution and laws of the United States and of the State of Maryland, that the citizens might be secure in their persons, houses, papers and effects against unreasonable searches and seizures; that they should not be deprived of life, liberty or property without due process of law; that the military should render obedience to the civil authority; that the municipal laws should be respected, the officers released from imprisonment and restored to the lawful exercise of their functions, and that the police government established by law should be no longer impeded by armed force to the injury of peace and order. It is perhaps needless to add that the memorial met with no favor. On the 7th of August, 1861, the Legislature of the State, in a series of resolutions, denounced these proceedings in all their parts, pronouncing them, so far as they affected individuals, a gross and unconstitutional abuse of power which nothing could palliate or excuse, and, in their bearing upon the authority and constitutional powers and privileges of the State herself, a revolutionary subversion of the Federal compact. The Legislature then adjourned, to meet on the 17th of September. On the 24th of July, 1861, General Dix had been placed in command of the Department, with his headquarters in Baltimore. On that day he wrote from Fort McHenry to the Assistant Adjutant-General for re-enforcement of the troops under his command. He said that there ought to be ten thousand men at Baltimore and Annapolis, and that he could not venture to respond for the quietude of the Department with a smaller number. At Fort McHenry, as told by his biographer, he exhibited to some ladies of secession proclivities an immense columbiad, and informed them that it was pointed to Monument Square, and if there was an uprising that this piece would be the first he would fire. But the guns of Fort McHenry were not sufficient. He built on the east of the city a very strong work, which he called Fort Marshall, and he strengthened the earthwork on Federal Hill, in the southern part, so that the city lay under the guns of three powerful forts, with several smaller ones. Not satisfied with this, on the 15th of September, 1862, General Dix, after he had been transferred to another department, wrote to Major-General Halleck, then Commander-in-Chief, advising that the ground on which the earthwork on Federal Hill had been erected should be purchased at a cost of one hundred thousand dollars, and that it should be permanently fortified at an additional expense of $250,000. He was of opinion that although the great body of the people were, as he described them, eminently distinguished for their moral virtues, Baltimore had always contained a mass of inflammable material, which would ignite on the slightest provocation. He added that "Fort Federal Hill completely commanded the city, and is capable, from its proximity to the principal business quarters, of assailing any one without injury to the others. The hill seems to have been placed there by Nature as a site for a permanent citadel, and I beg to suggest whether a neglect to appropriate it to its obvious design would not be an unpardonable dereliction of duty." These views were perhaps extreme even for a major-general commanding in Baltimore, especially as by this time the disorderly element which infests all cities had gone over to the stronger side, and was engaged in the pious work of persecuting rebels. General Halleck, even after this solemn warning, left Federal Hill to the protection of its earthwork. The opinion which General Dix had of Baltimore extended, though in a less degree, to a large portion of the State, and was shared, in part at least, not only by the other military commanders, but by the Government at Washington. On the 11th of September, 1861, Simon Cameron, Secretary of War, wrote the following letter to Major-General Banks, who was at this time in command of a division in Maryland: "WAR DEPARTMENT, _September 11, 1861_. "_General._--The passage of any act of secession by the Legislature of Maryland must be prevented. If necessary, all or any part of the members must be arrested. Exercise your own judgment as to the time and manner, but do the work effectively." On the 12th of September, Major-General McClellan, Commander-in-Chief of the Army of the Potomac, wrote a confidential letter to General Banks reciting that "after full consultation with the President, Secretary of State, War, etc., it has been decided to effect the operation proposed for the 17th." The 17th was the day fixed for the meeting of the General Assembly, and the operation to be performed was the arrest of some thirty members of that body, and other persons besides. Arrangements had been made to have a Government steamer at Annapolis to receive the prisoners and convey them to their destination. The plan was to be arranged with General Dix and Governor Seward, and the letter closes with leaving this exceedingly important affair to the tact and discretion of General Banks, and impressing on him the absolute necessity of secrecy and success. Accordingly, a number of the most prominent members of the Legislature, myself, as mayor of Baltimore, and editors of newspapers, and other citizens, were arrested at midnight. I was arrested at my country home, near the Relay House on the Baltimore and Ohio Railroad, by four policemen and a guard of soldiers. The soldiers were placed in both front and rear of the house, while the police rapped violently on the front door. I had gone to bed, but was still awake, for I had some apprehension of danger. I immediately arose, and opening my bed-room window, asked the intruders what they wanted. They replied that they wanted Mayor Brown. I asked who wanted him, and they answered, the Government of the United States. I then inquired for their warrant, but they had none. After a short time spent in preparation I took leave of my wife and children, and closely guarded, walked down the high hill on which the house stands to the foot, where a carriage was waiting for me. The soldiers went no farther, but I was driven in charge of the police seven miles to Baltimore and through the city to Fort McHenry, where to my surprise I found myself a fellow-prisoner in a company of friends and well-known citizens. We were imprisoned for one night in Fort McHenry, next in Fort Monroe for about two weeks, next in Fort Lafayette for about six weeks, and finally in Fort Warren. Henry May, member of Congress from Baltimore, was arrested at the same time, but was soon released. Col. Scharf, in his "History of Maryland," Volume III, says: "It was originally intended that they (the prisoners) should be confined in the fort at the Dry Tortugas, but as there was no fit steamer in Hampton Roads to make the voyage, the programme was changed."[15] [Footnote 15: See also the "Chronicles of Baltimore" by the same author.] The apprehension that the Legislature intended to pass an act of secession, as intimated by Secretary Cameron, was, in view of the position in which the State was placed, and the whole condition of affairs, so absurd that it is difficult to believe that he seriously entertained it. The blow was no doubt, however, intended to strike with terror the opponents of the war, and was one of the effective means resorted to by the Government to obtain, as it soon did, entire control of the State. As the events of the 19th of April had occurred nearly five months previously, and I was endeavoring to perform my duties as mayor, in obedience to law, without giving offense to either the civil or military authorities of the Government, the only apparent reason for my arrest grew out of a difficulty in regard to the payment of the police appointed by General Banks. In July a law had been passed by Congress appropriating one hundred thousand dollars for the purpose of such payment, but it was plain that a similar expenditure would not long be tolerated by Congress. In this emergency an intimation came to me indirectly from Secretary Seward, through a common acquaintance, that I was expected to pay the Government police out of the funds appropriated by law for the city police. I replied that any such payment would be illegal and was not within my power. Soon afterwards I received the following letter from General Dix, which I insert, together with the correspondence which followed: "HEADQUARTERS DEPARTMENT OF PENNSYLVANIA, "BALTIMORE, MD., _September 8, 1861_. "TO HON. GEO. WM. BROWN, _Mayor of the City of Baltimore_. "_Sir_:--Reasons of state, which I deem imperative, demand that the payment of compensation to the members of the old city police, who were, by a resolution of the Board of Police Commissioners, dated the 27th of Jane last, declared 'off duty,' and whose places were filled in pursuance of an order of Major-General Banks of the same date, should cease. I therefore direct, by virtue of the authority vested in me as commanding officer of the military forces of the United States in Baltimore and its vicinity, that no further payment be made to them. "Independently of all other considerations, the continued compensation of a body of men who have been suspended in their functions by the order of the Government, is calculated to bring its authority into disrespect; and the extraction from the citizens of Baltimore by taxation, in a time of general depression and embarrassment, of a sum amounting to several hundred thousand dollars a year for the payment of nominal officials who render it no service, cannot fail by creating widespread dissatisfaction to disturb the quietude of the city, which I am most anxious to preserve. "I feel assured that the payment would have been voluntarily discontinued by yourself, as a violation of the principle on which all compensation is bestowed--as a remuneration for an equivalent service actually performed--had you not considered yourself bound by existing laws to make it. "This order will relieve you from the embarrassment, and I do not doubt that it will be complied with. "I am, very respectfully, "Your obedient servant, "JOHN A. DIX, "_Major-General Commanding_." "MAYOR'S OFFICE, CITY HALL, "BALTIMORE, _September 5, 1861_. "Major-General JOHN A. DIX, _Baltimore, Md._ "_Sir_:--I was not in town yesterday, and did not receive until this morning your letter of the 3d inst. ordering that no further payment be made to the members of the city police. "The payments have been made heretofore in pursuance of the laws of the State, under the advice of the City Counsellor, by the Register, the Comptroller and myself. "Without entering into a discussion of the considerations which you have deemed sufficient to justify this proceeding, I feel it to be my duty to enter my protest against this interference, by military authority, with the exercise of powers lawfully committed by the State of Maryland to the officers of the city corporation; but it is nevertheless not the intention of the city authorities to offer resistance to the order which you have issued, and I shall therefore give public notice to the officers and men of the city police that no further payments may be expected by them. "There is an arrearage of pay of two weeks due to the force, and the men have by the law and rules of the board been prevented from engaging in any other business or occupation. Most of them have families, who are entirely dependent for support on the pay received. "I do not understand your order as meaning to prohibit the payment of this arrearage, and shall therefore proceed to make it, unless prevented by your further order. "I am, very respectfully, "Your obedient servant, "GEO. WM. BROWN, "_Mayor of Baltimore_." "HEADQUARTERS DEPARTMENT OF PENNSYLVANIA, "BALTIMORE, MD., _September 9, 1861_. "HON. GEO. WM. BROWN, _Mayor of the City of Baltimore_. "_Sir_:--Your letter of the 5th inst. was duly received. I cannot, without acquiescing in the violation of a principle, assent to the payment of an arrearage to the members of the old city police, as suggested in the closing paragraph of your letter. "It was the intention of my letter to prohibit any payment to them subsequently to the day on which it was written. "You will please, therefore, to consider this as the 'further order' referred to by you. "I am, very respectfully, "Your obedient servant, "JOHN A. DIX, "_Major-General Commanding_." "MAYOR'S OFFICE, CITY HALL, "BALTIMORE, _September 11, 1861_. "Major-General JOHN A. DIX, Baltimore. "_Sir_:--I did not come to town yesterday until the afternoon, and then ascertained that my letters had been sent out to my country residence, where, on my return last evening, I found yours of the 9th, in reply to mine of the 5th instant, awaiting me. It had been left at the mayor's office yesterday morning. "Before leaving the mayor's office, about three o'clock P. M. on the 9th instant, and not having received any reply from you, I had signed a check for the payment of arrears due the police, and the money was on the same day drawn out of the bank and handed over to the proper officers, and nearly the entire amount was by them paid to the police force before the receipt of your letter. "The suggestion in your letter as to the 'violation of a principle' requires me to add that I recognize in the action of the Government of the United States in the matter in question nothing but the assertion of superior force. "Out of regard to the great interests committed to my charge as chief magistrate of the city, I have yielded to that force, and do not feel it necessary to enter into any discussion of the principles upon which the Government sees fit to exercise it. "Very respectfully, "Your obedient servant, "GEO. WM. BROWN, "_Mayor_." The reasons which General Dix assigned for prohibiting me from paying the arrearages due the police present a curious combination. First, there were reasons of State; next, the respect due to the Government; third, his concern for the taxpayers of Baltimore; fourth, the danger to the quiet of the city which he apprehended might arise from the payment; and, finally, there was a principle which he must protect from violation, but what that principle was he did not state. A striking commentary on these reasons was furnished on the 11th of December, 1863, by a decision of the Court of Appeals of Maryland in the case of the Mayor, etc., of Baltimore _vs._ Charles Howard and others, reported in 20th Maryland Rep., p. 335. The question was whether the interference by the Government of the United States with the Board of Police and police force established by law in the city of Baltimore was without authority of law and did in any manner affect or impair the rights or invalidate the acts of the board. The court held that, though the board was displaced by a force to which they yielded and could not resist, their power and rights under their organization were still preserved, and that they were amenable for any dereliction of official duty, except in so far as they were excused by uncontrollable events. And the court decided that Mr. Hinks, one of the police commissioners, whose case was alone before the court, was entitled to his salary, which had accrued after the board was so displaced. Subsequently, after the close of the war, the Legislature of the State passed an act for the payment of all arrearages due to the men of the police subsequent to their displacement by the Government of the United States and until their discharge by the Government of the State. It will be perceived that General Dix delayed replying to my letter of the 5th of September until the 9th; that his reply was not left at the mayor's office until the tenth, and that in the meantime, on the afternoon of the 9th, after waiting for his reply for four days, I paid the arrears due the police, as I had good reason to suppose he intended I should. A friend of mine, a lawyer of Baltimore, and a pronounced Union man, has, since then, informed me that General Dix showed him my letter of the 5th before my arrest; that my friend asked him whether he had replied to it, and the General replied he had not. My friend answered that he thought a reply was due to me. From all this it does not seem uncharitable to believe that the purpose of General Dix was to put me in the false position of appearing to disobey his order and thus to furnish an excuse for my imprisonment. This lasted until the 27th of November, 1862, a short time after my term of office had expired, when there was a sudden and unexpected release of all the State prisoners in Fort Warren, where we were then confined. On the 26th of November, 1862, Colonel Justin Dimick, commanding at Fort Warren, received the following telegraphic order from the Adjutant-General's Office, Washington: "The Secretary of War directs that you release all the Maryland State prisoners, also any other State prisoners that may be in your custody, and report to this office." In pursuance of this order, Colonel Dimick on the following day released from Fort Warren the following State prisoners, without imposing any condition upon them whatever: Severn Teackle Wallis, Henry M. Warfield, William G. Harrison, T. Parkin Scott, ex-members of the Maryland Legislature from Baltimore; George William Brown, ex-Mayor of Baltimore; Charles Howard and William H. Gatchell, ex-Police Commissioners; George P. Kane, ex-Marshal of Police; Frank Key Howard, one of the editors of the Baltimore _Exchange_; Thomas W. Hall, editor of the Baltimore _South_; Robert Hull, merchant, of Baltimore; Dr. Charles Macgill, of Hagerstown; William H. Winder, of Philadelphia; and B. L. Cutter, of Massachusetts. General Wool, then in command in Baltimore, issued an order declaring that thereafter no person should be arrested within the limits of the Department except by his order, and in all such cases the charges against the accused party were to be sworn to before a justice of the peace. As it was intimated that these gentlemen had entered into some engagement as the condition of their release, Mr. Wallis, while in New York on his return home, took occasion to address a letter on the subject to the editor of the New York _World_, in which he said: "No condition whatever was sought to be imposed, and none would have been accepted, as the Secretary of War well knew. Speaking of my fellow-prisoners from Maryland, I have a right to say that they maintained to the last the principle which they asserted from the first--namely, that, if charged with crime, they were entitled to be charged, held and tried in due form of law and not otherwise; and that, in the absence of lawful accusation and process, it was their right to be discharged without terms or conditions of any sort, and they would submit to none." Many of our fellow-prisoners were from necessity not able to take this stand. There were no charges against them, but there were imperative duties which required their presence at home, and when the Government at Washington adopted the policy of offering liberty to those who would consent to take an oath of allegiance prepared for the occasion, they had been compelled to accept it. Before this, in December, 1861, the Government at Washington, on application of friends, had granted me a parole for thirty days, that I might attend to some important private business, and for that time I stayed with kind relatives, under the terms of the parole, in Boston. The following correspondence, which then took place, will show the position which I maintained: "BOSTON, _January 4, 1862_. "MARSHAL KEYS, _Boston_. "_Sir_:--I called twice to see you during this week, and in your absence had an understanding with your deputy that I was to surrender myself to you this morning, on the expiration of my parole, in time to be conveyed to Fort Warren, and I have accordingly done so. "As you have not received any instructions from Washington in regard to the course to be pursued with me, I shall consider myself in your custody until you have had ample time to write to Washington and obtain a reply. "I desire it, however, to be expressly understood that no further extension of my parole is asked for, or would be accepted at this time. "It is my right and my wish to return to Baltimore, to resume the performance of my official and private duties. Respectfully, "GEO. WM. BROWN." "DEPARTMENT OF STATE, "WASHINGTON, _January 6, 1862_. "JOHN S. KEYS, Esq., U. S. Marshal, _Boston_. "_Sir_:--Your letter of the 4th inst., relative to George W. Brown, has been received. "In reply, I have to inform you that, if he desires it, you may extend his parole to the period of thirty days. If not, you will please recommit him to Fort Warren and report to this Department. "I am, sir, very respectfully, "Your obedient servant, "F. W. SEWARD, "_Acting Secretary of State_." "BOSTON, _January 10, 1862_. "MARSHAL KEYS, _Boston_. "_Sir_:--In my note to you of the 4th inst. I stated that I did not desire a renewal of my parole, but that it was my right and wish to return to Baltimore, to resume the performance of my private and official duties. "My note was, in substance, as you informed me, forwarded to Hon. W. H. Seward, Secretary of State, in a letter from you to him. "In reply to your communication, F. W. Seward, Acting Secretary of State, wrote to you under date of the 6th inst. that 'you may extend the parole of George W. Brown if he desires it, but if not, you are directed to recommit him to Fort Warren.' "It was hardly necessary to give me the option of an extension of parole which I had previously declined, but the offer renders it proper for me to say that the parole was applied for by my friends, to enable me to attend to important private business, affecting the interests of others as well as myself; that the necessities growing out of this particular matter of business no longer exist, and that I cannot consistently with my ideas of propriety, by accepting a renewal of the parole, place myself in the position of seeming to acquiesce in a prolonged and illegal banishment from my home and duties. Respectfully, "GEO. WM. BROWN." On the 11th of January, 1862, I returned to Fort Warren, and on the 14th an offer was made to renew and extend my parole to ninety days upon condition that I would not pass south of Hudson River. This offer I declined. My term of office expired on the 12th of November, 1862, and soon afterwards I was released, as I have just stated. It is not my purpose to enter into an account of the trials and hardships of prison-life in the crowded forts in which we were successively confined under strict and sometimes very harsh military rule, but it is due to the memory of the commander at Fort Warren, Colonel Justin Dimick, that I should leave on record the warm feelings of respect and friendship with which he was regarded by the prisoners who knew him best, for the unvarying kindness and humanity with which he performed the difficult and painful duties of his office. As far as he was permitted to do so, he promoted the comfort and convenience of all, and after the war was over and he had been advanced to the rank of General, he came to Baltimore as the honored guest of one of his former prisoners, and while there received the warm and hearty greeting of others of his prisoners who still survived. CHAPTER IX. A PERSONAL CHAPTER. I have now completed my task; but perhaps it will be expected that I should clearly define my own position. I have no objection to do so. Both from feeling and on principle I had always been opposed to slavery--the result in part of the teaching and example of my parents, and confirmed by my own reading and observation. In early manhood I became prominent in defending the rights of the free colored people of Maryland. In the year 1846 I was associated with a small number of persons, of whom the Rev. William F. Brand, author of the "Life of Bishop Whittingham," and myself, are the only survivors. The other members of the association were Dr. Richard S. Steuart, for many years President of the Maryland Hospital for the Insane, and himself a slaveholder; Galloway Cheston, a merchant and afterwards President of the Board of Trustees of the Johns Hopkins University; Frederick W. Brune, my brother-in-law and law-partner; and Ramsay McHenry, planter. We were preparing to initiate a movement tending to a gradual emancipation within the State, but the growing hostility between the North and the South rendered the plan wholly impracticable, and it was abandoned. My opinions, however, did not lead me into sympathy with the abolition party. I knew that slavery had existed almost everywhere in the world, and still existed in some places, and that, whatever might be its character elsewhere, it was not in the Southern States "the sum of all villainy." On the contrary, it had assisted materially in the development of the race. Nowhere else, I believe, had negro slaves been so well treated, on the whole, and had advanced so far in civilization. They had learned the necessity, as well as the habit, of labor; the importance--to some extent at least--of thrift; the essential distinctions between right and wrong, and the inevitable difference to the individual between right-doing and wrong-doing; the duty of obedience to law; and--not least--some conception, dim though it might be, of the inspiring teachings of the Christian religion. They had learned also to cherish a feeling of respect and good will towards the best portion of the white race, to whom they looked up, and whom they imitated. I refused to enlist in a crusade against slavery, not only on constitutional grounds, but for other reasons. If the slaves were freed and clothed with the right of suffrage, they would be incapable of using it properly. If the suffrage were withheld, they would be subjected to the oppression of the white race without the protection afforded by their masters. Thus I could see no prospect of maintaining harmony without a disastrous change in our form of government such as prevailed after the war, in what is called the period of reconstruction. If there were entire equality, and an intermingling of the two races, it would not, as it seemed to me, be for the benefit of either. I knew how strong are race prejudices, especially when stimulated by competition and interest; how cruelly the foreigners, as they were called, had been treated by the people in California, and the Indians by our people everywhere; and how, in my own city, citizens were for years ruthlessly deprived by the Know-Nothing party of the right of suffrage, some because they were of foreign birth, and some because they were Catholics. The problem of slavery was to me a Gordian knot which I knew not how to untie, and which I dared not attempt to cut with the sword. Such a severance involved the horrors of civil war, with the wickedness and demoralization which were sure to follow. I was deeply attached to the Union from a feeling imbibed in early childhood and constantly strengthened by knowledge and personal experience. I did not believe in secession as a constitutional right, and in Maryland there was no sufficient ground for revolution. It was clearly for her interest to remain in the Union and to free her slaves. An attempt to secede or to revolt would have been an act of folly which I deprecated, although I did believe that she, in common with the rest of the South, had constitutional rights in regard to slavery which the North was not willing to respect. It was my opinion that the Confederacy would prove to be a rope of sand. I thought that the seceding States should have been allowed to depart in peace, as General Scott advised, and I believed that afterwards the necessities of the situation and their own interest would induce them to return, severally, perhaps, to the old Union, but with slavery peacefully abolished; for, in the nature of things, I knew that slavery could not last forever. Whether or not my opinions were sound and my hopes well founded, is now a matter of little importance, even to myself, but they were at least sincere and were not concealed. There can be no true union in a Republic unless the parts are held together by a feeling of common interest, and also of mutual respect. That there is a common interest no reasonable person can doubt; but this is not sufficient; and, happily, there is a solid basis for mutual respect also. I have already stated the grounds on which, from their point of view, the Southern people were justified in their revolt, and even in the midst of the war I recognized what the South is gradually coming to recognize--that the grounds on which the Northern people waged war--love of the Union and hatred of slavery--were also entitled to respect. I believe that the results achieved--namely, the preservation of the Union and the abolition of slavery--are worth all they have cost. And yet I feel that I am living in a different land from that in which I was born, and under a different Constitution, and that new perils have arisen sufficient to cause great anxiety. Some of these are the consequences of the war, and some are due to other causes. But every generation must encounter its own trials, and should extract benefit from them if it can. The grave problems growing out of emancipation seem to have found a solution in an improving education of the whole people. Perhaps education is the true means of escape from the other perils to which I have alluded. Let me state them as they appear to me to exist. Vast fortunes, which astonish the world, have suddenly been acquired, very many by methods of more than doubtful honesty, while the fortunes themselves are so used as to benefit neither the possessors nor the country. Republican simplicity has ceased to be a reality, except where it exists as a survival in rural districts, and is hardly now mentioned even as a phrase. It has been superseded by republican luxury and ostentation. The mass of the people, who cannot afford to indulge in either, are sorely tempted to covet both. The individual man does not rely, as he formerly did, on his own strength and manhood. Organization for a common purpose is resorted to wherever organization is possible. Combinations of capital or of labor, ruled by a few individuals, bestride the land with immense power both for good and evil. In these combinations the individual counts for little, and is but little concerned about his own moral responsibility. When De Tocqueville, in 1838, wrote his remarkable book on Democracy in America, he expressed his surprise to observe how every public question was submitted to the decision of the people, and that, when the people had decided, the question was settled. Now politicians care little about the opinions of the people, because the people care little about opinions. Bosses have come into existence to ply their vile trade of office-brokerage. Rings are formed in which the bosses are masters and the voters their henchmen. Formerly decent people could not be bought either with money or offices. Political parties have always some honest foundation, but rings are factions like those of Rome in her decline, having no foundation but public plunder. Communism, socialism, and labor strikes have taken the place of slavery agitation. Many people have come to believe that this is a paternal Government from which they have a right to ask for favors, and not a Republic in which all are equal. Hence States, cities, corporations, individuals, and especially certain favored classes, have no scruple in getting money somehow or other, directly or indirectly, out of the purse of the Nation, as if the Nation had either purse or property which does not belong to the people, for the benefit of the whole people, without favor or partiality towards any. In many ways there is a dangerous tendency towards the centralization of power in the National Government, with little opposition on the part of the people. Paper money is held by the Supreme Court to be a lawful substitute for gold and silver coin, partly on the ground that this is the prerogative of European governments.[16] This is strange constitutional doctrine to those who were brought up in the school of Marshall, Story, and Chancellor Kent. [Footnote 16: Legal Tender Case, Vol. 110 U. S. Reports, p. 421.] The administration of cities has grown more and more extravagant and corrupt, thus leading to the creation of immense debts which oppress the people and threaten to become unmanageable. The national Congress, instead of faithfully administering its trust, has become reckless and wasteful of the public money. But, notwithstanding all this, I rejoice to believe that there is a reserve of power in the American people which has never yet failed to redress great wrongs when they have come to be fully recognized and understood. A striking instance of this is to be found in the temperance movement, which, extreme as it may be in some respects, shows that the conscience of the entire country is aroused on a subject of vast difficulty and importance. And other auspicious signs exist, the chief of which I think are that a new zeal is manifested in the cause of education; that people of all creeds come together as they never did before to help in good works; that an independent press, bent on enlightening, not deceiving, the people, is making itself heard and respected; and that younger men, who represent the best hopes and aspirations of the time, are pressing forward to take the place of the politicians of a different school, who represent chiefly their own selfish interests, or else a period of hate and discord which has passed away forever. These considerations give me hope and confidence in the country as it exists to-day. Baltimore is the place of my birth, of my home, and of my affections. No one could be bound to his native city by ties stronger than mine. Perhaps, in view of the incidents of the past, as detailed in this volume, I may be permitted to express to the good people of Baltimore my sincere and profound gratitude for the generous and unsolicited confidence which, on different occasions, they have reposed in me, and for their good will and kind feeling, which have never been withdrawn during the years, now not a few, which I have spent in their service. APPENDIX I. The following account of the alleged conspiracy to assassinate Abraham Lincoln on his journey to Baltimore is taken from the "Life of Abraham Lincoln," by Ward H. Lamon, pp. 511-526: "Whilst Mr. Lincoln, in the midst of his suite and attendants, was being borne in triumph through the streets of Philadelphia, and a countless multitude of people were shouting themselves hoarse, and jostling and crushing each other around his carriage-wheels, Mr. Felton, the President of the Philadelphia, Wilmington and Baltimore Railway, was engaged with a private detective discussing the details of an alleged conspiracy to murder him at Baltimore. Some months before, Mr. Felton, apprehending danger to the bridges along his line, had taken this man into his pay and sent him to Baltimore to spy out and report any plot that might be found for their destruction. Taking with him a couple of other men and a woman, the detective went about his business with the zeal which necessarily marks his peculiar profession. He set up as a stock-broker, under an assumed name, opened an office, and became a vehement secessionist. His agents were instructed to act with the duplicity which such men generally use; to be rabid on the subject of 'Southern Rights'; to suggest all manner of crimes in vindication of them; and if, by these arts, corresponding sentiments should be elicited from their victims, the 'job' might be considered as prospering. Of course they readily found out what everybody else knew--that Maryland was in a state of great alarm; that her people were forming military associations, and that Governor Hicks was doing his utmost to furnish them with arms, on condition that the arms, in case of need, should be turned against the Federal Government. Whether they detected any plan to burn bridges or not, the chief detective does not relate; but it appears that he soon deserted that inquiry and got, or pretended to get, upon a scent that promised a heavier reward. Being intensely ambitious to shine in the professional way, and something of a politician besides, it struck him that it would be a particularly fine thing to discover a dreadful plot to assassinate the President-elect, and he discovered it accordingly. It was easy to get that far; to furnish tangible proofs of an imaginary conspiracy was a more difficult matter. But Baltimore was seething with political excitement; numerous strangers from the far South crowded its hotels and boarding-houses; great numbers of mechanics and laborers out of employment encumbered its streets; and everywhere politicians, merchants, mechanics, laborers and loafers were engaged in heated discussions about the anticipated war, and the probability of Northern troops being marched through Maryland to slaughter and pillage beyond the Potomac. It would seem like an easy thing to beguile a few individuals of this angry and excited multitude into the expression of some criminal desire; and the opportunity was not wholly lost, although the limited success of the detective under such favorable circumstances is absolutely wonderful. He put his 'shadows' upon several persons whom it suited his pleasure to suspect, and the 'shadows' pursued their work with the keen zest and the cool treachery of their kind. They reported daily to their chief in writing, as he reported in turn to his employer. These documents are neither edifying nor useful: they prove nothing but the baseness of the vocation which gave them existence. They were furnished to Mr. Herndon in full, under the impression that partisan feeling had extinguished in him the love of truth and the obligations of candor, as it had in many writers who preceded him on the same subject-matter. They have been carefully and thoroughly read, analyzed, examined and compared, with an earnest and conscientious desire to discover the truth, if, perchance, any trace of truth might be in them. The process of investigation began with a strong bias in favor of the conclusion at which the detective had arrived. For ten years the author implicitly believed in the reality of the atrocious plot which these spies were supposed to have detected and thwarted; and for ten years he had pleased himself with the reflection that he also had done something to defeat the bloody purpose of the assassins. It was a conviction which could scarcely have been overthrown by evidence less powerful than the detective's weak and contradictory account of his own case. In that account there is literally nothing to sustain the accusation, and much to rebut it. It is perfectly manifest that there was no conspiracy--no conspiracy of a hundred, of fifty, of twenty, of three--no definite purpose in the heart of even one man to murder Mr. Lincoln at Baltimore. "The reports are all in the form of personal narratives, and for the most relate when the spies went to bed, when they rose, where they ate, what saloons and brothels they visited, and what blackguards they met and 'drinked' with. One of them shadowed a loud-mouthed drinking fellow named Luckett, and another, a poor scapegrace and braggart named Hilliard. These wretches 'drinked' and talked a great deal, hung about bars, haunted disreputable houses, were constantly half drunk, and easily excited to use big and threatening words by the faithless protestations and cunning management of the spies. Thus Hilliard was made to say that he thought a man who should act the part of Brutus in these times would deserve well of his country; and Luckett was induced to declare that he knew a man who would kill Lincoln. At length the great arch-conspirator--the Brutus, the Orsini of the New World, to whom Luckett and Hilliard, the 'national volunteers,' and all such, were as mere puppets--condescended to reveal himself in the most obliging and confiding manner. He made no mystery of his cruel and desperate scheme. He did not guard it as a dangerous secret, or choose his confidants with the circumspection which political criminals, and especially assassins, have generally thought proper to observe. Very many persons knew what he was about, and levied on their friends for small sums--five, ten and twenty dollars--to further the Captain's plan. Even Luckett was deep enough in the awful plot to raise money for it; and when he took one of the spies to a public bar-room and introduced him to the 'Captain,' the latter sat down and talked it all over without the slightest reserve. When was there ever before such a loud-mouthed conspirator, such a trustful and innocent assassin! His name was Ferrandini, his occupation that of a barber, his place of business beneath Barnum's Hotel, where the sign of the bloodthirsty villain still invites the unsuspecting public to come in for a shave. "'Mr. Luckett,' so the spy relates, 'said that he was not going home this evening; and if I would meet him at Barr's saloon, on South street, he would introduce me to Ferrandini. This was unexpected to me; but I determined to take the chances, and agreed to meet Mr. Luckett at the place named at 7 P. M. Mr. Luckett left about 2.30 P. M., and I went to dinner. "'I was at the office in the afternoon in hopes that Mr. Felton might call, but he did not; and at 6.15 P. M. I went to supper. After supper I went to Barr's saloon, and found Mr. Luckett and several other gentlemen there. He asked me to drink, and introduced me to Captain Ferrandini and Captain Turner. He eulogized me very highly as a neighbor of his, and told Ferrandini that I was the gentleman who had given the twenty-five dollars he (Luckett) had given to Ferrandini. "'The conversation at once got into politics; and Ferrandini, who is a fine-looking, intelligent-appearing person, became very excited. He shows the Italian in, I think, a very marked degree; and, although excited, yet was cooler than what I had believed was the general characteristic of Italians. He has lived South for many years, and is thoroughly imbued with the idea that the South must rule; that they (Southerners) have been outraged in their rights by the election of Lincoln, and freely justified resorting to any means to prevent Lincoln from taking his seat; and, as he spoke, his eyes fairly glared and glistened, and his whole frame quivered; but he was fully conscious of all he was doing. He is a man well calculated for controlling and directing the ardent-minded; he is an enthusiast, and believes that, to use his own words, "murder of any kind is justifiable and right to save the rights of the Southern people." In all his views he was ably seconded by Captain Turner. "'Captain Turner is an American; but although very much of a gentleman, and possessing warm Southern feelings, he is not by any means so dangerous a man as Ferrandini, as his ability for exciting others is less powerful; but that he is a bold and proud man there is no doubt, as also that he is entirely under the control of Ferrandini. In fact, he could not be otherwise, for even I myself felt the influence of this man's strange power; and, wrong though I knew him to be, I felt strangely unable to keep my mind balanced against him. "'Ferrandini said, "Never, never, shall Lincoln be President!" His life (Ferrandini's) was of no consequence; he was willing to give it up for Lincoln's; he would sell it for that abolitionist's; and as Orsini had given his life for Italy, so was he (Ferrandini) ready to die for his country and the rights of the South; and said Ferrandini, turning to Captain Turner, "We shall all die together: we shall show the North that we fear them not. Every man, Captain," said he, "will on that day prove himself a hero. The first shot fired, the main traitor (Lincoln) dead, and all Maryland will be with us, and the South shall be free; and the North must then be ours. Mr. Hutchins," said Ferrandini, "if I alone must do it, I shall: Lincoln shall die in this city." "'Whilst we were thus talking, we (Mr. Luckett, Turner, Ferrandini and myself) were alone in one corner of the bar-room, and, while talking, two strangers had got pretty near us. Mr. Luckett called Ferrandini's attention to this, and intimated that they were listening; and we went up to the bar, drinked again at my expense, and again retired to another part of the room, at Ferrandini's request, to see if the strangers would again follow us. Whether by accident or design, they again got near us; but of course we were not talking of any matter of consequence. Ferrandini said he suspected they were spies, and suggested that he had to attend a secret meeting, and was apprehensive that the two strangers might follow him; and, at Mr. Luckett's request, I remained with him (Luckett) to watch the movements of the strangers. I assured Ferrandini that if they would attempt to follow him, we would whip them. "'Ferrandini and Turner left to attend the meeting, and, anxious as I was to follow them myself, I was obliged to remain with Mr. Luckett to watch the strangers, which we did for about fifteen minutes, when Mr. Luckett said that he should go to a friend's to stay over night, and I left for my hotel, arriving there at about 9 P. M., and soon retired.' "It is in a secret communication between hireling spies and paid informers that these ferocious sentiments are attributed to the poor knight of the soap-pot. No disinterested person would believe the story upon such evidence; and it will appear hereafter that even the detective felt that it was too weak to mention among his strong points, at that decisive moment when he revealed all he knew to the President and his friends. It is probably a mere fiction. If it had had any foundation in fact, we are inclined to believe that the sprightly and eloquent barber would have dangled at a rope's end long since. He would hardly have been left to shave and plot in peace, while the members of the Legislature, the Police Marshal, and numerous private gentlemen, were locked up in Federal prisons. When Mr. Lincoln was actually slain, four years later, and the cupidity of the detectives was excited by enormous rewards, Ferrandini was totally unmolested. But even if Ferrandini really said all that is here imputed to him, he did no more than many others around him were doing at the same time. He drank and talked, and made swelling speeches; but he never took, nor seriously thought of taking, the first step toward the frightful tragedy he is said to have contemplated. "The detectives are cautious not to include in the supposed plot to murder any person of eminence, power, or influence. Their game is all of the smaller sort, and, as they conceived, easily taken--witless vagabonds like Hilliard and Luckett, and a barber, whose calling indicates his character and associations.[17] They had no fault to find with the Governor of the State; he was rather a lively trimmer, to be sure, and very anxious to turn up at last on the winning side; but it was manifestly impossible that one in such an exalted station could meditate murder. Yet, if they had pushed their inquiries with an honest desire to get at the truth, they might have found much stronger evidence against the Governor than that which they pretend to have found against the barber. In the Governor's case the evidence is documentary, written, authentic--over his own hand, clear and conclusive as pen and ink could make it. As early as the previous November, Governor Hicks had written the following letter; and, notwithstanding its treasonable and murderous import, the writer became conspicuously loyal before spring, and lived to reap splendid rewards and high honors, under the auspices of the Federal Government, as the most patriotic and devoted Union man in Maryland. The person to whom the letter was addressed was equally fortunate; and, instead of drawing out his comrades in the field to 'kill Lincoln and his men,' he was sent to Congress by power exerted from Washington at a time when the administration selected the representatives of Maryland, and performed all his duties right loyally and acceptably. Shall one be taken and another left? Shall Hicks go to the Senate and Webster to Congress, while the poor barber is held to the silly words which he is alleged to have sputtered out between drinks in a low groggery, under the blandishments and encouragements of an eager spy, itching for his reward? [Footnote 17: Mr. Ferrandini, now in advanced years, still lives in Baltimore, and declares the charge of conspiracy to be wholly absurd and fictitious, and those who know him will, I think, believe that he is an unlikely person to be engaged in such a plot.] "'STATE OF MARYLAND, "'EXECUTIVE CHAMBER, "'ANNAPOLIS, _November 9, 1860_. "'Hon. E. H. WEBSTER. "'_My Dear Sir_:--I have pleasure in acknowledging receipt of your favor introducing a very clever gentleman to my acquaintance (though a Demo'). I regret to say that we have, at this time, no arms on hand to distribute, but assure you at the earliest possible moment your company shall have arms; they have complied with all required on their part. We have some delay, in consequence of contracts with Georgia and Alabama ahead of us. We expect at an early day an additional supply, and of first received your people shall be furnished. Will they be good men to send out to kill Lincoln and his men? If not, suppose the arms would be better sent South. "'How does late election sit with you? 'Tis too bad. Harford nothing to reproach herself for. "'Your obedient servant, "'THOS. H. HICKS.' "With the Presidential party was Hon. Norman B. Judd; he was supposed to exercise unbounded influence over the new President; and with him, therefore, the detective opened communications. At various places along the route Mr. Judd was given vague hints of the impending danger, accompanied by the usual assurances of the skill and activity of the patriots who were perilling their lives in a rebel city to save that of the Chief Magistrate. When he reached New York, he was met by the woman who had originally gone with the other spies to Baltimore. She had urgent messages from her chief--messages that disturbed Mr. Judd exceedingly. The detective was anxious to meet Mr. Judd and the President, and a meeting was accordingly arranged to take place at Philadelphia. "Mr. Lincoln reached Philadelphia on the afternoon of the 21st. The detective had arrived in the morning, and improved the interval to impress and enlist Mr. Felton. In the evening he got Mr. Judd and Mr. Felton into his room at the St. Louis Hotel, and told them all he had learned. He dwelt at large on the fierce temper of the Baltimore secessionists; on the loose talk he had heard about 'fireballs or hand-grenades'; on a 'privateer' said to be moored somewhere in the bay; on the organization called National Volunteers; on the fact that, eavesdropping at Barnum's Hotel, he had overheard Marshal Kane intimate that he would not supply a police force on some undefined occasion, but what the occasion was he did not know. He made much of his miserable victim, Hilliard, whom he held up as a perfect type of the class from which danger was to be apprehended; but concerning "Captain" Ferrandini and his threats, he said, according to his own account, not a single word. He had opened his case, his whole case, and stated it as strongly as he could. Mr. Judd was very much startled, and was sure that it would be extremely imprudent for Mr. Lincoln to pass through Baltimore in open daylight, according to the published programme. But he thought the detective ought to see the President himself; and, as it was wearing toward nine o'clock, there was no time to lose. It was agreed that the part taken by the detective and Mr. Felton should be kept secret from every one but the President. Mr. Sanford, President of the American Telegraph Company, had also been co-operating in the business, and the same stipulation was made with regard to him. "Mr. Judd went to his own room at the Continental, and the detective followed. The crowd in the hotel was very dense, and it took some time to get a message to Mr. Lincoln. But it finally reached him, and he responded in person. Mr. Judd introduced the detective, and the latter told his story over again, with a single variation: this time he mentioned the name of Ferrandini along with Hilliard's, but gave no more prominence to one than to the other. "Mr. Judd and the detective wanted Lincoln to leave for Washington that night. This he flatly refused to do. He had engagements with the people, he said, to raise a flag over Independence Hall in the morning, and to exhibit himself at Harrisburg in the afternoon, and these engagements he would not break in any event. But he would raise the flag, go to Harrisburg, 'get away quietly' in the evening, and permit himself to be carried to Washington in the way they thought best. Even this, however, he conceded with great reluctance. He condescended to cross-examine the detective on some parts of his narrative, but at no time did he seem in the least degree alarmed. He was earnestly requested not to communicate the change of plan to any member of his party except Mr. Judd, nor permit even a suspicion of it to cross the mind of another. To this he replied that he would be compelled to tell Mrs. Lincoln, 'and he thought it likely that she would insist upon W. H. Lamon going with him; but, aside from that, no one should know.' "In the meantime, Mr. Seward had also discovered the conspiracy. He dispatched his son to Philadelphia to warn the President-elect of the terrible plot into whose meshes he was about to run. Mr. Lincoln turned him over to Judd, and Judd told him they already knew all about it. He went away with just enough information to enable his father to anticipate the exact moment of Mr. Lincoln's surreptitious arrival in Washington. "Early on the morning of the 22d, Mr. Lincoln raised the flag over Independence Hall, and departed for Harrisburg. On the way Mr. Judd 'gave him a full and precise detail of the arrangements that had been made' the previous night. After the conference with the detective, Mr. Sanford, Colonel Scott, Mr. Felton, railroad and telegraph officials, had been sent for, and came to Mr. Judd's room. They occupied nearly the whole of the night in perfecting the plan. It was finally understood that about six o'clock the next evening Mr. Lincoln should slip away from the Jones Hotel, at Harrisburg, in company with a single member of his party. A special car and engine would be provided for him on the track outside the depot. All other trains on the road would be 'side-tracked' until this one had passed. Mr. Sanford would forward skilled 'telegraph-climbers,' and see that all the wires leading out of Harrisburg were cut at six o'clock, and kept down until it was known that Mr. Lincoln had reached Washington in safety. The detective would meet Mr. Lincoln at the West Philadelphia Depot with a carriage, and conduct him by a circuitous route to the Philadelphia, Wilmington and Baltimore Depot. Berths for four would be pre-engaged in the sleeping-car attached to the regular midnight train for Baltimore. This train Mr. Felton would cause to be detained until the conductor should receive a package, containing important 'Government dispatches,' addressed to 'E. J. Allen, Willard's Hotel, Washington.' This package was made up of old newspapers, carefully wrapped and sealed, and delivered to the detective to be used as soon as Mr. Lincoln was lodged in the car. Mr. Lincoln approved of the plan, and signified his readiness to acquiesce. Then Mr. Judd, forgetting the secrecy which the spy had so impressively enjoined, told Mr. Lincoln that the step he was about to take was one of such transcendent importance that he thought 'it should be communicated to the other gentlemen of the party.' Mr. Lincoln said, 'You can do as you like about that.' Mr. Judd now changed his seat; and Mr. Nicolay, whose suspicions seem to have been aroused by this mysterious conference, sat down beside him and said: 'Judd, there is something _up_. What is it, if it is proper that I should know?' 'George,' answered Judd, 'there is no necessity for your knowing it. One man can keep a matter better than two.' "Arrived at Harrisburg, and the public ceremonies and speechmaking over, Mr. Lincoln retired to a private parlor in the Jones House, and Mr. Judd summoned to meet him Judge Davis, Colonel Lamon, Colonel Sumner, Major Hunter and Captain Pope. The three latter were officers of the regular army, and had joined the party after it had left Springfield. Judd began the conference by stating the alleged fact of the Baltimore conspiracy, how it was detected, and how it was proposed to thwart it by a midnight expedition to Washington by way of Philadelphia. It was a great surprise to most of those assembled. Colonel Sumner was the first to break silence. 'That proceeding,' said he, 'will be a damned piece of cowardice.' Mr. Judd considered this a 'pointed hit,' but replied that 'that view of the case had already been presented to Mr. Lincoln.' Then there was a general interchange of opinions, which Sumner interrupted by saying, 'I'll get a squad of cavalry, sir, and _cut_ our way to Washington, sir!' 'Probably before that day comes,' said Mr. Judd, 'the inauguration-day will have passed. It is important that Mr. Lincoln should be in Washington that day.' Thus far Judge Davis had expressed no opinion, but 'had put various questions to test the truthfulness of the story.' He now turned to Mr. Lincoln and said, 'You personally heard the detective's story. You have heard this discussion. What is your judgment in the matter?' 'I have listened,' answered Mr. Lincoln, 'to this discussion with interest. I see no reason, no good reason, to change the programme, and I am for carrying it out as arranged by Judd.' There was no longer any dissent as to the plan itself; but one question still remained to be disposed of. Who should accompany the President on his perilous ride? Mr. Judd again took the lead, declaring that he and Mr. Lincoln had previously determined that but one man ought to go, and that Colonel Lamon had been selected as the proper person. To this Sumner violently demurred. '_I_ have undertaken,' he exclaimed, 'to see Mr. Lincoln to Washington.' "Mr. Lincoln was hastily dining when a close carriage was brought to the side door of the hotel. He was called, hurried to his room, changed his coat and hat, and passed rapidly through the hall and out of the door. As he was stepping into the carriage, it became manifest that Sumner was determined to get in also. 'Hurry with him,' whispered Judd to Lamon, and at the same time, placing his hand on Sumner's shoulder, said aloud, 'One moment, Colonel!' Sumner turned around, and in that moment the carriage drove rapidly away. 'A madder man,' says Mr. Judd, 'you never saw.' "Mr. Lincoln and Colonel Lamon got on board the car without discovery or mishap. Besides themselves, there was no one in or about the car but Mr. Lewis, General Superintendent of the Pennsylvania Central Railroad, and Mr. Franciscus, superintendent of the division over which they were about to pass. As Mr. Lincoln's dress on this occasion has been much discussed, it may be as well to state that he wore a soft, light felt hat, drawn down over his face when it seemed necessary or convenient, and a shawl thrown over his shoulders, and pulled up to assist in disguising his features when passing to and from the carriage. This was all there was of the 'Scotch cap and cloak,' so widely celebrated in the political literature of the day. "At ten o'clock they reached Philadelphia, and were met by the detective and one Mr. Kinney, an under official of the Philadelphia, Wilmington and Baltimore Railroad. Lewis and Franciscus bade Mr. Lincoln adieu. Mr. Lincoln, Colonel Lamon and the detective seated themselves in a carriage which stood in waiting, and Mr. Kinney got upon the box with the driver. It was a full hour and a half before the Baltimore train was to start, and Mr. Kinney found it necessary 'to consume the time by driving northward in search of some imaginary person.' "On the way through Philadelphia, Mr. Lincoln told his companions about the message he had received from Mr. Seward. This new discovery was infinitely more appalling than the other. Mr. Seward had been informed 'that about _fifteen thousand men_ were organized to prevent his (Lincoln's) passage through Baltimore, and that arrangements were made by these parties to _blow up the railroad track, fire the train_,' etc. In view of these unpleasant circumstances, Mr. Seward recommended a change of route. Here was a plot big enough to swallow up the little one, which we are to regard as the peculiar property of Mr. Felton's detective. Hilliard, Ferrandini and Luckett disappear among the 'fifteen thousand,' and their maudlin and impotent twaddle about the 'abolition tyrant' looks very insignificant beside the bloody massacre, conflagration and explosion now foreshadowed. "As the moment for the departure of the Baltimore train drew near, the carriage paused in the dark shadows of the depot building. It was not considered prudent to approach the entrance. The spy passed in first and was followed by Mr. Lincoln and Colonel Lamon. An agent of the former directed them to the sleeping-car, which they entered by the rear door. Mr. Kinney ran forward and delivered to the conductor the important package prepared for the purpose; and in three minutes the train was in motion. The tickets for the whole party had been procured beforehand. Their berths were ready, but had only been preserved from invasion by the statement that they were retained for a sick man and his attendants. The business had been managed very adroitly by the female spy, who had accompanied her employer from Baltimore to Philadelphia to assist him in this, the most delicate and important affair of his life. Mr. Lincoln got into his bed immediately, and the curtains were drawn together. When the conductor came around, the detective handed him the 'sick man's' ticket, and the rest of the party lay down also. None of 'our party appeared to be sleepy,' says the detective, 'but we all lay quiet, and nothing of importance transpired.'... During the night Mr. Lincoln indulged in a joke or two in an undertone; but, with that exception, the two sections occupied by them were perfectly silent. The detective said he had men stationed at various places along the road to let him know 'if all was right,' and he rose and went to the platform occasionally to observe their signals, but returned each time with a favorable report. "At thirty minutes after three the train reached Baltimore. One of the spy's assistants came on board and informed him in a whisper that all was right. The woman [the female detective] got out of the car. Mr. Lincoln lay close in his berth, and in a few moments the car was being slowly drawn through the quiet streets of the city toward the Washington Depot. There again there was another pause, but no sound more alarming than the noise of shifting cars and engines. The passengers, tucked away on their narrow shelves, dozed on as peacefully as if Mr. Lincoln had never been born.... "In due time the train sped out of the suburbs of Baltimore, and the apprehensions of the President and his friends diminished with each welcome revolution of the wheels. At six o'clock the dome of the Capitol came in sight, and a moment later they rolled into the long, unsightly building which forms the Washington Depot. They passed out of the car unobstructed, and pushed along with the living stream of men and women towards the outer door. One man alone in the great crowd seemed to watch Mr. Lincoln with special attention. Standing a little on one side, he 'looked very sharp at him,' and, as he passed, seized hold of his hand and said in a loud tone of voice, 'Abe, you can't play that on me.' The detective and Col. Lamon were instantly alarmed. One of them raised his fist to strike the stranger; but Mr. Lincoln caught his arm and said, 'Don't strike him! don't strike him! It is Washburne. Don't you know him?' Mr. Seward had given to Mr. Washburne a hint of the information received through his son, and Mr. Washburne knew its value as well as another. For the present the detective admonished him to keep quiet, and they passed on together. Taking a hack, they drove towards Willard's Hotel. Mr. Lincoln, Mr. Washburne and the detective got out into the street and approached the ladies' entrance, while Col. Lamon drove on to the main entrance, and sent the proprietor to meet his distinguished guest at the side door. A few minutes later Mr. Seward arrived, and was introduced to the company by Mr. Washburne. He spoke in very strong terms of the great danger which Mr. Lincoln had so narrowly escaped, and most heartily applauded the wisdom of the 'secret passage.' 'I informed Gov. Seward of the nature of the information I had,' says the detective, 'and that I had no information of any large organization in Baltimore; but the Governor reiterated that he had conclusive evidence of this.'... "That same day Mr. Lincoln's family and suite passed through Baltimore on the special train intended for him. They saw no sign of any disposition to burn them alive, or to blow them up with gunpowder, but went their way unmolested and very happy. "Mr. Lincoln soon learned to regret the midnight ride. His friends reproached him; his enemies taunted him. He was convinced that he had committed a grave mistake in yielding to the solicitations of a professional spy and of friends too easily alarmed. He saw that he had fled from a danger purely imaginary, and felt the shame and mortification natural to a brave man under such circumstances. But he was not disposed to take all the responsibility to himself, and frequently upbraided the writer for having aided and assisted him to demean himself at the very moment in all his life when his behavior should have exhibited the utmost dignity and composure. "The news of his surreptitious entry into Washington occasioned much and varied comment throughout the country; but important events followed it in such rapid succession that its real significance was soon lost sight of; enough that Mr. Lincoln was safely at the Capital, and in a few days would in all probability assume the power confided to his hands." APPENDIX II. EXTRACT FROM THE OPINION OF THE SUPREME COURT OF THE UNITED STATES, DELIVERED BY CHIEF JUSTICE TANEY IN THE CASE OF DRED SCOTT _vs._ SANDFORD, 19 HOW. 407. "It is difficult at this day to realize the state of public opinion in relation to that unfortunate race" (the African) "which prevailed in the civilized and enlightened portions of the world at the time of the Declaration of Independence, and when the Constitution of the United States was framed and adopted. "But the public history of every European nation displays it in a manner too plain to be mistaken. "They had for more than a century before been regarded as beings of an inferior order, and altogether unfit to associate with the white race, either in social or political relations; and so far inferior, that they had no rights which the white man was bound to respect; and that the negro might justly and lawfully be reduced to slavery for his benefit." APPENDIX III. THE HABEAS CORPUS CASE EX PARTE JOHN MERRYMAN, CAMPBELL'S REPORTS, P. 246. -- OPINION OF THE CHIEF JUSTICE OF THE UNITED STATES. _Ex parte_ } Before the Chief Justice of the Supreme JOHN MERRYMAN. } Court of the United States, at Chambers. The application in this case for a writ of _habeas corpus_ is made to me under the fourteenth section of the Judiciary Act of 1789, which renders effectual for the citizen the constitutional privilege of the writ of _habeas corpus_. That act gives to the courts of the United States, as well as to each justice of the Supreme Court and to every district judge, power to grant writs of _habeas corpus_ for the purpose of an inquiry into the cause of commitment. The petition was presented to me at Washington, under the impression that I would order the prisoner to be brought before me there; but as he was confined in Fort McHenry, in the city of Baltimore, which is in my circuit, I resolved to hear it in the latter city, as obedience to the writ under such circumstances would not withdraw General Cadwallader, who had him in charge, from the limits of his military command. The petition presents the following case: The petitioner resides in Maryland, in Baltimore County. While peaceably in his own house, with his family, it was, at two o'clock on the morning of the 25th of May, 1861, entered by an armed force professing to act under military orders. He was then compelled to rise from his bed, taken into custody and conveyed to Fort McHenry, where he is imprisoned by the commanding officer, without warrant from any lawful authority. The commander of the fort, General George Cadwallader, by whom he is detained in confinement, in his return to the writ, does not deny any of the facts alleged in the petition. He states that the prisoner was arrested by order of General Keim, of Pennsylvania, and conducted as aforesaid to Fort McHenry by his order, and placed in his (General Cadwallader's) custody, to be there detained by him as a prisoner. A copy of the warrant or order under which the prisoner was arrested was demanded by his counsel and refused. And it is not alleged in the return that any specific act, constituting any offense against the laws of the United States, has been charged against him upon oath; but he appears to have been arrested upon general charges of treason and rebellion, without proof, and without giving the names of the witnesses, or specifying the acts which, in the judgment of the military officer, constituted these crimes. Having the prisoner thus in custody upon these vague and unsupported accusations, he refuses to obey the writ of _habeas corpus_, upon the ground that he is duly authorized by the President to suspend it. The case, then, is simply this: A military officer, residing in Pennsylvania, issues an order to arrest a citizen of Maryland upon vague and indefinite charges, without any proof, so far as appears. Under this order his house is entered in the night, he is seized as a prisoner and conveyed to Fort McHenry, and there kept in close confinement. And when a _habeas corpus_ is served on the commanding officer, requiring him to produce the prisoner before a justice of the Supreme Court, in order that he may examine into the legality of the imprisonment, the answer of the officer is that he is authorized by the President to suspend the writ of _habeas corpus_ at his discretion, and, in the exercise of that discretion, suspends it in this case, and on that ground refuses obedience to the writ. As the case comes before me, therefore, I understand that the President not only claims the right to suspend the writ of _habeas corpus_ himself at his discretion, but to delegate that discretionary power to a military officer, and to leave it to him to determine whether he will or will not obey judicial process that may be served upon him. No official notice has been given to the courts of justice, or to the public, by proclamation or otherwise, that the President claimed this power, and had exercised it in the manner stated in the return. And I certainly listened to it with some surprise; for I had supposed it to be one of those points of constitutional law upon which there was no difference of opinion, and that it was admitted on all hands that the privilege of the writ could not be suspended except by act of Congress. When the conspiracy of which Aaron Burr was the head became so formidable and was so extensively ramified as to justify, in Mr. Jefferson's opinion, the suspension of the writ, he claimed on his part no power to suspend it, but communicated his opinion to Congress, with all the proofs in his possession, in order that Congress might exercise its discretion upon the subject, and determine whether the public safety required it. And in the debate which took place upon the subject, no one suggested that Mr. Jefferson might exercise the power himself, if, in his opinion, the public safety demanded it. Having therefore regarded the question as too plain and too well settled to be open to dispute, if the commanding officer had stated that upon his own responsibility, and in the exercise of his own discretion, he refused obedience to the writ, I should have contented myself with referring to the clause in the Constitution, and to the construction it received from every jurist and statesman of that day, when the case of Burr was before them. But being thus officially notified that the privilege of the writ has been suspended under the orders and by the authority of the President, and believing, as I do, that the President has exercised a power which he does not possess under the Constitution, a proper respect for the high office he fills requires me to state plainly and fully the grounds of my opinion, in order to show that I have not ventured to question the legality of his act without a careful and deliberate examination of the whole subject. The clause of the Constitution which authorizes the suspension of the privilege of the writ of _habeas corpus_ is in the ninth section of the first article. This article is devoted to the legislative department of the United States, and has not the slightest reference to the Executive Department. It begins by providing "that all legislative powers therein granted shall be vested in a Congress of the United States, which shall consist of a Senate and House of Representatives"; and after prescribing the manner in which these two branches of the legislative department shall be chosen, it proceeds to enumerate specifically the legislative powers which it thereby grants, and at the conclusion of this specification a clause is inserted giving Congress "the power to make all laws which shall be necessary and proper for carrying into execution the foregoing powers, and all other powers vested by this Constitution in the Government of the United States, or in any department or office thereof." The power of legislation granted by this latter clause is by its words carefully confined to the specific objects before enumerated. But as this limitation was unavoidably somewhat indefinite, it was deemed necessary to guard more effectually certain great cardinal principles essential to the liberty of the citizen, and to the rights and equality of the States, by denying to Congress, in express terms, any power of legislation over them. It was apprehended, it seems, that such legislation might be attempted under the pretext that it was necessary and proper to carry into execution the powers granted; and it was determined that there should be no room to doubt, where rights of such vital importance were concerned, and accordingly this clause is immediately followed by an enumeration of certain subjects to which the powers of legislation shall not extend. The great importance which the framers of the Constitution attached to the privilege of the writ of _habeas corpus_ to protect the liberty of the citizen, is proved by the fact that its suspension, except in cases of invasion or rebellion, is first in the list of prohibited powers--and even in these cases the power is denied and its exercise prohibited, unless the public safety shall require it. It is true that in the cases mentioned, Congress is of necessity the judge of whether the public safety does, or does not, require it; and its judgment is conclusive. But the introduction of these words is a standing admonition to the legislative body of the danger of suspending it, and of the extreme caution they should exercise before they give the Government of the United States such power over the liberty of a citizen. It is the second article of the Constitution that provides for the organization of the Executive Department, and enumerates the powers conferred on it, and prescribes its duties. And if the high power over the liberty of the citizen now claimed was intended to be conferred on the President, it would undoubtedly be found in plain words in this article. But there is not a word in it that can furnish the slightest ground to justify the exercise of the power. The article begins by declaring that the executive power shall be vested in a President of the United States of America, to hold his office during the term of four years, and then proceeds to prescribe the mode of election, and to specify in precise and plain words the powers delegated to him, and the duties imposed upon him. The short term for which he is elected, and the narrow limits to which his power is confined, show the jealousy and apprehensions of future danger which the framers of the Constitution felt in relation to that department of the Government, and how carefully they withheld from it many of the powers belonging to the Executive Branch of the English Government which were considered as dangerous to the liberty of the subject, and conferred (and that in clear and specific terms) those powers only which were deemed essential to secure the successful operation of the Government. He is elected, as I have already said, for the brief term of four years, and is made personally responsible by impeachment for malfeasance in office. He is from necessity and the nature of his duties the Commander-in-Chief of the Army and Navy, and of the militia when called into actual service. But no appropriation for the support of the Army can be made by Congress for a longer term than two years, so that it is in the power of the succeeding House of Representatives to withhold the appropriation for its support, and thus disband it, if, in their judgment, the President used or designed to use it for improper purposes. And although the militia, when in actual service, is under his command, yet the appointment of the officers is reserved to the States, as a security against the use of the military power for purposes dangerous to the liberties of the people or the rights of the States. So, too, his powers in relation to the civil duties and authority necessarily conferred on him are carefully restricted, as well as those belonging to his military character. He cannot appoint the ordinary officers of Government, nor make a treaty with a foreign nation or Indian tribe, without the advice and consent of the Senate, and cannot appoint even inferior officers unless he is authorized by an Act of Congress to do so. He is not empowered to arrest any one charged with an offense against the United States, and whom he may, from the evidence before him, believe to be guilty; nor can he authorize any officer, civil or military, to exercise this power; for the fifth article of the Amendments to the Constitution expressly provides that no person "shall be deprived of life, liberty or property without due process of law"--that is, judicial process. Even if the privilege of the writ of _habeas corpus_ were suspended by Act of Congress, and a party not subject to the rules and articles of war were afterwards arrested and imprisoned by regular judicial process, he could not be detained in prison or brought to trial before a military tribunal; for the article in the Amendments to the Constitution immediately following the one above referred to--that is, the sixth article--provides that "in all criminal prosecutions the accused shall enjoy the right to a speedy and public trial by an impartial jury of the State and district wherein the crime shall have been committed, which district shall have been previously ascertained by law; and to be informed of the nature and cause of the accusation; to be confronted with the witnesses against him; to have compulsory process for obtaining witnesses in his favor, and to have the assistance of counsel for his defense." The only power, therefore, which the President possesses, where the "life, liberty, or property" of a private citizen is concerned, is the power and duty prescribed in the third section of the second article, which requires "that he shall take care that the laws be faithfully executed." He is not authorized to execute them himself, or through agents or officers, civil or military, appointed by himself, but he is to take care that they be faithfully carried into execution as they are expounded and adjudged by the co-ordinate branch of the Government to which that duty is assigned by the Constitution. It is thus made his duty to come in aid of the judicial authority, if it shall be resisted by a force too strong to be overcome without the assistance of the executive arm. But in exercising this power he acts in subordination to judicial authority, assisting it to execute its process and enforce its judgments. With such provisions in the Constitution, expressed in language too clear to be misunderstood by any one, I can see no ground whatever for supposing that the President, in any emergency or in any state of things, can authorize the suspension of the privilege of the writ of _habeas corpus_, or the arrest of a citizen, except in aid of the judicial power. He certainly does not faithfully execute the laws if he takes upon himself legislative power by suspending the writ of _habeas corpus_, and the judicial power also, by arresting and imprisoning a person without due process of law. Nor can any argument be drawn from the nature of sovereignty, or the necessity of Government for self-defense in times of tumult and danger. The Government of the United States is one of delegated and limited powers. It derives its existence and authority altogether from the Constitution, and neither of its branches, executive, legislative or judicial, can exercise any of the powers of Government beyond those specified and granted. For the tenth article of the Amendments to the Constitution in express terms provides that "the powers not delegated to the United States by the Constitution, nor prohibited by it to the States, are reserved to the States respectively, or to the people." Indeed, the security against imprisonment by executive authority, provided for in the fifth article of the Amendments to the Constitution, which I have before quoted, is nothing more than a copy of a like provision in the English Constitution, which had been firmly established before the Declaration of Independence. Blackstone states it in the following words: "To make imprisonment lawful, it must be either by process of law from the courts of judicature or by warrant from some legal officer having authority to commit to prison" (1 Bl. Com. 137). The people of the United Colonies, who had themselves lived under its protection while they were British subjects, were well aware of the necessity of this safeguard for their personal liberty. And no one can believe that, in framing a government intended to guard still more efficiently the rights and liberties of the citizen against executive encroachments and oppression, they would have conferred on the President a power which the history of England had proved to be dangerous and oppressive in the hands of the Crown, and which the people of England had compelled it to surrender after a long and obstinate struggle on the part of the English Executive to usurp and retain it. The right of the subject to the benefit of the writ of _habeas corpus_, it must be recollected, was one of the great points in controversy during the long struggle in England between arbitrary government and free institutions, and must therefore have strongly attracted the attention of the statesmen engaged in framing a new, and, as they supposed, a freer government than the one which they had thrown off by the Revolution. From the earliest history of the common law, if a person were imprisoned, no matter by what authority, he had a right to the writ of _habeas corpus_ to bring his case before the King's Bench; if no specific offense were charged against him in the warrant of commitment, he was entitled to be forthwith discharged; and if an offense were charged which was bailable in its character, the Court was bound to set him at liberty on bail. The most exciting contests between the Crown and the people of England from the time of _Magna Charta_ were in relation to the privilege of this writ, and they continued until the passage of the statute of 31st Charles II, commonly known as the Great _Habeas Corpus_ Act. This statute put an end to the struggle, and finally and firmly secured the liberty of the subject against the usurpation and oppression of the executive branch of the Government. It nevertheless conferred no new right upon the subject, but only secured a right already existing. For, although the right could not justly be denied, there was often no effectual remedy against its violation. Until the statute of 13 William III, the judges held their offices at the pleasure of the King, and the influence which he exercised over timid, time-serving and partisan judges often induced them, upon some pretext or other, to refuse to discharge the party, although entitled by law to his discharge, or delayed their decision from time to time, so as to prolong the imprisonment of persons who were obnoxious to the King for their political opinions, or had incurred his resentment in any other way. The great and inestimable value of the _habeas corpus_ act of the 31st Charles II. is that it contains provisions which compel courts and judges, and all parties concerned, to perform their duties promptly in the manner specified in the statute. A passage in Blackstone's Commentaries, showing the ancient state of the law on this subject, and the abuses which were practised through the power and influence of the Crown, and a short extract from Hallam's "Constitutional History," stating the circumstances which gave rise to the passage of this statute, explain briefly, but fully, all that is material to this subject. Blackstone says: "To assert an absolute exemption from imprisonment in all cases is inconsistent with every idea of law and political society, and, in the end, would destroy all civil liberty by rendering its protection impossible. "But the glory of the English law consists in clearly defining the times, the causes and the extent, when, wherefore and to what degree the imprisonment of the subject may be lawful. This it is which induces the absolute necessity of expressing upon every commitment the reason for which it is made, "that the court upon a _habeas corpus_ may examine into its validity, and, according to the circumstances of the case, may discharge, admit to bail, or remand the prisoner. "And yet, early in the reign of Charles I, the Court of King's Bench, relying on some arbitrary precedents (and those, perhaps, misunderstood), determined that they would not, upon a _habeas corpus_, either bail or deliver a prisoner, though committed without any cause assigned, in case he was committed by the special command of the King, or by the Lords of the Privy Council. This drew on a Parliamentary inquiry and produced the Petition of Right--3 Charles I.--which recites this illegal judgment, and enacts that no freeman hereafter shall be so imprisoned or detained. But when, in the following year, Mr. Selden and others were committed by the Lords of the Council, in pursuance of His Majesty's special command, under a general charge of 'notable contempts, and stirring up sedition against the King and the Government,' the judges delayed for two terms (including also the long vacation) to deliver an opinion how far such a charge was bailable. And when at length they agreed that it was, they, however, annexed a condition of finding sureties for their good behavior, which still protracted their imprisonment, the Chief Justice, Sir Nicholas Hyde, at the same time declaring that 'if they were again remanded for that cause, perhaps the court would not afterwards grant a _habeas corpus_, being already made acquainted with the cause of the imprisonment.' But this was heard with indignation and astonishment by every lawyer present, according to Mr. Selden's own account of the matter, whose resentment was not cooled at the distance of four-and-twenty years" (3 Bl. Com. 133, 134). It is worthy of remark that the offenses charged against the prisoner in this case, and relied on as a justification for his arrest and imprisonment, in their nature and character, and in the loose and vague manner in which they are stated, bear a striking resemblance to those assigned in the warrant for the arrest of Mr. Selden. And yet, even at that day, the warrant was regarded as such a flagrant violation of the rights of the subject, that the delay of the time-serving judges to set him at liberty upon the _habeas corpus_ issued in his behalf excited universal indignation of the bar. The extract from Hallam's "Constitutional History" is equally impressive and equally in point: "It is a very common mistake, and that not only among foreigners, but many from whom some knowledge of our constitutional laws might be expected, to suppose that this statute of Charles II. enlarged in a great degree our liberties, and forms a sort of epoch in their history. But though a very beneficial enactment, and eminently remedial in many cases of illegal imprisonment, it introduced no new principle, nor conferred any right upon the subject. From the earliest records of the English law, no freeman could be detained in prison, except upon a criminal charge, or conviction, or for a civil debt. In the former case it was always in his power to demand of the Court of King's Bench a writ of _habeas corpus ad subjiciendum_, directed to the person detaining him in custody, by which he was enjoined to bring up the body of the prisoner with the warrant of commitment, that the court might judge of its sufficiency, and remand the party, admit him to bail, or discharge him, according to the nature of the charge. This writ issued of right, and could not be refused by the court. It was not to bestow an immunity from arbitrary imprisonment--which is abundantly provided for in _Magna Charta_ (if, indeed, it is not more ancient)--that the statute of Charles II. was enacted, but to cut off the abuses by which the Government's lust of power, and the servile subtlety of the Crown lawyers, had impaired so fundamental a privilege" (3 Hallam's "Const. Hist.," 19). While the value set upon this writ in England has been so great that the removal of the abuses which embarrassed its employment has been looked upon as almost a new grant of liberty to the subject, it is not to be wondered at that the continuance of the writ thus made effective should have been the object of the most jealous care. Accordingly, no power in England short of that of Parliament can suspend or authorize the suspension of the writ of _habeas corpus_. I quote again from Blackstone (1 Bl. Com. 136): "But the happiness of our Constitution is that it is not left to the executive power to determine when the danger of the State is so great as to render this measure expedient. It is the Parliament only, or legislative power, that, whenever it sees proper, can authorize the Crown, by suspending the _habeas corpus_ for a short and limited time, to imprison suspected persons without giving any reason for so doing." If the President of the United States may suspend the writ, then the Constitution of the United States has conferred upon him more regal and absolute power over the liberty of the citizen than the people of England have thought it safe to entrust to the Crown--a power which the Queen of England cannot exercise at this day, and which could not have been lawfully exercised by the sovereign even in the reign of Charles I. But I am not left to form my judgment upon this great question from analogies between the English Government and our own, or the commentaries of English jurists, or the decisions of English courts, although upon this subject they are entitled to the highest respect, and are justly regarded and received as authoritative by our courts of justice. To guide me to a right conclusion, I have the Commentaries on the Constitution of the United States of the late Mr. Justice Story, not only one of the most eminent jurists of the age, but for a long time one of the brightest ornaments of the Supreme Court of the United States, and also the clear and authoritative decision of that court itself, given more than half a century since, and conclusively establishing the principles I have above stated. Mr. Justice Story, speaking in his Commentaries of the _habeas corpus_ clause in the Constitution, says: "It is obvious that cases of a peculiar emergency may arise which may justify, nay, even require, the temporary suspension of any right to the writ. But as it has frequently happened in foreign countries, and even in England, that the writ has, upon various pretexts and occasions, been suspended, whereby persons apprehended upon suspicion have suffered a long imprisonment, sometimes from design, and sometimes because they were forgotten, the right to suspend it is expressly confined to cases of rebellion or invasion, where the public safety may require it. A very just and wholesome restraint, which cuts down at a blow a fruitful means of oppression, capable of being abused in bad times to the worst of purposes. Hitherto no suspension of the writ has ever been authorized by Congress since the establishment of the Constitution. It would seem, as the power is given to Congress to suspend the writ of _habeas corpus_ in cases of rebellion or invasion, that the right to judge whether the exigency had arisen must exclusively belong to that body" (3 Story's Com. on the Constitution, Section 1836). And Chief Justice Marshall, in delivering the opinion of the Supreme Court in the case of _ex parte_ Bollman and Swartwout, uses this decisive language in 4 Cranch 95: "It may be worthy of remark that this Act (speaking of the one under which I am proceeding) was passed by the first Congress of the United States, sitting under a Constitution which had declared 'that the privilege of the writ of _habeas corpus_ should not be suspended unless when, in cases of rebellion or invasion, the public safety might require it.' Acting under the immediate influence of this injunction, they must have felt with peculiar force the obligation of providing efficient means by which this great constitutional privilege should receive life and activity; for if the means be not in existence, the privilege itself would be lost, although no law for its suspension should be enacted. Under the impression of this obligation, they give to all the courts the power of awarding writs of _habeas corpus_." And again, on page 101: "If at any time the public safety should require the suspension of the powers vested by this Act in the courts of the United States, it is for the Legislature to say so. That question depends on political considerations, on which the Legislature is to decide. Until the legislative will be expressed, this court can only see its duty, and must obey the laws." I can add nothing to these clear and emphatic words of my great predecessor. But the documents before me show that the military authority in this case has gone far beyond the mere suspension of the privilege of the writ of _habeas corpus_. It has, by force of arms, thrust aside the judicial authorities and officers to whom the Constitution has confided the power and duty of interpreting and administering the laws, and substituted a military government in its place, to be administered and executed by military officers. For, at the time these proceedings were had against John Merryman, the district judge of Maryland, the commissioner appointed under the Act of Congress, the district attorney and the marshal, all resided in the city of Baltimore, a few miles only from the home of the prisoner. Up to that time there had never been the slightest resistance or obstruction to the process of any court or judicial officer of the United States in Maryland, except by the military authority. And if a military officer, or any other person, had reason to believe that the prisoner had committed any offense against the laws of the United States, it was his duty to give information of the fact, and the evidence to support it, to the district attorney; it would then have become the duty of that officer to bring the matter before the district judge or commissioner, and if there was sufficient legal evidence to justify his arrest, the judge or commissioner would have issued his warrant to the marshal to arrest him, and upon the hearing of the case would have held him to bail, or committed him for trial, according to the character of the offense as it appeared in the testimony, or would have discharged him immediately, if there was not sufficient evidence to support the accusation. There was no danger of any obstruction or resistance to the action of the civil authorities, and therefore no reason whatever for the interposition of the military. Yet, under these circumstances, a military officer stationed in Pennsylvania, without giving any information to the district attorney, and without any application to the judicial authorities, assumes to himself the judicial power in the District of Maryland; undertakes to decide what constitutes the crime of treason or rebellion; what evidence (if, indeed, he required any) is sufficient to support the accusation and justify the commitment; and commits the party without a hearing, even before himself, to close custody in a strongly garrisoned fort, to be there held, it would seem, during the pleasure of those who committed him. The Constitution provides, as I have before said, that "no person shall be deprived of life, liberty or property without due process of law." It declares that "the right of the people to be secure in their persons, houses, papers and effects against unreasonable searches and seizures shall not be violated, and no warrant shall issue, but upon probable cause, supported by oath or affirmation, and particularly describing the place to be searched, and the persons or things to be seized." It provides that the party accused shall be entitled to a speedy trial in a court of justice. These great and fundamental laws, which Congress itself could not suspend, have been disregarded and suspended, like the writ of _habeas corpus_, by a military order, supported by force of arms. Such is the case now before me, and I can only say that if the authority which the Constitution has confided to the judiciary department and judicial officers may thus upon any pretext or under any circumstances be usurped by the military power at its discretion, the people of the United States are no longer living under a government of laws, but every citizen holds life, liberty and property at the will and pleasure of the army officer in whose military district he may happen to be found. In such a case my duty was too plain to be mistaken. I have exercised all the power which the Constitution and laws confer upon me, but that power has been resisted by a force too strong for me to overcome. It is possible that the officer who has incurred this grave responsibility may have misunderstood his instructions and exceeded the authority intended to be given him. I shall therefore order all the proceedings in this case, with my opinion, to be filed and recorded in the Circuit Court of the United States for the District of Maryland, and direct the clerk to transmit a copy, under seal, to the President of the United States. It will then remain for that high officer, in fulfilment of his constitutional obligation, to "take care that the laws be faithfully executed," to determine what measures he will take to cause the civil process of the United States to be respected and enforced. R. B. TANEY, _Chief Justice of the Supreme Court of the United States_. APPENDIX IV. On the 12th of July, 1861, I sent a message to the First and Second Branches of the City Council referring to the events of the 19th of April and those which followed. The first paragraph and the concluding paragraphs of this document are here inserted: "THE MAYOR'S MESSAGE. "TO THE HONORABLE THE MEMBERS OF THE FIRST AND SECOND BRANCHES OF THE CITY COUNCIL. "_Gentlemen_:--A great object of the reform movement was to separate municipal affairs entirely from national politics, and in accordance with this principle I have heretofore, in all my communications to the city council, carefully refrained from any allusion to national affairs. I shall not now depart from this rule further than is rendered absolutely necessary by the unprecedented condition of things at present existing in this city.... "After the board of police had been superseded, and its members arrested by the order of General Banks, I proposed, in order to relieve the serious complication which had arisen, to proceed, as the only member left free to act, to exercise the power of the board as far as an individual member could do so. Marshal Kane, while he objected to the propriety of this course, was prepared to place his resignation in my hands whenever I should request it, and the majority of the board interposed no objection to my pursuing such course as I might deem it right and proper to adopt in view of the existing circumstances, and upon my own responsibility, until the board should be enabled to resume the exercise of its functions. "If this arrangement could have been effected, it would have continued in the exercise of their duties the police force which is lawfully enrolled, and which has won the confidence and applause of all good citizens by its fidelity and impartiality at all times and under all circumstances. But the arrangement was not satisfactory to the Federal authorities. "As the men of the police force, through no fault of theirs, are now prevented from discharging their duty, their pay constitutes a legal claim on the city from which, in my opinion, it cannot be relieved. "The force which has been enrolled is in direct violation of the law of the State, and no money can be appropriated by the city for its support without incurring the heavy penalties provided by the Act of Assembly. "Officers in the Fire Alarm and Police Telegraph Department who are appointed by the mayor and city council, and not by the board of police, have been discharged and others have been substituted in their place. "I mention these facts with profound sorrow, and with no purpose whatever of increasing the difficulties unfortunately existing in this city, but because it is your right to be acquainted with the true condition of affairs, and because I cannot help entertaining the hope that redress will yet be afforded by the authorities of the United States upon a proper representation made by you. I am entirely satisfied that the suspicion entertained of any meditated hostility on the part of the city authorities against the General Government is wholly unfounded, and with the best means of knowledge express the confident belief and conviction that there is no organization of any kind among the people for such a purpose. I have no doubt that the officers of the United States have acted on information which they deemed reliable, obtained from our own citizens, some of whom may be deluded by their fears, while others are actuated by baser motives; but suspicions thus derived can, in my judgment, form no sufficient justification for what I deem to be grave and alarming violations of the rights of individual citizens of the city of Baltimore and of the State of Maryland. "Very respectfully, "GEO. WM. BROWN, _Mayor_." APPENDIX V. As a part of the history of the times, it may not be inappropriate to reproduce an account, taken from the Baltimore American of December 5, 1860, of the reception of the Putnam Phalanx of Hartford, Connecticut, in the city of Baltimore. At this time it still seemed to most men of moderate views that the impending troubles might be averted through concessions and compromise. In the tone of the two speeches, both of which were, of course, meant to be friendly and conciliatory, there is a difference to be noted which was, I think, characteristic of the attitude of the two sections; in the one speech some prominence is given to the Constitution and constitutional rights; in the other, loyalty to the Union is the theme enforced: "The Putnam Phalanx of Hartford, Connecticut, under the command of Major Horace Goodwin, yesterday afternoon reached here, at four o'clock, by the Philadelphia train, _en route_ for a visit to the tomb of Washington. A detachment of the Eagle Artillery gave them a national salute. "The Battalion Baltimore City Guards, consisting of four companies, under the command of Major Joseph P. Warner, were drawn up on Broadway, and after passing in salute, the column moved by way of Broadway and Baltimore and Calvert streets to the old Universalist church-building. "As soon as the military entered the edifice and were seated, the galleries were thrown open to the public, and in a few minutes they were crowded to overflowing. "Captain Parks introduced Major Goodwin to Mayor Brown, who was in turn introduced to the commissioned officers of the Phalanx. Major Goodwin then turned to his command and said: 'Gentlemen of the Phalanx, I have the honor of introducing you to the Mayor of the city of Baltimore.' Mayor Brown arose, and after bowing to the Battalion, addressed them as follows: "MAYOR BROWN'S SPEECH. "'_Mr. Commander and Gentlemen_:--In the name and on behalf of the people of Baltimore, I extend to the Putnam Phalanx a sincere and hearty welcome to the hospitalities of our city. The citizens of Baltimore are always glad to receive visits from the citizen-soldiers of sister States, because they come as friends, and more than friends--as the defenders of a common country. "'These sister States, as we love to call them, live somewhat far apart, and gradually become more and more separated by distance, just as sisters will be as the children marry and one by one leave the parent homestead. "'But, gentlemen, far or near, on the Connecticut or Potomac, on the Gulf of Mexico or the great lakes, on the Atlantic or Pacific, they are sisters still, united by blood and affection, and the holy tie should never be severed. (Applause.) "'Let me carry the figure a step further, and add what I know will meet with a response from the Putnam Phalanx, with whose history and high character I am somewhat acquainted--that a sisterhood of States, like separate families of sisters living in the same neighborhood, can never dwell together in peace unless each is permitted to manage her own domestic affairs in her own way (applause); not only without active interference from the rest, but even without much fault-finding or advice, however well intended it may be. "'Maryland has sometimes been called the Heart State, because she lies very close to the great heart of the Union; and she might also be called the Heart State because her heart beats with true and warm love for the Union. (Loud applause.) Nor, as I trust, does Connecticut fall short of her in this respect. And when the questions now before the country come to be fairly understood, and the people look into them with their own eyes, and take matters into their own hands, I believe that we shall see a sight of which politicians, North and South, little dream. (Applause.) We shall see whether there is a love for the Union or not. "'But there are great national questions agitating the land which must now be finally settled. One is, Will the States of the North keep on their statute-books laws which violate a right of the States of the South, guaranteed to them by the Constitution of the United States? No individuals, no families, no States, can live in peace together when any right of a part is persistently and deliberately violated by the rest. Another question is, What shall be done with the national territory? Shall it belong exclusively to the North or the South, or shall it be shared by both, as it was gained by the blood and treasure of both? Are there not wisdom and patriotism enough in the land to settle these questions? "'Gentlemen, your presence here to-day proves that you are animated by a higher and larger sentiment than that of State pride--the sentiment of American nationality. The most sacred spot in America is the tomb of Washington, and to that shrine you are about to make a pilgrimage. You come from a State celebrated above all others for the most extensive diffusion of the great blessing of education; which has a colonial and Revolutionary history abounding in honorable memorials; which has heretofore done her full share in founding the institutions of this country--the land of Washington--and which can now do as much as any other in preserving that land one and undivided, as it was left by the Father of his Country. I will not permit myself to doubt that your State and our State, that Connecticut and Maryland, will both be on the same side, as they have often been in times past, and that they will both respect and obey and uphold the sacred Constitution of the country.' (Shouts of applause.) "As soon as the Mayor concluded, Major Goodwin arose; but it was some time before he could be heard, such was the tremendous applause with which he was greeted. The Major is nearly ninety years of age, and is one of the most venerable-looking men in the country. Dressed in the old Revolutionary uniform, a _fac-simile_ of that worn by General Putnam, and with his locks silvered with age, we may say that his appearance electrified the multitude, and shout after shout shook the very building. Major Goodwin expressed himself as follows: "'Mr. Mayor and gentlemen of the Baltimore City Guards, permit me to introduce to you our Judge Advocate, Captain Stuart.' "Captain Stuart arose and spoke as follows: "SPEECH OF CAPTAIN STUART. "'Your Honor, Mayor Brown: For your kind words of welcome, and for your patriotic sentiments in favor of the Union, the Putnam Phalanx returns you its most cordial thanks. I can assure you, sir, that when you spoke in such eloquent terms of the value and importance of a united country, you but echoed the sentiments of the whole of our organization; and let me say, it is with great pleasure, upon a journey, as we are, to the tomb of the illustrious Washington; that we pause for a while within a city so famed for its intelligence, its industry, its general opulence and its courtesy, as is this your own beautiful Baltimore. "'We opine, nay, we know from what you have yourself, in such fitting terms, just expressed, that you heartily appreciate the purpose which lies at the foundation of our organization, that purpose being the lofty one of commemorating, by our military attire and discipline, the imposing foundation-period of the American Republic, of attracting our own patriotic feeling, and that of all who may honor us with their observation, to the exalted virtues of those heroic men who laid the foundations of our present national prosperity and glory--men of whom your city and State furnished, as it pleasantly happens, a large and most honorable share. "'We come, sir, from that portion of the United States in which the momentous struggle for American freedom took its rise, and where the blood of its earliest martyrs was shed; from the region where odious writs of assistance, infamous Courts of Admiralty, intolerable taxation, immolated charters of government and prohibited commerce were once fast paving the way for the slavery of our institutions; from the region of a happy and God-fearing people--from the region, sir, of Lexington and Concord and Bunker Hill and Croton Heights, of ravaged New London and fired Fairfield and Norwalk and devastated Danbury and sacked New Haven. And we come, Mr. Mayor, to a city and State, we are proudly aware, which to all these trials and perils of assaulted New England, and to the trials and perils of our whole common country, during "the times that tried men's souls," gave ever the meed of its heartfelt sympathy, and the unstinted tribute of its patriotic blood and treasure; which, with a full and clear comprehension of all the great principles of American freedom, and a devotion to those principles that was ever ardent and exalted, signalized themselves by their wisdom in council and their prowess on the field. "'When the devoted metropolis of New England began to feel the awful scourge of the Writ Bill, Maryland it was that then contributed most liberal supplies for its suffering people, and with these supplies those cheering, ever-to-be-remembered, talismanic words: "The Supreme Director of all events will terminate this severe trial of your patriotism in the happy confirmation of American freedom." "'When this same metropolis soon after became the seat of war, Maryland it was that at once sent to the camp around Boston her own companies of "dauntless riflemen," under her brave Michael Cresap and the gallant Price, to mingle in the defense of New England firesides and New England homes. She saw and felt, and bravely uttered at the time, the fact that in the then existing state of public affairs there was no alternative left for her, or for the country at large, but "base submission or manly resistance"; and, Mr. Mayor, at the memorable battle of Long Island she made this manly resistance, for there she poured out the life-blood of no less than two hundred and fifty-nine of her gallant sons, who fought in her own Smallwood's immortal regiment; and elsewhere, from the St. Lawrence to the banks of the Savannah, through Pennsylvania, Virginia and both the Carolinas--devoted the best blood within her borders, and the flower of her soldiery, to the battlefields of the Union. "'Sir, we of this Phalanx recall these and other Revolutionary memories belonging to your city and State with pride and satisfaction. They unite Connecticut and Maryland in strong and pleasant bonds. And we are highly gratified to be here in the midst of them, and to receive at your hands so grateful a welcome as that which you have extended. "'Be assured, Mr. Mayor, that in the sentiments of devotion to our common country which you so eloquently express, this Phalanx sympathizes heart and soul. You may plant the flag of the Union anywhere and we shall warm to it. And now, renewedly thanking you for the present manifestation of courtesy, we shall leave to enjoy the hospitality which awaits us in pleasant quarters at our hotel.' "Captain Stuart was frequently interrupted by applause." APPENDIX VI. On the 19th of April, 1880, a portion of the members of the Sixth Massachusetts Regiment again visited Baltimore, and an account of its reception, taken from the Baltimore Sun and the Baltimore _American_, seems to be a fitting close to this paper: "Thirty-nine members of the Association of Survivors of the Sixth Massachusetts Union Regiment came to Baltimore yesterday afternoon, to celebrate the nineteenth anniversary of their march through Baltimore, April 19, 1861, which gave rise to the riot of that day. The visitors were met, on landing from the cars at President-street Depot, by Wilson, Dushane and Harry Howard Posts, Grand Army of the Republic, in full uniform, with band and drum corps. The line was up Broadway to Baltimore street, to Barnum's Hotel. A file of policemen, with Marshals Gray and Frey, kept the street open for the parade. The streets were crowded with people. The Massachusetts men wore citizen's dress and badges." Wilson Post No. 1, of the Grand Army of the Republic, received the visitors in their hall, Rialto Building, at two o'clock. Commander Dukehart, of Wilson Post, welcomed the guests in a brief speech, and then introduced Comrade Crowley, of the old Sixth, who said: "'Nineteen years ago I was but a boy. A few days before the 19th of April, the militia of Middlesex County were summoned for the defense of the National Capital. We left workshops, desk and family, to come to the defense of the capital. We thought we were coming to a picnic; that the people of South Carolina were a little off their balance, and would be all right on sober second thought. A few miles out from Baltimore the Quartermaster gave us each ten rounds of ammunition. We had been singing songs. The Colonel told us he expected trouble in Baltimore, and impressed on each man not to fire until he was compelled to. The singing ceased, and we then thought we had serious business before us, and that others besides South Carolina had lost their balance. When we reached the Baltimore Depot some of the cars had gone ahead, and four companies--young men--were in the cars unconscious of what was going on outside. We thought the people of Baltimore and Maryland were of the same Government, and if not they ought to be. (Cheers and applause.) That they had the same interest in the Government, the best ever devised; that Maryland at least was loyal. A man knocked on the car-door and told us they were tearing up the track. Our Captain said, "Men, file out!" The order was given and we marched out. The Captain said, "March as close as you possibly can. Fire on no man unless compelled." We marched through railroad iron, bricks and other missiles. We proved ourselves brave soldiers--proved that we could wait, at least, for the word of command. We were pelted in Baltimore nineteen years ago. We lost some of our comrades, and others were disabled for life. But we went to Washington. We don't claim to be the saviors of the capital; we take no great credit for what we did; but we did the best we could, and the result is shown. The success of our march through Baltimore to-day is as indelibly fixed and will ever be as fresh as that of nineteen years ago, and our reception will remain in our hearts and minds as long as life lasts. My father had six sons, and five were at the front at the same time. I had learned to think that if Maryland, South Carolina or Virginia was to declare independence the Government would be broken up, and that we would have no country, no home, no flag. We were not fighting for Massachusetts, for Maryland or for Virginia, but for our country--the United States (cheers and applause)--remembering the declaration of the great statesman, "Liberty and Union, now and forever, one and inseparable." This country went through four years of carnage and blood. Few families, North or South, but have mourning at their firesides; but it was not in vain, for it has established the fact that we are one people, and are an all-powerful people. (Prolonged cheers.) Our reception to-day has convinced us that the war has ended, and that there are Union men in Maryland as in Massachusetts; that we are brothers, and will be so to the end of time; that this is one great country; and that the people are marching on in amity and power, second to none on the face of the globe.' (Cheers.) "In the evening there was a banquet at the Eutaw House, and Judge Geo. William Brown, who was Mayor of Baltimore in 1861, presided. Nearly two hundred persons were at table. After the dinner was over, Judge Brown said: "'This is the 19th of April, a day memorable in the annals of this city, and in the annals of the country. It is filled in my mind with the most painful recollections of my life, and I doubt not that many who are here present share with me those feelings. I shall make but brief allusions to the events of that day. The city authorities of Baltimore of that time have mostly passed away, and I believe I am the only one here present to-night. In justice to the living and the dead I have to say that the authorities of Baltimore faithfully endeavored to do their duty. It is not necessary for me, perhaps, to say so in this presence. (Applause.) It was not their fault that the Massachusetts Sixth Regiment met a bloody reception in the streets of Baltimore. The visit of that regiment on both occasions has a great and important significance. What did it mean in 1861? It meant civil war; that the irrepressible conflict which Mr. Seward predicted had broken out at last, and that, as Mr. Lincoln said, a house divided against itself cannot stand. A great question then presented itself to the country. When war virtually began in Baltimore, by bloodshed on both sides, it meant that the question must be settled by force whether or not the house should stand. It took four years of war, waged with indomitable perseverance, to decide it, because the combatants on both sides were sustained by deep and honest convictions. It is not surprising, looking back coolly and calmly on the feelings of that day, that they found vent as they did. I am not here to excuse or to apologize, but to acknowledge facts. That was the significance of the first visit of the Massachusetts Sixth Regiment, in response to the call of the President of the United States. After the war there was peace. But enforced peace is not sufficient in a family of States any more than in a household. There must be among brothers respect, confidence, mutual help and forbearance, and, above everything, justice and right. After nineteen years the visit of survivors of the Sixth Massachusetts is, I hope, significant of more than peace. It is, I hope, significant of the fact that there is a true bond of union between the North and the South (applause), and that we are a family of States, all equal, all friends; and if it be, there is no one in the country who can more fervently thank God than myself that the old house still stands.' (Applause.) "Judge Brown offered as a toast: 'The Sixth Regiment of Massachusetts: Baltimore extends to her fraternal greeting.'" INDEX. A Acton, regiment mustered in, 42. Allen, E. J., dispatches addressed to, 131. _American, The_, on the Baltimore riot of 1861, 65; account of the Putnam Phalanx in Baltimore, 160-167; on the reception of the Sixth Massachusetts Regiment in Baltimore, 167-170. Andrew, Gov. J. A., correspondence with Mayor Brown, 54, 55. Arkansas, secession of, 33. B Baltimore, unjust prejudice against, 13, 19; supposed conspiracy in, 14, 15, 120; slaveholders in, 30; Sixth Massachusetts Regiment in, 42-53, 167-170; excitement on 20th April, 60, 61, 64; defense of, 63; apprehension of bloodshed in, 75; armed neutrality, 77; Gen. Butler's entrance into, 84; Gen. Dix's headquarters in, 100, 101; Mayor's message to City Council, 157-159; reception of Putnam Phalanx in, 160-166. Banks, Gen. N. P., in command, 97; arrests police commissioners of Baltimore, 98, 99; Secretary Cameron's letter to, 102; General McClellan's letter to, 102. Bartol, Judge, imprisonment of, 94. Belger, Major, comes to Baltimore, 73. Bell, Presidential vote for, 25. Black, Judge, on martial law, 93. Blackstone on the right of imprisonment, 147, 149. Bond's, Judge, errand to Lincoln, 57, 61. Boston, slave-traffic in, 20; regiment mustered in, 42. Brand, Rev. William F., efforts for emancipation, 113. Breckinridge, Presidential vote for, 25. Brown, Geo. Wm., meets the Massachusetts Sixth in Baltimore, 48, 49; Captain Dike on, 54; correspondence with Gov. Andrew, 54, 55; speech to the excited public, 56; writes to President Lincoln about passage of troops through Baltimore, 57, 61, 62; interview with President Lincoln, 71-75; General Butler's letter to, 83, 84; petitions Congress to restore peace to city, 99; arrest of, 102, 103, 108; correspondence with General Dix, 104-108; parole offered to, 110, 111; anti-slavery principles of, 113; opposed to secession, 115; on the tendencies of the age, 117, 118; message to City Council, 157-159; speech to the Putnam Phalanx, 160-163; speech to the survivors of the Sixth Massachusetts Regiment, 169, 170. Brown, John, reverence for in the North, 21. Brune, Frederick W., efforts for emancipation, 113. Brune, John C., message to President Lincoln, 57, 61; accompanies Mayor to Washington, 71; elected to General Assembly, 79. Bush River Bridge partially burned to prevent ingress of troops, 58, 59. Butler, Gen., and the Eighth Massachusetts Regiment, 76; at the Relay House, 83; rumor of an attack on his camp, 83, 84; enters Baltimore, 84; arrests Ross Winans, 87. Byrne, Wm., denounces the North, 38. C Cadwallader, General, and the writ of _habeas corpus_, 88, 140. Cameron, Simon, advice to Governor Hicks to restrain Maryland, 40; on the obstruction of Northern Central bridge, 73; letter to Gen. Banks, 102. Carmichael, Judge, assaulted and imprisoned, 93. Carr, W. C. N., speaks at States Rights meeting, 38, 39. Cheston, G., efforts for emancipation, 113. Christison, Wenlock, a Quaker, owns slaves, 21. Clark, John, advances money for defense of city, 61. Crawford, William, Kane's letter to, 40. Crowley, Comrade, of the Massachusetts Sixth, speech in Baltimore, 1880, 167. Curtis, Benj. R., Life of, quotation about Judge Taney, 91. Cutter, B. L., release from arrest, 109. D Davis, Jefferson, elected President of the Confederacy, 32. Davis, John W., police commissioner of Baltimore, 35, 49; errand to Fort McHenry, 66, 67, 68. Davis, Judge, doubts the rumors of conspiracy, 132, 133. Davis, Robert W., killed, 52. De Tocqueville, on public opinion in America, 117. Dike, Capt. J. H., company attacked in Baltimore, 46; testifies as to the conduct of Baltimore civil authority during the riot, 53, 54. Dimick, Col. J., releases prisoners from Fort Warren, 108; kind treatment of prisoners, 111. Dix, General, headquarters in Baltimore, 101; correspondence with Mayor Brown, 104-108. Dix, Miss, relates a Confederate plot, 13. Dobbin, Geo. W., errand to Lincoln, 57, 61; accompanies the Mayor to Washington, 71. Douglas, S. A., Senatorial campaign, 22; Presidential vote for, 25. Dred Scott Case, 138. E Evans, H. D., his code for Liberia, 31. F Felton, C. C., on the "Baltimore Plot," 18. Felton, Samuel M., on the supposed conspiracy, 13-18, 129-133; advises Massachusetts Sixth to load their guns, 43; engages spies, 120. Ferrandini, Captain, suspected of conspiracy to assassinate President Lincoln, 122-129. Follansbee, Capt., company attacked in Baltimore, 46, 49. Fort McHenry, apprehended attack on, 66, 69. Fort Sumter, bombardment of, 32. Franciscus, in the car with Lincoln, 133. G Garrett's, John W., dispatch to Mayor Brown concerning advance of troops to Cockeysville, 73, 74, 75. Gatchell, Wm. H., police commissioner of Baltimore, 35; release from arrest, 109. Giles, Judge, issues writ of _habeas corpus_ to Major Morris, 87. Gill, George M., meets the Massachusetts Sixth, 48; counsel for John Merryman, 87. Goodwin, Major Horace, commands Putnam Phalanx, 160; his appearance, 163. Greeley, Horace, on the conduct of the Baltimore authorities, 76, 77. Groton, regiment mustered in, 42. Gunpowder River Bridge partially burned, 58. H _Habeas corpus_ case, 87, 139-156. Hall, Thomas W., release from arrest, 109. Hallam's Constitutional History, extract from, 151. Halleck, Gen., in Baltimore, 101. Harris, J. Morrison, errand to the Capital, 63. Harrison, Wm. G., elected to General Assembly, 80; released from arrest, 108. Hart, Capt., company attacked in Baltimore, 46. Herndon, Wm. H., comments on Lincoln's senatorial campaign speech, 23; reports of plot furnished to, 122. Hicks, T. H., Governor of Maryland, 34; proclamation of, 40; speech before excited public, 56; writes to Lincoln not to pass troops through Baltimore, 57, 61; suggests mediation between North and South by Lord Lyons, 76; convenes General Assembly, 79; letter to E. H. Webster, 128. Hilliard, suspected of conspiracy, 122, 123. Hinks, Chas. D., police commissioner of Baltimore, 35; released from arrest, 99. Hopkins, Johns, advances money for city defense, 61. Howard, Charles, police commissioner of Baltimore, 35; apprehends attack on Fort McHenry, 66, 67; report on the state of city, 80, 81; release from arrest, 108. Howard, F. K., release from arrest, 109. Huger, General, made Colonel of 53d Regiment, 66. Hull, Rob't, release from arrest, 109. Hyde, Sir Nicholas, on the writ of _habeas corpus_, 150. J Jefferson, Thomas, and writ of _habeas corpus_, 141. Johnson, Capt. B. T., arrives in Baltimore, 64; hasty dispatch from Marshal Kane, 69, 70. Jones, Col. Edmund F., passage through Baltimore, 43; on the Massachusetts Sixth in Baltimore, 46, 47, 48, 51; letter to Marshal Kane, 54. Judd, N. B., with Lincoln in Philadelphia, 16; hears of conspiracy in Baltimore, 128-133. K Kane, Marshal George P., investigates supposed plot, 15; head of Baltimore police, 35; letter to Crawford, 40; keeps order at Camden Station, 48; attempts to quell Baltimore mob, 51, 53; Col. Jones's gratitude to, 54; hasty dispatch to Johnson, 69, 70; after the war elected Sheriff and subsequently Mayor, 70; arrest of, 97; release from arrest, 109. Keim, Gen., arrests John Merryman, 87, 140. Kenly, John R., supersedes Marshal Kane, 97. Kennedy, Anthony, errand to the Capital, 63. Kennedy, John P., on the attitude of Border States, 31, 32. Kentucky, temporary neutrality of, 34. Keys, John S., letter from Mayor Brown to, 110, 111. Kinney, Mr., receives Lincoln in Philadelphia, 134. L Lamon, Colonel W. H., on Lincoln's midnight ride, 19, 120-137; on Lincoln-Douglas campaign, 22; ride with Lincoln, 133. Latrobe, John H. B., President of Maryland Colonization Society, 31. Lawrence, Massachusetts, regiment mustered in, 42. Lee, Colonel, on Gen. Cadwallader's errand to Judge Taney, 88. Lewis, Mr., in the car with Lincoln, 133. Lincoln, President, alleged conspiracy against, in Maryland, 11-15, 121-137; midnight ride to Washington, 17, 19, 120; Senatorial campaign with Douglas, 22; differs from Seward, 24; election to Presidency, 25; calls out the militia, 32; letter to Gov. Hicks, 62; Mayor Brown writes to, concerning passage of troops through Baltimore, 57, 61; Mayor Brown's interview with, 71-75. Lowell, Massachusetts, regiment mustered in, 42. Luckett, suspected of conspiracy, 122-127. Lyons, Lord, suggested as mediator between North and South, 76; Secretary Seward's boast of his authority to, 91. M Macgill, Dr. Charles, release from arrest, 109. Marshall, Chief Justice, on _habeas corpus_, 153, 154. Maryland, rumors of conspiracy in, 11, 12, 13; slavery in, 20, 30; Lincoln's call for militia, how received in, 33; excitement, 40, 41. Mason, James M., sent from Virginia to negotiate with Maryland, 84. Massachusetts, Minute Men, 11; slavery in, 20; Eighth Regiment, 76; Sixth Regiment, 42, 167-170. May, Henry, M. C., arrest of, 103. McClellan, General, letter to General Banks, 102. McComas, Sergeant, removes obstruction from railway track in Baltimore, 49. McHenry, Ramsay, efforts for emancipation, 113. Merryman, John, arrest of, 87, 88, 154; charges against unfounded, 90. Morfit, H. M., elected to General Assembly, 79. Morris, Major, refuses to obey writ of _habeas corpus_, 87. N Negro. _See_ Slavery. Newport, slave-traffic in, 20. Nicolay, George, on Lincoln's midnight ride, 132. North Carolina, secession of, 33. O O'Donnell, Columbus, advances money for city defense, 61. P Parker, Edward P., General Butler's aide-de-camp, 83. Patapsco Dragoons, arrival in Baltimore, 64. Pemberton, Major, leads U. S. Artillery through Baltimore, 86. Pennsylvania troops in Baltimore, 44, 53; at Cockeysville, 75. Phillips, Wendell, on States Rights, 26. Pickering, Captain, company opposed in Baltimore, 46. Pikesville, arsenal taken possession of, 65. Pitts, Charles H., elected to General Assembly, 80. Putnam Phalanx of Hartford in Baltimore, 160-166. Putnam's Record of the Rebellion, quotation from, 38. R Revolution, right of, 26-29. Robinson, Dr. Alex. C., Chairman of States Rights Convention, 38. Robinson, General John C., on Baltimore in 1861, 66, 69, 81, 82, 83. S Sanford, plans Lincoln's midnight ride, 131. Sangston, L., elected to General Assembly, 80. Scharf's History of Maryland quoted, 35, 37, 78, 103. Scott, General, on the passage of troops through Baltimore, 62, 72, 75. Scott, T. Parkin, sympathizes with the South, 38, 39; elected Judge after the war, 39; elected to General Assembly, 79; release from arrest, 108. Seward, Secretary, position before Presidential Convention, 24; boasts of his authority, 91; sends news of supposed conspiracy to Lincoln, 130, 134. Slavery, compromises of Constitution in regard to, 20-22; Geo. Wm. Brown opposed to, 113; some good effects of, 114. Small, Colonel, leads Pennsylvania regiment, 42. South Carolina, secession of, 31. Steuart, Dr. Richard S., efforts for emancipation, 113. Story, Justice, on _habeas corpus_, 152, 153. Stuart, Captain, speech in Baltimore, 163-166. Sumner, Colonel, offers to accompany President Lincoln to Washington, 132, 133. _Sun, The_, on the offer of service by colored people, 65, 66; on the suffering of Pennsylvania troops in Baltimore County, 76; Reception of 6th Massachusetts Regiment in Baltimore, 167-170. T Taney, Chief Justice, on negro rights, 21, 138; _habeas corpus_ case _ex parte_ John Merryman, 87-93, 139-156. Tennessee, secession of, 33. Thomas, Dr. J. Hanson, elected to General Assembly, 79. Trimble, Colonel I. R., defense of Baltimore, 63. Trist, N. P., news of conspiracy communicated to, 14. Turner, Capt., suspected of conspiracy, 124-126. U Union Convention called, 92. V Virginia, secession of, 33; sends Mason to negotiate with Maryland, 84. W Wallis, S. Teackle, legal adviser to Baltimore police commission, 35; speech to the excited public, 56; accompanies the Mayor to Washington, 71; elected to the General Assembly, 79; release from arrest, 108, 109. Warfield, Henry M., elected to General Assembly, 79; release from arrest, 108. Warner, Major J. P., commands Baltimore City Guards, 160. Washburne, Mr., meets President Lincoln at Washington Depot, 136. Watson, Major, company attacked in Baltimore, 45. Webster, E. H., Gov. Hicks's letter to, 128. Whitefield, the Calvinist, owns slaves, 21. Williams, George H., counsel for John Merryman, 87. Winans, Ross, denounces passage of troops through Baltimore, 37; elected to General Assembly, 79; arrested by Gen. Butler's order, 87. Winder, Wm. H., release from arrest, 109. Wood, Fernando, tries to make New York a free city, 31. Wool, General, checks arbitrary arrest, 109. Worcester, regiment mustered in, 42. Johns Hopkins University Studies in Historical and Political Science. HERBERT B. ADAMS, Editor. PROSPECTUS OF FIFTH SERIES.--1887. The Studies in Municipal Government will be continued. The Fifth Series will also embrace Studies in the History of American Political Economy and of American Co-operation. The following papers are ready or in preparation: =I-II. City Government of Philadelphia.= By EDWARD P. ALLINSON, A. M. (Haverford), and BOIES PENROSE, A. B. (Harvard). January and February, 1887. _Price 50 cents._ 72 pp. =III. City Government of Boston.= By JAMES M. BUGBEE. March, 1887. _Price 25 cents._ 60 pp. =City Government of Baltimore.= By JOHN C. ROSE, B. L. (University of Maryland, School of Law). _In preparation._ =City Government of Chicago.= By F. H. HODDER, Ph. M. (University of Mich.) Instructor in History, Cornell University. =City Government of San Francisco.= By BERNARD MOSES, Ph. D., Professor of History and Politics, University of California. =City Government of St. Louis.= By MARSHALL S. SNOW, A. M. (Harvard), Professor of History, Washington University. =City Government of New Orleans.= By HON. W. W. HOWE. =City Government of New York.= By SIMON STERNE and J. F. JAMESON, Ph. D., Associate in History, J. H. U. =The Influence of the War of 1812 upon the Consolidation of the American Union.= By NICHOLAS MURRAY BUTLER, Ph. D. and Fellow of Columbia College. =The History of American Political Economy.= Studies by R. T. ELY, WOODROW WILSON, and D. R. DEWEY. =The History of American Co-operation.= Studies by E. W. BEMIS, D. R. RANDALL, A. G. WARNER, _et al._ FOURTH SERIES.--Municipal Government and Land Tenure.--1886. =I. Dutch Village Communities on the Hudson River.= By IRVING ELTING, A. B. (Harvard). January, 1886; pp. 68. _Price 50 cents._ =II-III. Town Government in Rhode Island.= By WILLIAM E. FOSTER, A. M. (Brown University).--=The Narragansett Planters.= By EDWARD CHANNING, Ph. D. and Instructor in History (Harvard University). February and March, 1886; pp. 60. _Price 50 cents._ =IV. Pennsylvania Boroughs.= By WILLIAM P. HOLCOMB, Ph. D. (J. H. 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(Rutgers College), 1870; Professor of Political Economics and Jurisprudence at Princeton College. _Price 30 cents._ =XII. Local Government and Free Schools in South Carolina.= Read before the Historical Society of South Carolina, December 15, 1882. By B. J. RAMAGE. The first annual series of monthly monographs devoted to History, Politics, and Economics was begun in 1882-1883. Four volumes have thus far appeared. The separate volumes bound in cloth will be sold as follows: VOLUME I.--Local Institutions. 479 pp. $4.00. VOLUME II.--Institutions and Economics. 629 pp. $4.00. VOLUME III.--Maryland, Virginia, and Washington. 595 pp. $4.00. VOLUME IV.--Municipal Government and Land Tenure. 610 pp. $3.50. _The set of four volumes will be sold together for $12.50 net._ VOLUME V.--Municipal Government and Economics. (1887.) _This volume will be furnished in monthly parts upon receipt of subscription price, $3; or the bound volume will be sent at the end of the year 1887 for $3.50._ EXTRA VOLUMES OF STUDIES. In connection with the regular annual series of Studies, a series of Extra Volumes is proposed. It is intended to print them in a style uniform with the regular Studies, but to publish each volume by itself, in numbered sequence and in a cloth binding uniform with the First, Second, Third, and Fourth Series. The volumes will vary in size from 200 to 500 pages, with corresponding prices. Subscriptions to the Annual Series of Studies will not necessitate subscriptions to the Extra Volumes, although they will be offered to regular subscribers at reduced rates. =EXTRA VOLUME I.--The Republic of New Haven: A History of Municipal Evolution.= By CHARLES H. LIVERMORE, Ph. D., Baltimore. This volume, now ready, comprises 350 pages octavo, with various diagrams and an index. It is sold, bound in cloth, at $2.00. =EXTRA VOLUME II.--Philadelphia, 1681-1887. A History of Municipal Development.= By EDWARD P. ALLINSON, A. M. (Haverford), and BOIES PENROSE, A. B. (Harvard). The volume will comprise about 300 pages, octavo. It will be sold, bound in cloth, at $3.00; in law-sheep, at $3.50. =EXTRA VOLUME III.--Baltimore and the Nineteenth of April, 1861.= By GEORGE WILLIAM BROWN, Chief Judge of the Supreme Bench of Baltimore, and Mayor of the City in 1861. Price $1.00. * * * * * All communications relating to subscriptions, exchanges, etc., should be addressed to the PUBLICATION AGENCY OF THE JOHNS HOPKINS UNIVERSITY, BALTIMORE, MARYLAND. The following table of contents will serve to indicate the scope and character of the topics treated in Mr. Levermore's History of New Haven: CHAPTER I. THE GENESIS OF NEW HAVEN. -- Davenport and Eaton. -- Formation of a State. -- Town-Meetings. -- Fundamental Agreement. -- Davenport's Policy. -- Theophilus Eaton. CHAPTER II. THE EVOLUTION OF TOWN GOVERNMENT. -- Social Order. -- Town Courts. -- The Quarters. -- Military Organization. -- The Watch. -- The Marshal. -- The Town Drummer. -- Minor Offices. -- Roads. -- Fences. -- Cattle. -- Supervisors. -- Doctor. -- School-Teacher. -- Viewers and Brewers. -- The Townsmen. -- Currency and Taxation. CHAPTER III. THE LAND QUESTION. -- Official Control over Alienations and Dwellings. -- Divisions of the Outland. -- New Haven a Village Community. -- Evolution of Subordinate Townships. -- The Delaware Company. CHAPTER IV. THE UNION WITH CONNECTICUT. THE BIRTH OF NEWARK. -- A New Party within the Colony. -- Terms of Admission of Strangers. -- Increasing Importance of Townsmen. -- The Village Question. -- New Haven and the Restored Stuart. -- Hegira to New Jersey. CHAPTER V. THE WORK OF THE COURTS IN JUDICATURE AND LEGISLATION. -- Drunkenness. -- Sabbath-breaking. -- Spiritual Discouragements. -- Quakers and Witches. -- Lewdness. -- Methods of Civil Procedure. -- Legislation concerning Trade and Prices. -- Arbitration. -- Magisterial Interest in Trade. -- Revival of the Common Law and English Usage. CHAPTER VI. NEW HAVEN A CONNECTICUT TOWN, 1664-1700. -- Changes in Constitution. -- Hopkins Grammar School. -- Minister's Tax. -- Tithingmen. -- Justice of the Peace. -- Divisions of Land. -- Indian Reservations. -- The Village Controversy. -- Public Benevolence. -- Indian Wars. -- Villages again. -- Tyranny of Andros. -- Local Enactments. -- Intemperance. -- Funeral Customs. CHAPTER VII. NEW HAVEN A CONNECTICUT TOWN, 1700-1784. -- The Quarrel with East Haven. -- Yale College. -- The Walpolean Lethargy. -- Sale of the Town's Poor. -- First Post-Office. -- First Oyster Laws. -- Sketch of the Town's Commerce. -- The Approach of the Revolution. -- New Haven during the War. -- Committees. -- Articles of Confederation. -- Treatment of Tories. -- Final Division of the Township. -- The Church the Germ of the Town. CHAPTER VIII. THE DUAL GOVERNMENT. TOWN AND CITY. 1784-1886. -- Town-Born _vs._ Interloper. -- First Phases of City Politics. -- First Charter. -- Description of the City. -- Municipal Improvements. -- Fire Department. -- Adornment of the Green. -- Public Letters to the Presidents and Others. -- Downfall of Federalism. -- Slavery and Abolition. -- Municipal Growth. -- Sects. -- Administrative Changes. -- Windfall from Washington. -- Liquor Traffic. -- Light in the Streets. -- High School. -- Era of Railways. -- Needs of the Poor. -- The City Meeting. -- Charter of 1857. -- Town Officers. -- City Improvement. -- Police and Fire Departments. -- In the Civil War. -- Recent Charters. -- Conservative Influences in the Community. CHAPTER IX. THE PRESENT MUNICIPAL ADMINISTRATION. -- School District. -- Town Government. -- Town-Meeting. -- Consolidation. -- City Government. -- City Judiciary. -- City Executive. -- City Legislature. -- Legislative Control over the Commissions. -- Conduct of Commissions. -- Executive Organization. -- Administrative Courts. -- Frequent Elections. -- Board of Councilmen. -- Choice of Aldermen. Appendix A.--Mr. Pierson's Elegy. " B.--The Town of Naugatuck. " C.--Dr. Manasseh Cutler's Diary. " D.--A Town Court of Elections. New Haven, A. D. 1656. The volume now ready comprises 350 pages octavo, with various diagrams and an index. It will be sold, neatly bound in cloth, at $2.00. Subscribers to the STUDIES can obtain at reduced rates this new volume. PHILADELPHIA 1681-1887: A History of Municipal Development. BY EDWARD P. ALLINSON, A. M., AND BOIES PENROSE, A. B., OF THE PHILADELPHIA BAR. While several general histories of Philadelphia have been written, there is no history of that city as a municipal corporation. Such a work is now offered, based upon the Acts of Assembly, the City Ordinances, the State Reports, and many other authorities. Numerous manuscripts in the Pennsylvania Historical Society, in Public Libraries, and in the Departments at Philadelphia and Harrisburg have also been consulted, and important facts found therein are now for the first time published. The development of the government of Philadelphia affords a peculiarly interesting study, and is full of instruction to the student of municipal questions. The first charter granted by the original proprietor, William Penn, created a close, self-elected corporation, consisting of the "Mayor, Recorder and Common Council," holding office for life. Such corporations survived in England from medieval times to the passage of the Reform Act of 1835. The corporation of Philadelphia possessed practically no power of taxation, and few and extremely limited powers of any kind. As a rapidly growing city required greater municipal powers, the legislature instead of increasing the powers of the corporation which, being self-elected, was held in distrust by the citizens, established from time to time various independent boards, commissions, and trusts for the control of taxation, streets, poor, etc. These boards were subsequently transformed into the city departments as they exist to-day. The State and municipal legislation, extending over two centuries, is extremely varied and frequently experimental. It affords instruction illustrative of almost every form of municipal expedient and constitution. The development of the city government of Philadelphia has been carefully traced through many changes in the powers and duties of the mayor, in the election and powers of the subordinate executive officers, in the position and relation of the various departments, in the legislative and executive powers of councils, in the frequently shifting distribution of executive power between the mayor and councils, and in the procedure of councils. _In 1885 an Act of Assembly was passed providing for a new government for Philadelphia which embodies the latest ideas upon municipal questions._ The history of the government of the city thus begins with the medieval charter of most contracted character, and ends with _the liberal provisions of the Reform Act of 1885_. It furnishes illustrations of almost every phase of municipal development. The story cannot fail to interest all those who believe that the question of better government for our great cities is one of critical importance, and who are aware of the fact that this question is already receiving widespread attention. The subject had become so serious in 1876 that Governor Hartranft, in his message of that year, called the attention of the Legislature to it in the following succinct and forcible statement: "_There is no political problem that at the present moment occasions so much just alarm and is obtaining more anxious thought than the government of cities._" The consideration of the subject naturally resolves itself into five sharply-defined periods, to each of which a chapter has been devoted, as indicated by the following summary, which, while not exhaustive, will suggest the general scope. CHAPTER I. FIRST PERIOD, 1681-1701. -- Founding of the city. -- Functions of the Provincial Council. -- Slight but certain evidence of some organized city government prior to Penn's Charter. CHAPTER II. SECOND PERIOD, 1701-1789. -- Penn's authority. -- Charter of 1701. -- Attributes of the Proprietary Charter; its medieval character. -- Integral parts of the corporation. -- Arbitrary nature and limited powers. -- Acts of Legislature creating independent commissions. -- Miscellaneous acts and ordinances. -- The Revolution. -- Abrogation of Charter. -- Legislative government. -- Summary. CHAPTER III. THIRD PERIOD, 1789-1854. -- Character of Second Charter. -- Causes leading to its passage. -- A modern municipal corporation. -- Supplements. -- Departments. -- Concentration of authority. -- Councils. -- Bicameral system adopted. -- Officers, how appointed or elected. -- Diminishing powers of the mayor. -- Introduction of standing committees. -- Finance. -- Debt. -- Revenue. -- Review of the period. CHAPTER IV. FOURTH PERIOD, 1854-1887. -- Act of consolidation. -- Causes leading to its passage. -- Features of New Charter. -- Supplements. -- Extent of territory covered by consolidation. -- Character of outlying districts. -- New Constitution. -- Relation of city and county. -- Summary of changes effected. -- Twenty-five _quasi_-independent departments established. -- Encroachment of legislative upon executive powers. -- Resulting Citizens' Reform movement. -- Committee of one hundred. -- Contracts. -- Debt. -- Delusive methods of finance. -- Reform movement in councils. -- Causes leading to the passage of the Bullit Bill. -- Review of the period. CHAPTER V. FIFTH PERIOD. -- Text of the Act of 1885. -- History of the passage of the Bullit Bill. -- Changes by it effected in the organic law. -- Conclusions. PRICE. The volume will comprise about 300 pages, octavo, and will be sold, bound in cloth, at $3; in law-sheep at $3.50; and at reduced rates to regular subscribers to the "Studies." Orders and subscriptions should be addressed to THE PUBLICATION, AGENCY OF THE JOHNS HOPKINS UNIVERSITY, BALTIMORE, MARYLAND. 
60650	----	STORY OF THE RIOT PUBLISHED BY THE CITIZENS' PROTECTIVE LEAGUE PRICE, 25 CENTS COPY OF AN APPEAL TO THE MAYOR. NEW YORK, _September 12, 1900_. _TO HIS HONOR, ROBERT A. VAN WYCK, MAYOR, NEW YORK CITY._ DEAR SIR: Your communication of the 7th inst. in reply to my letter received. We appreciate the consideration shown and interest manifested, but earnestly petition your Honor for a fair and impartial investigation. We condemn in unqualified terms lawlessness among our people, and by no means condone the crime of Harris, nor his associates; but this crime, as black as it may be, does not justify the policemen in their savage and indiscriminate attack upon innocent and helpless people. We ask for no money consideration, and our counsel, Hon. Frank Moss, has been so advised. We are not responsible for what private individuals may do--the rights of citizenship we value above money. We ask for the conviction, and removal from the force of those officers whom we are able to prove guilty. We appeal to you, sir, as chief magistrate of this city, to give this matter special personal attention. If the guilty are shielded it will encourage the mob to repeat the same offense, the officers to commit the same deeds, and our people to prepare for self-defense in spite of law or gospel. This can have no other termination than bloodshed and butchery. This, I believe, may all be avoided by a course of simple justice. The color of a man's skin must not be made the index of his character or ability. From the many ugly threatening letters I have received I feel that my own life is not safe, but I am unwilling to purchase it by silence at the expense of my unfortunate race. We feel keenly our position, and again appeal to you for common justice. I am, dear sir, Yours, W. H. BROOKS. PERSECUTION OF NEGROES BY Roughs and Policemen, in the City of New York, August, 1900. STATEMENT AND PROOFS WRITTEN AND COMPILED BY FRANK MOSS AND ISSUED BY THE CITIZENS' PROTECTIVE LEAGUE. STATEMENT OF THE PERSECUTION. The riots and persecutions described in this pamphlet occurred mainly in the 20th Police Precinct, which is under the command of Acting Captain John Cooney, and within the jurisdiction of Inspector Walter L. Thompson. Chief William S. Devery resides in the precinct, near the scene of the disorder. The district has a large colored population, and mixed with it are many dissolute and lawless white persons. On August the 12th last a Negro named Arthur Harris was with his wife at 41st Street and 8th Avenue. He says that he left her to buy a cigar, and when he returned he found her in the grasp of a man in citizen's dress. This man was a police officer, named Robert J. Thorpe, who had arrested her, as he claimed, for "soliciting." Harris says that he did not know Thorpe was an officer, and that he attempted to rescue his wife. The policeman struck Harris with his club, and Harris retaliated with his penknife, inflicting a mortal wound, and then ran away. Thorpe was attached to the 20th Precinct, and was much liked by his comrades. Policemen thronged his home, and his funeral, on August 16th, was attended by Chief Devery, Inspector Thompson, and other officials. Harris, the murderer, had disappeared, and many policemen who were interested in Thorpe were seized with a desire of vengeance on Negroes generally. During the day of the funeral there were rumors of coming trouble, and those colored people who have illicit dealings with the police--keepers of gambling, disorderly, and badger houses--seeing the signs of coming trouble, closed their places and kept off the streets. Several officers told informants of mine that they were going to punish the Negroes that night. There are numerous gangs of rowdies in the district who are hostile to Negroes and friendly with the unofficial powers that are now potent in police affairs. There was an understanding between the forces that night that resulted in the holding of the streets for hours by crowds of roughs who raced up and down Broadway, 7th and 8th Avenues, and the side streets from 34th to 42nd Streets in pursuit of Negroes, and were not attacked by the police except in one or two cases where they invaded Broadway hotels hunting for colored men. The unanimous testimony of the newspaper reports was that the mobs could have been broken and destroyed immediately and with little difficulty. In many instances of brutality by the mob policemen stood by and made no effort to protect the Negroes who were assailed. They ran with the crowds in pursuit of their prey; they took defenseless men who ran to them for protection and threw them to the rioters, and in many cases they beat and clubbed men and women more brutally than the mob did. They were absolutely unrestrained by their superior officers. It was the night sticks of the police that sent a stream of bleeding colored men to the hospital, and that made the station house in West 37th Street look like a field hospital in the midst of battle. Men who were taken to the station house by officers and men in the station house were beaten by policemen without mercy, and their cries of distress made sleep impossible for those who lived in the rear of the station house. Colored men being denied official protection, many of them obtained weapons, and if they were found armed, or if revolvers were found in their houses, then official brutality was redoubled. The tumult of August 15th was repeated on a smaller scale on the night of the 16th, but public attention had been directed to the shameful conduct of our "guardians of the peace," and the precinct swarmed with reporters and sightseers. Then the dilatory officials speedily quelled the riot and ended the punishment of the Negroes. In the courts many false charges were made by policemen; and although some Negroes were discharged by the magistrates, others were convicted and punished on the false testimony of their accusers. One magistrate commented severely on the comparatively small number of white men that were arraigned before him for rioting. Had a force of regular soldiers been sent to quell such a disturbance, and had it failed so utterly and so long as did the police, and had the soldiers abandoned their duty, and vied with the roughs in beating the men whom they should have protected, undoubtedly some guilty privates would have been punished--but the severest penalty would have fallen on their incompetent or derelict commanders. The commanders in this case were Acting Captain Cooney, Inspector Thompson, and Chief Devery. The newspapers told of the shocking outrage, and printed many specific cases of cruelty, giving the addresses of the victims and the circumstances of their persecution. By this and other means the Police Commissioners and the Mayor were fully apprised of the facts. There was no suspicion of politics in the universal demand that went up for a prompt and efficient investigation and for the severe punishment of the offenders. This request was unheeded, until the acting Mayor called on the Police Commissioners to investigate the conduct of their subordinates. The Commissioners delayed, knowing full well how such cases deteriorate by delay, and after several weeks announced that they would investigate. The colored people of the city, realizing their unexpected danger as a race, and discovering the surprising unwillingness of the city authorities to punish their assailants and to protect them in the future, formed "The Citizens' Protective League." This society and the Society for the Prevention of Crime and the City Vigilance League communicated with the Mayor in writing and urged him to hold an investigation or to direct the Commissioner of Accounts to hold one for him. His answer was that the whole matter was in the hands of the Board of Police. A number of Negroes who had been injured retained Israel Ludlow, Esq., to bring suits against the city for damages inflicted on them by the mob. He filed with the Police Commissioners the affidavit of William J. Elliott, who had been clubbed in the station house. The Police Board began its "investigation" by calling Elliott and his witnesses on the 7th of September. The examination of witnesses was conducted by the President of the Board, Bernard J. York, and, with the approval of the Board, he refused to give subpoenas to Mr. Ludlow, and refused to allow him or any other lawyer to examine or cross-examine any witnesses, or to suggest any step to be taken. Elliott and all other colored witnesses were examined by the President as hostile parties, and their testimony was controverted by the policemen who were called at once and were carefully nursed and led by him. Glaring discrepancies and disagreements in their testimony were passed over in spite of specific protests by Mr. Ludlow. The writer appeared on behalf of the societies that had memorialized the Mayor, and filed a complaint of inefficiency and neglect of duty against the Captain, the Inspector, and the Chief of Police, and announced that he had much testimony to offer on the specifications, but insisted on his right to examine his own witnesses and to cross-examine the police witnesses. These rights were emphatically denied, and the complaint was disdainfully pigeonholed. The Protective League separately asked the Mayor for justice; he responded that the whole matter was with the Police Board, and he made the same response to Mr. Ludlow, who complained to him of the farce that was being enacted at Police Headquarters. The hearing was continued several days. Witnesses were examined superficially in eight cases of cruelty by policemen, and were controverted by double the number of policemen, and it was suddenly announced that the hearings were closed. Claims of sixteen Negroes against the city were then on file in the Comptroller's office, the names and addresses of many more victims had appeared in the newspapers, and the writer had announced that he had in his possession over forty affidavits of police brutality. The "investigation" was a palpable sham. At this date not a single complaint has been preferred by the Chief, the Inspector, the Captain, or the Commissioners against any police officer for brutality or neglect of duty during the riots. On September 12th a great meeting was held at Carnegie Hall to protest against the brutality and against the failure of the city authorities to act, and to take measures for the prevention of such outbreaks in the future. Fully thirty-five hundred people attended, and listened to addresses by Rev. R. S. MacArthur, D.D., Rev. D. W. Cook, D.D., Rev. C. T. Walker, D.D., Rev. W. H. Brooks, D.D., Rev. Bishop W. B. Derrick, D.D., Miss M. R. Lyons, Hon. D. M. Webster. A subscription was started, and measures were taken to make the Citizens' Protective League a permanent and a vital institution. The League and its representatives are using every possible lawful measure to secure justice to its people, and to vindicate their right to live in peace. They are having a difficult task to get a hearing. Several cases have been brought by it in the Magistrates' Court, but they are difficult to carry in the face of a solid and lusty swearing lot of policemen, and they cannot show the crime in its mass, and cannot reveal the responsibility of the higher officials for the outbreak and for the failure to discover and punish the guilty policemen and their commanders. The Mayor has abundant authority to hear the matter, but he has washed his hands of it, and the Police Board has not hesitated to write another page of its damning history. There is no other way open for a full and connected presentation of the case to the public except by legal process through the Mayor and the Commissioners. A Grand Jury investigation was had, and resulted in no indictment. Such an investigation is necessarily held behind closed doors, and the sole question is whether there is sufficient evidence to warrant the indictment of a specific individual for a specific act, unrelated to other acts, and with a reasonable probability of conviction. I have advised the Citizens' Protective League of the great barriers to be overcome in securing the conviction of even a patrolman, and of the inadequacy of a criminal proceeding in an attempted presentation of the great wrong that the Negroes have suffered. They need the sympathy and support of the good people of New York to secure a vindication, and to prevent a recurrence of the outbreak. Under my advice the appended affidavits have been secured, and are now printed, so that they may be read and considered in their relation to each other. I may say that with hardly an exception the affiants have shown themselves to be respectable, hard-working men and women. The dissolute Negroes who are so often seen lounging about the "Tenderloin" and its neighborhood are not to be found among the witnesses. They are the friends of the police, contributing very largely to their comfort and happiness, and it is quite clear that they had their warning and kept out of the way. With this simple introduction, I present the affidavits, confident that they will speak for themselves, and that they will lead to the condemnation of the high official criminals, and contribute to the overthrow of the infernal system that they represent. Brutality and insolence of policemen have increased greatly, and the Police Commissioners seldom, if ever, convict officers for these offenses. Humble citizens of all races to-day are in more danger from policemen's clubs than they are from the assaults of criminals. The inaction of the Commissioners in the cases of the Negroes is entirely consistent with their general conduct in all citizens' complaints. FRANK MOSS. Dated October 1, 1900. ---- _City and County of New York, ss._: P. A. Johnson, M.D., being duly sworn, deposes and says: I reside at 203 West 33rd Street, and am engaged in the active practice of my profession at that address. On Thursday morning, August 16th, 1900, about ten A. M., I heard a noise in the street, and going to the window I saw a colored man trying to get into one of the flats on the opposite side of the street. He failed, and went east to the corner saloon, kept by a man Gallagher, and entered. After he went in I noticed three policemen in the saloon. Almost immediately a mob came down 7th Avenue. At the saloon they commenced to shout, "Bring him out, we'll lynch him!" Several of the rioters went into the saloon, and in a few minutes they came out again and formed in a semicircle, evidently waiting for something. The police officers appeared with the colored man, clubbing him unmercifully. They then shoved him into the mob. He managed to get through them and ran down the street, and I heard him shortly shouting for mercy, saying, "For God's sake don't kill me, I have a wife and children." Deponent has been informed that two of the officers ran down the street after him and knocked him senseless. P. A. JOHNSON. Sworn to before me this 10th day of September, 1900. GEO. P. HAMMOND, JR., Notary Public (164), N. Y. County. ---- _City and County of New York, ss._: Stephen Small, being duly sworn, deposes and says: I reside at the northwest corner of 7th Avenue and 34th Street. On Wednesday evening, August 15th, 1900, I went to the home of a sick brother on Lexington Avenue, and started then to go to my lodge on 29th Street near 7th Avenue, and had reached 8th Avenue and 41st Street, opposite Driggs' saloon, when two officers jumped on the car. One hit me on the head with his club, and the other struck me in the eye with his club. A white man interfered, and the police desisted. I stayed on the car, and when we had gone a little further the mob boarded it and attacked me. The car had quite a number of women in it, who began to scream, and some of them told me to get under the seat, which I did, and it proceeded down the avenue. I reached the neighborhood of Hudson Street House of Relief, where the white gentleman who interfered in the first instance took me, and where I had my head bandaged. I could not get home that evening, and I remained in a cellar in 30th Street between 6th and 7th Avenues. The next morning I started to get home, and had reached the corner of 32nd Street and 7th Avenue, when I was stopped by an officer who wanted to know where I was going, and what weapon I had on me. I told him I had nothing on me. He said, "You look as if you had been in the scrap. They ought to have killed you; get out of here." As he said this he struck me across the back with his club, and I yet am unable to lay flat on my back without suffering extreme pain. Deponent further states that he was perfectly sober and was not creating any disturbance, and that the assault by the police officers was entirely unjustified and an outrage. STEPHEN x SMALL. his mark Sworn to before me this 11th day of September, 1900. GEO. P. HAMMOND, JR., Notary Public (164), N. Y. County. ---- _City and County of New York, ss._: Oscar Slaughter, being duly sworn, deposes and says: I reside at 225 West 32nd Street. On Wednesday, August 15th, 1900, I boarded an 8th Avenue car at 32nd Street, starting to go to my sister's in West 62nd Street. I had got as far as 36th Street and 8th Avenue, when a mob led by three or four police officers surrounded the car and jumped on it. The police officers immediately commenced to club me. One of the rioters shouted, "Pull him off and kill him!" The officers pulled me off of the car and commenced to club me. They hit me on the head and pulled me to the street. I was kicked and beaten while I lay there, and after the mob had gone and I recovered somewhat I dragged myself to 42nd Street and 6th Avenue, and from there I went to 32nd Street between 6th and 7th Avenues. On my way there I attempted to go down 34th Street, but a white man met me and said, "Don't go down there, you'll get killed." I then tried to go down 33rd Street, but a white gentleman advised me not to go that way, as I would be killed, and said that even if he went down there and did not join in he would be jumped on. I then went to 32nd Street, where a number of colored men had taken refuge in a hallway, and where I was advised to stay all night. I stayed there a while and then took a chance in getting to my home down the block, which I succeeded in doing. Deponent is informed that an officer went into the aforesaid hallway after deponent had left, and clubbed and beat a man who lived in the house, and took him to the station house. Deponent declares that he was perfectly sober, and was creating no disturbance whatever, and that the said assault was entirely unjustified and an outrage. OSCAR SLAUGHTER. Sworn to before me this 11th day of September, 1900. GEO. P. HAMMOND, JR., Notary Public (164), N. Y. County. ---- _State of New York, City and County of New York, ss._: Joseph Frasier, being duly sworn, deposes and says: I live at 331 West 37th Street, New York City. On August 15th, at quarter past eleven in the night, I was on my way to work on an 8th Avenue car going downtown. A crowd rushed towards the car and yelled, "Lynch the nigger!" A policeman who jumped on the car hit me on the head with his club and knocked out a tooth and beat me on the arms, back, and body until I was nearly senseless. The policeman asked me whether I wanted to go to the station or to the hospital. I said I wanted to go to my work, though the blood was running over my face so that I could hardly see. A passenger helped me until I recovered slightly, and helped me on another car and into a drug store, where I received aid. The street was filled with a rough crowd, patrol wagon, and ambulance. The people cried out from the windows, protesting against the beating, and called out "Shame!" I was laid up for weeks, and am hardly able to walk now, as I am still lame and sore. I work for Davenport, 94 Park Place, and it was my duty to get to the stable about eleven o'clock to go to New Jersey for produce. JOSEPH FRASIER. Sworn to before me this 11th day of September, 1900. STEPHEN B. BRAGUE, Notary Public (125), N. Y. County. ---- _City and County of New York, ss._: Adolphus Cooks, being duly sworn, deposes and says: I reside at No. 243 West 32nd Street, and work for the Anchor Steamship Company, foot of West 24th Street, as a longshoreman. On Tuesday morning, August 14th, 1900, I went to work for the said company, worked all that day, all that night, and until Wednesday night at 10:30 P. M.--39½ consecutive hours. At the said hour I left the pier at the foot of West 24th Street, and walked east on 24th Street, and when I reached the northwest corner of 8th Avenue and 24th Street a white gentleman advised me not to go up 8th Avenue, as there was a riot up there and they were fighting "like he did not know what." I continued east on 24th Street until I reached the northwest corner of 7th Avenue and 24th Street, when I met another white man who advised me not to go up 7th Avenue, as there was a riot in progress, and that they were fighting at that time in the neighborhood of 41st Street and 37th Street, but, thinking that I could get home in 32nd Street before the riot could get down to that street, I started uptown on the west side of 7th Avenue, and had reached the northwest corner of 7th Avenue and 28th Street, when I saw three officers coming down 7th Avenue. In the meantime three other colored men, whom I did not know, had caught up with me, and were walking behind me. I had gone about one hundred feet north of the aforesaid corner when I saw the three officers break into a run in our direction. I was grabbed by one of them, while the other two chased the three men who had come behind us and overtook them and clubbed them; the officer who had me immediately, without saying a word, struck me on the body with his club; then between the blows he said, "Get out of here, you black son of a b----!" One of the blows he aimed at my head, but I threw up my arm and received the blow on it. It was such a severe blow that I was lame in it for quite some days. I escaped from him as soon as I could, and ran to 28th Street, and down 28th Street to No. 211. I ran into the hallway and out into the back yard, where I stayed all night in fear of my life. The officer followed me, and when I ran into the hallway he clubbed the colored people who were on the front stoop, and drove them into the house. During the heavy rainstorm Wednesday night and early Thursday morning I took refuge in a small place that led into the cellar of the said house. Thursday morning about six o'clock I ventured out and went towards the dock at the foot of West 24th Street, where I intended to go to work again, and had reached 8th Avenue between 25th and 26th Streets, when I saw two police officers on the opposite side of the street, one of whom started to run towards me, but his companion stopped him, and drew him back. Deponent states further that if he had not been interfered with and clubbed by the police officer he could have reached his home in safety, and that he saw no signs of a disturbance, such as a large crowd of people, as far as he could see up the avenue; that deponent was watching for such signs by reason of his having been warned twice. Deponent also declares that he can identify the officer who clubbed him; that he knows him by sight, and that, about a month before the said clubbing, the same officer had come to him at his home, where he lived at that time, in West 28th Street, and had told him that the roundsman had got him, and that he had given him as an excuse that he was at the house where deponent then lived and was quelling a disturbance there, and asked deponent to verify that statement if the roundsman asked him. Deponent promised so to do, notwithstanding the fact that nothing of the kind had occurred there, and promised to do so simply to get the officer out of trouble. That the officer's first name is "Joe," and that he is attached to the 20th Precinct. Deponent further declares that he was perfectly sober, and that the assault by the officer was unwarranted and an outrage upon a peaceable citizen. ADOLPHUS x COOKS. his mark Sworn to before me this 4th day of September, 1900. GEO. P. HAMMOND, JR., Notary Public (164), N. Y. County. ---- _City and County of New York, ss._: Eugene Porter, being duly sworn, deposes and says: I reside at 202 West 49th Street. On Wednesday, August 15th, 1900, between the hours of nine and ten P. M., I was walking uptown on the west side of 7th Avenue, on my way home. Everything about the neighborhood was quiet. There were no signs of a disturbance, and I had not heard of any trouble between the colored people and the white folks. I had reached a point about one hundred feet north of 37th Street on 7th Avenue, when I met a group of policemen, about six or eight in number. One of them said to me, "What are you doing here, you black son of a b----?" and without waiting for an answer struck me over the head with his club, felling me to the sidewalk, and continued to strike me about the body. I struggled to my feet, and implored the officers to spare my life, but they continued to club me and left me unconscious on the sidewalk. When I came to I arose to my feet and crawled home. After I reached home I got my young son to accompany me to the New York Hospital, where my wounds were dressed by Dr. Kenyon, of the Hospital Staff, who put fourteen stitches in my head. Deponent states further that he is troubled to this day with his head, as a result of the injuries received at the hands of the police, and he fears that it may yet seriously interfere with his following his business. Deponent states further that he is engaged in the business of horse and dog clipping, and that he can refer to the following-named persons for whom he has done work at various times: E. S. Odell, proprietor of the Saratoga Stables, 690 Madison Avenue, who has known him from infancy. Dr. H. D. Gill, Veterinary Surgeon, 57th Street and 2nd Avenue. G. W. Lynch, Morton Boarding Stables, Morton and Washington Streets. Joseph Hartshorn, 168 East 68th Street. EUGENE PORTER. Sworn to before me this 4th day of September, 1900. GEO. P. HAMMOND, JR., Notary Public (164), N. Y. County. ---- _City and County of New York, ss._: Richard C. Creech, being duly sworn, deposes and says that he resides at No. 137 West 53rd Street. That on Wednesday morning, August 15th, 1900, he had been to visit a friend at No. 312 West 45th Street, and left there at about 10:45 P. M. and walked to 8th Avenue, and had reached the corner of 8th Avenue and 45th Street, when he was set upon by a gang of rioters, and assaulted by them. That he shouted "Police!" and seeing two officers on the east side of the avenue, corner of 45th Street, he ran towards them when he saw them coming towards him and slackened his pace, thinking that they were coming to his assistance. When they came up to him, without saying a word, they commenced clubbing him, and knocked him unconscious on the sidewalk. He lay there unconscious for some time, he does not know exactly how long, but when he came to he found one of the policeman standing over him, and when he scrambled to his feet the policeman said, "Well, you black son of a b----, I guess you will be good now, won't you? Get out of here as quick as you can!" He then went towards Broadway, and on Broadway between 45th and 46th Streets engaged a cab to take him home, and when he arrived home found that his pocketbook, containing thirty-six dollars in money and a pawnticket for a watch, was gone. He also lost his hat and an umbrella. He sent for his physician, Dr. Robert L. Cooper, 156 West 53rd Street, who took three stitches in his scalp and dressed other wounds on his arm and hand, the result of the clubbing. RICHARD C. CREECH. Sworn to before me this 1st day of September, 1900. GEO. P. HAMMOND, JR., Notary Public (164), N. Y. County. ---- _City and County of New York, ss._: Duncan James, of No. 238 West 40th Street, engaged in business at 84 and 86 Greene Street, care of G. Blum & Brother, being duly sworn, says: On Wednesday, August 15th, I left the store and went to my tutor at West 124th Street. I left there at ten P. M., and when I reached 43rd Street and 8th Avenue three men jumped on the car and struck me in the face. Passengers advised me not to get off at 40th Street. When I arrived at 34th Street men saw me on the car, and when it reached 33rd Street the car stopped suddenly and everybody jumped off. The car was surrounded by a mob. I had no weapon or protection but a cane. I kept them off the best I could. About twelve officers came and took me from the mob. They took me about one hundred and fifty feet from 8th Avenue in 33rd Street West, and as they turned me loose the officers pounded me severely with clubs over my head, arms, and shoulders, telling me to run. I had then lost my hat, cane, and books. I went back to my teacher's house and stayed all night. I was the only negro man there. In West 33rd Street a man gave me a hat. I could find him. I begged the officers to lock me up for protection, and they would not. Dr. Swinburne treated me. DUNCAN JAMES. Sworn to before me this 31st day of August, 1900. FRANK MOSS, Notary Public, N. Y. County. ---- _City and County of New York, ss._: Mack Thomas, being duly sworn, deposes and says: I reside at 238 West 40th Street. On Wednesday, August 15th, 1900, I attended the St. Paul Baptist Church in West 43rd Street, and at about ten P. M. left for home. Knowing that the rioters were at work, I decided, instead of taking my usual route home, to go to 9th Avenue and transfer to 34th Street, to 7th Avenue, and thence back to 40th Street, thinking by that means to be able to avoid the rioters and reach home in safety. I boarded a 9th Avenue car at 43rd Street and transferred at 9th Avenue, and had reached the corner of 8th Avenue and 34th Street, when I saw a mob on the corner, and heard them shout, "There's two on the car; go after them, get them; lynch the niggers!" I stayed on the car until the mob boarded the car, when I jumped off and ran east on 34th Street pursued by the mob, several members of which struck me with their fists, but with no serious result. I had got so far as the middle of the block when I met four or five officers, one of whom stepped in front of me and struck me a blow with his club on the head, cutting it open. When he did so he said, "Who hit you?" I said nothing; then he said, "Get on the car, you black son of a b----, and get home out of here!" I got on the car and reached home without any further interference. Deponent declares it to be his belief that if he had not been stopped by the police, and struck by them, he would have reached his home without any serious injury; not mentioning the fact that the police made no attempt whatever to interfere with the mob. Deponent further declares that he would prefer to have taken his chances with the mob than to have met the said police officers. Deponent further declares that he was perfectly sober, was proceeding quietly on his way home, and was taking extraordinary measures to reach his home in safety and without violence. MACK THOMAS. Sworn to before me this 5th day of September, 1900. GEO. P. HAMMOND, JR., Notary Public (164), N. Y. County. ---- _City and County of New York, ss._: Miss Belle Johnson, being duly sworn, deposes and says: I reside at 275 West 39th Street. On Wednesday evening, August 15th, 1900, between nine and ten o'clock, I heard a disturbance in the street, and going to my window on 8th Avenue I saw a crowd of people on the sidewalk, and saw them rush toward a Negro boy who was standing on the corner (northeast corner 39th Street and 8th Avenue) and beat him. He rushed into a delicatessen store on 8th Avenue, but was thrust out by the proprietor. When he reached the sidewalk two officers grabbed him and clubbed him and then pushed him into the crowd, saying with an oath, "Run now, for your life!" He then ran to 39th Street and east on 39th Street with fully one hundred people after him. Right after this occurrence a colored man came along, and after being attacked by the mob was knocked over towards four police officers who were standing on the corner, one of whom was Officer 6312. All four of the officers then rushed for this man and clubbed him unmercifully about the head and body. I could not stand the sight any longer and shouted to the officers that it was a shame when police officers, who were supposed to be protecting peaceable citizens, assaulted them in such a brutal manner. About this time they ceased clubbing the man and thrust him out into the crowd of rioters. This sort of thing continued during the entire night, and until the next day, as at nine A. M., when I went out on an errand, I saw a colored man, who was carrying a small sign, beaten by a crowd of roughs. I saw a number of colored persons struck who were riding on the cars, and at least six colored men clubbed by the police during this time. BELLE JOHNSON. Sworn to before me this 5th day of September, 1900. _Geo. P. Hammond, Jr._, Notary Public (164), N. Y. County. ---- _City and County of New York, ss._: Mrs. Fannie Lewis, being duly sworn, deposes and says: She has read the foregoing affidavit of Miss Belle Johnson, and that she knows of her own knowledge that the facts therein stated are true. FANNIE LEWIS. Sworn to before me this 5th day of September, 1900. GEO. P. HAMMOND, JR., Notary Public (164), N. Y. County. ---- _City and County of New York, ss._: Chester Smith, being duly sworn, deposes and says: I reside at No. 320 West 37th Street. I am employed in Flannery's drug store, at No. 103 West 42nd Street, and have been so employed for the last ten months. On August 15th, 1900, at about ten o'clock P. M., while going to my home, walking on the west side of 8th Avenue between 38th and 39th Streets, I saw a crowd of people, composed mostly of police officers and children. Some one in the crowd said, "There is a nigger!" pointing at me. One of the policemen ran towards me, and seeing that I was in physical danger I ran away from the place, going north to 39th Street on 8th Avenue. Somebody threw a brick at me, which struck me in the back, and then one of the policemen came up to me and struck me in the left eye with his club. My eye and my forehead are still lacerated and discolored. I then ran into the saloon at the southeast corner of 39th Street and 8th Avenue. One of the policemen ran in after me, and told me to go outside and run towards Broadway; that the mob had dispersed. I started toward the door, and as I reached it I saw that they were still waiting outside. I said to the officer as I started back into the saloon, "No, sir, I can't go out there; they'll kill me." The policeman then lifted me from the ground and threw me through the swinging door into the street. The glass in the door was broken, and I fell on my hands and knees. The policemen and the mob then began beating me, the policemen beating me with their clubs. They did not disperse the crowd or protect me from it. I then started to run towards Broadway; another policeman ran after me and struck me in the back with his club. I staggered, made one or two jumps, and fell in front of No. 236 West 39th Street. The lady of the house, a white woman, came out, and I was taken into the house by some one, I don't know whom. Two or three days after she told me that the officers soon left the house, but that the mob tried to break in, and that she told them that if they would not leave she would kill them. The lady rang for a messenger boy and sent word to my employer to call. He came and brought some bandages, etc., and bandaged my head. He then called two police officers and asked them to take me to the station house. They refused. He insisted, and they finally yielded and took me to the station house. I was treated there by a police surgeon. My employer remained with me until three o'clock the next morning. I did not work for three days after this. I saw one man treated very harshly at the station house, being clubbed by police officers, and I believe he would have been treated still worse if it had not been for the presence of reporters. I did nothing whatever to justify this brutal treatment on the part of the police officers. I believe that had it not been for the presence of my employer I would have been beaten still more. There were over twenty-five policemen in the crowd. I was unconscious part of the time. I have never been arrested in my life. CHESTER SMITH. Sworn to before me this 5th day of September, 1900. GEO. P. HAMMOND, JR., Notary Public (164), N. Y. County. ---- On September 13th, 1900, I visited the premises No. 236 West 39th Street and found that the occupant thereof was the woman who rescued Chester Smith from the hands of the mob, and that her name is Mrs. Davenport. She stated that she did not want to make an affidavit or statement of the occurrence, but volunteered the information that she had sheltered two or three Negroes during the night of August 15th and the morning of the 16th, also that several police officers who attempted to get into her house, at the time that she rescued the said Smith, acted and spoke in an insulting manner, one of them saying, "What kind of a woman are you, to be harboring niggers?" GEORGE P. HAMMOND, JR. ---- _City and County of New York, ss._: Harry L. Craig, being duly sworn, deposes and says: I reside at No. 226 West 28th Street. I am employed as a hall boy at the apartment houses Nos. 102 and 104 East 26th Street. On August 15th, 1900, I left the apartment house a little after twelve o'clock, that being the time I usually go home. I walked on 26th Street to 6th Avenue, then turned into 6th Avenue and walked to 27th Street; I then walked on 27th Street to 8th Avenue, turned into 8th Avenue, and went into the saloon at 8th Avenue and 28th Street, southwest corner, where I had a drink, and left about 12:20, going home on 28th Street. As I neared M. Groh's Son's Brewery on that block some one hit me on the head with a club; I turned around and saw three policemen in uniform, and behind them was a mob of at least fifty men. The street was very dark. I started to run home, but one of the officers tripped me, and I fell. I was then clubbed by the police and the mob into unconsciousness. When I recovered I found that the police and the mob had left. I picked up my hat and got up, and started to walk to our house, which was only a few feet away, but I staggered and fell several times. When I reached home the lady I live with, Mrs. Wisham, washed my face with witch-hazel; my jaw was so sore that I could hardly open my mouth. For a few days after this I felt sore all over my body, from the effects of this clubbing. I was clubbed by three officers. The officers led the crowd, and did not interfere when others were beating me. They made no attempt to disperse the crowd. I did nothing whatever to justify this brutal assault upon me by the police. I was never arrested in my life. I was not in the neighborhood while the riots were going on in the early part of the evening. The police did not give any reason for acting as they did, and when I fell unconscious they left me alone in the dark street. HARRY S. CRAIG. Sworn to before me this 13th day of September, 1900. FRANK MOSS, Notary Public, N. Y. County. ---- _City and County of New York, ss._: John L. Newman, being duly sworn, deposes and says: I reside at No. 351 West 37th Street, in the rear house. On August 15th, 1900, I went to the restaurant which is in the front building, for supper. This was about 10:30 P. M. After I had been there a few minutes some one told me that the mob was coming. I had seen them beat colored people during the evening, without any cause, so I walked out of the restaurant into my apartments, which are in the rear, only a few steps away; I live in the basement floor. I did this so as to avoid any trouble. As I reached the front door and walked in I closed it, and proceeded to go into my apartments. Four officers immediately came, and one of them said, "Stop!" and kicked open the door. Then one of them grabbed me and said, "Here is a d----d nigger; kill him!" The four officers then beat me with their clubs until I became unconscious. They then carried me to the station house. I was unconscious during all this time, but my friends tell me that the police were beating me all the way to the station house. It is located one block west from where I live. At the station house I recovered my consciousness. I was arraigned before the sergeant, and the officer who struck me first made the complaint against me. At the sergeant's desk I felt very weak, bleeding from my head and eye, and I held on to the railing for support. One of the officers struck me in the ribs with a night stick, and said, "God d--n you, stand up there!" I fell forward on the sergeant's desk, and I said, "For God's sake, take a gun and blow out my brains! If you have got to take a life, take mine, and don't murder me this way!" The sergeant then said very gruffly to the officer, "Take him away!" While all this was going on Chief of Police Devery was in the station house standing about ten feet away, talking to somebody whom I did not know. He saw all this, but did not interfere, conversing with the man all the time, as if nothing unusual was going on. I have known Chief Devery for three or four years, and have spoken with him in a friendly way many times. When I was brought into the muster room, in the rear of the station house, I saw several colored people being treated for their wounds. I was bleeding from my head and eye, and could not see well, and I sat down in the wrong chair. Two policemen then came over to me, pulled me out of the chair, and were raising their clubs to strike me when some one said, "Don't hit this man any more," and they obeyed. My wounds were then dressed, and I was taken to a cell. About twelve o'clock, when the officer who was making the prison rounds came to my cell, I asked him for permission to see the sergeant. He asked why, and I told him that my house was unlocked, and that I wished he would send an officer to lock it. He said he would speak to the sergeant about it. In a few minutes he returned and said, "The sergeant said, 'D--n him,' and that 'he had no business with the house,'" and he did not send anyone to lock it and protect my property. While I was in the station house I saw a colored man, John Haines, struck by several officers with their clubs. He was naked, only wearing a little undershirt. The officers were striking all the colored men in the station house, and without any interference. In court, the next morning, I was arraigned before Judge Cornell. The officer swore that I was causing a riot in the street, I denied this. I did not have any witnesses in court, because I did not have any opportunity to produce them. The Judge did not ask me whether I wanted an examination or not, and expressed his doubts as to my guilt, and said the case was "very curious." But the officers were persistent in their false statements, aforesaid, and the magistrate put me under $100 bonds to keep the peace. Not being able to furnish this, I was sent to the Penitentiary, where I was for thirty days. I was treated at the Penitentiary by Dr. Thomas Higgins, who told me that my head would never be right as long as I lived. I have been sick ever since. Dr. Higgins told me that he would testify for me in any proceeding which I might institute. I am employed by the Metropolitan Street Railway Company as a rockman, but am unable to work at present. I have lived in New York City for over forty-three years, and have never been arrested before in my life. I did not participate in the riots, was not on the street, and did nothing whatever to justify this conduct on the part of the police. I can recognize the officer who made the charge against me; he was the first to strike me. JOHN L. NEWMAN. Sworn to before me this 19th day of September, 1900. JOHN F. MACCOLGAN, Notary Public (4), N. Y. County. (The officer in the case was Holland.) ---- _City and County of New York, ss._: Mrs. Martha A. Brown, being duly sworn, deposes and says: I reside at No. 351 West 37th Street. On Wednesday, August 15th, 1900, about 10:15 P. M., while on my way upstairs I saw John Newman, who lives in the rear house at the above number, come in the front door and close it; he had almost reached the rear of the hall when the front door was opened by a policeman who had his club raised, and who ran up to the said Newman, struck him over the head with his club, felling him to the floor; he then dragged Newman to the street, clubbing him meanwhile, and at the front door he was joined by four other officers, who assisted him to drag Newman out into the street, where they threw him into the midst of the mob which had congregated outside, and some of whom jumped on Newman, stamping on his stomach with their feet. Newman was then again taken by the officers and dragged to the station house on the next block. Deponent states further that Newman did not appear to be trying to get away from anyone, when he entered the front door, and further when he was struck first he was struck from behind. MARTHA A. BROWN. Sworn to before me this 24th day of September, 1900. GEO. P. HAMMOND, JR., Notary Public (164), N. Y. County. ---- _City and County of New York, ss._: Mrs. Betty Green, being duly sworn, deposes and says: I reside at No. 353 West 37th Street, Manhattan Borough, New York City. On Wednesday, August 15th, 1900, about eleven P. M., I saw John Newman coming out of the restaurant next door, No. 351, and spoke a few words to him, and saw him go into the hall door of the house in the rear of which he lived. Almost immediately I saw two officers in uniform, and about three others in citizens' clothes. The two in uniform ran into the hallway after the said John Newman, some of the officers saying, "Get the black son of a b----, and kill him!" Shortly afterward I saw the two men in uniform drag Newman out onto the stoop, clubbing him meanwhile. He sank to the stoop and lay there for some time. While he lay there a patrol wagon went by, and the officers tried to get it to stop; but it went on. They then took Newman and led him on down towards the station house. All the way to 9th Avenue every officer they met took a crack at him. Deponent states that Newman was perfectly sober, and had done nothing from the time that he left the restaurant till the officers ran after him into the hallway. She saw him make no resistance after the officers got him and clubbed him. BETTY GREEN. Sworn to before me this 27th day of September, 1900. GEO. P. HAMMOND, JR., Notary Public (164), N. Y. County. ---- _City and County of New York, ss._: Miss Albertha L. Clark, being duly sworn, deposes and says: I reside at No. 351 West 37th Street. On Wednesday, August 15th, 1900, between eleven and ten o'clock P. M., while looking out of the front window of my home, I saw an officer strike a colored man over the head with his club, and the man ran down towards my home, in front of which another officer hit him over the head with his club, and still another officer kicked him; then two officers took him to the station house. While this was going on I heard a noise in the hall, and in a few minutes I saw a colored man dragged from the hallway of my home, whom I recognized as John Newman, who lived in the rear house; the officers threw him into the mob, whereupon I left the window to see what had become of my folks, and when I returned to the window the officers were dragging Newman to the station house. After the above occurrence officers came through 37th Street from 8th Avenue, and ordered people who were sitting at the windows to go away from there, and without giving them sufficient time to do so drew their revolvers and fired them at the occupants of the windows. ALBERTHA L. CLARK. Sworn to before me this 24th day of September, 1900. GEO. P. HAMMOND, JR., Notary Public (164), N. Y. County. ---- _City and County of New York, ss._: Mrs. Lucinda Thomson, being duly sworn, deposes and says: I reside at No. 351 West 37th Street. On Wednesday, August 15th, 1900, I was at home and in my rooms between the hours of ten and eleven P. M. I have heard the statements given by my two daughters, namely, Albertha L. Clark and Mrs. Martha A. Brown, and have heard read the affidavits made and subscribed to by them, and I know of my own knowledge that all the facts therein stated are true. MRS. LUCINDA x THOMSON. her mark Sworn to before me this 24th day of September, 1900. GEO. P. HAMMOND, JR., Notary Public (164), N. Y. County. ---- _City and County of New York, ss._: Mrs. Elizabeth Brown, being duly sworn, deposes and says: I reside at No. 458 Seventh Avenue, New York City. On Saturday, August 18th, 1900, my brother, Charles A. Mitchell, twenty-seven years of age, and employed as a waiter, had heard of the riots and was on his way to see me, and had reached the corner of 34th Street and 7th Avenue, when he saw a mob of about five hundred people, led by eight or nine officers, who upon seeing him attacked and clubbed him, hitting him on the head and shoulders. He managed to reach the front door of my home and run into it, where I aided him and put him on a lounge; this was about ten o'clock on Saturday evening. His wife came to see him about 10:30 and took him home about one o'clock Sunday morning, where he stayed until about two A. M., when he became violent, and it became necessary to send him to the insane pavilion of Bellevue Hospital. All the time he was shouting in his delirium, "Devery did it! Devery did it! Here they come!" Deponent declares that while in the insane pavilion of Bellevue Hospital her brother, the said Charles A. Mitchell, was beaten and maltreated by the attendants thereat, he having a gash in his head about three inches long, and similar cuts on his wrist and two on his leg. He stayed at Bellevue from Sunday, the 19th of August, 1900, to Thursday, the 23rd of August, 1900, when he was removed to Ward's Island Insane Asylum. Deponent states further that her brother is of very slight build, being only five feet six inches in height and weighing about one hundred and twelve pounds, and that she witnessed the clubbing of her brother by the police as she was looking out of the front window at the time, and that the said clubbing was unjustifiable and brutal, and wholly without cause. MRS. ELIZABETH BROWN. Sworn to before me this 20th day of September, 1900. GEO. P. HAMMOND, JR., Notary Public (164), N. Y. County. ---- _City and County of New York, ss._: Mrs. Elizabeth Brown, being duly sworn, deposes and says: On Saturday, August 18th, 1900, I saw the mob going towards 37th Street, and while watching them I saw a colored man come up from a house somewhere on 7th Avenue between 36th and 37th Streets and run toward 35th Street. Some of the officers saw him and ran after him, catching him and clubbing him, leaving him lying on the car track for dead. He was picked up by some men and taken to a saloon on the northeast corner of 36th Street and 7th Avenue. MRS. ELIZABETH BROWN. Sworn to before me this 20th day of September, 1900. GEO. P. HAMMOND, JR., Notary Public (164), N. Y. County. ---- _City and County of New York, ss._: Willis King, being duly sworn, deposes and says: I reside at 346 West 41st Street, New York City. On Wednesday. August 15th, 1900, while passing through 34th Street, about 11:30 P. M., I was joined by a crowd of men and boys. I crossed over to the north side of the street, to where about a dozen officers stood, on the northeast corner, in front of a saloon. I was grabbed by three of them as soon as I got near them, and without saying a word they started me up 8th Avenue towards the station house. On the way up 8th Avenue the officer who was behind me, and who was feeling my clothes and pockets for weapons, said, "He has nothing." Whereupon the officer on my right suggested that they go down a dark street, which was done by turning west on 35th Street. We had gone about one third of the way down the block, on the south side of the street, when all three officers turned on me and beat me with their clubs over the head and body. I was felled to the sidewalk. When they stopped one of them remarked. "I guess that will do him for a while," whereupon all three of them walked off, leaving me lying upon the sidewalk. I managed to get to No. 327 West 35th Street, when a lady by the name of Mrs. Smith, who lives on the second floor, and who had seen the officers clubbing some one, was standing on the front stoop of her home; she asked me when she saw me whether it was I that had been clubbed, and I told her that it was. She then took me into Mrs. Conner's apartments on the first floor and dressed the cuts in my head. Deponent declares that he did not know anything about a disturbance, that he did not resist arrest, and that he was perfectly sober and on his way home from visiting a friend on East 27th Street. WILLIS KING. Sworn to before me this 27th day of September, 1900. GEO. P. HAMMOND, JR., Notary Public (164). N. Y. County. ---- _City and County of New York, ss._: Isaiah O. Ferguson, being duly sworn, deposes and says: I reside at 165 East 97th Street, New York City. On Wednesday evening, August 15th, 1900, I started to go downtown on the West Side, and had reached the neighborhood of 8th Avenue and 43rd Street, riding on an 8th Avenue car, which was of the combination type, and I was in the closed part, when I reached the aforementioned place. I noticed a large crowd of people, and patrol wagons and ambulances. I inquired from a gentleman who sat next to me what was the matter, and he replied that he did not know. We proceeded downtown and had reached the neighborhood of 36th Street, when suddenly the car, which had been proceeding very slowly, came to a dead stop. The motorman and the conductor both folded their arms and looked at me. The next I knew a number of men jumped on the car, some coming through the windows, and commenced beating me, and continued to beat me until I was insensible. When I came to, the car had started and was going slowly. I was bewildered and dazed, and I rushed from the car and downtown, several people on the way trying to stop me, but I was crazed with pain and fled on, until I was met by a lady friend, who stopped me on seeing my condition, and took me to her home, on 17th Street near 9th Avenue, where she bathed my head and dressed my wounds, and where I stayed until the next morning, when I went to Washington, D. C., where a physician attended to me. Deponent further states as the car stopped he noticed four police officers on the east side of the avenue, and that they made no attempt whatever to interfere with the mob: further, that he was proceeding on his journey in a quiet manner, and had not heard of any trouble, and that he had given absolutely no cause for the attack. I. O. FERGUSON. Sworn to before me this 21st day of September, 1900. GEO. P. HAMMOND, JR., Notary Public (164), N. Y. County. ---- _City and County of New York, ss._: Headly Johnson, being duly sworn, deposes and says: I reside at 330 West 53rd Street. I am employed as a Pullman car porter, on the cars running out of the West Shore depot, Weehawken, N. J. I arrived on my train at the said depot on Thursday, August 16th, 1900, at 2:25 P. M. I arrived in New York about 5:30 P. M. the same day, and, having heard of the riots, I had prepared to protect myself from the mob by carrying home with me a revolver. I boarded a car at the West Shore ferry at the foot of West 42nd Street and transferred to an 8th Avenue car at 34th Street, and had proceeded as far as 40th Street, when the car was assailed by a mob shouting, "There's another nigger! Kill him! lynch him!" I stood up and was ready to defend myself, when a passenger on the car asked me to sit down, saying that if the mob got on the car he would help me defend myself. I sat down as requested, and happening to look over my shoulder I saw three police officers in uniform running after the car. They boarded the car, and, seizing me, one of the officers put his hand in my pocket and took the revolver from me, then pulled me off the car, saying, "Come off of here, you black son of a b----!" When they had pulled me off the car they immediately commenced clubbing me, and continued to do so all the way to the station house. While in the station house I saw several colored men beaten by police officers. The sergeant at the desk, when I was sent to a cell, shouted to the police officers, "Don't hit this man!" repeating the same several times. I was taken to the police court the next day, where I was discharged. Deponent states further that the officer who arrested him and appeared against him in the police court is the one who did the most of the clubbing; in fact, all of it except one blow. Deponent declares further that he was proceeding quietly to his home, where he was determined to go, and was not molesting anyone, and that when the officers signified their intention to arrest him he made no show of resistance, and that therefore the clubbing was unjustifiable and an outrage. HEADLY JOHNSON. Sworn to before me this 8th day of September, 1900. GEO. P. HAMMOND, JR., Notary Public (164), N. Y. County. ---- _City and County of New York, ss._: Benjamin McCoy, being duly sworn, deposes and says: I reside at 226 West 40th Street. On Thursday, August 16th, 1900, about five A. M., I arose to go to my work. I went to Dobbins' restaurant, on 8th Avenue between 40th and 41st Streets, and had breakfast, after finishing which I went to the corner of 41st Street to board an 8th Avenue car, to reach my place of business. As I was standing waiting for the car I saw two officers walking on the east side of the street, and a colored man came running along with blood streaming from his head, and said to me, "Don't stand there; go away, or those policemen will club you to death; they just clubbed me." The car came along just then, and I walked out to get on board, and had put my hand on the rail, when one of the officers who had been on the other side of the street came suddenly around from behind the car, and struck me on the shin of my left leg, and struck me several times on the upper part of the leg, saying, "Get in there, get in there! What are you standing around here whistling for?" Deponent declares that he was not creating any disturbance at the time, and that there were not over four or five persons, outside of the police officers, on the street in the immediate neighborhood, and that the assault was entirely unwarranted and unjustifiable and a flagrant outrage, perpetrated, by one by whom deponent would expect, and had a right to expect, to be protected. BENJAMIN MCCOY. Sworn to before me this 7th day of September, 1900. ---- _City and County of New York, ss._: Albert Saunders, being duly sworn, deposes and says: I live at 440 West 45th Street. I work at 118 West 27th Street. On August 15th I left my work at night and walked up 8th Avenue toward my home. About 38th Street a crowd ran at me, somebody struck me, and I staggered, and then I received another blow that cut open my head and made me speechless. I found myself in the hands of an officer, who took me to the station house, where my wound was dressed. I stayed there till about four A. M. A number of colored men were brought in by officers, some of them cut and bleeding, like myself. I remember a colored man who was brought in bleeding, and naked except for a merino shirt. When he was taken back to the cells the policeman who had him clubbed his legs. Another man who had a cut head was advised by the jailer to put his head under the hydrant, but the man said he was afraid the officer who had him would strike him again if he got his head down, so the jailer got a pail and washed it. I was not in a position where I could see clearly all that happened, but I saw several other colored men struck and abused by policemen. I am an English subject, was born in St. Kitts, and suppose that my speech showed that I was not an American and protected me. ALBERT SAUNDERS. Sworn to before me this 5th day of September, 1900. FRANK MOSS, Notary Public, N. Y. County. ---- _City and County of New York, ss._: George White, of 145 West 32nd Street, being duly sworn, deposes and says that on Wednesday, August 15th, 1900, at half past ten P. M., while riding on a 34th Street car, going east, he saw and heard a crowd of boys and young men running and yelling at the car that he was on, and that immediately after he saw three police officers board the said car, and upon seeing deponent they grabbed him by the arm and clubbed him over the head and arms, pulled him off the car, and continued to club him. They then took him to the West 37th Street station house, where his wounds were dressed by a surgeon from one of the hospitals, who was there. Deponent further states that he is not addicted to the use of liquor, had not been drinking on the said day, and that he was not intoxicated at the time of the clubbing; that he was not placed under arrest, and that he remained in the station house until after the storm came up, or as near as he can remember about three o'clock A. M. the next morning, by reason of being told that there was a mob outside waiting to beat all Negroes that they could catch. Further, that by reason of the suddenness of the attack he did not look closely at the assailants, so as to be able to identify them. GEORGE x WHITE. his mark Sworn to before me this 28th day of August, 1900. GEO. P. HAMMOND, JR., Notary Public (164), N. Y. County. ---- _City and County of New York, ss._: Charles Bennett, being duly sworn, deposes and says: I reside at No. 309 West 37th Street. On August 15th, 1900, I was working for a man named Mr. O'Connor, who keeps a saloon at Coney Island. I quit work at one o'clock A. M. the next day (August 16th), and started for home with a man named Wilson. We boarded an 8th Avenue car at Warren Street and Broadway, which was going north; just before we reached the street whereon I reside the conductor of the car upon which we were riding told us that there had been a riot, that it was because of the death of the police officer, and that they were attacking every colored man that they caught. I then said that we had better get off; the conductor then said that it was "pretty quiet" when he came down. We got off the car at 8th Avenue and 37th Street, and at 3:30 A. M. had almost reached the front door of my home when several police officers from among a group of about a dozen called to me asking me where I was going. I told them, "Home here." I was then in front of my door, and immediately after making my reply an officer hit me with his club, knocking me down. I struggled to my feet and endeavored to run towards 8th Avenue, but was pursued by the officers and knocked down again at the corner of 8th Avenue and 36th Street. It was raining very hard at the time, and they threw me into the gutter, which was full of rain water; they kept my head in the water until I strangled, when they let up, jumped on me, and pushed me back again into the gutter. After a while they called a patrol wagon, into which they threw me, and beat me all the way to the station house in 37th Street. Upon my arrival there my head had been cut open; I was covered with blood and bruises from the beating and clubbing I had received. While in the station house I told Captain Cooney that I had been clubbed by policemen. I remained in the station house for about half an hour, and while there I heard a man who was dressed in citizen's clothes say to the officers present, "Club every d----d nigger you see; kill them; shoot them; be brave, the same as I was." The man answered, "All right; will you stick to us?" He answered, "Yes, I'll stand by you." I heard this man called Thompson by some of the officers. He went among the colored men who were present and who were in almost as bad condition as I was, asking their names, where they had lived, and what they had been doing. After receiving their answers he said to each of them, "Get ter h--l home out of here; they'd ought ter have killed yer!" When he came to me he said, "What's your name?" I told him; then he said, "What were you doing?" I said, "I just come from work at Coney Island." He exclaimed, "Coney Island, eh! That's a d----d nice place to be working. Where do you live?" I told him, when he said, "Another nice place right in my district, the worst block in the whole district." He did not tell me to get out, but I was shortly after taken to Roosevelt Hospital and from there to Bellevue Hospital, where I remained a week, when I was taken to 54th Street Court, where I had a hearing and was discharged on August 28th, 1900. While I was being clubbed in the street one of the officers said, "Search him," whereupon they stopped the clubbing long enough to search my pockets and take fourteen dollars in bills from me, which I had in my hip pocket of my trousers. I have never had the said money returned to me. While I was in the station house Captain Cooney was there, but not in uniform, and the aforesaid man whom they called Thompson was giving orders to the men, in the presence of Captain Cooney. At the time that I had reached my home on the said night there was no disturbance in the neighborhood, and there was but one man in sight, and he was chased away by the officers. Everything was quiet in the neighborhood, and on the way uptown on the car I saw no signs of a disturbance, and would not have known anything about there having been anything of the kind if I had not been informed by the car conductor. I can identify two of the officers who took part in the clubbing, one of whom was dressed in citizen's clothes, and who, I think, was one of the wardmen attached to that precinct. (The witness subsequently identified Officer Herman Ohm.) Deponent further states that he has resided in the City of New York for the past fifteen years, and has never been arrested before in his life, and has always been a quiet, law-abiding citizen. CHARLES x BENNETT. his mark Sworn to before me this 31st day of August, 1900. GEO. P. HAMMOND, JR., Notary Public (164), N. Y. County. ---- _City and County of New York, ss._: James Joseph Lockett, being duly sworn, deposes and says: I reside at No. 323 West 37th Street, in the Borough of Manhattan. I am a cigar maker, and am employed by Gahio & Roverie, on East 37th Street. On Wednesday, August 15th, 1900, at about eight P. M., accompanied by my wife, I called at the residence of Thomas H. McGuire, a friend of mine who resides at No. 410 West 36th Street, where we remained until about 11:15 P. M. We walked east on 36th Street to 8th Avenue, where we met four police officers in uniform on the northwest corner. We passed them and turned into 8th Avenue, walking on the west side of the avenue, towards 37th Street. We had not gone over fifty feet when the officers ran after us and beat us with their clubs. One of the officers said to me. "You black son of a b----, you have a knife!" and struck me on the head with a club several times, and then led us to the station house. There we were searched by the officer, who took eleven dollars in money--two two-dollar bills, one five-dollar bill, and two one-dollar bills--one rent receipt for thirteen dollars and fifty cents for August, signed by Herbert Peck & Co., none of which has been returned to me. The sergeant, in uniform, was behind the desk, and the roundsman made the entry. I was charged with being drunk and carrying a knife. My head was bleeding profusely from the wounds inflicted by the police officers, and the police surgeon at the station house had to dress them. After this I was placed in a cell. The next morning I was arraigned in the Magistrates' Court on West 54th Street. The officer swore that I was drunk and disorderly and carried a knife. The magistrate held me in $500 bail, and I was bailed by Mr. Garner. I was not drunk on the occasion in question. I had drunk three, and positively not more than four, glasses of beer at Mr. McGuire's house. I did nothing which would justify this conduct on the part of the police officers. On August 23rd an officer called at my house. He said he was generally known as "Bootsey," and was sent by the Captain to obtain a statement from me, which I gave him. He was in citizen's clothes. He called again on August 24th, and said that Captain Cooney wanted to see me at the station house. I did not go to see him. JAMES JOSEPH LOCKETT. Sworn to before me this 28th day of August, 1900. STEPHEN B. BRAGUE, Notary Public (125), N. Y. County. ---- _City and County of New York, ss._: Lavinia Lockett, being duly sworn, deposes and says: That she is the wife of James Joseph Lockett, and resides at 323 West 37th Street, in the Borough of Manhattan. That on August 15th, 1900, at about eight o'clock in the evening, she with her husband visited Mr. Thomas H. McGuire, a friend of ours, where we remained until about 11:15 P. M. Walking easterly to 8th Avenue, we met four police officers in uniform on the northwest corner. We had gone about fifty feet, when the officers ran after us and struck my husband with a club and said, "You black son of a b----, you have a knife," and when deponent screamed she was struck in the mouth and chest with a club by one of the officers. We were taken to the station and locked in cells; my husband was charged with being drunk and disorderly, and we were held in bail in the sum of $500. Neither my husband nor myself was intoxicated, and saw no crowd or any row and no excitement on our way home until we were assaulted. LAVINIA LOCKETT. Sworn to before me this 28th day of August, 1900. STEPHEN B. BRAGUE, Notary Public (125), N. Y. County. ---- _City and County of New York, ss._: William Hamer, of No. 494 7th Avenue, being duly sworn, deposes and says: I am a musician. I am employed at "The Fair," kept by Mr. Samuels, on 14th Street between 3rd and 4th Avenues. My wife is employed there also. On August 15th I finished my work about 11:30 P. M. I took the crosstown 14th Street car and changed to the 7th Avenue horse cars. I had not heard anything of the riot. The car stopped between 36th and 37th Streets, and my wife and I were dragged from the car by a crowd of men and lads armed with sticks and stones. I ran into a stable at 37th Street and 7th Avenue, and they beat me in there and left me for dead. A stone or something hit me in the stomach, and I fell into a water trough. My wife and I were separated, and she did not find me. I crawled out of the stable into a lumber yard and lay there in my blood until three A. M. I have been in the doctor's care ever since, and am out to-day for the first time. My doctor is Dr. Yarnell, of Park Avenue near 84th Street. When I was pulled out of the car I noticed a colored man lying unconscious on the ground. There were at least a dozen policemen standing around. They did nothing, and made no effort to protect me. WILLIAM HAMER. Sworn to before me this 31st day of August, 1900. FRANK MOSS, Notary Public, N. Y. County. ---- _City and County of New York, ss._: Mrs. Annie Hamer, being duly sworn, deposes and says that she resides at 494 7th Avenue; that she is employed as a musician at "The Fair," in East 14th Street; that on Wednesday, August 15th, 1900, about midnight thereof, she in company with her husband arrived at 7th Avenue between 36th and 37th Streets on a 7th Avenue car; that when she alighted from the car she found herself surrounded by a mob, and almost instantly was struck in the mouth with a brick, thrown by some one whom she does not know. She became separated from her husband, and did not know what became of him until three A. M. the next morning, when he came home all covered with blood. Deponent states further that she has read the affidavit of her husband, hereto attached, and knows of her own knowledge that the facts therein stated are true. Deponent further states that she has been informed by her mother that the "captain" stationed officers at the door of her residence, and told them to "not let anyone in or out, and if anyone attempted it to shoot them." ANNIE HAMER. Sworn to before me this 6th day of September, 1900. GEO. P. HAMMOND, JR., Notary Public (164), N. Y. County. ---- _City and County of New York, ss._: William Lemoine, residing at 68 West 43rd Street, being duly sworn, deposes and says that on Wednesday, August 15th, 1900, he started at 7:55 P. M. to attend a meeting of Odd Fellows being held at 29th Street between 6th and 7th Avenues, and had reached 7th Avenue between 35th and 36th Streets, when he met two white men, who said to him, "You had better not go down that way, you will get mobbed." I said, "Mobbed! for what?" They said, "Why, they are having a riot down there." I continued on, however, until I reached 34th and 35th Streets on 7th Avenue, where I met two white women, who said to me, "Do you want to get killed? If you don't you had better go on back." I thereupon went no further in that direction, but turned back up 7th Avenue, and went as far as 483 7th Avenue, and saw a crowd coming down 7th Avenue from about 41st Street, and another from about 34th Street. Both of the crowds were composed of boys and young men who were in the lead shouting and yelling, while in the midst of them were two or three police officers. The boys would stir up a colored man and begin yelling, "There he goes! There is one of them!" and the boys would immediately run after them, and the police follow. I saw them overtake two colored men, and saw the police take them down 37th Street towards 8th Avenue. While I was standing in front of 483 7th Avenue a friend of mine, Mrs. Harriet Ann Bruna, who now resides at 152 West 27th Street, called to me from her window, and told me to come upstairs, which I did. She then said that I had better go into the hall bedroom and stay there overnight, as I might get hurt if I stayed outside or attempted to get home. This was about 8:30 P. M. I then went into the hall bedroom aforementioned, and remained there looking out of the window for about one hour and a half, during which time the blinds were closed or turned down; I then undressed and went to bed, and was in bed about an hour and three quarters, or until about 11:45 P. M., when I heard a crash at the front door downstairs and heard some one coming upstairs; when they reached my door they knocked at it with their clubs, and broke in the central panel of the door, when I said, "Don't break in the door, gentlemen; I'll open it," which I did. Four officers in uniform and two men in citizens' clothes came in, and exclaimed, "Here is the d----d nigger; kill him!" One in citizen's clothes came over to me (I had fallen on the bed) and, striking me on the hip with his club, said, "Come, get up out of there, where is that gun?" I said, "I have no gun; there's my clothes; search them and the room. I have done nothing; I have been asleep." The officers then searched the room, my clothes, and myself, and found nothing. The one in citizen's clothes then said, "He has no gun; we can't do anything." The women in the house commenced to scream, and the officers then broke in the door of Mrs. Elizabeth Mitchell, on the second floor, frightening her so that she has been unable to leave her bed ever since. I was hipshodden for a couple of days, and I rubbed it with liniment for a couple of days until the misery got out of it. Deponent further says that he has resided in San Francisco for the past eight years, and had just arrived in the city the day before the riot, and did not create any disturbance at that or any other time; and further, that he did not fire any shot from any firearm on that evening; and furthermore, never owned a gun, and never carried one. WILLIAM LEMOINE. Sworn to before me this 30th day of August, 1900. GEO. P. HAMMOND, JR., Notary Public (164), N. Y. County. ---- _City and County of New York, ss._: Walter W. Coulter (white), 481 7th Avenue, being duly sworn, deposes and says that on Wednesday evening, August 15th, 1900, there was quite a disturbance around his place of business, and at about 11:30 P. M. he saw a number of officers and men in citizens' clothes go into the houses 481 and 483, and he, thinking they were part of the crowd of roughs, stepped up to a police officer, who was quite tall and stout and of reddish complexion, and said to him, "Why do you allow those rowdies to go up into that house; there is no one except a lot of respectable women and children in there, and possibly one man." The police officer replied as follows: "You go on and mind your own respectability, and you will have enough to do; they just shied a brick at us." Deponent further states that no brick had been thrown; that, in fact, they could not get a brick, as he was looking for one a short while before that to do some repairing with, and could not find one; that the only apparent reason for their going into the house was the fact that a large, tall man, whom he can identify if he sees him again, came along 7th Avenue, and seeing this colored man in the window called out, "There's a big nigger; get him!" and immediately there was a rush made for the house. Deponent states further that the police knew there were none but respectable people in that house, as deponent had gone to a great deal of trouble to get rid of a lot of dissolute people who were in the house about a year ago, and in his endeavors to get rid of them had called upon the police to aid him, so that they were perfectly cognizant of the facts in the case. WALTER W. COULTER. Sworn to before me this 31st day of August, 1900. GEO. P. HAMMOND, JR., Notary Public (164), N. Y. County. ---- _City and County of New York, ss._: Mrs. Elizabeth Mitchell, being duly sworn, deposes and says that she resides at 481 7th Avenue; that on Wednesday evening, August 15th, 1900, about 11:30 P. M., two police officers in citizens' clothes and one in citizen's dress broke in the door of her apartments claiming to be looking for "the man that threw the bottle." She answered and said that "no bottle was thrown," and that it was a shame for them to break in the door of respectable people; that her sister, Mrs. Kate Jackson, became frightened at the uproar, and thinking that the life of her children and herself was in danger, jumped out of the window with her three-year-old child in her arms, thereby endangering the life of herself and child, and in consequence is now confined to her bed with shock, fright, and bruises. That at six A. M. the next morning she saw a colored man and woman assaulted on the corner of 36th Street and 7th Avenue. Also at 52nd Street and 7th Avenue, between eleven and twelve A. M., she saw a colored man assaulted by a white man, and when the officer attempted to interfere and arrest the white man the motormen around the stables refused to allow him to arrest him. She states further that one of the officers' first name was "Jim," as she heard him so addressed by the man in citizen's clothes. MRS. ELIZABETH MITCHELL. Sworn to before me this 31st day of August, 1900. GEO. P. HAMMOND, JR., Notary Public (164), N. Y. County. ---- _City and County of New York, ss._: Mrs. Kate Jackson, being duly sworn, deposes and says that she resides at 481 7th Avenue, and that on Wednesday evening, August 15th, 1900, she heard a great commotion in the hallway and almost immediately a loud knocking on her door, and loud demands to open the door. She thought by the sound that the mob that she had heard and seen about the house was endeavoring to get into her rooms, and do her and her children bodily harm, and possibly murder. She caught up her youngest child (three years old) in her arms, and in her frenzy and fright jumped out the window on to a shed and thence to the yard, the child still in her arms, receiving bruises during her descent which have made her lame and unable to walk, and has suffered so from shock that she is now in bed and unable to leave it, and is under the care of her physician, Dr. William Hartley, 335 West 34th Street. MRS. KATIE JACKSON. Sworn to before me this 31st day of August, 1900. GEO. P. HAMMOND, JR., Notary Public (164), N. Y. County. ---- _City and County of New York, ss._: William L. Hall, being duly sworn, deposes and says that he resides at 202 West 49th Street; that he is employed as an elevator conductor by R. H. Macy & Co., on West 14th Street; that on August 15th, 1900, he was on his way to visit a friend at 410 West 36th Street, and had reached 36th Street and 9th Avenue, when a crowd of young men and boys, from about sixteen to nineteen years of age, got around him and commenced yelling, jeering, hooting, and striking him with their fists, and with sticks, pieces of pipe, and one in particular struck him in the side with a weapon made of a long piece of wire, with a hammer head fastened to it. He ran away from the crowd, and succeeded in reaching a house in 36th Street between 8th and 9th Avenues, and succeeded in defending himself there for about an hour and a half, and finally managed to get out and home. Deponent states further that at the time of the assault, and at the commencement of it, four officers in full uniform were in the midst of the crowd of rioters, and were with them while they (the rioters) were attacking the house with stones, and that at that time, and at no time during the assault by the rioters, did these officers make any attempt to protect deponent, or to stop the assault by the rioters, but on the contrary, by reason of their presence and inaction on their part, they encouraged the said rioters to greater deeds of violence; that the deponent is a peaceable, law-abiding citizen and a member of St. Mark's M. E. Church, on West 53rd Street, and that on the said evening he was molesting no one, and was walking quietly along with Joseph Cæser, of 121 West 46th Street, and John Hansborough, of 329 West 53rd Street, who also were attacked by the rioters. WILLIAM L. HALL. Sworn to before me this 1st day of September, 1900. GEO. P. HAMMOND, JR., Notary Public (164), N. Y. County. ---- _City and County of New York, ss._: William E. Johnson, being duly sworn, deposes and says: I reside at 332 West 37th Street. On Wednesday, August 15th, 1900, fearing that there might be trouble over the killing of Officer Thorpe, I remained in the house all day and did not go out until about eleven P. M., when I went across the street to get my mail from 331 West 37th Street, where I have a letter box, because where I live at present the letter boxes are easily rifled, and this box is more secure. Upon returning to the house, which I did about five or ten minutes after leaving it, I found a police officer standing in the front of the house, ordering the tenants who were sitting on the front stoop to go inside, and saying that if he found them there when he came back he would club every one of them that he found there. The people then jumped up and ran inside, and the officer immediately followed them, striking at them, and struck one woman across the face. As the people got inside the vestibule door the said door closed, and I, thinking that the officer would not go inside, opened the door and stepped inside, whereupon the officer rushed into the hall, and struck me a blow on the head, felling me to my knees. I said, "Officer, I have done nothing; why do you strike me?" The officer said nothing, but jumped over me, chasing some of the tenants who had not succeeded in getting upstairs. While he was doing that I went out into the street, holding my head, which had been cut open by the blow, when the officer came out of the house and, grabbing me, pushed me into the street and commenced to club me again. I ran across the street to the tailor shop of I. Cohn, at 337 West 37th Street, and into the back room of his place, and fell on the sofa, where the officer, who had followed me in, renewed the clubbing and dragged me out into the street and to the 37th Street station house; and on the corner of 9th Avenue and 37th Street they met an officer who was in citizen's clothes. The said officer drew his billy from his pocket, and struck me a blow across the neck, and put his billy back into his pocket. When I reached the station house I did not answer any questions, and the sergeant who was behind the desk knew my last name and entered it on the blotter as Albert Johnson, not knowing my first name. I was put in a cell, and after I was put in a cell two more were put in with me, and once or twice while I was there an officer came through, and going to each cell called the occupant to the door, asked them their names, etc., and would then take his billy and push it through the bars into their faces. In one case he struck one man in the face, knocking out two of his front teeth; this man was sent to the island the next day, and I believe is now there. On the Tuesday following Acting Captain Cooney called and brought me down to the station house, and asked me who the officer was that assaulted me. Deponent then described the officer to him, and after consulting the blotter he handed me a slip of paper whereon was written the name "Herman Ohm" saying that was the name of the officer who had assaulted me. Captain Cooney expressed surprise that any of the officers should have beaten me, as I was known to a great many of them. The officer charged me with having a gun, and of giving him a fight in the hallway, but did not produce the gun and was given until the next day to produce it, when he produced a revolver and a bread knife of peculiar shape, claiming that was what I had in my possession at the time of my arrest. Deponent denied then and now that he had ever had a revolver and knife in his possession, and that the only thing that was found on him and taken from him was fifty cents in money and a small penknife. Notwithstanding the denial of the ownership of the revolver and knife by the deponent, and also that the officer brought no witnesses as to his taking the said articles from him, deponent was fined fifteen dollars, which was paid. W. E. JOHNSON. Sworn to before me this 4th day of September. 1900. GEO. P. HAMMOND. JR., Notary Public (164), N. Y. County. ---- _City and County of New York, ss._: Edwin H. Broadard, being duly sworn, deposes and says that he resides at 332 West 37th Street; that he witnessed the action of the officer mentioned in the above affidavit of W. E. Johnson, and also the subsequent clubbing of Johnson by the said officer, and that deponent was one of the tenants who was chased off the stoop by the said officer; that the assault on the tenants by the said officer was unwarranted and without justification. EDWIN H. BROADARD. Sworn to before me this 4th day of September, 1900. GEO. P. HAMMOND, JR., Notary Public (164), N. Y. County. ---- _City and County of New York, ss._: Mrs. Rosa Lewis, being duly sworn, deposes and says: I reside at 332 West 37th Street. On Wednesday, August 15th, 1900, about eleven P. M., I in company with my husband and a number of other tenants were sitting on the front stoop of our home, when an officer approached and ordered us to "get inside out of that," adding that if we didn't he'd club us. All of the tenants immediately obeyed and passed on into the hallway, and I had reached the foot of the stairs leading up to my rooms when the officer, who had rushed into the hallway, struck me over the back with his club; I was lame in my back and suffered pain from it for a number of days. Deponent states further that the staircase is in the center of the house and about fifteen feet from the main entrance; that she was using every endeavor to comply with the command of the officer, which was given in an insulting and ill-natured manner. ROSA LEWIS. Sworn to before me this 13th day of September, 1900. GEO. P. HAMMOND, JR., Notary Public (164), N. Y. County. ---- _City and County of New York, ss._: Maria Williams, of No. 206 West 27th Street, and Carrie Wells, of No. 239 West 29th Street, in the Borough of Manhattan, being severally duly sworn, depose and say: On Wednesday, August 15th, 1900, we were sitting on the stoop of No. 239 West 29th Street, talking; we had been sitting there since 9:30 P. M. We had there learned of the assaults on the Negroes in this section, and heard the noise of the crowds and the stopping of the cars on 8th Avenue. There was no crowd in the street at this time. There were white and colored folks sitting on nearly all the stoops, the same as occurs on any ordinary warm night. About 11:30 several officers came through the street from 8th Avenue and walked towards 7th Avenue, three on the north side and four on the south side. No one in the street had been molested by anyone. These officers walked up the stoops, and without any warning ordered us into our houses, at the same time striking at us. Mrs. Wells, the mother of deponent Carrie Wells, was on the stoop one step from the bottom with three of her children, aged respectively fourteen, thirteen, and twelve years. An officer who is called "Joe," and whom we know, stepped up to Mrs. Wells, and said, "Get in there, you black son of a b----," and struck her viciously across the right hip, when she ran in with her children, the officers still following, striking at her until he reached the top step, looked around, and threatened to strike us if we came out again, and he then went away. Deponent Williams looked out of her window and saw these officers go through the same procedure wherever colored folks were sitting. Nothing was said or done to any white people. We see this officer every day. At about 2:15 in the morning some officers came through the block and clubbed colored people wherever they saw them, men as well as women. Deponent Wells lives at home with her mother, and helps her keep house; deponent Williams keeps house for herself and husband. Deponent Wells is a member of the Church of the Transfiguration, at 29th Street and 5th Avenue, where I have attended for years. Mr. and Mrs. Miller, of West 29th Street, know of us; Mrs. McGurk, of No. 225 West 29th Street, Mrs. Kloze, of 223 West 29th Street, all can vouch for our character. CARRIE WELLS. MARIA x WILLIAMS. her mark Sworn to before me this 4th day of September. 1900. SAMUEL MARCUS, Notary Public. N. Y. County. ---- _City and County of New York, ss._: Mrs. Irene Wells, being duly sworn, deposes and says that she resides at No. 239 West 29th Street; that on Wednesday evening, about nine o'clock P. M., she visited a sick friend, named Mrs. Twine (who has since died), at No. 216 West 29th Street, and while there, and at about eleven o'clock P. M., hearing of the riot, she rushed out of said 216 West 29th Street to look for her children and get them safely at home--she having five children, and, motherlike, was anxious to get them out of danger. That while gathering her children together she noticed six police officers on each side of the street, and had succeeded in getting her children up the stoop and into the hallway of her home, and was on the second step of her stoop going upstairs, when Police Officer 1065 came along, and, striking her across the right hip with his club, said, "Get in out of here!" and made several passes at her, and pursued her up two or three steps of the stoop, but she rushed on up the stoop, driving her children before her, and escaped him and his blows. Deponent further says that she is a widow, and the sole support of her five children, by doing general housework, ironing, and washing, etc., and has done so for the past seven years; that she is a thoroughly respectable woman, and is peaceful and quiet at all times, and deems this assault by the police officer aforementioned an outrage, and without cause or provocation. There were three children on the stoop with her. IRENE WELLS. Sworn to before me this 31st day of August, 1900. GEO. P. HAMMOND. JR., Notary Public (164), N. Y. County. ---- _City and County of New York, ss._: William H. Ross, being duly sworn, says: I reside at 475 7th Avenue, near 36th Street, New York City. I had lived a short time at 225 West 32nd Street. I have lived for five years in New York. I have been a messenger for General Daniel E. Sickles. At about eleven o'clock on the evening of August 15th deponent was on his way to his rooms, but was stopped at Zion's flat and advised to come in and not cross the street, as there was a riot. I went in and went up two pair of stairs until about four o'clock in the morning, and slept on the stairs. My hour for going to work that morning was five o'clock, at the Herald Building, where I was working for Marsell, who attends to housecleaning and to the building. Another man, whose name I learned was Hicks, took refuge in the building at the same time. At about half past four o'clock on the morning of the 16th we heard a great commotion in the house. Three policemen rushed upstairs; the first one said, "You d----d black son of a b----, if you move I will shoot you like a dog!" He then hit me on the head with his club, and cut my head open; the other one then hit me on the head, and both beat me with their clubs on the neck, back, shoulders, chest, and ribs until I was bloody and sore and fell down, when one of the officers poked his pistol in my face and said, "You black son of a b----, just move or say a word, and I will shoot you like a cur." They also beat Hicks and broke his nose. People whom I did not know, looking out of windows, cried out about the brutality. They then had their fun with us, saying, "You d----d niggers; get out of here." Then when we would start they would again grab us, beat us, and threaten to shoot us. I would know one of these policemen, as I saw him since on 7th Avenue, and also in September at Broadway and 12th Street. I think that I would know the other fellow. In taking us to court they swore to the most outrageous lies, without any reason in fact. They stated we had been on the roof throwing bottles on the street. I had never been in the house in my life, never had been in a room and not above the second story, where they gave me shelter. The policemen told other lies--that they arrested me before, that he had warned me before on the street, that he had arrested me for fighting a few days before. The judge asked if they had any witnesses; they answered "Yes," and he gave them until three o'clock, when we were discharged. I was never arrested before in my life. Two doctors gave me certificates of character, which I had in court. WILLIAM H. ROSS. Sworn to before me this 4th day of September, 1900. STEPHEN B. BRAGUE, Notary Public (125). N. Y. County. ---- _City and County of New York, ss._: Robert Myrick, being duly sworn, deposes and says that he resides at 414 West 39th Street, and is employed by Bernard Brennan, saloon keeper at 49th Street and Broadway; that on Thursday evening, August 16th, at about eight P. M., he left his work at the said saloon and walked to 8th Avenue between 47th and 48th Streets; that he entered a restaurant on that block, and after eating a meal he asked the proprietor whether there was any trouble downtown to-night. He replied, "No, it is kind of quiet to-night, but I guess you had better take a car and ride down, it will be safer." He replied. "I guess that will be the best way," and then walked out onto the avenue and boarded a car bound downtown, and had gone as far as 42nd Street when a mob of about one hundred boys, none of whom apparently were over nineteen years of age, began to throw stones at the car and yell, "There's a nigger in the car; let's kill him!" Some woman on the car said, "Come over here, mister; don't stand there and get killed." I went along the footboard from the rear of the car, where I had been, and got under the seat, where the mob could not see me; but the mob continued following the car and stoned it until I reached 39th Street, where I wanted to get off, but was advised there by three men (who were the only passengers that had remained on the car) not to get off. I continued on until the car reached 38th Street, when the car stopped and the mob caught up with it. I then got off the east side of the car, and ran over to the southeast corner of 8th Avenue, to where I saw five men standing, and going up to one I said, "Officer, will you please see me home?" He said, "Where do you live?" I told him. He then said, "What are you doing on the street at this time of night?" I answered, "Going home from work." He then asked me where I worked. I told him. He then said. "Have you got a gun or a razor?" I said "I have neither." He then proceeded to search me, when I remembered having a razor in a case in my outside coat pocket, and I told the officer and showed him where it was. He then took the razor out of my pocket, and, striking me across the back of the neck with his club, said, "You black son of a b----!" and then struck me several times on the head. I said to him, "I come over to you for protection, and this is what I get." He then said, "Shut up!" I was then taken to the 37th Street station house, and while there I was kicked by the officers in the section room, and by the doorman, and when I protested I was told to shut up. I was locked in cell No. 13, and in the morning I was brought to the 54th Street police court, where the judge turned me loose. While in my cell I got into conversation with a colored man who is a porter for the N. Y. C. & H. R. R., and he said that he was dragged from a street car and clubbed by police officers. Deponent further states that he had the aforementioned razor in his pocket by reason of the fact that it needed repairing, and he had taken it to a barber to see if he could fix it, and finding that he could not fix it he was taking it to his home to lay it away in its place. Deponent says further that the time of the clubbing was about 8:30 P. M. ROBERT MYRICK. Sworn to before me this 1st day of September, 1900. GEO. P. HAMMOND, JR., Notary Public (164), N. Y. County. ---- _City and County of New York, ss._: Solomon Russell Wright, being duly sworn, deposes and says: I reside at No. 129 West 27th Street; on Thursday, August 16th, 1900, about 6:30 P. M., I left the house and walked to the corner of 7th Avenue and 28th Street, where I met a friend of mine, with whom I stood and chatted for about three quarters of an hour, when I left and returned down 7th Avenue towards 27th Street, and had got within about one hundred feet of 27th Street, when I was struck by a missile thrown by an Italian boy. I naturally turned around and asked him what he had done that for. I passed on, however, and had got about fifty feet east of 7th Avenue, on 27th Street, when a police officer ran after me, and seizing me commenced feeling around my clothes as if in search of something. I had an ordinary pocket knife in the change pocket of my coat, and the officer finding it said, "What are you doing with this?" I answered, "Do you see me doing anything with it?" He then took me to the 30th Street station house (19th Precinct), and while going up the steps of the station house I stumbled, and the officer then hit me on the back of the neck with his club. I was arraigned before the sergeant, who took my pedigree, and at the close of that proceeding the officer who had me in charge, and whose name is Kennedy, said to the sergeant, "What will we do with this feller?" The sergeant replied, "Kill the black son of a b----!" The said officer then brought me back, and when we reached a flight of stairs leading down to the cells he shoved me down the whole flight; when I reached the bottom some other officers who were down there grabbed me and punched and beat me with their fists. I was arraigned the next day and charged with carrying a knife, and I was committed for ninety days. I served part of the time, when I was released on bail. I was not intoxicated, and had never been arrested before in my life. I never have and do not stand around the corners of the neighborhood; and further, I am employed by the Standard Oil Company as a porter. SOLOMON R. WRIGHT. Sworn to before me this 22nd day of September, 1900. GEO. P. HAMMOND, JR., Notary Public (164). N. Y. County. ---- _City and County of New York, ss._: Alfred Bradshaw, being duly sworn, deposes and says: I reside at No. 210 West 27th Street with my wife and three children. On August 16th, 1900, I bought a revolver on the Bowery, which I intended to take home in the evening and leave there, as a protection for my wife and children. There were numerous riots in the neighborhood the evening before, and the rioters had broken into houses at all times during the day and night, and I deemed it necessary for the protection of my wife and children. I had been working at 96 Greene Street that day. I am a general housecleaner, and work in all parts of the city. As I was walking home on 7th Avenue, about four o'clock in the afternoon, between 14th and 15th Streets, I saw a man run up to a police officer and say something to him. The officer then came up to me and said, "You've got a pistol; you give it up. I will arrest you." I handed him the pistol, and he arrested me. I said as I handed it to him, "I bought this pistol to protect my family at home. I heard of this rioting, and I bought this pistol to protect my home." He said, "Why don't you call to the officers for protection?" I said, "The officers can't protect my home, because I don't know what time the riot might come in, and we can't always find an officer on beat. I heard them break into some houses and beat people unmercifully." I was taken to the 30th Street station house. While there I saw Solomon Wright, who is at present in the Penitentiary at Blackwell's Island, a Negro, being clubbed by a policeman as he was being led from the sergeant's desk into the cell. He was bleeding from his head, and his eye was discolored. I have been in the city for twenty years, and have never been arrested before. I did not show this pistol to anyone after I bought it, and intended to leave it at the house, as a protection to my family. ALFRED x BRADSHAW. his mark Sworn to before me this 4th day of September, 1900. STEPHEN B. BRAGUE. Notary Public (125), N. Y. County. ---- _City and County of New York, ss._: John H. Kellum, being duly sworn, deposes and says: I was on a Broadway car on the evening of Wednesday, August 15th, at about 11:30 P. M. I boarded the car at the corner of 46th Street and Broadway, and had reached a point a little north of 35th Street, when I heard a mob run after the car and commence throwing missiles at and into the car. Among other missiles was a little bottle, which I caught, and with which I kept the rioters at bay. The car got a short distance ahead of the mob, when it had passed 34th Street, and I took advantage of that and jumped from the car and ran towards three policemen in uniform, and two who were in citizens' clothes. One of them said not to run any further, and one of the men in citizens' clothes said, "Get on this car, and I'll get on with you." I did so and rode to 32nd Street, and the said officer got on the rear platform of the same car. I got off at 32nd Street and was not molested again. Deponent further says that the officers made no attempt to disperse the mob, though they were in plain sight. Deponent further says that he has lived in the 19th Precinct for about eighteen years, and is well known to a number of the officers of that precinct. J. H. KELLUM. Sworn to before me this 7th day of September, 1900. GEO. P. HAMMOND, JR., Notary Public (164), N. Y. County. (This was in the 19th, not the 20th Precinct.) ---- _City and County of New York, ss._: Samuel Isaiah Johnson, being duly sworn, deposes and says: I reside at No. 125 West 27th Street, in the Borough of Manhattan, and support myself by cleaning carpet, chimney sweeping, and other jobs of a like nature. I have been employed by a Mr. Webb, an attorney with an office near Jefferson Market; a Mr. Davis, proprietor of a fish market there; Mr. Andrew Phillips, 15th Street and 6th Avenue. On Wednesday. August 15th, 1900, the first night of the riots, I was on an 8th Avenue car bound south. I had been up to see my brother-in-law, Joseph W. Brown, of No. 85 West 104th Street. I had my banjo with me. I left there shortly after nine. He was out. About ten o'clock, at about 41st Street and 8th Avenue, a crowd jumped on the car, grabbed me, and tried to pull me out of the car. I was under the seat. They took my banjo, hat, coat, and belt away, and beat me all over the body and head, so that I was unable to move. The car was at a standstill while I was being beaten, which lasted from about fifteen to twenty minutes. Another colored man was being beaten at the same time. After about twenty minutes of this a man, probably a detective, jumped on the car, and the crowd allowed the car to proceed. He took me to the corner of 27th Street and 7th Avenue, and asked me whether I could get home, and he left me. I proceeded to my house unmolested. The next day I went to the hospital at 15th Street and 5th Avenue, and obtained some liniment for my bruises. I am fifty-four years of age, small in stature, and lame. SAMUEL x ISAIAH JOHNSON. his mark Sworn to before me this 6th day of September, 1900. SAMUEL MARCUS, Notary Public, N. Y. County. ---- _City and County of New York, ss._: Thomas Hughes (white), of No. 646 East 13th Street, New York City, being duly sworn, deposes and says: On August 15th, 1900 (the first day of the outbreak), about 8:45 P. M., I was in 36th Street between 7th and 8th Avenues. I was on my way home after having called on Rev. Leighton Williams, at 312 West 54th Street. There were quite a number of persons moving about in the street, and half a dozen policemen moving about. I noticed a colored man about five feet seven, smooth-faced, about twenty-eight or thirty years old, standing in front of a doorway near a grocery store. He wasn't doing anything, and wasn't talking to anybody. An officer with a heavy reddish mustache rushed across the street at him and said, "You black bastard, what are you doing here?" and at the same instant struck him over the head with his club, felling the Negro to the street. The Negro bled and lay unconscious. I tried to wipe the blood from him, and the officer spoke roughly to me and ordered me away. Friends of the Negro dragged him into the hallway. My journey was down 8th Avenue to 36th Street, and down 7th Avenue to 35th Street, and I saw a number of police officers strike a number of persons with their clubs. All whom I saw struck were colored persons, and I noticed that as a peculiar fact. I was accompanied by William Shea, of 332 East 23rd Street. THOMAS HUGHES. Sworn to before me this 30th day of September, 1900. FRANK MOSS, Notary Public, N. Y. County. ---- _City and County of New York, ss._: William Shea, of 332 East 23rd Street, being duly sworn, deposes and says: I work for John P. Kane, foot of East 14th Street. On the first day of the riot, August 15th, I was with Thomas Hughes. I had been with him to see the Rev. Mr. Williams, in West 54th Street. We returned through 8th Avenue and went through 36th Street. In 36th Street, between 7th and 8th Avenues, we saw a colored man standing. An officer rushed across the street and hit the colored man on the head and felled him to the sidewalk. The colored man was not doing anything. The officer was a heavy man with large red mustache. My friend stopped to assist the man, and the officer ordered him away. Some people from the house close by pulled the colored man in. He was unconscious. I saw a number of colored people struck by officers. WILLIAM SHEA. Sworn to before me this 30th day of August, 1900. FRANK MOSS, Notary Public, N. Y. County. ---- Statement of Paul Leitenberger and Alfred E. Borman (white), of 105 East 22nd Street: On August 15th we were on 28th Street, and were going home, walking up 7th Avenue, and at 29th Street a crowd was coming down about ten P. M. We followed the crowd up 35th Street, and it went into the Dorê (a dive), and yelled, "Give us a coon and we'll lynch him!" They then went to Corbett's on Broadway. He has a colored man working for him. Then the police came with their clubs and dispersed the crowd, which went up Broadway. A cable car was coming downtown, and some one cried, "There's a nigger; lynch him!" and several white men jumped on the car. A colored man was standing in the car, and with a cane or umbrella warded off the blows. The car went on with him; the gripman would not stop it, though they called on him to stop. Some of the men were thrown off of the car and nearly run over. There was a Negro on the second car behind that, and the crowd pulled him off, and the man escaped by running into the Marlborough Hotel, where he was sheltered. There were no policemen present at these times, but some policemen appeared and the mob moved up Broadway to about 41st Street, and tried to get into the Vendome Hotel. Some got in, and one cried out, "Give us the coon!" The police coming up, they moved on and went up as far as the Hotel Cadillac at 43rd Street, and went in to get the colored hall man, and an officer came up and clubbed right and left. Other officers came and the crowd scattered. We waited a half hour, and the police kept the people moving. We walked through 42nd Street to 8th Avenue, and saw more of the rioters, and several policemen would not allow them to make any disturbance, and the rioters spread, breaking up. The whole aim of the rioters was to catch Negroes. We saw Devery the first night. We didn't see him the second night. He was in command. We observed the first night that the police generally made no effort to disperse the crowds, but ran along with them. The only places where they attacked the crowds were at Corbett's and the Cadillac. The disturbing element were young fellows, such as frequent "Hell's Kitchen." We talked with a ringleader at the northeast corner of 28th Street and 8th Avenue, a few nights after. He said he had been a leader in the riots and would do it again--that the "niggers" must be treated the same as down South. At the Cadillac there was an officer who did splendid work in dispersing the crowd. For a while he was alone, and he clubbed the crowd indiscriminately; in a little while two other officers came and helped him, and those three men ejected the mob from the hotel, and when they were in the street other officers appeared and effectually dispersed the crowd. This showed what could be done when they wanted to. They protected the hotel in good shape, also Corbett's, when the mob tried to get in. PAUL LEITENBERGER. ALFRED E. BORMAN. Sworn to before me this 13th day of September, 1900. FRANK MOSS, Notary Public, N. Y. County. ---- Statement of Frank H. Bertholf (white), 463 West 44th Street: On the evening of August 16th, 1900, I saw several Negroes kicked and cuffed unnecessarily. Not a white man was touched. All happened in five or ten minutes. Not many Negroes appeared, but when one came in sight he was pounced upon by the crowd, and the policemen made no effort to take care of them, and when they got hold of them they treated them roughly. I saw two Negroes struck by rioters while in the hands of officers, and the officers made no effort to protect them. I saw an officer aim a very vicious blow with his club at a colored man; it seemed it would kill him, but the Negro dodged. FRANK H. BERTHOLF. ---- _City and County of New York, ss._: Miss Alice Lee, being duly sworn, deposes and says: I reside at 433 West 36th Street (in the rear of the 37th Street station house). On the night of Wednesday, August 15th, 1900, also Thursday, the 16th, I heard people screaming and groaning, and shouts of people pleading not to be clubbed any more. I saw one man lying on the station house floor, apparently almost helpless. One man who was pleading seemed to be between the main building and the out building where the cells are located. An officer who was on one of the upper floors leaned out of the window and threw a bottle down at the said man, saying, "Kill the black son of a b----!" Deponent further declared that it was impossible to sleep during both of the aforesaid nights on account of the heartrending shrieks and groans coming from the station house; and further, that she saw a number of colored men lying up in a corner of the station house. ALICE LEE. Sworn to before me this 20th day of September, 1900. GEO. P. HAMMOND, JR., Notary Public (164), N. Y. County. ---- _City and County of New York, ss._: Cynthia Randolph, being duly sworn, deposes and says: I reside at 433 West 36th Street, New York City, Manhattan Borough. My home is directly in the rear of the 37th Street station house. On the evening of Wednesday, August 15th, 1900, and the evening of August 16th, 1900, I heard cries and shrieks of people being beaten, coming from the 37th Street station house--such groans as, "O Lord! O Lord! don't hit me! don't hit me!" spoken in pleading tones. This continued all of Wednesday night, with such frequency, and was so heartrending, as to make it impossible to sleep. It was not quite so bad Thursday evening. Deponent states further that it is a common thing to hear coming from the 37th Street station house cries of people, as if they were being beaten, except since last Labor Day; since which day it has been exceptionally quiet. CYNTHIA RANDOLPH. Sworn to before me this 15th day of September, 1900. GEO. P. HAMMOND. JR., Notary Public (164), N. Y. County. ---- _City and County of New York, ss._: Mrs. Florence Randolph, being duly sworn, deposes and says: I reside at 117 West 134th Street. On Wednesday, August 15th, 1900, I resided at 433 West 36th Street. On the said 15th of August I was ill in bed, and while I lay in bed I heard at different intervals during the night, and until about three or half past three the next morning, the screams and shouts as of persons in agony, and cries of "Why are you hitting me? I haven't done anything!" Deponent states that these cries and screams came from the 37th Street station house, the rear of which abuts on the rear of the house in which deponent then resided. Deponent states further that her husband was unable to reach his home for four nights on account of the disorder in that neighborhood. Further, that her husband works at 43rd Street and 5th Avenue. FLORENCE RANDOLPH. Sworn to before me this 12th day of September, 1900. GEO. P. HAMMOND, JR., Notary Public (164), N. Y. County. ---- _City and County of New York, ss._: Susie White, being duly sworn, deposes and says: I reside at 444 7th Avenue, New York City. On Sunday morning, August 12th, 1900, about six A. M., two officers in full uniform came upstairs and, pushing the door of my room open, said, "Did not a man come up here just now?" I answered, "Yes." The officer then said, "Where is he? Bring him out." I then started to call the man, but before I got to the room the officer had preceded me, and he called the man out (his name is Joe Netherland) and took hold of him, and rubbing his hand over his head said, "Got a scar?" Netherland said, "No. Who are you looking for--the man that cut the officer?" The officer said, "Yes. We're going to make it hot for you niggers!" After making a further examination they found two more men, and after making a close examination of them they found that they were not the men they wanted. After threatening to do up all the "niggers" for killing Officer Thorpe they left. SUSIE WHITE. Sworn to before me this 10th day of September, 1900. GEO. P. HAMMOND, JR., Notary Public (164), N. Y. County. ---- _City and County of New York, ss._: John Hains, being duly sworn, deposes and says: I reside at No. 341 West 36th Street. I am a laborer, and am at present employed as a longshoreman at Pier 16, North River. On the evening of August 15th, 1900, I went to bed as usual at 9:30 o'clock. About two o'clock in the morning I was awakened by somebody beating me on the back with a club. When I awoke I found six policemen in the room; they had broken in the door. They asked me for the revolver with which they said I had been shooting out of the window. I told them I did not have a revolver. One of the officers said that he had seen me shoot out of the window. Three officers then began to club me, while the other three were searching the house. They found an old toy revolver, which was broken and not loaded, and could not shoot if it had been loaded, and said that that was the pistol I had used. I denied that, which was the truth. They dragged me out of the house, and proceeded to take me to the station house. I was only in my undershirt, being asleep at the time they broke into the house, and begged them to allow me to put on my trousers and my shoes. They only sneered at this, and one of the officers said, "You'll be d----d lucky if you get there alive." Here another of the officers pulled out a revolver and said, "Let's shoot the d----d nigger," to which a third officer replied, "We can take the black son of a b---- to the station house as he is." When I got to the station house I was bleeding from my head and other parts of my body, as a result of these clubbings. There were only two other persons in our apartments that evening--William Seymour, from whom I rent my apartments, and Walter Gregory. When they saw the officers running into the house, acting as they did, they ran out of the house, leaving me asleep. They did not shoot out of the window, and we never kept any weapons in the house. Mrs. Lucy Jones, who lives next door to us, saw the officers beat me. She was in the house during all this time, and saw no firing from our windows. Her affidavit is hereto annexed. When I arrived at the station house, after the entry had been made on the blotter, I was placed in a cell. Before this I was struck by one of the officers in the station house in front of the sergeant's desk, and in his presence, without any interference on his part. After T was placed in the cell somebody (I believe the police surgeon) bandaged my head. The next morning the police loaned me a pair of old trousers, so that I could be taken to the Police Court. Officer Ohm, one of the officers who struck me and abused me, as aforesaid, made the charge against me; he charged me with firing a pistol through the window. I was brought before the magistrate and he asked me if this was so. I told him it was not, and endeavored to explain matters to him, but he would not listen to me and sent me to the Penitentiary for six months. There were a great many similar cases before him that day, and he was very impatient. I did not have a lawyer to represent me, and I was given no opportunity to deny the false charges of the officer. While I was being taken to the station house one of the officers said to another officer who was clubbing me, "Club as hard as you can; this is a d----d hard head." Another said, "I will teach you d----d niggers to club white people. We will kill half of you." I have the sheet which was on the bed on the night in question. It is full of blood stains. I had six stitches put into my head by a surgeon at the building in which the Magistrates' Court is located on 54th Street. This was before I was taken to Blackwell's Island. After I had been there ten days I was released. I do not know the reason why. Sentenced August 16th, released August 25th, about eight A. M. The only one of the officers I could recognize is Officer Ohm, who made the formal complaint in the Magistrates' Court. I was almost beaten into insensibility that night, and all of the officers were in uniform. Last summer I was employed for the season as a butler by General O. O. Howard, at his summer home in Burlington, Vermont, and I have a recommendation from him. I am not a drinking man, and never was arrested before in my life. JOHN HAINS. Sworn to before me this 28th day of August, 1900. GEO. P. HAMMOND, JR., Notary Public (164), N. Y. County. ---- _City and County of New York, ss._: Walter Gregory, being duly sworn, deposes and says: I reside at 107 Prince Street, Brooklyn. On August 15th, 1900, I was boarding with Mr. Seymour at 341 West 36th Street. John Hains, Mr. Seymour, and myself were sitting together at our home until about nine o'clock that evening, when Hains went to bed. Mr. Seymour and I were up until about one o'clock, when we went to bed. In the early part of the evening there was a lot of shouting going on in 36th Street, but I heard no shooting. About two o'clock in the morning we were awakened by shooting in front of the house. Seymour and I walked to the window and looked out to see what was the matter. I did not see any colored people on the street at that time, and the shooting was evidently done by white people. Just then I heard somebody break open the front door of the house. There were several people; they were talking in a noisy manner, but I could not hear what they said. As they reached our door some one rapped on it, and said, "Open the door." I said, "I can't." Mr. Seymour and I hurriedly ran to the fire escape undressed. As we did so we passed Hains, who was fast asleep. I shook him and said, "A big crowd is coming in the house." I do not think he heard what I said, and he fell asleep again. Seymour and I went down the fire escape and into the yard at 339, where we remained until matters had quieted down a little. I could hear Hains say repeatedly, "Don't kill me!" The people in the houses were screaming. About three or four o'clock, when things were quiet again, we went back to our room. The bed in which Hains slept was all bloody. Mrs. Jones, who lived next door, and whose affidavit is hereto annexed, then told me what had happened--precisely the same as in her affidavit hereto annexed. I did not know that the people who broke into the house were policemen. I thought they were the rioters. The pistol found in the apartments was an old broken toy pistol, and could not shoot. We never had a razor or a pistol in the house. While the shooting was going on Hains was fast asleep, and there was no shooting from our windows. I am employed at present on the steamer _Shinnecock_, of the Montauk Steamboat Company, as second pantryman. I have never been arrested in my life. Since this riot we have not lived at 341 West 36th Street, our home having been broken up by it. WALTER GREGORY. Sworn to before me this 6th day of September, 1900. SAMUEL MARCUS, Notary Public, N. Y. County. ---- _City and County of New York, ss._: William H. Seymour, of 70 Vanderbilt Avenue, Brooklyn, being duly sworn, deposes and says: I am employed at Pier 16, E. R. I resided at 341 West 36th Street, New York City, from September, 1899, until August 16th, 1900. At no time during the period above mentioned were there any firearms in the house other than an old broken revolver which was in two pieces, having no cartridges and being entirely useless. Deponent further states that he saw the sheet of bed upon which John Hains was lying and found same to be stained with blood. This was about 4:30 on the morning of August 16th, 1900. WM. H. SEYMOUR. Sworn to before me this 6th day of September, 1900. ---- _City and County of New York, ss._: Lucy A. Jones, being duly sworn, deposes and says: I reside at 341 West 36th Street, on the fourth floor front, west side. John Hains resides on the same floor on the east side. I have read his affidavit, which is hereto annexed, and so far as it relates to the occurrences at said address on the evening of August 15th it is true. I had only returned to the city at six o'clock that evening, having been in the country for two months. I had been in the house, looking out of the window occasionally. I saw shooting in the street, but this was all done by white people. There were no colored people on the street. This shooting was done mostly by white people living at 342 West 36th Street, which is a tenement, and is occupied by a very low class of rowdies, who have constantly abused and insulted the colored residents of the block. The police officers constantly go in and out of this house. On the night in question I saw a great many police officers enter this house and talk with its occupants. They were shouting and using abusive language, and saying, "Kill every d----d one of the niggers!" "Set the house afire!" etc., etc. About two o'clock in the morning I heard somebody at the door of Mr. Seymour's flat next door, saying, "G-- d-- you; open this door, or I'll kill every d----d nigger in the house." Mr. Hains, who was the only one in the house just then, was asleep, and he did not open the door. They broke the door open, and I saw them club Hains and accuse him of firing a pistol out of the window. He denied this. Then three of the officers beat him, while the other three were searching the house. They did not find any pistol there, so they came into my apartments, and one of them said to me, "You G-- d-- black son of a b----, you know a lot about this d----d shooting, and if you don't tell me I'll blow the brains out of you." I told them that they could look through my flat, which they did, but did not find anything. Then they went back to the Seymour flat, and I heard one of the officers say, "I've got the revolver; let's kill the G-- d-- son of a b----," and began to club him in the head and other parts of his body unmercifully. He begged them to allow him to put on his clothes, but the one who had the revolver said, "Shoot the d----d nigger," and he was led to the station house only in his undershirt. Another officer said, "You will be glad if you get there alive." At one time during this fracas I attempted to look into the Seymour flat to see what was going on, but one of the officers said to me, "You G-- d-- black b----, get back where you belong, or I'll club the brains out of you." After they left I went into the room, and I found the pillows and sheet on the bed full of blood stains. The people in 342 inspired the policemen, telling them to "Burn the house!" "Lynch the d----d niggers!" etc., etc. I am a widow. My daughter, who is about twenty-one years of age, saw this clubbing, and heard the police use this vile and abusive language. After they had arrested Hains I looked out of my window to see how he was being led by the officers. One of the rowdies in 342 said, "Look at the d----d nigger wench looking out of the window. Shoot her! Shoot her!" LUCY A. JONES. Sworn to before me this 28th day of August, 1900. STEPHEN B. BRAGUE, Notary Public (125), N. Y. County. ---- _City and County of New York, ss._: Mrs. Louisa Francis, 341 West 36th Street, being duly sworn, deposes and says: I have been housekeeper of the said 341 West 36th Street for the past eleven years. On Thursday, August 16th, 1900, at two o'clock A. M., I heard a number of pistol shots in the street near my home, and heard shouts of "Go into 341, break in the doors, kill the black sons of b----s"--all the said shouts apparently coming from the direction of 342 across the street. Almost immediately thereafter the doors were broken in, the glass in said doors being smashed, and about seven police officers rushed into the house and commenced shooting and yelling, "Kill the black sons of b----s!" "Put your heads in there, or we'll blow them off!" They went to the fourth floor, where John Hains lived, and dragged him out by the shoulders, his feet dragging, and in that condition he was dragged out into the street. I washed up the blood down from the fourth floor down the staircase to and on each and every landing and including the vestibule. The officers, after staying some time in the house, and ordering Mrs. Freeman, Mrs. Mason, and Mrs. Jones to open their doors, and after searching the same, crossed over the roof to 339 and went through that house. MRS. LOUISA FRANCIS. Sworn to before me this 28th day of August, 1900. GEO. P. HAMMOND, JR., Notary Public (164), N. Y. County. ---- _City and County of New York, ss._: Josephine Bullock, being duly sworn, deposes and says: I reside at 351 West 36th Street. On Wednesday, August 15th, 1900, about 9:30 o'clock P. M., I saw a crowd chase a colored man and beat him, on the corner of 9th Avenue and 36th Street. The said man succeeded in breaking away from the mob, and ran towards my house. When he reached the stoop some of the male tenants who were seated on the stoop told him to come in there, adding that "if they kill one they might as well kill all of them." All during the evening the rioting continued, and from the rear of the house I heard screams and groans coming from the houses facing on 37th Street. About two o'clock A. M. I heard shooting in the street, and in a short while after I saw two police officers dragging a colored man from 341 West 36th Street, who had on no clothing except a gauze undershirt. The officers were clubbing the colored man, and the man was begging them not to club him, as he had done nothing. The only answer he got was more blows and a reply from one of the officers as follows: "Shut up, you black son of a b----, or I'll kill you." Deponent states further that she got no sleep that night, as the screaming and rioting continued until about half past two or three A. M., when a violent storm came up, and the noise subsided somewhat. JOSEPHINE x BULLOCK. her mark Sworn to before me this 10th day of September, 1900. GEO. P. HAMMOND, JR., Notary Public (164), N. Y. County. ---- _City and County of New York, ss._: Mrs. Maggie Zeh, being duly sworn, deposes and says: I reside at 351 West 36th Street. On Wednesday, August 15th, 1900, I saw a colored man trying to get away from the mob, who were beating him. He tried to get into No. 360, but could not. I then saw the officers who had been standing on the corner of 9th Avenue and 36th Street run towards this man and immediately commenced clubbing him. They clubbed him so unmercifully that the man cried out, "For God's sake kill me and be done with it; don't beat me in this manner," and the last I saw of him they were taking him around into 9th Avenue towards the station house. I also saw a mob coming from 9th Avenue, with about ten or twelve officers in uniform in the lead. The officers were shooting up towards the houses on the north side of the street. Deponent declares that she heard no shooting until the officers came into sight and commenced to shoot at the houses. Deponent further states that between eleven or twelve o'clock she saw a colored man and a woman come from a house on the west side of 9th Avenue. Before this couple reached 9th Avenue she noticed two policemen, who had been standing on the southeast corner of 9th Avenue and 36th Street, enter the saloon on that corner. When the couple had passed the saloon some men who were in citizens' clothes ran into the saloon, and immediately came out again with the aforementioned officers, and pointed to the couple going up the street, and said something to the officers. The officers then followed the said couple up the street to 8th Avenue, where I lost sight of them for about two minutes. At the expiration of that time I looked towards 8th Avenue and I saw the same policemen turning the corner, having in custody the aforementioned couple, and when they reached the front of my house I saw that the man was bleeding and was handcuffed. The woman attempted to speak, when she was ordered with an oath to "shut up." While the officers who were previously mentioned as doing the shooting in 36th Street, the officer who was apparently in command and who wore a cap, and had all the appearance of either a sergeant or a captain, shouted, "Get your heads in out of there if you value your lives." Deponent further states that she has read the affidavit of Josephine Bullock, which affidavit is hereto attached, and she knows of her own knowledge that matters therein stated are true. MRS. MAGGIE ZEH. Sworn to before me this 10th day of September, 1900. GEO. P. HAMMOND, JR., Notary Public (164), N. Y. County. ---- _City and County of New York, ss._: Richard A. Taylor, being duly sworn, deposes and says: I reside at 339 West 36th Street; that on Wednesday, August 15th, 1900, I left my home at about 12:15 P. M. to go to my work, as Pullman porter on West Shore R. R.; that when I left my home I left on the shelf in the closet in the front room of my suite between sixty and seventy dollars in bills, which money I was saving to pay my tuition in college next winter; further, my wife did not know that the money was there; that on my return Saturday, August 18th, 1900, between five and six P. M., I was told by my wife of a visit of police officers, about eight in number, each of whom had a revolver in his hand, and who wanted to know if there was a man in the rooms. They were told that there was, and were shown Floyd Wallace, whom they took out with them. They also asked for any firearms, and when told that there were none demanded that a light be made so that they could search. While the light was being brought some of the officers went into the front room and forced open the closet. After they were gone my wife remembered having left her pocketbook in a small satchel on the floor. She immediately ran to the front room, and opening the satchel found that all the money had been taken from her pocketbook except some silver. Deponent on hearing of this immediately went to look for his money and found it gone. RICHARD A. TAYLOR. Sworn to before me this 6th day of September, 1900. GEO. P. HAMMOND, JR., Notary Public (164), N. Y. County. ---- _City and County of New York, ss._: Mrs. Margaret Taylor, being duly sworn, deposes and says: I reside at 339 West 36th Street. On Thursday, August 16th, 1900, about two A. M., while lying on a lounge in the front room of my house, I was aroused by hearing a shot fired, followed by several others. I went to the window, when some one in the street shouted with a curse, "Get your head in there or I'll shoot it off." I withdrew my head, and then realized that some of the shots had entered my windows. One imbedded itself in the ceiling, and another passed through a glass door leading into an inner room, and occupied by a lodger named Floyd Wallace. I awoke the said Wallace, and told him that some one was firing into the windows. Shortly after I heard sounds as of a number of people coming down the stairs from the roof, past my door, and stopping on the floor below me. In a very short while they returned, and without asking to be let in broke open my door, and then I saw that they were police officers in full uniform, six in number. They asked me if I knew who fired the shots. I said I did not know. They then told me I lied. Then they asked me if there were any guns in the house, and I answered no; whereupon I was again told that I lied. I then said, "All right, go ahead and search for them," which they proceeded to do. They went from room to room, and broke into a closet in the front room, which contained my husband's and my own clothes; they then opened a small satchel in which was my pocketbook. In the said pocketbook I had six dollars in bills and one dollar and seventy-five cents in silver. While part of the men were making the search the others seized the aforesaid Wallace and took him out into the hallway, where deponent has been told they clubbed the said Wallace on the wrist and face. When he came in, after the officers left, deponent saw that his face and cheek were bruised and his wrist swollen. Deponent declares it to be her belief that the bullets which were shot into her room (one of which she has) could not have been fired from the street, but must have come from the houses opposite. Further, that when the officers left she remembered having left her pocketbook in the aforesaid satchel, and immediately ran into the front room to see if it was safe; she found that the six dollars in bills was gone, and declares it to be her belief that the same was taken by the three officers who were in the room making the search. Deponent further states that when her husband returned on the following Saturday she told him of the visit of the police officers. He then searched in the closet for some money, amounting to about sixty dollars, which he stated to have left there without my knowledge, and could not find it. Deponent declares it to be her belief that this money was also taken by the police officers aforementioned. Deponent further declares that there were no shots fired from her apartments, and that no one therein had a firearm of any sort. MAGGIE TAYLOR. Sworn to before me this 7th day of September, 1900. GEO. P. HAMMOND, JR., Notary Public (164). N. Y. County. ---- _City and County of New York, ss._: Floyd Wallace, being duly sworn, deposes and says: I live at 339 West 36th Street. On Thursday, August 16th, 1900, at about 2:30 A. M., I was awakened by Mrs. Taylor, who said that they were shooting in the windows. I immediately arose and dressed, and went into the kitchen. I heard some one screaming, "Don't hit me like that!" and crying as if being beaten. A short while after I heard some one coming over the roof from the house next door (No. 341), and when they reached our door they without any ceremony, and without asking to be let in, broke in the door. I then saw that they were police officers in full uniform. They then asked if there was any man in the house, and was told there was; upon hearing which I stepped to the kitchen door and was immediately seized upon and taken out into the hallway by two of the officers. They started downstairs with me, when one of the officers said, "Wait a minute," and without first telling me to stop they struck me over the arm and on the wrist. The rest of the officers then searched through the rooms, and while they were engaged one of the officers who was with me, without saying a word, jabbed his stick in my face, just missing my eye, and striking me on the cheek bone, under the eye, making a painful bruise. I was perfectly sober, and was sleeping in bed from about 11:30 P. M. till within about five minutes of the time of the visit of the police. I made no resistance, said nothing to them, and showed by my actions a willingness to do as they wished me to. After the officers had finished their search they turned me loose. FLOYD WALLACE. Sworn to before me this 7th day of September, 1900. GEO. P. HAMMOND, JR., Notary Public (164), N. Y. County. ---- _City and County of New York, ss._: Lloyd Lee, being duly sworn, deposes and says: I reside at 200 West 37th Street. On Wednesday, August 15th, 1900, about ten o'clock P. M., I was up about West 41st Street near 7th Avenue, when I saw considerable rioting going on, and immediately made an attempt to get to my home, going to 8th Avenue, thence to 38th Street, and thence to 7th Avenue, and had got to within thirty yards of my home when I heard footsteps in the gravel behind me; I turned around and saw a man hatless and in citizen's clothes coming after me; thinking he was a rioter, I jumped aside and asked him what was the matter. He did not answer, but struck me over the head with his club, and when I tried to run away he struck me again. Finding I could not get away, I drew the only weapon I had, namely, a small pocketknife, and cut at him with it. He then drew his revolver, and shot me in the mouth and in the arm. I then run to any front door and slammed it shut, and then opened the inner door, and saw no one around, but I saw a revolver lying on the front steps. I picked it up and took it with me to the roof. After reaching the roof I sank down and knew nothing further until the next day, when I found myself in Bellevue Hospital. I was taken to the 54th Street court and from there remanded to the Tombs, where I remained until September 25th, 1900, when I was brought to Part I, where I was discharged. LLOYD LEE. Sworn to before me this 1st day of October, 1900. GEO. P. HAMMOND, JR., Notary Public (164), N. Y. County. (The Grand Jury refused to indict Lloyd Lee.) ---- _City and County of New York, ss._: Mrs. Nettie Threewitts, being duly sworn, deposes and says that she resides at No. 200 West 37th Street; that on Wednesday, August 15th, 1900, about half past ten, she was preparing to retire, when her stepfather, Lloyd Lee, came to her door, and she asked him what was the matter. He replied, "Nettie, I'm shot!" He then ran to the roof. Almost immediately after she heard two men come into the hallway, and one said, "Get your revolver out!" They then came up to the hallway where I was standing, and I saw that one was an officer in uniform and one in citizen's clothes, a stout man. I asked them, "What's the matter?" They said, "Where's that man?" I answered, "I don't know." They then said, "Who is the man?" I answered, "He's my stepfather." The man in citizen's clothes then said, "She's got blood on her; take her; she's a prisoner." I then said, "You are not going to take me without any clothes on?" He answered, "You don't need any clothes." I was then brought downstairs and kept on the stoop until the patrol wagon came, where a number of officers who were standing there called me a "black b----," and one of them struck me in the head with his fist, another one deliberately spit in my face, and another took his helmet and jabbed it into my eye. This officer's number was either No. 3062 or 3064. The latter occurred while I was on my way to the West 54th Street police court. Among the other remarks which were made to me was, "They ought to burn up all the nigger ranches;" "Shut up, you're a w----, the same as the rest of them." I was kept in the station house without any additional clothes for about two hours, when a woman who lives on 41st Street gave me an underskirt, which I put on. I was then brought into the room back of the main room, and from there was taken back into a cell. I was arraigned in the 54th Street police court and held in $500 bail for trial. Mr. R. T. Varnum went on my bond. NETTIE THREEWITTS. Sworn to before me this 19th day of September, 1900. GEO. P. HAMMOND, JR., Notary Public (164), N. Y. County. ---- _City and County of New York, ss._: William Devan, being duly sworn, deposes and says: I reside at 403 West 29th Street. On Wednesday, August 15th, 1900, about half past ten, while walking on 8th Avenue, between 28th and 29th Streets, I was attacked by a mob and shoved through a glass show case, cutting my head severely. I managed to get away from the mob and run towards 8th Avenue and 28th Street, where I was stopped by a policeman, who grabbed me, and the mob coming up at that moment some of them shouted, "Arrest him; he has just broken a show case." I replied that I did not, but that I had been shoved through it. The officer said, "Shut up, or I'll shove this stick down your throat." He then took me to the station house in West 37th Street, where I was detained from 10:30 P. M. till four A. M. the next day. While in the station house I saw a man brought in who had nothing on but an undershirt, and who was bleeding from wounds in his head. I also saw Lee brought in, and saw the surgeon administer an injection, and put him into the ambulance, saying, "This fellow is almost gone," and rushed him off to the hospital. I also saw Miss Lee, the aforementioned man's daughter, who was brought to the station house with nothing but her nightgown on, and one of the women in the station house loaned her a dress to put on. WILLIAM DEVAN. Sworn to before me this 11th day of September, 1900. GEO. P. HAMMOND, JR., Notary Public (164), N. Y. County. ---- _City and County of New York, ss._: William Hopson, being duly sworn, deposes and says: I reside at 229 West 60th Street. I am engaged in the jewelry business, and am night engineer at the Scarborough Apartment House, 221 West 57th Street. On Sunday, August 26th, 1900, in the afternoon, I was standing a little way from my door, about ten yards, and saw Officer 4600 walking on 60th Street from 10th to 11th Avenue. After he passed me he met a platoon of policemen who were coming from 11th Avenue towards 10th Avenue, and turned back with them. Opposite 225 West 60th Street there were two colored men sitting in front of the door. Officer 4600 came over and without warning struck one of them. As he did so the other one ran into the house. The man he was beating also attempted to run in, but he ran after him striking him on the head with his fist. (This was James A. Scott, 225 West 60th Street.) He then came over to me, struck me on the side of the head, and said, "What are you doing here?" I said, "I am looking on," and attempted to go into my apartments. He followed me and struck me with his clenched hand on my head. This was within five feet of my door. Here he was joined by two other officers, one of whom struck me a blow with his club, full force on the head and eye, and I was unable to see anything with that eye for some time after; it is bloodshot still. I held on to the iron railing in front of 231, to protect myself in that way if I could. As I did so two more officers came. Three of them were clubbing me, and 4600 was striking me with his fist. The officer who struck me in the eye with his club was about 6 feet 2 inches tall. They tore my coat and broke my hat. Some one attempted to hand me my hat as they knocked it off, but one of the officers knocked it out of the person's hand with his club, and said, "Never mind the hat." This was as I was being led to the station house. When we reached No. 227 Officer 4600, who had me in charge, saw Mr. Myers, the janitor of 227, standing in front of the door with his wife and several other persons. Mr. Myers is a colored man. Officer 4600 turned me over to another officer and said, "Take my prisoner to the station house." The officer replied, "No, don't take him there." 4600 insisted, and the officer obeyed. When Officer 4600 went over to Myers he wanted to strike him. Myers is a sick man and just got out of the hospital. His wife pleaded with the officer not to strike him, whereupon the officer turned Myers loose and raised his club to strike his wife. One of the other officers told 4600 not to strike that woman. Then five or six officers jumped on Myers with their clubs. There were about ten policemen altogether. 4600 struck him with his fist. One officer broke his club into pieces on Myers' head. Myers was taken to Roosevelt Hospital. He told me in court the next day that as he was passing 60th Street and 10th Avenue they saw a colored man having his shoes shined. 4600 said to him, "See that black nigger? If I didn't have you I would drag him out and lay his head open the same as yours." Myers told me that the doctor at the hospital recognized him and asked him what was the matter. The officer told Myers to "shut up," and said to the doctor, "That is my prisoner." I was taken to the station house, where the officer who brought me there made the complaint against me for Officer 4600. He told the sergeant I "showed fight." I was not told what the formal charge against me was. The sergeant asked me nothing but the usual questions, what my name was, etc. I was bleeding from my eye. The colored people and the whites on this street have always been very friendly, and are so even now. There never was any trouble until these officers raised the disturbance on that day. Officer 4600 started the thing. Some of the tenants of Nos. 227, 229, and 231 saw this outrageous treatment on the part of the policemen. We were discharged in court the next day, after 4600 had made his complaint to the magistrate. I have been in New York for over eight years, and have never been arrested before in my life. I was employed in Harris & Flippin's sporting goods store in Richmond, Va., for two years; I was employed by Oscar Miller, 154 Chambers Street, coffee and spice dealer, for ten months at his residence in Sing Sing; I was employed by C. E. Vedder, druggist, at 116th Street and Madison Avenue, for three years; I was employed by Andrew Lester, of 56th Street and 8th Avenue, at the Washington Apartments, for ten months; I was employed by the Goldsoll Diamond Palace, 14th Street, about two years; W. P. Unger, dealer in essence oils, 18 Cedar Street, for ten months; Van Boskerck & Wilson, 132 West 21st Street, dressmakers, for ten months. I am now employed by Mr. Condit, of the firm of Acker, Merrill & Condit, at the Scarborough Apartment House, 221 West 57th Street. I have been so employed for about two years. I did nothing which justified my arrest or this action on the part of the police. WILLIAM HOPSON. Sworn to before me this 31st day of August, 1900. GEO. P. HAMMOND. JR., Notary Public (164), N. Y. County. ---- _City and County of New York, ss._: George L. Myers, being duly sworn, deposes and says that he resides at 227 West 60th Street, Manhattan Borough, New York City; that on Sunday, August 26th, 1900, at about half past one, he went downstairs, hearing a noise, and being janitor of No. 225 as well as 227, naturally he wanted to see everything was all right on the premises. He was standing in the doorway of No. 227 when the officers approached and said to him, "What are you doing here?" He answered, "Nothing." One of the officers then said, "I'll place you under arrest." "All right," he answered, "take me along." The said officer then struck him with his fist under the left jaw, and then grabbed him and struck him over the head with his club, knocking him insensible. When he recovered consciousness he was on the corner of Amsterdam Avenue and 60th Street, and in charge of Officer John J. Cleary, who took him to the Roosevelt Hospital. While on the way there said Officer Cleary continued to strike deponent with his clinched fist, saying, "There's one for luck," and "If I had got you first I would not have struck you with my fist. I would have used my club on your head and killed you." Deponent was taken to the station house, where he was charged with "interfering with an officer in the discharge of his duty," and "attempting to rescue a prisoner." The same charge was made the next morning in the Police Court, where he was discharged. Deponent declares that he was perfectly sober, and was downstairs by reason of his being janitor of the aforementioned houses, and it was his duty to be where he was and at that time; that he has never been arrested in his life before, and that he did not attempt to rescue anyone from the custody of an officer, and that the assault was entirely unjustified and an outrage. GEO. L. MYERS. Sworn to before me this 5th day of September, 1900. GEO. P. HAMMOND, JR., Notary Public (164), N. Y. County. ---- _City and County of New York, ss._: Mrs. Frances C. Myers, being duly sworn, deposes and says that she is the wife of George L. Myers, and that she resides at 227 West 60th Street; that she has read the affidavit of the said George L. Myers, her husband, and that she knows the facts therein stated to be true of her own knowledge and belief. Deponent further states that while her husband was being clubbed she implored and begged the officers not to strike her husband, as he was a cripple, and had done nothing, but they continued to strike him, and one of the officers drew off as if to strike her with his fist, and another as if to strike her with his billy, but she got out of their way, and when she saw an officer break his billy over her husband's head she thought they had killed him, and she then went on upstairs. The officers refused to even allow her to pick up his hat. FRANCES C. MYERS. Sworn to before me this 5th day of September, 1900. GEO. P. HAMMOND, JR., Notary Public (164), N. Y. County. ---- _City and County of New York, ss._: James A. Scott, being duly sworn, deposes and says: I reside at 225 West 60th Street. On Sunday afternoon, August 26th, some officers went down the street towards 11th Avenue. They were pursuing bad boys who had made a disturbance in the morning. I saw them from my window, and after they reached 11th Avenue I went down to the door, and stood there looking towards 11th Avenue, where there was a crowd. There were only two persons near me, nearly all of the persons who were on the street having gone down to the avenue; one was a boy named Smith, and another young man who has moved away. An officer whom I have since learned is John J. Cleary, came from 10th Avenue towards me. He spoke to me before I saw him, saying, "Do you live here?" and I turned to see who spoke to me, and as I turned towards him, before I could reply he struck me a hard blow on my head with a hard substance, which dazed me, and he followed it with a blow of his fist in the mouth, and I went down in a heap. I began to bleed profusely from the mouth. I was in my doorway when he struck me, so that I fell into my hall. He did not attempt to arrest me. I went upstairs, and I heard a woman's voice screaming, "Don't beat my husband." I looked out of the window and saw the same policeman, Cleary, and other officers whom I cannot identify, clubbing George L. Myers. The principal clubber was the said Cleary. I saw him club the said Myers on the head until he broke his club, and saw him pulling Myers up 60th Street, and punching him with his fist. Myers was dreadfully beaten and was bleeding badly. JAMES A. SCOTT. Sworn to before me this 24th day of September, 1900. FRANK MOSS, Notary Public, N. Y. County. (The case of Hopson, Myers, and Scott is substantiated by fully twenty witnesses.) ---- _City and County of New York, ss._: John Wolf, of No. 347 West 37th Street, being duly sworn, deposes and says: On Sunday, September 30, I was visiting a female friend, and two officers came in with a woman I had known, and who claimed to be my wife but was not. The officers ordered me to leave the house, and I did so. I asked the officers, "Why?" and one of them said, "If I catch you here again I will lock you up." I never had any experience in court or in such matters before, and I went to the station house for advice. I went to the sergeant at the desk, and told him that I was in trouble, and without experience, and I wanted to be advised. He said, "What is the matter with you?" I said, "Can a woman that I have lived with have me arrested because I don't want to live with her any more?" He answered, "What are you talking about? You get out of here!" I was surprised, and didn't move quickly enough to suit him, and he ordered an officer to arrest me. The officer stepped up to me in front of the desk, pulled a billy from his pocket, and suddenly struck me a hard blow on my right jaw, which broke it and caused my chin to fall down. The officer hurried me back to a cell. I suffered terrible agony and walked up and down my cell all night calling for relief. I paid thirty-five cents to send out a message to Mr. Young, who was not at home. His son came, but was not allowed to see me. I had no attention at all, and in the morning was arraigned in court. The officer was on the bridge close to the judge; I was down on the floor. I couldn't hear what charge he made or what he said. My face was swelled and mouth almost closed, and I could not make any statement. The justice fined me three dollars on the officer's statement, and the police attendants hustled me along. I had no money to pay my fine, and was sent back to the court prison. I was in an awful condition. I lay down on some boards, but couldn't stay still. I moaned, and cried for help, but could not get anyone to notice my case. The night man who came on duty on Monday night was a humane man, and asked what was my trouble, and I told him as well as I could. He rang for an ambulance, and I was taken to Bellevue Hospital. I reached there 9:30 P. M., Monday, and was put to bed, and remained there till four P. M., Wednesday. I was unable to take nourishment while there. When I was discharged I went to the station house for my personal effects, and the officer then in charge asked me my trouble (for my head was swathed in bandages), and I told him, and he caused me to remain and identify the officer who hit me. He scolded the officer, who answered nothing, and he sent me to Police Headquarters to Inspector Thompson with a note, and ever since that time they have been investigating my case, and I have gone back and forth a good many times. Inspector Thompson, in my hearing, complained bitterly of the ruffianly conduct of the officers in the 20th Precinct. He told of a case where one had beaten a colored woman eighty-one years of age, and was afterwards found helplessly drunk in a saloon; he said they were bringing disgrace on the police force. He seemed to try to get the evidence in my case all right, but the trouble is that six policemen and the sergeant swore that they were in the room when I was arrested and that they did not see any blow struck, but they could not account for my broken jaw. This perjury was awful. I am feeling very badly--have just now come from the hospital. I go there every day for treatment. My jaw is still loose, and will not hold in position without the bandages that almost cover my face and head. The doctor at the hospital says that the blow must have been a very hard one, for the bone is crushed. I am poor, and cannot work now. I suffered also in the riot on the 15th of August. I was going to my home, which was then at 245 West 32nd Street, and was pulled off an 8th Avenue car by the mob, and was pelted with stones and beaten with sticks. At first the police who were near by did not interfere, but after I was severely hurt they came over, and as I was down on my hands and knees, trying to get up, one of the officers struck me three blows on my body with his club, and ordered me to get up and get out. I was then quite near my home, and I ran over there, and was pulled in by my friends. The mob and the police chased me. The police hurt me more than the rioters. I had a friend with me, and the police clubbed him also. He ran into my house with me, and stayed there. When the policemen ordered me to get out I was surrounded by the mob that was beating me, and they made no effort to interfere with them. I have always been a hard-working man, and was never before arrested. JOHN WOLF. Sworn to before me this 11th day of October, 1900. FRANK MOSS, Notary Public, N. Y. County. ---- _City and County of New York, ss._: William J. Elliott, being duly sworn, says: My name is William J. Elliott. I reside at 209 East 59th Street. At the time of the riot, on August 15th, I lived at 327 West 35th Street. I moved from that side of the town right at once on account of the riot. I am twenty-six years of age and weigh about 130 pounds, and am employed at the Hotel Imperial. I have been there nearly two years. I finished my grammar school education in 1887. I entered the Florida State Normal College in 1894; I was there for two sessions, from '94 to '95. I left there and entered into a drug firm by the name of Martinez & Co., Jacksonville, Florida, as an apprentice to study pharmacy, and in less than a year my advancement was so good I was made a prescriptionist. I then came to New York and entered a drug firm by the name of C. K. Harris Beach Pharmacy at Atlantic City, N. J. I was a trustworthy man there, generally useful; during one fall had entire charge of one of two of Mr. Harris' drug stores in Atlantic City. Mr. Harris sold out, and after that I sought other work, and I came here to New York City. My intention has been to accumulate enough money to take a pharmaceutical course. On the night of August 14th there came a colored man to the Hotel Imperial and informed the front door man that there were riots in the street and that there was no way of getting home. This was between nine and ten o'clock in the evening. About 12:15 I was off duty, and left the hotel with John Chism, the front door man; we went out to investigate and see if the boys could get home. We had no sooner got to 6th Avenue and 31st Street than a fierce mob came chasing down the street and in hot pursuit of a colored man, yelling, "Kill the nigger! Lynch him!" We then ran towards Broadway, and were met there by Mr. Murphy, a man who keeps a saloon at 31st Street and 6th Avenue. He advised us to go at once back to the hotel and to tell the chief, Mr. Roberts, to keep all of his men in the hotel that night or they would get killed. We went back, and I delivered the message to Chief Roberts, and he advised and told all the men to stay in. Chism, Travers, and myself came out to the front door again, and saw a Negro running for his life by the Hotel Imperial through 32nd Street towards 5th Avenue, with a mad crowd behind him. Then we were made to come into the hotel by the chief, as the hotel people were afraid that the mob might attack the house. I remained in the hotel all night. Mr. Chism and I tried to get a closed cab to drive three of us home, but the cabman said he would not drive us home for $500. This was the night of the riot in which so many were injured. At five o'clock the next morning I left the Hotel Imperial to go home with Leon Vonce. I walked as far as 36th Street and 8th Avenue with him, as I intended to go to his home with him, as he was very anxious about his wife; he was afraid she might have been attacked. When we got to the corner of 36th Street and 8th Avenue I saw a big white man jump on one of two colored boys, whom I know to be hotel boys going to their work. I got a little uneasy at the sights I saw, and I saw some blood on the sidewalk, and Leon Vonce said to me, "You had better turn around and go home," and I did, and went to bed. At half past eleven I awoke and dressed myself and got out of the house by a quarter to twelve noon, and got as far as Rocky's drug store, corner 34th Street and 8th Avenue. A white boy standing on the corner said to me, "You had better go away from around here, or you will get killed." I then noticed groups of boys and men running from 34th Street down 8th Avenue; they were right across the street from me, and at sight of them I became afraid that they would attack me and I ran home. I had, however, to get to my work, as I knew the hotel people needed me, and I was afraid that some of the other men would not be able to get back to the hotel; so after a little while I made another attempt to go to the hotel. I went out of the house. I was then addressed by a white man, who seemed to be much of a gentleman. He says (this was when I reached 8th Avenue), "For God's sake, boy, you had better go away from here. Go ahead, jump on that car; they just near killed a colored man across the street." Then as he said that I heard the crowd yell, "There's a nigger! there's a nigger! Catch him!" Luckily for me, I jumped on a car and there was a colored boy on the corner by Comford Brothers' saloon. The mob saw him and ran after him; they caught the colored boy and the mob grabbed and gathered around him. They were rough-looking fellows, and I could not see what they did to the colored boy, for he was in the center of this mob. The car I jumped on was a green car and went across 9th Avenue on 34th Street. I jumped off at 9th Avenue, and just as I left the car there were four big white fellows said, "There's a d----d nigger!" and they started at me, and I ran home as hard as I could, and when I reached home I was all out of breath. When I got home the folks at home asked me if I had anything to protect myself. I told them no, I had nothing; I never had any use for such things. There was a colored gentleman stopping there, Mr. Miles. He said it was very dangerous for me to go out, but if I intended going out at all he had a little gun upstairs, which probably would be some protection from the mob. I thanked him very much, and took the gun, a little .22 caliber revolver. I still felt it necessary for me to go back to the hotel, and I thought I would get back by going another way, and for an hour and a half I stood on my stoop and in the house at times waiting for an opportunity to get by the crowd on 8th Avenue and elsewhere; this was about half past two or quarter to three in the afternoon. I started and went west towards 9th Avenue, thinking I could take a car going north to 42nd Street, and then across 42nd Street and down Broadway to the Hotel Imperial at 32nd Street and Broadway. Just as I got to 35th Street and turned the corner on 9th Avenue there was a mob of three or four hundred men and boys just below me coming up 9th Avenue, screaming and hollering and following a car and yelling, "Take the nigger off the car!" "Catch the nigger!" and "Kill the nigger!" and I turned then and I ran up 9th Avenue as hard as I could from the mob, and I ran into a pawnbroker's shop, Mr. Weaver's pawnshop. I stood behind the closed doors, and through the small openings or blinds that the pawnbrokers have over their doors I could see that part of the big crowd that stood in front of the pawnbroker's shop, many of whom were lined up on the sidewalk across the street. I could also see a policeman trying to disperse the men with his club. He was hitting with his club right and left to clear the sidewalk. I saw three guns hanging in the pawnbroker's window, and I said to the pawnbroker, "Let me see those guns there." I had not any intention of buying the guns, and did not buy them, but I thought it would be a bluff to make the crowd think I had something. I told the pawnbroker's clerk I did not want a gun at that time, I would come back. While I was pricing the guns a great big white fellow opened the door, put his head in, and looked suspiciously around the room. He gave me one of those staring looks, and then shut the door. Then Mr. Weaver, the owner of the pawnshop, said, "Don't you go out there; they are waiting out there for you; they will beat you." After staying there for over half an hour, listening to the hollering outside of "Kill the nigger!" "Lynch the nigger!" and the crowd running about the street chasing other negroes, a great many of whom lived in that locality, I asked the clerk if I could go upstairs and hide, as I was afraid they might come in after me; but he said, "No one dasen't come in here." Shortly after this conversation I asked this clerk if it was safe to go out. He said yes, the crowd was chased down the Avenue. I also asked Mr. Weaver if it was safe to go out now. He said he thought everything was over now. I went to the door and peeped out, and I only saw a few people in groups and four boys standing right at the pawnbroker's door a little to the left of me. I called to one of these white boys, and asked him if it was safe for me to go out. He asked me where did I want to go. I told his as far as 42nd Street. He said, "Go to one of those cops and he will take you up." I saw some cops at 36th Street corner. I started toward the cops to ask them to take me up to 42nd Street, but I had not gone half a dozen steps towards where the cops were when a man in citizen's clothes grabbed me. I learned afterwards he was an officer, and he asked me where I was going. I told him I was trying to get to my work. He asked me what I was doing in a pawnbroker's shop. Before I could explain he said I had bought a gun, and commenced to search me. At that time there were four policemen around me. The little .22 caliber gun he found and took from my pocket. I offered no resistance, and only asked him for protection from the mob, which commenced to gather again, and were now yelling, "Kill the nigger!" "Lynch the nigger!" This mob came up close behind me with sticks and stones. One of the officers knocked on the sidewalk with his club, and there were about half a dozen more officers ran to us to keep the mob off me. The mob was kept off me, and the officer in citizen's clothes and a policeman in uniform took hold of each of my shoulders and four policemen followed behind me. The mob went along too, yelling and screaming, "Kill the nigger!" "Lynch the nigger!" We went west on 37th Street towards the 37th Street station, which is between 9th and 10th Avenues, when we turned into 37th Street. Then the two officers in charge of me and two more behind me took me to the 37th Street station house. Up to this time I had not received a blow, and was not injured in any way. They stood me before a man who sat behind a desk in the station house. There were lots of people there. Some of the men were in citizens' clothes. The man behind the desk said to the officer who had me in charge, "What is the charge against this man?" and the officer in citizen's clothes said, "Carrying a concealed weapon he bought out of a pawnshop." I said, "I did not buy any weapon there," and the man behind the desk said, "Don't dictate to us about what you did not do," and then I started to tell him about my reputation and not being a rioter, and that I was only trying to get to my work. He said, "We have got no time to look up your reputation. Lock him up." I was taken by the jailer who is in the station house, and he said, "Come on," and took hold of me. There were two doors leading from the office into the muster room, and I went to get through the left-hand door. Right beside the door in the station house was a policeman leaning against the door. As I passed him he threw out his foot and tripped me. I stumbled but did not fall. I did not see the jailer; he let go of my coat he had hold of. I looked around at the man who tripped me. As I looked around another policeman struck me on the jaw with his fist; then another struck me in the back of the head with his club, and all the policemen in the muster room jumped up and jumped on me, yelling, "Kill him!" "Kill the nigger!" I still stood up and received many punches. I begged for mercy, and did not weaken until an officer struck me in the temple with his billy, and everything was dark around me. I fell down, and I could still feel them kicking and beating me about. This time the man behind the desk, who I believe is Captain Cooney, rushed in and said, "Don't kill that man in here. The reporters are out here, and there is going to be a charge made against you, and if another man touches a prisoner in here I will take a hand in it myself;" and he says, "Lock that man up." At that time I held my hands above my head and was running around trying to find the doorway to the cells. I was then taken and locked up. I am still sick and ill from the blows that I received, and my right eye is affected. It quivers and is bloodshot, and the right part of my head and temple is sore. I stayed in the police station all night, and sent a telegram to the hotel people at the Imperial, and the manager sent a detective over to get me out, but the detective was afraid to take me out. The next morning I was arraigned before Magistrate Cornell for carrying a concealed weapon. Magistrate Cornell picked up the pistol and said, "Is this your gun?" and laughed, and said that a man with a bad reputation would carry no such gun as that; but he said, "We will have to charge you three dollars for carrying a concealed weapon." I paid the fine and went straight to Travers' house, where my head was bathed in hot water and alcohol, and he rubbed my side and back. I remained there in bed all day. I was unable to work for two days, and then I went back. Since I went back Captain Cooney has sent for me twice, but I have been afraid to go back there. I can bring more evidence to show that after I came out of the police station my head was swollen half its size again, and I could hardly open my mouth, and for two days I had difficulty in eating. I cannot open my mouth right wide now. WILLIAM J. ELLIOTT. Sworn to before me this 24th day of August, 1900. HERBERT PARSONS, Notary Public, N. Y. County. ---- (On the hearing before Commissioner York three newspaper reporters corroborated Elliott, but a host of policemen contradicted him. Elliott and his witnesses were badgered by Mr. York, and the policemen were led and protected. Counsel was not permitted to take part.) ---- _City and County of New York, ss._: My name is Harry Reed. I reside at 346 West 41st Street, in the Borough of Manhattan, City of New York. On August 15th, 1900, I was over in Brooklyn and was coming home with four companions. About half-past twelve I reached the corner of 34th Street and 8th Avenue. We five boys were sitting on the seat of an open 8th Avenue car. When we got at the corner of 37th Street and 8th Avenue we saw a mob, and the mob called out, "There's some niggers; lynch them!" and they made a rush for the car, and I jumped out. Then I ran up to the corner of 38th Street, where there were four policemen. Of these four policemen three were standing on the corner, and one ran into the street to stop me. When he saw me coming I was running hard, fast as I could. When I reached this policeman in the street, he hit me over the head with his club. He hit me twice over the head, and I saw the other three policemen coming, and I fell down. I thought if I fell down the others would not attack me, but they did; they hit me over the legs and on my arm, when I raised it up to protect my head, and they hit me in the back. The two cops started to take me to the police station, but when they saw a patrol wagon come around the corner of 38th Street into 8th Avenue they called the patrol wagon, and both went with me in the patrol wagon to the station house, where I stayed till about four o'clock in the morning. There was no charge made against me in the station house. After my head was bound up, and at about four o'clock in the morning, a man dressed in citizen's clothes said, "Two at a time can go when they want to; things are quieted down somewhat." I asked him if anybody was going with us, and they said, "No, go by yourself." I went directly home, where I stayed and went to bed. I got up at about half-past eight and went to the Roosevelt Hospital the next morning. They told me at the station house to go to the hospital. I have been up to the Roosevelt Hospital three times, on the 16th, 17th, and 18th. I don't think I will go any more, but still I have to wear a bandage and dress my head. The scar that I have got on my head is about two inches long, and I was also hit and a bump was raised on the back of my head, but the skin is not broken. I bled a great deal from the wound on my head; my shirt, collar, and tie were all blood-spotted. I am about fifteen years old; one of my companions, who is about twenty-four years old, was knocked down, kicked in the face, and thrown down a cellar by a mob. He is my father's son-in-law; his name is Joe Walker, and he resides at 346 West 41st Street. My other companions did not get hurt at all. One of them started to jump from the car, but a policeman told him to get back, and he stayed on the car, and the mob left him there because they were chasing me and the other fellow. This man was about nineteen or twenty years old. Of my other companions, one was a white boy about nineteen years old, and the mob did not touch him, and he stayed on the car. The other colored boy, who is about fifteen years old, is light-complexioned in color, and the mob did not touch him; he stayed on the cars also. We were in the third seat from the front; we were all sitting on the same seat. I was on the right hand and outside coming up, and when I saw the mob coming along the street from the right I clambered past the other fellows and jumped over the rail on the left, and was the first fellow out. I ran uptown towards 38th Street, where I saw these cops. I wanted to get protection, but instead the cops hit me, as I have told. I did not resist arrest, and I did not struggle to get away from the cops. I only wanted to get away from the mob. The cops stopped me, and did not catch hold of me until I had got down and the other cop had hit me, and one of them caught hold of me to make me stand up. I did not even try to run away after I had been hit. I was afraid to run, because I knew if I did they would hit me again. HARRY REED. Sworn to before me this 22nd day of August, 1900. JOHN C. BARR, Notary Public, Kings County. Certificate filed in N. Y. County. ---- _City and County of New York, ss._: My name is Jesse Payne. I reside at 255 West 93rd Street. I work there as a waiter in a boarding house. On the evening of August 15th I was sent down to accompany a small boy, by the name of Allan Atkins, to his home, 223 West 18th Street. He took an 8th Avenue car at 93rd Street, and I rode alongside the car until I got to 59th Street. I told him I would ride on, and I rode about a block in front of the car. We went down this way until we approached 34th Street. Around the corner of 34th Street and 8th Avenue I saw a crowd standing. It stretched all over the street and sidewalk. I thought that some one was hurt, and that was the reason the crowd had collected, but when I got into the crowd they did not seem to be standing around no one, and I did not know what was the matter until I passed 34th Street, and was about half way to 33rd Street. I was still on the west side of the car track riding on the wheel, and about half a block in front of the car in which the boy was, and about half a block behind another car, trying to follow the pathway it made in the street. When I got to the middle of the block a policeman ran out from the sidewalk from the west and raised his club and hit me across the mouth, saying, "What the hell are you riding here for?" This blow split my lip and broke off two of my front teeth; it also knocked me off the wheel, but I scrambled up and ran between the east side of 8th Avenue, dragging my wheel with me, and away from the policeman. The policeman followed right upon me, clubbing me, and the whole crowd was after me. I tried to get into a store, and they shoved me back, and they would not let me in. While I was going from where I was knocked off my wheel to the east side of the street a policeman who struck me kept on clubbing me. The first blow he gave me knocked me kind of foolish, but I hung on to my wheel. When I got to the curb I fell, because I missed the step. After I got up another policeman came up to me and said, "What the hell are you doing here with that wheel?" I says, "I ain't done nothing to anybody, just going on a message to take a boy home;" and he grabbed the wheel and hit me over the hand with his club. That made me let go the wheel. It was taken away from me and I have not seen it since. Then I ran away about four doors from 8th Avenue, and a third officer told me to stop and sit down, "If you don't they will kill you;" and he stood there and protected me until he sent another officer for a patrol wagon and took me to the station house, and I was there until four o'clock in the morning. I have been employed by Mrs. McFarland, at 255 West 93rd Street for about three months; before that with Annie Sterler, of 44 West 35th Street--this is a boarding house, and I was a waiter there for two years; with Mrs. Gillies, of 18 West 9th Street, two and a half years. I know Rev. Mr. Franklin, of Zion Church, corner 10th and Bleecker Streets. JESSE x PAYNE. his mark Sworn to before me this 22nd day of August, 1900. SAMUEL L. WOLFF, Notary Public (77), N. Y. County. ---- _City and County of New York, ss._: My name is John B. Mallory. I reside at 206 West 62nd Street. While coming home from the engineers' lectures my friend Gordon Jones and myself came up to 7th Avenue through 29th Street where the colored Engineers' Hall is. We turned into 39th Street and went west towards 8th Avenue. We saw a crowd of white men and boys coming around the corner towards us. Before the gang reached us a policeman said to my friend and myself, "Get out of here," and began clubbing me and my friend; he struck my friend first, and my friend ran towards Broadway. Then after being struck four or five times, and as soon as I could, I ran up on a stoop. The policeman did not have a hold of me, but began striking me, and kept up with me. When I got on top of the stoop he ran after me, and caught hold of me and shoved me down. He said again, "Get out of here." It made me fall down the stairs, and I was on my hands and knees on the walk. Then the policeman left me at the mercy of the mob, and he went across the street where he was at first. The mob began punching me, hitting me with sticks, kicking and hitting me with their fists, and split my lip open, cut my nose, and bruised my forehead. Then I got up and put my hands on my face and head, and stood up against the railing by the stoop of the house where I was shoved down. Then another policeman came to me and said to me, "Have you sense enough to go home?" I said "Yes." I got on an 8th Avenue car, in which he got on, and began going uptown about fifteen or twenty feet, when another policeman came up and got on the car from the left-hand side, and shoved me out towards the right-hand side, where the mob was. He said, "Get out of here." As I was pushed off a man at the side struck at me, but I dodged him and jumped on the car again. The car was moving when the policeman shoved me off of it. The policeman who protected me made the motorman stop the car for me to get on, and I got on the front of the car again. The policeman who protected me said to the policeman who shoved me off, "Get off, and let him alone." He got off then. The policeman who protected me stood on the car until I got up one block out of the mob, and then he got off. I rode on this 8th Avenue car up to 59th Street, and I stood between two men. One of them offered me his handkerchief to wipe the blood off my face, and when I got to 59th Street they advised me to go to Roosevelt Hospital, and I asked one of them to get a transfer for me. He did this, and I went to Roosevelt Hospital, where I had three stitches put in my lip. I am still going to the hospital, and am under treatment; my back and both shoulders are injured, and I am generally bruised all over. I have no bad habits. I do not smoke or drink, and I am a student at the International Correspondence School, Scranton, Pa. I have been through the public schools, and I am studying to be a mechanical engineer. I also attend lectures at the Colored Engineers' Association, on 29th Street between 6th and 7th Avenues. I know Mrs. S. E. Lodewick, of 800 Lexington Avenue; C. W. Phillips, 11 Broadway; L. P. Sawyer, Mrs. J. F. Aitken, Mrs. Mary Baker, Mrs. E. R. Clark, and Mrs. A. Arnold, all of 153 Madison Avenue. I have known these people for about eight years, and they can all testify to my good character. JOHN B. MALLORY. Sworn to before me this 22nd day of August, 1900. SAMUEL L. WOLFF, Notary Public (77), N. Y. County. ---- _City and County of New York, ss._: Nicholas J. Sherman, being duly sworn, deposes and says: My name is Nicholas J. Sherman. I reside at No. 134 West 33rd Street, Borough of Manhattan, City of New York. On the 15th day of August I was visiting some friends at 37th Street near 7th Avenue, in a boarding house. As the clock struck ten I left the house. I walked east toward 7th Avenue. At the corner of 37th Street and 7th Avenue I saw several policemen chasing a person eastward. I do not know whether the person was colored or not. I am a messenger and mailing clerk on the _New York Herald_, and I naturally was interested, as I thought it was a news item, and I walked across the street. When I got within six feet of the sidewalk, near the drug store, on the corner of 37th Street and 7th Avenue, a policeman stopped me, and asked me, "Where in hell do you live?" I told him in 33rd Street, and then he said, "G-- d-- you, go home!" and he hit me with his club on the left arm. There were about a dozen policemen standing around there, and two or three within reach. One of these struck me across the right shoulder, and when I turned to run the same policeman, I think, who struck me on the left arm again struck me across the small of my back with his club. Then I limped from there towards the saloon on the southwest corner of 37th Street and 7th Avenue, where a policeman was leaning against a lamppost. As I limped past him he struck me with his club on the right arm. I was then unable to get away from him on account of my injury, but I managed to get across the street and stood in front of the saloon on the southeast corner, and a man came out and asked me to go in. I went in and leaned against a barrel, and he told the bartender that the police had just beaten me. As soon as I was able to walk I started for the _New York Herald_ office to tell the man whom I am employed under. I sat in the chair at the _Herald_ office all night, because there was a great crowd around the street and I was afraid to go home. I left there the next morning about six o'clock, went to my room and changed my clothing, and started for my breakfast. Then I went to the office and worked all day, until about six o'clock that evening. Then I went to my room, and was so lame I could not get out again until the following Tuesday morning, five days after, not even being able, in the meantime, to sit in a chair. I still feel the effects of the clubbing. The blow on the small of my back made my left limb almost paralyzed. NICHOLAS J. SHERMAN. Sworn to before me this 24th day of August, 1900. HERBERT PARSONS, Notary Public, N. Y. County. ---- Mr. Sherman states in addition that his chief in the newspaper office directed him to report the matter to the police authorities, and that he spoke to Chief Devery, who said to him substantially, "A negro killed a policeman up there, and they can't be controlled." ---- _City and County of New York, ss._: My name is W. H. Cooper. I reside at 340 West 41st Street. On the morning of August 15th, about half past nine, I went from the house to the post office station at the southwest corner of 41st Street and 8th Avenue. When I reached that corner I saw a group of white men and boys standing at the corner. When I passed this group at this corner I overheard one of them saying, "We are going to get back at the niggers to-night." One of the others said, "Is that true? Is there going to be a riot to-night?" and the reply was "Yes." When I heard this I went around the corner. There was a bicycle pump there. I went behind the bicycle pump like I was looking in the window. I could overhear everything that was said. One of the fellows said, "Have they buried Thorpe, yet?" "No, we expect to bury Thorpe to-day;" and he says, "We expect to have a hot time to-day when the funeral starts." It was rumored around that he was to be buried on the day of the riot, but he was not buried, however, until the next day. One of the fellows said, "Have they got the nigger Harris, yet?" "Yes," he said, "they caught him down at Washington, and if we can get our hands on him we will tar and feather the bastard;" and I went into the drug store and came out again after mailing my letter. When I came out I stood on the corner and filled my pipe, and I overheard them say, "Have they got the woman yet?" and they said, "Yes, she is locked up;" and the other fellow said, "Well, that is all to-night." I did not move on until one of the fellows said, "There is a coon standing there now; you had better hush." Then I went down home and told the boys at the shop about it. W. H. COOPER. Sworn to before me this 22nd day of August, 1900. JOHN C. BARR, Notary Public, Kings County. Certificate filed in N. Y. County. The Citizens' Protective League was organized in St. Mark's Church, West 53d Street and Eighth Avenue, on Monday morning, September 3, 1900. The object of the League is, first, to afford mutual protection; and, secondly, to prosecute the guilty. The League now numbers about 5,000, with daily increase. The following officers were elected: OFFICERS. Rev. W. H. BROOKS, D.D., President. T. S. P. MILLER, M.D., Vice President. Rev. H. P. MILLER, Secretary. JAMES E. GARNER, Treasurer. EXECUTIVE COMMITTEE. T. T. FORTUNE, Chairman, W. R. DAVIS, Secretary, C. A. DORSEY, Rev. P. B. TOMPKINS, Rev. J. W. SCOTT, D. M. WEBSTER, Rev. C. T. WALKER, D.D., Rev. W. L. HUBBARD, Rev. GEO. W. BAILEY, L. H. LATIMER, Rev. R. D. WYN, J. F. THOMAS, N. B. DODSON, Rev. G. HUNT, Rev. L. L. CUYLER, Rev. H. C. BISHOP, Rev. W. D. COOK, D.D., MELVIN J. CHISUM. 
31128	----	[Illustration: BULLDOG FINDS A FRIEND.] FACING DEATH OR, THE HERO OF THE VAUGHAN PIT. A TALE OF THE COAL MINES. BY G. A. HENTY, Author of "With Clive in India;" "In Freedom's Cause;" "By Sheer Pluck;" "Under Drake's Flag;" &c. _WITH EIGHT FULL-PAGE ILLUSTRATIONS BY GORDON BROWNE._ LONDON: BLACKIE & SON, LIMITED; NEW YORK: CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS, 743 AND 745 BROADWAY CONTENTS. CHAP. PAGE I. EVIL TIDINGS, 9 II. BULL-DOG, 16 III. THE RESOLUTION, 31 IV. THE VAUGHAN PIT, 39 V. SETTING TO WORK, 49 VI. "THE OLD SHAFT," 54 VII. FRIENDSHIP, 64 VIII. PROGRESS, 74 IX. THE GREAT STRIKE, 80 X. HARD TIMES, 96 XI. THE ATTACK ON THE ENGINE-HOUSE, 105 XII. AFTER THE STRIKE, 117 XIII. A HEAVY LOSS, 124 XIV. THE NIGHT-SCHOOL, 134 XV. THE SEWING-CLASS, 146 XVI. A NEW LIFE, 156 XVII. THE DOG FIGHT, 166 XVIII. STOKEBRIDGE FEAST, 173 XIX. THE GREAT RIOT, 183 XX. THE ARM OF THE LAW, 193 XXI. A KNOTTY QUESTION, 201 XXII. THE SOLUTION, 209 XXIII. THE EXPLOSION AT THE VAUGHAN, 222 XXIV. IN DEADLY PERIL, 235 XXV. THE IMPRISONED MINERS, 239 XXVI. A CRITICAL MOMENT, 253 XXVII. RESCUED, 259 XXVIII. CHANGES, 274 XXIX. THE NEW MANAGER, 283 XXX. RISEN, 289 XXXI. CONCLUSION, 298 ILLUSTRATIONS. PAGE BULLDOG FINDS A FRIEND, _Frontispiece_. IN THE OLD SHAFT--CAN HE BE SAVED? 58 NELLY'S FIRST LESSON, 70 A LIFE OR DEATH STRUGGLE, 113 JACK IS VICTORIOUS, 170 THE NEW SCHOOLMISTRESS, 217 AFTER THE FIRST EXPLOSION--THE SEARCH PARTY, 237 SAVED! 270 FACING DEATH: OR, HOW STOKEBRIDGE WAS CIVILIZED. CHAPTER I. EVIL TIDINGS. A row of brick-built houses with slate roofs, at the edge of a large mining village in Staffordshire. The houses are dingy and colourless, and without relief of any kind. So are those in the next row, so in the street beyond, and throughout the whole village. There is a dreary monotony about the place; and if some giant could come and pick up all the rows of houses, and change their places one with another, it is a question whether the men, now away at work, would notice any difference whatever until they entered the houses standing in the place of those which they had left in the morning. There is a church, and a vicarage half hidden away in the trees in its pretty old-fashioned garden; there are two or three small red-bricked dissenting chapels, and the doctor's house, with a bright brass knocker and plate on the door. There are no other buildings above the common average of mining villages; and it needs not the high chimneys, and engine-houses with winding gear, dotting the surrounding country, to notify the fact that Stokebridge is a mining village. It is a little past noon, and many of the women come to their doors and look curiously after a miner, who, in his working clothes, and black with coal-dust, walks rapidly towards his house, with his head bent down, and his thick felt hat slouched over his eyes. "It's Bill Haden; he works at the 'Vaughan.'" "What brings he up at this hour?" "Summat wrong, I'll be bound." Bill Haden stopped at the door of his house in the row first spoken of, lifted the latch, and went in. He walked along a narrow passage into the back-room. His wife, who was standing at the washing-tub, turned round with a surprised exclamation, and a bull-dog with half-a-dozen round tumbling puppies scrambled out of a basket by the fire, and rushed to greet him. "What is it, Bill? what's brought thee home before time?" For a moment Bill Haden did not answer, but stooped, and, as it were mechanically, lifted the dog and stroked its head. "There's blood on thy hands, Bill. What be wrong with 'ee?" "It bain't none of mine, lass," the man said in an unsteady voice. "It be Jack's. He be gone." "Not Jack Simpson?" "Ay, Jack Simpson; the mate I ha' worked with ever since we were butties together. A fall just came as we worked side by side in the stall, and it broke his neck, and he's dead." The woman dropped into a chair, threw her apron over her head, and cried aloud, partly at the loss of her husband's mate, partly at the thought of the narrow escape he had himself had. "Now, lass," her husband said, "there be no time to lose. It be for thee to go and break it to his wife. I ha' come straight on, a purpose. I thawt to do it, but I feel like a gal myself, and it had best be told her by another woman." Jane Haden took her apron from her face. "Oh, Bill, how can I do it, and she ill, and with a two-month baby? I misdoubt me it will kill her." "Thou'st got to do it," Bill said doggedly, "and thou'd best be quick about it; it won't be many minutes afore they bring him in." When Bill spoke in that way his wife knew, as he said, that she'd got to do it, and without a word she rose and went out, while her husband stood staring into the fire, and still patting the bull-dog in his arms. A tear falling on his hand startled him. He dropped the dog and gave it a kick, passed his sleeve across his eyes, and said angrily: "Blest if I bain't a crying like a gal. Who'd a thawt it? Well, well, poor old Jack! he was a good mate too"--and Bill Haden proceeded to light his pipe. Slowly and reluctantly Mrs. Haden passed along the row. The sad errand on which she was going was one that has often to be discharged in a large colliery village. The women who had seen Bill go in were still at their doors, and had been joined by others. The news that he had come in at this unusual hour had passed about quickly, and there was a general feeling of uneasiness among the women, all of whom had husbands or relatives below ground. When, therefore, Jane Haden came out with signs of tears on her cheeks, her neighbours on either side at once assailed her with questions. "Jack Simpson's killed by a fall," she said, "and I ha' got to break it to his wife." Rapidly the news spread along the row, from door to door, and from group to group. The first feeling was everywhere one of relief that it was not their turn this time; then there was a chorus of pity for the widow. "It will go hard with her," was the general verdict. Then the little groups broke up, and went back to their work of getting ready for the return of their husbands from the pit at two o'clock. One or two only, of those most intimate with the Simpsons, followed Jane Haden slowly down the street to the door of their house, and took up a position a short distance off, talking quietly together, in case they might be wanted, and with the intention of going in after the news was broken, to help comfort the widow, and to make what preparations were needed for the last incoming of the late master of the house. It was but a minute or two that they had to pause, for the door opened again, and Jane Haden beckoned them to come in. It had, as the gossips had predicted, gone hard with the young widow. She was sitting before the fire when Jane entered, working, and rocking the cradle beside with her foot. At the sight of her visitor's pale face, and tear-stained cheeks, and quivering lips, she had dropped her work and stood up, with a terrible presentiment of evil--with that dread which is never altogether absent from the mind of a collier's wife. She did not speak, but stood with wide-open eyes staring at her visitor. "Mary, my poor girl," Mrs. Haden began. That was enough, the whole truth burst upon her. "He is killed?" she gasped. Mrs. Haden gave no answer in words, but her face was sufficient as she made a step forward towards the slight figure which swayed unsteadily before her. Mary Simpson made no sound save a gasping sob, her hand went to her heart, and then she fell in a heap on the ground, before Mrs. Haden, prepared as she was, had time to clasp her. "Thank God," Jane Haden said, as she went to the front door and beckoned the others in, "she has fainted." "Ay, I thawt as much," one of the women said, "and a good job too. It's always best so till he is brought home, and things are straightened up." Between them Mary Simpson was tenderly lifted, and carried upstairs and laid on the bed of a lodger's room there. The cradle was brought up and put beside it, and then Jane Haden took her seat by the bed, one woman went for the doctor, while the others prepared the room below. In a short time all that remained of Jack Simpson was borne home on a stretcher, on the shoulders of six of his fellow-workmen, and laid in the darkened room. The doctor came and went for the next two days, and then his visits ceased. It had gone hard with Mary Simpson. She had passed from one long fainting fit into another, until at last she lay as quiet as did Jack below; and the doctor, murmuring "A weak heart, poor little woman; the shock was too much for her," took his departure for the last time from the house. Then Jane Haden, who had not left her friend's side ever since she was carried upstairs, wrapped the baby in a shawl and went home, a neighbour carrying the cradle. When Bill Haden returned from work he found the room done up, the table laid for tea, and the kettle on the fire. His wife was sitting by it with the baby on her lap. "Well, lass," he said, as he entered the room, "so the poor gal's gone. I heard it as I came along. Thou'st's had a hard two days on't. Hulloa! what's that?" "It's the baby, Bill," his wife said. "What hast brought un here for?" he asked roughly. Jane Haden did not answer directly, but standing in front of her husband, removed the handkerchief which covered the baby's face as he lay on her arm. "Look at him, Bill; he's something like Jack, don't thou see it?" "Not a bit of it," he said gruffly. "Kids don't take after their father, as pups do." "I can see the likeness quite plain, Bill. Now," she went on, laying her hand on his shoulder, "I want to keep him. We ain't got none of our own, Bill, and I can't abear the thought of his going to the House." Bill Haden stood irresolute. "I shouldn't like to think of Jack's kid in the House; still he'll be a heap of trouble--worse nor a dozen pups, and no chance of winning a prize with him nohow, or of selling him, or swopping him if his points don't turn out right. Still, lass, the trouble will be thine, and by the time he's ten he'll begin to earn his grub in the pit; so if thy mind be set on't, there's 'n end o' the matter. Now let's have tea; I ain't had a meal fit for a dog for the last two days, and Juno ain't got her milk regular." So little Jack Simpson became a member of the Haden family, and his father and mother were laid to rest in the burying-ground on the hillside above the village. CHAPTER II. BULL-DOG. A curious group as they sit staring into the fire. Juno and Juno's daughter Bess, brindles both, with their underhanging lower jaws, and their black noses and wrinkled faces, and Jack Simpson, now six years old, sitting between them, as grave and as immovable as his supporters. One dog is on either side of him and his arms are thrown round their broad backs. Mrs. Haden is laying the table for her husband's return; she glances occasionally at the quiet group in front of the fire, and mutters to herself: "I never did see such a child in all my born days." Presently a sudden and simultaneous pricking of the closely-cropped ears of Juno and Bess proclaim that among the many footsteps outside they have detected the tread of their master. Jack accepts the intimation and struggles up to his feet just as Bill Haden lifts the latch and enters. "It's a fine day, Bill," his wife said. "Be it?" the collier replied in return. "I took no note o't. However it doant rain, and that's all I cares for. And how's the dogs? Did you give Juno that physic ball I got for her?" "It's no manner of use, Bill, leaving they messes wi' me. I ha' tould you so scores o' times. She woant take it from me. She sets her jaws that fast that horses could na pull 'em apart, and all the while I'm trying she keeps oop a growl like t' organ at the church. She's a' right wi'out the physic, and well nigh pinned Mrs. Brice when she came in to-day to borrow a flatiron. She was that frighted she skirled out and well nigh fainted off. I had to send Jack round to the "Chequers" for two o' gin before she came round." "Mrs. Brice is a fool and you're another," Bill said. "Now, ooman, just take off my boots for oim main tired. What be you staring at, Jack? Were you nearly pinning Mother Brice too?" "I doant pin folk, I doant," Jack said sturdily. "I kicks 'em, I do, but I caught hold o' Juno's tail, and held on. And look 'ee here, dad, I've been a thinking, doant 'ee lift I oop by my ears no more, not yet. They are boath main sore. I doant believe neither Juno nor Bess would stand bein lifted oop by their ears, not if they were sore. I be game enough, I be, but till my ears be well you must try some other part. I expect the cheek would hurt just as bad, so you can try that." "I do wish, Bill, you would not try these tricks on the boy. He's game enough, and if you'd ha' seen him fighting to-day with Mrs. Jackson's Bill, nigh twice as big as himself, you'd ha' said so too; but it ain't Christian-like to try children the same way as pups, and really his ears are sore, awful sore. I chanced t' notice 'em when I washed his face afore he went to school, and they be main bad, I tell 'ee." "Coom here," the miner said to Jack. "Aye, they be sore surely; why didn't 'ee speak afore, Jack? I doant want to hurt 'ee, lad." "I wa'n't going to speak," Jack said. "Mother found it out, and said she'd tell 'ee o't; but the last two nights I were well nigh yelping when 'ee took me up." "You're a good plucked 'un, Jack," Bill Haden said, "and I owt not t' ha done it, but I didn't think it hurt 'ee, leastways not more nor a boy owt to be hurt, to try if 'ee be game!" "And what's you and t' dogs been doing to-day, Jack?" the miner asked, as he began at his dinner. "We went for a walk, dad, after school, out in the lanes; we saw a big black cat, and t' dogs chased her into a tree, then we got 't a pond, and d'ye know, dad, Bess went in and swam about, she did!" "She did?" the miner said sharply. "Coom here, Bess;" and leaving his meal, he began anxiously to examine the bull-dog's eyes and listened attentively to her breathing. "That were a rum start for a bull too, Jack. She doant seem to ha' taken no harm, but maybe it ain't showed itself. Mother, you give her some hot grub t' night. Doant you let her go in t' water again, Jack. What on airth made her tak it into her head to go into t' water noo, I wonder?" "I can't help it if she wants to," Jack said; "she doant mind I, not when she doant want to mind. I welted her t'other day when she wanted to go a't parson's coo, but she got hold o' t' stick and pulled it out o' my hand." "And quite raight too," Bill Haden said; "don't 'ee try to welt they dogs, or I'll welt thee!" "I doant care," the child said sturdily; "if I goes out in charge o' they dogs, theys got to mind me, and how can I make 'em mind me if I doant welt 'em? What would 'ee say to I if Bess got had up afore the court for pinning t' parson's coo?" As no ready reply occurred to Bill Haden to this question he returned to his meal. Juno and Bess watched him gravely till he had finished, and then, having each received a lump of meat put carefully aside for them, returned to the fire. Jack, curling himself up beside them, lay with his head on Juno's body and slept till Mrs. Haden, having cleared the table and washed up the things, sent him out to play, her husband having at the conclusion of his meal lighted his pipe and strolled over to the "Chequers." Bill Haden had, according to his lights, been a good father to the child of his old mate Simpson. He treated him just as if he had been his own. He spent twopence a day less in beer than before, and gave his wife fourteen pence in addition to her weekly money for household expenses, for milk for the kid, just as he allowed twopence a day each for bones for Juno and Bess. He also when requested by his wife handed over what sum was required for clothing and shoes, not without grumbling, however, and comparisons as to the wants of dorgs and boys, eminently unfavourable to the latter. The weekly twopence for schooling Mrs. Haden had, during the year that Jack had been at school, paid out of her housekeeping money, knowing that the expenses of the dogs afforded no precedent whatever for such a charge. Bill Haden was, however, liberal to the boy in many ways, and when in a good temper would often bestow such halfpence as he might have in his pocket upon him, and now and then taking him with him into town, returned with such clothes and shoes that "mother" held up her hands at the extravagance. Among his young companions Jack was liked but feared. When he had money he would purchase bull's-eyes, and collecting all his acquaintances, distribute them among them; but he was somewhat sedate and old-fashioned in his ways, from his close friendships with such thoughtful and meditative animals as Juno and Bess, and when his wrath was excited he was terrible. Never uttering a cry, however much hurt, he would fight with an obstinacy and determination which generally ended by giving him the victory, for if he once got hold of an antagonist's hair--pinning coming to him naturally--no amount of blows or ill-treatment could force him to leave go until his agonized opponent confessed himself vanquished. It was not often, however, that Jack came in contact with the children of his own age. His duties as guardian of the "dorgs" absorbed the greater part of his time, and as one or both of these animals generally accompanied him when he went beyond the door, few cared about having anything to say to him when so attended; for the guardianship was by no means entirely on his side, and however excellent their qualities and pure their breed, neither Juno nor Bess were animals with whom strangers would have ventured upon familiarity. Jack's reports to his "dad" of Bess's inclination to attack t' parson's coo was not without effect, although Bill Haden had made no remark at the time. That night, however, he observed to his wife: "I've been a thinking it over, Jane, and I be come to the opinion that it's better t' boy should not go out any more wi' t' dorgs. Let 'em bide at home, I'll take 'em oot when they need it. If Bess takes it into her head to pin a coo there might be trouble, an I doan't want trouble. Her last litter o' pups brought me a ten pun note, and if they had her oop at 'a court and swore her life away as a savage brute, which she ain't no way, it would pretty nigh break my heart." The execution of this, as of many other good intentions, however, was postponed until an event happened which led to Jack's being definitely relieved of the care of his canine friends. Two years had passed, when one morning Jack was calmly strolling along the road accompanied by Juno and Bess. A gig came rapidly along containing two young bagmen, as commercial travellers were still called in Stokebridge. The driver, seeing a child with two dogs, conceived that this was a favourable opportunity for a display of that sense of playful humour whose point lies in the infliction of pain on others, without any danger of personal consequences to the inflictor. With a sharp sweep he brought down his whip across Jack's back, managing to include Bess in the stroke. Jack set up a shout of mingled pain and indignation, and stooping for a stone, hurled it after the man who had struck him. Bess's response to the assault upon her was silent, but as prompt and far more effectual. With two springs she was beside the horse, and leaping up caught it by the nostrils and dragged it to the ground. Juno at once joined in the fray, and made desperate attempts to climb into the gig and seize its inmates, who had nearly been thrown out as the horse fell. Recovering himself, the driver, pale with terror, clubbed his whip, and struck at Juno with the butt-end. "Don't 'ee hit her," Jack cried as he arrived on the spot; "if thou dost she'll tear 'ee limb from limb." "Call the brute off, you little rascal," cried the other, "it's killing the horse." "Thou'd best keep a civil tongue in thy head," the child said coolly, "or it will be bad for 'ee. What did 'ee hit I and Bess for? It would serve 'ee roight if she had pinned 'ee instead o' t' horse." "Call them off," the fellow shouted as Juno's teeth met in close proximity to his leg. "It be all very well to say call 'em orf," Jack said, "but they doan't moind I much. Have 'ee got a strap?" The man hastily threw down a strap, and this Jack passed through Juno's collar, she being too absorbed in her efforts to climb into the gig to heed what the child was doing; then he buckled it to the wheel. "Noo," he said, "ye can light down t' other side. She caan't reach 'ee there." The young men leapt down, and ran to the head of the horse; the poor brute was making frantic efforts to rise, but the bull-dog held him down with her whole might. Jack shouted and pulled, but in vain; Bess paid no attention to his voice. "Can you bite his tail?" one of the frightened men said; "I've heard that is good." "Boite her tail!" Jack said in contempt; "doan't yer see she's a full-bred un; ye moight boite her tail off, and she would care nowt about 't. I've got summat here that may do." He drew out a twisted paper from his pocket. "This is snuff," he said; "if owt will make her loose, this will. Now one o' yer take holt by her collar on each side, and hoult tight, yer know, or she'll pin ye when she leaves go o' the horse. Then when she sneezes you pull her orf, and hoult fast." The fear of the men that the horse would be killed overpowered their dread of the dog, and each took a firm grip upon its collar. Then Jack placed a large pinch of snuff to its nostrils. A minute later it took effect, the iron jaws unclosed with a snap, and in an instant Bess was snatched away from the horse, which, delivered from its terrible foe, sank back groaning on the road. Bess made the most furious attempts to free herself from her captors, but in vain, and Juno strained desperately at the strap to come to the assistance of her offspring. "Ha' ye got another strap?" Jack asked. "There's a chain in the box under the seat." Jack with some difficulty and an amount of deliberation for which the men could gladly have slain him, climbed up into the gig, and presently came back with the chain. "Noo tak' her round to t' other side o' gig," he said; "we'll fasten her just as Juno is." When Bess was securely chained to the wheel the men ran to raise the horse, who lay with its head in a pool of blood. "There's a pond in yon field," Jack said, "if 'ee wants water." After Bess was secured Jack had slipped round to Juno, and kept his hand upon the buckle in readiness to loose her should any attempt be made upon his personal safety. The men, however, were for the moment too scared to think of him. It was some time before the horse was got on to its legs, with a wet cloth wrapped round its bleeding wound. Fortunately Bess's grip had included the bit-strap as well as the nostrils, and this had somewhat lessened the serious nature of the hurt. Jack had by this time pacified the dogs, and when the men looked round, after getting the horse on to its legs, they were alarmed to see him standing by quietly holding the dogs by a strap passing through their collar. "Doan't 'ee try to get into that ere cart," he said; "you've got to go wi' me back to Stokebridge to t' lock-oop for hitting I and Bess. Now do you walk quietly back and lead t' horse, and oi'll walk beside 'ee, and if thou mov'st, or tries to get away, oi'll slip t' dogs, you see if I doan't." "You little villain," began one of the men furiously, but a deep growl from Bess in reply to the angry tone at once silenced him; and burning with rage they turned the horse's head back towards the village and walked on, accompanied by Jack and his dogs on guard. The arrival of this procession created much excitement, and a crowd of women and children soon gathered. Jack, however, serenely indifferent to questions and shouts, proceeded coolly on his way until he arrived at the residence of the local constable, who, hearing the din, appeared at his door. "Maister Johnson," the child says, "I give them chaps in charge for saulting I and Bess." "And we give this little ruffian in charge," shouted the men, secure that, in face of the constable and crowd, Jack could not loose his terrible bull-dogs, "for setting his dogs at us, to the risk of our lives and the injury of our horse, which is so much hurt that we believe it will have to be killed." Just at this moment Bill Haden--who had returned from work at the moment that a boy running in reported that there was a row, that a horse was covered wi' blood, and two chaps all bluidy over t' hands and clothes, were agoing along wi' Jack and t' dorgs oop street to lock-oop--arrived upon the spot. "What's oop, lad?" he asked as he came up. "They chaps hit I and Bess, dad, and Bess pinned t' horse, and Juno would ha' pinned 'em boath hadn't I strapped she oop, and then we got Bess orf, and I brought 'em back to t' lock-oop." "How dar 'ee hit my lad?" Bill Haden said angrily, stepping forward threateningly. "Look oot, dad, or t' dogs will be at 'em again," Jack shouted. Bill seized the strap from the child's hand, and with a stern word silenced the dogs. "Well," the constable said, "I can't do nowt but bring both parties afore Mr. Brook i' the morning. I suppose I needn't lock 'ee all oop. Bill, will you bind yourself to produce Jack Simpson t'morrow?" "Ay," said Bill, "oi'll produce him, and he'll produce hisself, I'm thinking; seems to me as Jack be able to take 's own part." This sally was received with laughter and applause, for local feeling was very strong in Stokebridge, and a storm of jeers and rough chaff were poured upon the bagmen for having been brought in prisoners by a child. "Thee'd best get away to th' inn," the constable said, "else they'll be a stoaning thee next. There be only two on us here, and if they takes to 't we sha'n't be able to do much." So the men, leading their horse, went off to the Inn, groaned and hooted at by the crowd on the way. On their arrival a messenger was at once sent off for a veterinary surgeon who resided some four miles away. On the following morning the parties to the quarrel, the two bagmen and the injured horse on the one hand, and Jack Simpson with the two bull-dogs under charge of Bill Haden on the other, appeared before Mr. Brook, owner of the Vaughan pit and a county magistrate. Jack first gave his account of the transaction, clearly and with much decision. "I war a walking along quiet wi' t' dogs," he said, "when I hears a cart a coming from Stokebridge. I looks round and seed they two chaps, but didn't mind no further about it till as they came oop that sandy-haired chap as was a driving lets me and Bess ha' one which made me joomp, I can tell 'ee. Bess she pinned the horse, and Juno she tried to get into t' cart at 'em. They were joost frighted, they hollers, and yawps, and looks as white as may be. I fastens Juno oop wi' a strap and they houlds Bess while I poot some snoof t' her nose." "Put what?" Mr. Brook asked. "Joost a pinch of snoof, sir. I heard feyther say as snoof would make dogs loose, and so I bought a haporth and carried it in my pocket, for th' dogs don't moind oi when they are put oot. And then they gets horse oop and I makes 'em come back to t' lock-oop, but maister Johnson," he said, looking reproachfully at the constable, "wouldn't lock 'em oop as I wanted him." There was some laughter among the audience, and even the magistrate smiled. The young men then gave their story. They denied point blank that either of them had struck Jack, and described him as having set his dog purposely on the horse. Jack had loudly contradicted them, shouting, 'That's a lee;' but had been ordered to silence. Then drawing back he slipped off his jacket and shirt, and when the evidence was closed he marched forward up to the magistrate bare to the waist. "Look at moi back," he said; "that 'ull speak for itself." It did; there was a red weal across the shoulder, and an angry hiss ran through the court at the prisoners, which was with difficulty suppressed. "After what I have seen," Mr. Brook said, "there is no doubt whatever in my mind that the version given by this child is the correct one, and that you committed a cowardly and unprovoked assault upon him. For this you," he said to the man who had driven the horse, "are fined £5 or a month's imprisonment. It is a good thing that cowardly fellows like you should be punished occasionally, and had it not been that your horse had been severely injured I should have committed you to prison without option of a fine. Against you," he said to the other, "there is no evidence of assault. The charge against the child is dismissed, but it is for the father to consider whether he will prosecute you for perjury. At the same time I think that dogs of this powerful and ferocious kind ought not to be allowed to go out under the charge of a child like this." The man paid the fine; but so great was the indignation of the crowd that the constable had to escort them to the railway-station; in spite of this they were so pelted and hustled on the way that they were miserable figures indeed when they arrived there. And so Jack was released from all charge of the "dorgs," and benefited by the change. New friendships for children of his own age took the place of that for the dogs, and he soon took part in their games, and, from the energy and violence with which, when once excited, he threw himself into them, became quite a popular leader. Mrs. Haden rejoiced over the change; for he was now far more lively and more like other children than he had been, although still generally silent except when addressed by her and drawn into talk. He was as fond as ever of the dogs, but that fondness was now a part only instead of the dominating passion of his existence. And so months after months went on and no event of importance occurred to alter the current of Jack Simpson's life. CHAPTER III. THE RESOLUTION. An artist sitting in the shade under a tree, painting a bit of rustic gate and a lane bright with many honeysuckles. Presently he is conscious of a movement behind him, and looking round, sees a sturdily built boy of some ten years of age, with an old bull-dog lying at his feet, and another standing by his side, watching him. "Well, lad, what are you doing?" "Nowt!" said the boy promptly. "I mean," the artist said with a smile, "have you anything to do? if not, I will give you sixpence to sit still on that gate for a quarter of an hour. I want a figure." The boy nodded, took his seat without a word, and remained perfectly quiet while the artist sketched him in. "That will do for the present," the artist said. "You can come and sit down here and look at me at work if you like; but if you have nothing to do for an hour, don't go away, as I shall want you again presently. Here is the sixpence; you will have another if you'll wait. What's your name?" he went on, as the boy threw himself down on the grass, with his head propped up on his elbows. "Bull-dog," the lad said promptly; and then colouring up, added "at least they call me Bull-dog, but my right name be Jack Simpson." "And why do they call you Bull-dog, Jack?" The artist had a sympathetic voice and spoke in tones of interest, and the lad answered frankly: "Mother--that is, my real mother--she died when I were a little kid, and Juno here, she had pups at the time--not that one, she's Flora, three years old she be--and they used to pretend she suckled me. It bain't likely, be it?" he asked, as if after all he was not quite sure about it himself. "Schoolmaster says as how it's writ that there was once two little rum'uns, suckled by a wolf, but he can't say for sure that it's true. Mother says it's all a lie, she fed me from a bottle. But they called me Bull-dog from that, and because Juno and me always went about together; and now they call me so because," and he laughed, "I take a good lot of licking before I gives in." "You've been to school, I suppose, Jack?" "Yes, I've had five years schooling," the boy said carelessly. "And do you like it?" "I liked it well enough; I learnt pretty easy, and so 'scaped many hidings. Dad says it was cos my mother were a schoolmaster's daughter afore she married my father, and so learning's in the blood, and comes natural. But I'm done with school now, and am going down the pit next week." "What are you going to do there? You are too young for work." "Oh, I sha'n't have no work to do int' pit, not hard work--just to open and shut a door when the tubs go through." "You mean the coal-waggons?" "Ay, the tubs," the boy said. "Then in a year or two I shall get to be a butty, that ull be better pay; then I shall help dad in his stall, and at last I shall be on full wages." "And after that?" the artist asked. The lad looked puzzled. "What will you look forward to after that?" "I don't know that there's nowt else," the boy said, "except perhaps some day I might, perhaps--but it ain't likely--but I might get to be a viewer." "But why don't you make up your mind to be something better still, Jack--a manager?" "What!" exclaimed the boy incredulously; "a manager, like Fenton, who lives in that big house on the hill! Why, he's a gentleman." "Jack," the artist said, stopping in his work now, and speaking very earnestly, "there is not a lad of your age in the land, brought up as a miner, or a mechanic, or an artisan, who may not, if he sets it before him, and gives his whole mind to it, end by being a rich man and a gentleman. If a lad from the first makes up his mind to three things--to work, to save, and to learn--he can rise in the world. You won't be able to save out of what you get at first, but you can learn when your work is done. You can read and study of an evening. Then when you get better wages, save something; when, at twenty-one or so, you get man's wages, live on less than half, and lay by the rest. Don't marry till you're thirty; keep away from the public-house; work, study steadily and intelligently; and by the time you are thirty you will have a thousand pounds laid by, and be fit to take a manager's place." "Do'st mean that, sir?" the boy asked quickly. "I do, Jack. My case is something like it. My father was a village schoolmaster. I went when about twelve years old to a pottery at Burslem. My father told me pretty well what I have told you. I determined to try hard at any rate. I worked in every spare hour to improve myself generally, and I went three evenings a week to the art school. I liked it, and the master told me if I stuck to it I might be a painter some day. I did stick to it, and at twenty could paint well enough to go into that branch of pottery. I stuck to it, and at five-and-twenty was getting as high pay as any one in Burslem, except one or two foreign artists. I am thirty now. I still paint at times on china, but I am now getting well known as an artist, and am, I hope, a gentleman." "I'll do it," the boy said, rising slowly to his feet and coming close to the artist. "I'll do it, sir. They call me Bull-dog, and I'll stick to it." "Very well," the artist said, holding out his hand; "that's a bargain, Jack. Now, give me your name and address; here are mine. It's the 1st of June to-day. Now perhaps it will help you a little if I write to you on the 1st of June every year; and you shall answer me, telling me how you are getting on, and whether I can in any way give you help or advice. If I don't get an answer from you, I shall suppose that you have got tired of it and have given it up." "Don't you never go to suppose that, sir," the boy said earnestly. "If thou doesn't get an answer thou'llt know that I've been killed, as father was, in a fall or an explosion. Thank you, sir." And the boy walked quietly off, with the old bull-dog lazily waddling behind him. "There are the makings of a man in that boy," the artist said to himself. "I wish though I had finished his figure before we began to talk about his plans for the future. I shall be very proud of that boy if he ever makes a name for himself." That evening Jack sat on a low stool and gazed into the fire so steadily and silently that Bill Haden, albeit not given to observe his moods, asked: "What ail'st, lad? What be'st thinkin' o'?" Jack's thoughts were so deep that it took him some time to shake them off and to turn upon his stool. "Oi'm thinking o' getting larning." "Thinking o' getting larning!" the miner repeated in astonishment, "why, 'ee be just a dun o' getting larning. 'Ee ha' been at it for the last foive year, lad, and noo thou'st going to be done wi' it and to work in the pit." "Oi'm a going to work in the pit, dad, and oi'm a gwine to get larning too. Oi've made oop my mind, and oi'm gwine to do it." "But bain't 'ee got larning?" the miner said. "Thou canst read and write foine, which is more nor I can do and what dost want more?" "Oi'm a going to get larning," Jack said again, steadily repeating the formula, "and oi'm gwine soom day to be a manager." Bill Haden stared at the boy and then burst into a fit of laughter. "Well, this bangs a'." Mrs. Haden was as surprised but more sympathetic. "Bless the boy, what hast got in your head now?" Jack showed not the slightest sign of discomfiture at his father's laughter. "I met a chap to-day," he said in answer to Mrs. Haden, "as told I that if I made up my moind to work and joost stuck to 't, I could surely make a man o' myself, and might even roise soom day to be a manager; and I'm a going to do it." "Doant 'ee say a word to check the boy, Bill," Mrs. Haden said to her husband, as he was about to burst out into jeering remarks. "I tell 'ee, what Jack says he sticks to, and you oughter know that by this time. What the man, whos'ever he might be, said, was right, Jack," she went on, turning to the boy. "Larning is a great thing. So far you ain't showed any turn for larning, Jack, as I ever see'd, but if you get it you may raise yourself to be an overman or a viewer, though I doan't say a manager; that seems too far away altogether. If you stick to what you say you may do it, Jack. I can't help you in larning, for I ain't got none myself, but if I can help you in any other way I 'ull, and so 'ull feyther, though he does laugh a bit." "He be roight enough to laugh," Jack said, "for I hain't had any turn that way, I doant know as I ha' now, but I'm a going to try, and if trying can do it," he said in his steady tones, "oi'll do it. I think I ha' got some o' the bull-dog strain in me, and I'll hoult on to it as Bess would hoult on to a man's throat if she pinned him." "I know you will, my lad," Mrs. Haden said, while her husband, lighting his pipe and turning to go out, said: "It matters nowt to me one way or t'other, but moind, lad, larning or no larning, thou'st got to go into the pit next week and arn your living." "Jack," Mrs. Haden said presently, "dost know, I wouldn't do nowt wi' this new fancy o' thine, not till arter thou'st a been to work i' the pit for a while; a week or two will make no differ to 'ee, and thou doan't know yet how tired ye'll be when ye coom oop nor how thou'lt long for the air and play wi' lads o' thy own age. I believe, Jack, quite believe that thou be'st in arnest on it, and I know well that when thou dost begin thou'lt stick to 't. But it were better to wait till thou know'st what 'tis thou art undertaking." Jack felt that there was a good deal in what his mother said. "Very well, mother. 'Twant make no differ to me, but oi'll do as th' asks me." CHAPTER IV. THE VAUGHAN PIT. Among the group of men and boys assembled round the mouth of the Vaughan pit on the 7th of June were two little lads, Jack Simpson and Harry Shepherd, who were to make the descent for the first time. The boys were fast friends. Harry was the taller but was slighter than Jack, and far less sturdy and strong. Both were glad that they were to go into the pit, for although the life of a gate-boy is dull and monotonous, yet in the pit villages the boys look forward to it as marking the first step in a man's life, as putting school and lessons behind, and as raising them to a position far in advance of their former associates. Nowadays the law has stepped in, and the employment of such mere children in the mines is forbidden, but at that time it had not been changed, and if a boy was big enough to shut a door he was big enough to go into a mine. "Dost feel skeary, Jack?" Harry asked. "Noa," Jack said; "what be there to be skeary aboot? I bean't afeard of the dark, and they say in time 'ee get used to it, and can see pretty nigh loike a cat. There be dad a calling. Good-bye, Harry, I'll see thee to-night." The yard of the Vaughan resembled that of other large collieries. It was a large space, black and grimy, on which lines of rails were laid down in all directions; on these stood trains of waggons, while here and there were great piles of coal. In the centre rose up a lofty scaffolding of massive beams. At the top of this was the wheel over which a strong wire rope or band ran to the winding engine close by, while from the other end hung the cage, a wooden box some six feet square. At the corner of this box were clips or runners which fitted on to the guides in the shaft and so prevented any motion of swinging or swaying. So smoothly do these cages work that, standing in one as it is lowered or drawn up, only a very slight vibration or tremor tells that you are in motion. Near the square house in which stood the winding engine was another precisely similar occupied by the pumping engine. The Vaughan was worked by a single shaft divided by a strong wooden partition into two, one of these known as the downcast shaft, that is, the shaft through which the air descends into the mine, the other the upcast, through which the current, having made its way through all the windings and turnings of the roadways below, again ascends to the surface. This system of working by a single shaft, however, is very dangerous, as, in the event of an explosion, both shafts may become involved in the disaster and there will be no means of getting at the imprisoned miners. Nowadays all well-regulated mines have two shafts, one at a distance from the other, but this was less common thirty years back, and the Vaughan, like most of its neighbours, was worked with a single shaft. Each miner before descending went to the lamp-room and received a lighted "Davy." As almost every one is aware, the principle of this lamp, and indeed of all that have since been invented, is that flame will not pass through a close wire-gauze. The lamp is surrounded with this gauze, and although, should the air be filled with gas to an explosive point, it will ignite if it comes in contact with flame, the gauze prevents the light of the lamp from exploding the gas-charged air outside. When the air is of a very explosive character even the Davy-lamps have to be extinguished, as the heat caused by the frequent ignitions within the lamp raises the gauze to a red heat, and the gas beyond will take fire. Jack took his place in the cage with Bill Haden and as many others as it could contain. He gave a little start as he felt a sudden sinking; the sides of the shaft seemed to shoot up all round him, wet, shining, and black. A few seconds and the light of day had vanished, and they were in darkness, save that overhead was a square blue patch of sky every moment diminishing in size. "Be'st afeard, Jack?" Bill Haden asked, raising his lamp so as to get a sight of the boy's face. "Noa, why should I?" Jack said; "I heard 'ee say that the ropes were new last month, so there ain't nothin to be afeard on!" "That is the young un they call Bull-dog, ain't it, Bill?" "Ay!" Bill Haden answered; "he's game, he is; you can't make him yelp. I've licked him till I was tired, but he never whimpered. Now then, out you go;" and as the cage stopped the men all stepped out and started for the places in which they were working. "Coom along, Jack; the viewer told me to put you at No. 10 gate." It was ten minutes fast--and as Jack thought very unpleasant--walking. The sleepers on which the rails for the corves, or little waggons, were laid, were very slippery. Pools of water stood between them and often covered them, and blocks of coal of all sizes, which had shaken from the corves, lay in the road. When it was not water it was black mud. Sometimes a line of waggons full or empty stood on the rails, and to pass these they had to squeeze against the damp walls. Before he reached his post the gloss of Jack's new mining clothes had departed for ever. The white jumper was covered with black smears, and two or three falls on the slippery wooden sleepers had effectively blackened his canvas trousers. "There, lad," Bill Haden said at length, holding his lamp high to afford a general view of the situation; "that's your place." "The place" was a hollow like a cupboard, some five feet high, two deep, and a little wider. There was a wooden seat in it, a peg or two had been driven into the rock to hang things from, and a handful or so of hay upon the ground showed that Jack's predecessor had an idea of comfort. "There you are, and not a bad place either, Jack. You see this cord? Now when thou hearst a team of corves coming along, pull yon end and open the door. When they have passed let go the cord and the door shuts o' 'tself, for it's got a weight and pulley. It's thy business to see that it has shut, for if a chunk of coal has happened to fall and stops the door from shutting, the ventilation goes wrong and we all goes to kingdom come in no time. That's all thou'st got to do 'cept to keep awake. Of course you woan't do that; no boy does. So that you larn to wake up when the corves come along, that ull do foine." "But if I doan't?" Jack asked. "Well, if thou doan't thou'lt get waked with a cuff o' th' ear by the driver, and it depends on what sort o' chap he be how hard the cuff thou'lt get. I doan't think thou'lt feel lonely here, for along that side road they bring down other corves and the horse comes and takes 'em on. On this main road the horses go through to the upper end of the mine, half a mile farther." "How do it make a differ whether this door be open or shut, father?" "Well, lad, the air comes up the road we ha come by. Now it's wanted to go round about by the workings on that side road. This door be put to stop it from going by the straight road, so there's nothing for it but for to go round by the workings, maybe for a mile, maybe three miles, till it gets back into the main road again. So when the door is open the ventilation is checked right round the workings; so mind doan't 'ee open the door till the horse is close to it, and shut it directly it's past." When the door closed behind his foster-father, and Jack Simpson remained alone in the dense darkness, a feeling of utter loneliness and desertion stole over him. The blackness was intense and absolute; a low confused murmur, the reverberation of far-off noises in the pit, sounded in his ears. He spoke, and his voice sounded muffled and dull. "This be worse nor I looked for," the boy said to himself; "I suppose I'll get used to it, but I doan't wonder that some young uns who ain't strong as I be are badly frighted at first." Presently the confused noise seemed to get louder, then a distinct rumble was heard, and Jack felt with delight that a train of waggons was approaching. Then he saw far along the gallery a light swinging, as the man who bore it walked ahead of the horse. The water in the little pools between the sleepers reflected it in a score of little lines of light. Now he could hear the hollow splashing sound of the horses' hoofs, and prepared to answer to the shout of "door" by pulling at the string beside him. When the light came within twenty yards it changed its direction; he heard the grating of the wheels against the points, and saw that the waggons were going up the other road. There upon a siding they came to a stop, and a minute or two later a number of full waggons were brought down by another horse. A few words were exchanged by the drivers, but Jack's ear, unaccustomed to the echoes of a mine, could not catch what they said; then the first man hitched his horse on to the full waggons, and started for the shaft, while the other with the empties went up the road to the workings. The incident, slight as it had been, had altogether dissipated the feeling of uneasiness of which Jack had been conscious. Before, he had seemed shut out from the world, as if within a living tomb, but the sight of men engaged at their ordinary work close by him completely restored the balance of his mind, and henceforth he never felt the slightest discomfort at being alone in the dark. A few minutes after the rumbling of the departing train of "tubs" had died in his ear, he again heard it. Again he watched the slowly approaching light, and when it came within a few yards of him he heard the expected shout of "Gate!" He replied by a shout of "All right!" and as the driver came level with him pulled the cord and the door opened. "G'long, Smiler," the driver said, and the horse went forward. The man leaned forward and raised his lamp to Jack's face. "I thawt 'twasn't Jim Brown's voice. Who be'st thou?" "Jack Simpson; I live along wi' Bill Haden." "Ay, ay, I know'st, I knew thy father, a good sort he was too. Be'st thy first day doon the pit?" "Ay," Jack said. "Foind it dark and lonesome, eh? Thou'lt get used to it soon." "How often do the corves come along?" Jack asked as the man prepared to run on after the waggons, the last of which had just passed. "There be a set goes out every ten minutes, maybe, on this road, and every twenty minutes on the other, two o' ours to one o' theirs;" and he moved forward. Jack let the door slam after him, went out and felt that it had shut firmly, and then resumed his seat in his niche. He whistled for a bit, and then his thoughts turned to the learning which he had determined firmly to acquire. "I wish I'd ha' took to it afore," he said to himself. "What a sight o' time I ha' lost! I'll go over in my head all the lessons I can remember; and them as I doant know, and that's the best part, I reckon I'll look up when I get hoame. Every day what I learns fresh I'll go over down here. I shall get it perfect then, and it will pass the time away finely. I'll begin at oncet. Twice two is four;" and so Jack passed the hours of his first day in the pit, recalling his lessons, reproaching himself continually and bitterly with the time he had wasted, breaking off every ten minutes from his rehearsals to open the door for the train of corves going in empty and going out full, exchanging a few words each time with the drivers, all of whom were good-naturedly anxious to cheer up the new boy, who must, as they supposed, be feeling the loneliness of his first day in the pit keenly. Such was by no means the case with Jack, and he was quite taken by surprise when a driver said to him, "This be the last train this shift." "Why, it bean't nigh two o'clock, surely?" he said. "It be," the driver said; "wants ten minutes, that's all." Soon the miners began to come along. "Hullo, Jack!" Bill Haden's voice said. "Be'st still here. Come along of me. Why didst stop, lad? Thou canst always quit thy post when the first man comes through on his way out. Hast felt it lonely, lad?" "Not a bit, dad." "That's strange too," Bill said. "Most young boys finds it awful lonely o' first. I know I thowt that first day were never coming to an end. Weren't frighted at t' dark?" "I thought it was onnatural dark and still the first ten minutes," Jack admitted honestly; "but arter the first set o' corves came along I never thawt no more about the dark." "Here we are at the shaft, joomp in, there's just room for you and me." CHAPTER V. SETTING TO WORK. A week after Jack Simpson had gone to work in the "Vaughan" there was a knock one evening at the door of the schoolmaster of the Stokebridge National School. "Please, Mr. Merton, can I speak to 'ee?" "What, is that you, Jack Simpson!" the schoolmaster said, holding the candle so that its light fell upon the boy before him. "Yes, come in, my boy." The lad followed him into the parlour. "Sit down, Jack. Now what is it? Nothing the matter at home, I hope?" "Noa, sir. I wanted to ask 'ee what books I orter read, so that I may grow up a clever man?" "Bless me, Jack," Mr. Merton said, "why, I never expected this from you." "Noa, sir, but I ha' made up my mind to get on, and I means to work hard. I ha' been told, sir, that if I studies at books in all my spare time, and saves my money, and works well, I may get up high some day;" and the boy looked wistfully up in the master's face for a confirmation of what had been told him. "That's quite right, Jack, whoever told you. Hard work, study, thrift, and intelligence will take any lad from the bottom of the tree to the top. And you are quite in earnest, Jack?" "Quite, sir." The schoolmaster sat in silence for a little time. "Well, my boy, for a bit you must work at ordinary school-books, and get a fair general knowledge, and be careful to observe the way things are expressed--the grammar, I mean; read aloud when you are alone, and try in speaking to get rid of "thees" and "thous," and other mistakes of speech. I can lend you ordinary school-books, fit for you for the next four or five years, and will always explain any difficulties you may meet with. The books you will want afterwards you can buy second-hand at Wolverhampton or Birmingham. But there will be time to talk about that hereafter. What time have you to study? You have gone into the Vaughan pit, have you not?" "Yes, sir. I ha' time enough all day, for I ha' nowt to do but just to open and shut a door when the tubs come along; but I ha' no light." "The time must seem very long in the dark all day." "It do seem long, sir; and it will be wuss when I want to read, and know I am just wasting time. But I can read at home after work, when dad goes out. It's light now, and I could read out o' doors till nine o'clock. Mother would give me a candle now and again; and I should get on first rate in the pit, but the Vaughan is a fiery vein, and they ha' nowt but Daveys." "Well, my boy, here are a few books, which will suit you for a time. Let me know how you are getting on; and when you have mastered the books, let me know. Remember you want to learn them thoroughly, and not just well enough to rub through without getting the strap. But don't overdo it. You are a very small boy yet, and it is of as much importance for your future life that you should grow strong in body as well as in brain. So you must not give up play. If you were to do nothing but sit in the dark, and to study at all other times, you would soon become a fool. So you must give time to play as well as to work. Remember, do not be cast down with difficulties; they will pass by if you face them. There is an old saying, 'God helps those who help themselves.' And look here, Jack, I can tell you the best way to make the time pass quickly while you are in the dark. Set yourself sums to do in your head. You will find it difficult at first, but it will come easier with practice, and as you get on I will give you a book on 'mental arithmetic,' and you will find that there is nothing more useful than being able to make complicated calculations in your head." The next six months passed quickly with Jack Simpson. He started early with his father for the pit, and the hours there, which at first had seemed so long, slipped by rapidly as he multiplied, and added, and subtracted, finding that he could daily master longer lines of figures. Of an afternoon he played with the other pit boys, and after that worked steadily at his books till eleven o'clock, two hours after Bill Haden and his wife had gone to bed. Once a week he went in the evening to Mr. Merton, who was astonished at the progress that the boy was making, and willingly devoted an hour to explaining difficulties and helping him on with his work. Satisfied now that the boy was in earnest, Mr. Merton a few days afterwards took occasion, when Mr. Brook, the owner of the Vaughan mine, called in on school business, to tell him how one of the pit boys was striving to educate himself. "He is really in earnest, Merton; it is not a mere freak?" "No, Mr. Brook, the lad will stick to it, I'm sure. He goes by the nickname of Bull-dog, and I don't think he is badly named; he has both the pluck and the tenacity of one." "Very well, Merton; I am glad you spoke to me about it. I wish a few more boys would try and educate themselves for viewers and underground managers; it is difficult indeed to get men who are anything but working miners. I'll make a note of his name." A few days afterwards Mr. Brook, after going through the books, went over the mine with the underground manager. "Do the waggons often get off the metals along this road, Evans?" he asked, stopping at one of the doors which regulate the ventilation. "Pretty often, sir; the rails are not very true, and the sleepers want renewing." "It would be as well if there were an extra light somewhere here; it would be handy. This is Number Ten door, is it not?" "Yes sir." "Who is this? a new hand, is he not?" raising his lamp so as to have a full look at the lad, who was standing respectfully in the niche in the rock cut for him. "Yes, sir; he is the son of a hand who was killed in the pit some ten years ago--Simpson." "Ah! I remember," Mr. Brooks said. "Well, serve the boy a lamp out when he goes down of a day. You'll be careful with it, lad, and not let it fall?" "Oh yes, sir," Jack said, in a tone of delight; "and, please, sir, may I read when I am not wanted?" "Certainly you may," his master said; "only you must not neglect your work;" and then Mr. Brook went on, leaving Jack so overjoyed that for that afternoon at least his attempts at mental arithmetic were egregious failures. CHAPTER VI. "THE OLD SHAFT." In the corner of a rough piece of ground near the "Vaughan" was situated what was known as the old shaft. It had been made many years before, with a view to working coal there. The owners of the Vaughan, which at the time was just commencing work, had, however, bought up the ground, and as it adjoined their own and could be worked in connection with it, they stopped the sinking here. This was so long ago that the rubbish which had formed a mound round the mouth of the shaft had been long covered with vegetation, and a fence placed round the pit had fallen into decay. The shaft had been sunk some fifty fathoms, but was now full of water, to within forty feet of the surface. Some boards covered the top, and the adventurous spirits among the boys would drop stones through the openings between them, and listen to the splash as they struck the water below, or would light pieces of paper and watch them falling into the darkness, until they disappeared suddenly as they touched the water. The winch used in the process of excavation remained, and round it was a portion of the chain so old and rusty as to be worthless for any purpose whatever. Lengths had from time to time been broken off by boys, who would unwind a portion, and then, three or four pull together until the rust-eaten links gave way; and the boys came to the ground with a crash. It was a dirty game, however, dirty even for pit boys, for the yellow rust would stick to hands and clothes and be very difficult to remove. One Saturday afternoon a group of boys and girls of from ten to fourteen were playing in the field. Presently it was proposed to play king of the castle, or a game akin thereto, half a dozen holding the circular mound round the old pit, while the rest attacked them and endeavoured to storm the position. For some time the game went on with much shouting on the part of the boys and shrill shrieks from the girls, as they were pulled or pushed down the steep bank. "Let us make a charge a' together," said Jack Simpson, who although not thirteen was the leader of the attacking party. Then heading the rush he went at full speed at the castle. Harry Shepherd, who was one of the defenders, was at the top, but Jack had so much impetus that he gained his footing and thrust Harry violently backwards. The top of the bank was but three feet wide, and within sloped down to the mouth of the old pit shaft, fifteen feet below. Harry tottered, and to avoid falling backwards turned and with great strides ran down the bank. He was unable to arrest his course, but went through the rotten fence and on to the boarding of the shaft. There was a crash, a wild cry, and Harry disappeared from the sight of his horror-stricken companions. The rotten wood-work had given way and the boy had fallen into the old shaft. A panic seized the players, some rushed away at the top of their speed shouting, "Harry Shepherd has fallen down the old shaft!" others stood paralysed on the top of the mound; girls screamed and cried. Two only appeared to have possession of their wits. The one was Jack Simpson, the other was a girl of about twelve, Nelly Hardy. Jack did not hesitate an instant, but quickly ran down to the shaft, Nelly more quietly, but with an earnest set face, followed him. Jack threw himself down by the edge and peered down the shaft. "Harry, Harry," he shouted, "bee'st killed?" A sort of low cry came up. "He be alive, he be drowning," Jack exclaimed, "quick, get off them boords." Nelly at once attempted to aid Jack to lift the boards aside. "Coom," Jack shouted to the boys on the top, "what bee'st feared of? Thou art shamed by this lass here. Coom along and help us." Several of the boys hurried down, stung by Jack's taunt, and half the boards were soon pulled off. "What bee'st goin' to do, Jack?" "Go down, to be sure," Jack said. "Catch hold o' th' windlass." "The chain woan't hold you, Jack." "It maun hold me," Jack said. "It woan't hold two, Jack." "Lower away and hold thee jaw," Jack said; "I am going to send him up first if he be alive; lower away, I say." Jack caught hold of the end of the rusty chain, and the boys lowered away as rapidly as they could. Jack held on stoutly, and continued to shout, "Hold on, Harry, I be a-coming; another minute and I'll be with 'ee." The chain held firmly, and Jack swung downward safely. The shaft was of considerable size, and the openings in the planks had enabled the air to circulate freely, consequently there was no bad air. As Jack reached the water he looked eagerly round, and then gave a cry of joy. Above the water he saw a hand grasping a projecting piece of rock. Harry could not swim, but he had grasped the edge of a projecting stone near which he had fallen, and when his strength had failed, and he had sunk below the surface, his hand still retained its grasp. "Lower away," Jack shouted, and the chain was slackened. Jack could swim a little, just enough to cross the Stokebridge Canal where the water was only out of his depth for some fifteen feet in the middle. First he took off his handkerchief from his neck, a strong cotton birdseye, and keeping hold of the chain before him swam to the spot where the hand was above water. He had a terrible fear of its slipping and disappearing below the dark pool, and was careful to make a firm grasp at it. He was surprised to find the body was of no weight. Without a moment's delay he managed to bind the wrist fast to the chain with his handkerchief. "Above there," he shouted. "Ay," came down. "Wind up very steadily, don't jerk it now." Slowly the winch revolved and the body began to rise from the water. Jack clung to the stone which Harry had grasped and looked upwards. He wondered vaguely whether it would ever reach the top; he wondered whether the arm would pull out of the socket, and the body plump down into the water; he wondered how long he could hold on, and why his clothes seemed so heavy. He wondered whether, if his strength went before the chain came down again, his hand would hold on as Harry's had done, or whether he should go down to the bottom of the shaft. How far was it! Fifty fathoms, three hundred feet; he was fifty below the mouth, two hundred and fifty to sink; how long would his body be getting to the bottom? What would his mother and Bill Haden say? Would they ever try to get his body up? [Illustration: IN THE OLD SHAFT--WILL HE BE SAVED?] He was growing very weak. As from another world he had heard the shout from above when the body of Harry Shepherd reached the brink, and afterwards some vague murmurs. Presently his fingers slipped and he went down in the black pool. The chill of the water to his face, the sudden choking sensation, brought his senses back for a moment and he struck to the surface. There, touching the water, he saw the chain, and as he grasped it, heard the shouts of his comrades above calling to him. He was himself again now. The chain being some feet below the surface he managed to pass it round him, and to twist it in front. He was too exhausted to shout. He saw a great piece of paper on fire fluttering down, and heard a shout as its light showed him on the end of the chain; then he felt a jar and felt himself rising from the water; after that he knew nothing more until he opened his eyes and found himself lying on the bank. Nelly Hardy was kneeling by him and his head was in her lap. He felt various hands rubbing him and slapping the palms of his hands; his animation was quickly restored. He had swallowed but little water, and it was the close air of the shaft which had overpowered him. "Hallo!" he said, shaking himself, "let me up, I be all right; how's Harry?" Harry had not yet come round, though some of them, trying to restore him to consciousness, said that they had heard him breathe once. Jack as usual took the command, ordered all but two or three to stand back, told Nelly Hardy to lift Harry's head and undo his shirt, stripped him to the waist, and then set the boys to work to rub vigorously on his chest. Whether the efforts would have been successful is doubtful, but at this moment there was a sound of hurrying feet and of rapid wheels. Those who had started at the first alarm had reached the village and told the news, and most fortunately had met the doctor as he drove in from his rounds. A man with a rope had leaped into the gig, and the doctor as he drove off had shouted that hot blankets were to be prepared. When he reached the spot and heard that Harry had been brought to bank, he leapt out, climbed the mound, wrapped him in his coat, carried him down to his gig, and then drove back at full speed to Stokebridge, where with the aid of hot blankets and stimulants the lad was brought back to consciousness. Jack Simpson was the hero of the hour, and the pitmen, accustomed to face death as they were, yet marvelled at a boy trusting himself to a chain which looked unfit to bear its own weight only, and into the depth of a well where the air might have been unfit to breathe. Jack strenuously, and indeed angrily, disclaimed all credit whatever. "I didn't think nowt about the chain, nor the air, nor the water neither. I thought only o' Harry. It was me as had pushed him down, and I'd got to bring him oop. If I hadn't a gone down Nelly Hardy would ha' gone, though she be a lass and doan't know how to swim or to hold on by a chain, or nowt; but she'd ha' gone, I tell e'e, if I hadn't; I saw it in her face. She didn't say nowt, but she was ready to go. If she hadn't gone down to th' shaft none of them would ha gone. She's a rare plucked 'un, she is, I tell e'e." But in spite of Jack's indignant repudiation of any credit, the brave action was the talk of Stokebridge and of the neighbouring pit villages for some time. There are no men appreciate bravery more keenly than pitmen, for they themselves are ever ready to risk their lives to save those of others. Consequently a subscription, the limit of which was sixpence and the minimum a penny, was set on foot, and a fortnight later Jack was presented with a gold watch with an inscription. This was presented in the school-room, and Mr. Brook, who presided at the meeting, added on his own account a chain to match. It needed almost force on the part of Bill Haden to compel Jack to be present on this occasion. When he was led up, flushed with confusion, to Mr. Brook, amid the cheers of the crowd of those in the room, he listened with head hung down to the remarks of his employer. When that gentleman finished and held out the watch and chain, Jack drew back and held up his head. "I doan't loike it, sir; I pushed Harry in, and in course I went down to pick him out; besides, Harry's my chum, he be; was it loikely I should stand by and he drowning? I tell 'ee, sir, that you ain't said a word about the lass Nelly Hardy; she had pluck, she had. The boys ran away or stood and stared, but she came down as quiet as may be. I tell 'ee, sir, her face was pale, but she was as steady and as still as a man could ha' been, and did as I told her wi'out stopping for a moment and wi'out as much as saying a word. She'd ha' gone down if I'd told her to. Where be ye, Nelly Hardy? coom oot and let me show ye to Mr. Brook." But Nelly, who was indeed in the building, had shrunk away when Jack began to speak, and having gained the door, was on the point of flying, when she was seized and brought forward, looking shamefaced and sullen. "That be her, sir," Jack said triumphantly, "and I say this watch and chain ought to be hers, for she did much more for a lass than I did for a boy, and had no call to do't as I had." "I cannot give them to her, Jack," Mr. Brook said, "for the watch has been subscribed for you; but as a token of my appreciation of the bravery and presence of mind she has shown, I will myself present her with a silver watch and chain, with an inscription saying why it was given to her, and this she will, I am sure, value all her life." Perhaps she would, but at present her only thought was to get away. Her hair was all rough, she had on a tattered dress, and had only slipped in when those in charge of the door were intent upon hearing Mr. Brook's address. Without a word of thanks, the instant the hands restraining her were loosed she dived into the crowd and escaped like a bird from a snare. Satisfied that justice had been done, Jack now said a few words of thanks to his employer and the subscribers to his present, and the meeting then broke up, Jack returning with Bill Haden and his mother, both beaming with delight. "I be roight down glad, lad, I doan't know as I've been so glad since Juno's dam won the first prize for pure-bred bull-dogs at the Birmingham show. It seems joost the same sort o' thing, doan't it, Jane?" CHAPTER VII. FRIENDSHIP. Nelly Hardy had been unfortunate in her parents, for both drank, and she had grown up without care or supervision. She had neither brother nor sister. At school she was always either at the top or bottom of her class according as a fit of diligence or idleness seized her. She was a wild passionate child, feeling bitterly the neglect with which she was treated, her ragged clothes, her unkempt appearance. She was feared and yet liked by the girls of her own age, for she was generous, always ready to do a service, and good-tempered except when excited to passion. She was fonder of joining with the boys, when they would let her, in their games, and, when angered, was ready to hold her own against them with tooth and nail. So wild were her bursts of passion that they were sources of amusement to some of the boys, until Jack upon one occasion took her part, and fought and conquered the boy who had excited her. This was on the Saturday before the accident had taken place. For some days after the presentation no one saw her; she kept herself shut up in the house or wandered far away. Then she appeared suddenly before Jack Simpson and Harry Shepherd as they were out together. "I hate you, Jack Simpson," she said, "I hate you, I hate you;" and then dashed through the gap in the hedge by which she had come. "Well," Harry exclaimed in astonishment, "only to think!" "It be nat'ral enough," Jack said, "and I bain't surprised one bit. I orter ha' known better. I had only to ha' joodged her by myself and I should ha' seen it. I hated being dragged forward and talked at; it was bad enough though I had been made decent and clean scrubbed all over, and got my Soonday clothes on, but of course it would be worse for a lass anyway, and she was all anyhow, not expecting it. I ought to ha' known better; I thawt only o' my own feelings and not o' hers, and I'd beg her pardon a hundred times, but 'taint likely she'd forgive me. What is she a doing now?" The lads peered through the hedge. Far across the field, on the bank, the other side, lay what looked like a bundle of clothes. "She be a crying, I expect," Jack said remorsefully. "I do wish some big chap would a come along and give I a hiding; I wouldn't fight, or kick, or do nowt, I would just take it, it would serve me roight. I wonder whether it would do her any good to let her thrash me. If it would she'd be welcome. Look here, Harry, she bain't angry wi' you. Do thou go across to her and tell her how main sorry I be, and that I know I am a selfish brute and thought o' myself and not o' her, and say that if she likes I will cut her a stick any size she likes and let her welt me just as long as she likes wi'out saying a word." Harry was rather loath to go on such an errand, but being imperatively ordered by Jack he, as usual, did as his comrade wished. When he approached Nelly Hardy he saw that the girl was crying bitterly, her sobs shaking her whole body. "I be coom wi' a message," he began in a tone of apprehension, for he regarded Nelly as resembling a wild cat in her dangerous and unexpected attacks. The girl leapt to her feet and turned her flushed tear-stained cheeks and eyes, flashing with anger through the tears, upon him. "What dost want, Harry Shepherd? Get thee gone, or I'll tear the eyes from thy head." "I doan't coom o' my own accord," Harry said steadily, though he recoiled a little before her fierce outburst. "I came on the part o' Jack Simpson, and I've got to gi' you his message even if you do fly at me. I've got to tell you that he be main sorry, and that he feels he were a selfish brute in a thinking o' his own feelings instead o' thine. He says he be so sorry that if 'ee like he'll cut a stick o' any size you choose and ull let you welt him as long as you like wi'out saying a word. And when Jack says a thing he means it, so if you wants to wop him, come on." To Harry's intense surprise the girl's mood changed. She dropped on the ground again, and again began to cry. After standing still for some time and seeing no abatement in her sobs, or any sign of her carrying out the invitation of which he had been the bearer, Jack's emissary returned to him. "I guv her your message, Jack, and she said nowt, but there she be a crying still." "Perhaps she didn't believe you," Jack said; "I'd best go myself." First, with great deliberation, Jack chose a hazel stick from the hedge and tried it critically. When fully assured that it was at once lissom and tough, and admirably adapted for his purpose, he told Harry to go on home. "Maybe," Jack said, "she mayn't loike to use it and you a looking on. Doan't 'ee say a word to no un. If she likes to boast as she ha' welted me she ha' a roight to do so, but doan't you say nowt." Jack walked slowly across the field till he was close to the figure on the ground. Then he quietly removed his jacket and waistcoat and laid them down. Then he said: "Now, Nelly, I be ready for a welting, I ha' deserved it if ever a chap did, and I'll take it. Here's the stick, and he's a good un and will sting rare, I warrant." The girl sat up and looked at him through her tears. "Oh, Jack, and didst really think I wanted to welt thee?" "I didn't know whether thou didst or no, Nelly, but thou said thou hate'st me, and wi' good reason, so if thou likest to welt me here's the stick." The girl laughed through her tears. "Ah! Jack, thou must think that I am a wild cat, as John Dobson called me t'other day. Throw away that stick, Jack. I would rather a thousand times that thou laidst it on my shoulders than I on thine." Jack threw away the stick, put on his coat and waistcoat, and sat down on the bank. "What is it then, lass? I know I were cruel to have thee called forward, but I didn't think o't; but I had rather that thou beat me as I orter be beaten, than that thou should go on hating me." "I doan't hate thee, Jack, though I said so; I hate myself; but I like thee better nor all, thou art so brave and good." "No braver than thou, Nelly," Jack said earnestly; "I doan't understand why thou should first say thou hates me and then that thou doan't; but if thou are in earnest, that thou likest me, we'll be friends. I don't mean that we go for walks together, and such like, as some boys and girls do, for I ha' no time for such things, and I shouldn't like it even if I had; but I'll take thy part if anyone says owt to thee, and thou shalt tell me when thou art very bad at hoam"--for the failings of Nelly's parents were public property. "Thou shalt be a friend to me, not as a lass would be, but as Harry is, and thou woan't mind if I blow thee up, and tells 'ee of things. Thou stook to me by the side o' the shaft, and I'll stick to thee." "I'll do that," the girl said, laying her hand in his. "I'll be thy friend if thou'lt let me, not as lasses are, but as lads." And so the friendship was ratified, and they walked back together to the village. When he came to think it over, Jack was inclined to repent his bargain, for he feared that she would attach herself to him, and that he would have much laughter to endure, and many battles to fight. To his surprise Nelly did nothing of the sort. She would be at her door every morning as he went by to the pit and give him a nod, and again as he returned. Whenever other girls and boys were playing or sitting together, Nelly would make one of the group. If he said, as he often did say, "You, Nell Hardy come and sit by me," she came gladly, but she never claimed the place. She was ready to come or to go, to run messages and to do him good in any way. Jack had promised she should be his friend as Harry was, and as he got to like her more he would ask her or tell her to accompany them in their walks, or to sit on a low wall in some quiet corner and talk. Harry, stirred by his friend's example, had begun to spend half an hour a day over his old school-books. "Why dost like larning so much, Jack?" Nelly asked, as Jack was severely reproaching his friend with not having looked at a book for some days; "what good do it do?" "It raises folk in the world, Nell, helps 'em make their way up." "And dost thou mean to get oop i' the world?" "Ay, lass," Jack said, "if hard work can do it, I will; but it does more nor that. If a man knows things and loves reading it makes him different like, he's got summat to think about and talk about and care for beside public-houses and dorgs. Canst read, Nell?" "No, Jack," she said, colouring. "It bain't my fault; mother never had the pence to spare for schooling, and I was kept at hoam to help." Jack sat thoughtful for some time. "Wouldst like to learn?" "Ay." "Well, I'll teach thee." "Oh, Jack!" and she leapt up with flashing eyes; "how good thou be'est!" "Doan't," Jack said crossly; "what be there good in teaching a lass to spell? There's twopence, run down to the corner shop and buy a spelling-book; we'll begin at once." And so Nelly had her first lesson. [Illustration: NELLY'S FIRST LESSON.] After that, every afternoon, as Jack came home from work, the girl would meet him in a quiet corner off the general line, and for five minutes he would teach her, not hearing her say what she had learned, but telling her fresh sounds and combinations of letters. Five or six times he would go over them, and expected--for Jack was tyrannical in his ways--that she would carry them away with her and learn them by heart, and go through them again and again, so that when he questioned her during their longer talks she would be perfect. Then, the five minutes over, Jack would run on to make up for lost time, and be in as soon as Bill Haden. But however accurately Jack expected his pupil to learn, his expectations were surpassed. The girl beyond clearing up the room had nothing to do, and she devoted herself with enthusiasm to this work. Once she had mastered simple words and felt her own progress, her shyness as to her ignorance left her. She always carried her book in her pocket, and took to asking girls the pronunciation of larger words, and begging them to read a few lines to her; and sitting on the door-step poring over her book, she would salute any passer-by with: "Please tell us what is that word." When she could read easily, which she learned to do in two or three months, she borrowed left-off school-books from the girls, and worked slowly on, and two years later had made up for all her early deficiencies, and knew as much as any of those who had passed through the school. From the day of her compact of friendship with Jack her appearance and demeanour had been gradually changing. From the first her wild unkempt hair had been smoothly combed and braided, though none but herself knew what hours of pain and trouble it took her with a bit of a comb with three teeth alone remaining, to reduce the tangled mass of hair to order. Her companions stared indeed with wonder on the first afternoon, when, thus transformed and with clean face, she came among them, with a new feeling of shyness. "Why, it be Nelly Hardy!" "Why, Nell, what ha' done to t'yself? I shouldn't ha' known ye." "Well, ye be cleaned up surely." The girl was half inclined to flame out at their greetings, but she knew that the surprise was natural, and laughed good-humouredly. She was rewarded for her pains when Jack and some other boys, passing on their way to play, Jack stopped a moment and said to her quietly, "Well done, lass, thou lookst rarely, who'd ha' thought thou wert so comely!" As time went on Nelly Hardy grew altogether out of her old self. Sometimes, indeed, bursts of temper, such as those which had gained her the name of the "Wild Cat," would flare out, but these were very rare now. She was still very poorly dressed, for her house was as wretched as of old, but there was an attempt at tidiness. Her manner, too, was softer, and it became more and more quiet as things went on, and her playmates wondered again and again what had come over Nell Hardy; she had got to be as quiet as a mouse. The boys at first were disposed to joke Jack upon this strange friendship, but Jack soon let it be understood that upon that subject joking was unacceptable. "She stood by me," he said, "and I'm a-going to stand by her. She ain't got no friends, and I'm going to be her friend. She's quiet enough and doan't bother, no more nor if she were a dorg. She doan't get in no one's way, she doan't want to play, and sits quiet and looks on, so if any of you doan't like her near ye, you can go away to t' other side o' field. I wish she'd been a boy, 'twould ha' been fitter all ways, but she can't help that. She's got the sense o' one. and the pluck, and I like her. There!" CHAPTER VIII. PROGRESS. "Bless me, lad, another poond o' candles! I never did hear o' sich waste," Mrs. Haden exclaimed as Jack entered the cottage on a winter's afternoon, two years and a half after he had gone into the pit. "Another poond o' candles, and it was only last Monday as you bought the last--nigh two candles a night. Thou wilt kill thyself sitting up reading o' nights, and thy eyes will sink i' thy head, and thou'lt be as blind as a bat afore thou'rt forty." "I only read up to eleven, mother, that gives me six hours abed, and as thou know, six for a man, seven for a woman, is all that is needful; and as to the expense, as dad lets me keep all my earnings save five bob a week--and very good o' him it is; I doan't know no man in the pit as does as much--why, I ha' plenty o' money for my candles and books, and to lay by summat for a rainy day." "Aye, aye, lad, I know thou be'st not wasteful save in candles; it's thy health I thinks o'." "Health!" Jack laughed; "why, there ain't a lad in the pit as strong as I am of my age, and I ha' never ailed a day yet, and doan't mean to." "What ha' ye been doing all the arternoon, Jack?" "I ha' been sliding in the big pond wi' Harry Shepherd and a lot o' others. Then Dick Somers, he knocked down Harry's little sister Fan, as she came running across th' ice, and larfed out when she cried--a great brute--so I licked he till he couldn't see out o' his eyes." "He's bigger nor thee, too," Mrs. Haden said admiringly. "Aye, he's bigger," Jack said carelessly, "but he ain't game, Dick ain't; loses his temper, he does, and a chap as does that when he's fighting ain't o' no account. But I must not stand a clappeting here; it's past six, and six is my time." "Have your tea first, Jack, it's a' ready; but I do believe thou'dst go wi'out eating wi'out noticing it, when thou'st got thy books in thy head." Jack sat down and drank the tea his mother poured out for him, and devoured bread and butter with a zest that showed that his appetite was unimpaired by study. As soon as he had finished he caught up his candle, and with a nod to Mrs. Haden ran upstairs to his room. Jack Simpson's craze for learning, as it was regarded by the other lads of Stokebridge, was the subject of much joking and chaff among them. Had he been a shy and retiring boy, holding himself aloof from the sports of his mates, ridicule would have taken the place of joking, and persecution of chaff. But Jack was so much one of themselves, a leader in their games, a good fellow all round, equally ready to play or to fight, that the fact that after six o'clock he shut himself up in his room and studied, was regarded as something in the nature of a humorous joke. When he had first begun, his comrades all predicted that the fit would not last, and that a few weeks would see the end of it; but weeks and months and years had gone by, and Jack kept on steadily at the work he had set himself to do. Amusement had long died away, and there grew up an unspoken respect for their comrade. "He be a rum 'un, be Jack," they would say; "he looves games, and can lick any chap his age anywhere round, and yet he shoots himself oop and reads and reads hours and hours every day, and he knows a heap, Bull-dog does." Not that Jack was in the habit of parading his acquirements; indeed he took the greatest pains to conceal them and to show that in no respect did he differ from his playfellows. The two hours which he now spent twice a week with Mr. Merton, and his extensive reading, had modified his rough Staffordshire dialect, and when with his master he spoke correct English almost free of provincialisms, although with his comrades of the pit he spoke as they spoke, and never introduced any allusion to his studies. All questions as to his object in spending his evenings with his books were turned aside with joking answers, but his comrades had accidentally discovered that he possessed extraordinary powers of calculation. One of the lads had vaguely said that he wondered how many buckets of water there were in the canal between Stokebridge and Birmingham, a distance of eighteen miles, and Jack, without seeming to think of what he was doing, almost instantaneously gave the answer to the question. For a moment all were silent with surprise. "I suppose that be a guess, Jack, eh?" Fred Orme asked. "Noa," Jack said, "that's aboot roight, though I be sorry I said it; I joost reckoned it in my head." "But how didst do that, Jack?" his questioner asked, astonished, while the boys standing round stared in silent wonder. "Oh! in my head," Jack said carelessly; "it be easy enough to reckon in your head if you practise a little." "And canst do any sum in thy head, Jack, as quick as that?" "Not any sum, but anything easy, say up to the multiplication or division by eight figures." "Let's try him," one boy said. "All right, try away," Jack said. "Do it first on a bit of paper, and then ask me." The boys drew off in a body, and a sum was fixed upon and worked out with a great deal of discussion. At last, after a quarter of an hour's work, when all had gone through it and agreed that it was correct, they returned and said to him, "Multiply 324,683 by 459,852." Jack thought for a few seconds and then taking the pencil and paper wrote down the answer: 149,306,126,916. "Why, Jack, thou be'est a conjurer," one exclaimed, while the others broke out into a shout of astonishment. From that time it became an acknowledged fact that Jack Simpson was a wonder, and that there was some use in studying after all; and after their games were over they would sit round and ask him questions which they had laboriously prepared, and the speed and accuracy of his answers were a never-failing source of wonder to them. As to his other studies they never inquired; it was enough for them that he could do this, and the fact that he could do it made them proud of him in a way, and when put upon by the pitmen it became a common retort among them, "Don't thou talk, there's Jack Simpson, he knows as much as thee and thy mates put together. Why, he can do a soom as long as a slaate as quick as thou'd ask it." Jack himself laughed at his calculating powers, and told the boys that they could do the same if they would practise, believing what he said; but in point of fact this was not so, for the lad had an extraordinary natural faculty for calculation, and his schoolmaster was often astonished by the rapidity with which he could prepare in his brain long and complex calculations, and that in a space of time little beyond that which it would take to write the question upon paper. So abnormal altogether was his power in this respect that Mr. Merton begged him to discontinue the practice of difficult calculation when at work. "It is a bad thing, Jack, to give undue prominence to one description of mental labour, and I fear that you will injure your brain if you are always exercising it in one direction. Therefore when in the pit think over other subjects, history, geography, what you will, but leave calculations alone except when you have your books before you." CHAPTER IX. THE GREAT STRIKE. It was Saturday afternoon, a time at which Stokebridge was generally lively. The men, (dinner over, and the great weekly wash done,) usually crowded the public-houses, or played bowls and quoits on a piece of waste land known as "the common," or set off upon a spree to Birmingham or Wolverhampton, or sat on low walls or other handy seats, and smoked and talked. But upon this special Saturday afternoon no one settled down to his ordinary pursuits, for the men stood talking in groups in the street, until, as the hour of four approached, there was a general move towards the common. Hither, too, came numbers of men from the colliery villages round, until some four or five thousand were gathered in front of an old "waste tip" at one corner of the common. Presently a group of some five or six men came up together, made their way through the throng, and took their stand on the edge of the tip, some twenty feet above the crowd. These were the delegates, the men sent by the union to persuade the colliers of Stokebridge and its neighbourhood to join in a general strike for a rise of wages. The women of the village stand at their doors, and watch the men go off to the meeting, and then comment to each other concerning it. "I ain't no patience wi' 'em, Mrs. Haden," said one of a group of neighbours who had gathered in front of her house; "I don't hold by strikes. I have gone through three of 'em, bad un's, besides a score of small un's, and I never knowed good come on 'em. I lost my little Peg in the last--low fever, the doctor called it, but it was starvation and nothing more." "If I had my way," said Mrs. Haden, "I'd just wring the heads off they delegates. They come here and 'suades our men to go out and clem rather than take a shilling a week less, just a glass o' beer a day, and they gets their pay and lives in comfort, and dunna care nowt if us and th' childer all dies off together." "Talk o' woman's rights, as one hears about, and woman's having a vote; we ought to have a vote as to strikes. It's us as bears the worse o't, and we ought to have a say on't; if we did there wouldn't be another strike in the country." "It's a burning shame," another chimed in; "here us and the childer will have to starve for weeks, months may be, and all the homes will be broke up, and the furniture, which has took so long to get together, put away, just because the men won't do with one glass of beer less a day." "The union's the curse of us a'," Mrs. Haden said. "I know what it'll be--fifteen bob a week for the first fortnight, and then twelve for a week, and then ten, and then eight, and then six, and then after we've clemmed on that for a month or two, the union'll say as the funds is dry, and the men had best go to work on the reduction. I knows their ways, and they're a cuss to us women." "Here be'st thy Jack. He grows a proper lad that." "Ay," Jane Haden agreed, "he's a good lad, none better; and as for learning, the books that boy knows is awesome; there's shelves upon shelves on 'em upstairs, and I do believe he's read 'em all a dozen times. Well, Jack, have ee cum from meeting?" "Ay, mother; I heard them talk nonsense till I was nigh sick, and then I comed away." "And will they go for the strike, Jack?" "Ay, they'll go, like sheep through a gate. There's half a dozen or so would go t'other way, but the rest won't listen to them. So for the sake of a shilling a week we're going to lose thirty shillings a week for perhaps twenty weeks; so if we win we sha'n't get the money we've throw'd away for twenty times thirty weeks, mother, and that makes eleven years and twenty-eight weeks." Jack Simpson was now sixteen years old, not very tall for his age, but square and set. His face was a pleasant one, in spite of his closely cropped hair. He had a bright fearless eye and a pleasant smile; but the square chin, and the firm determined lines of the mouth when in rest, showed that his old appellation of Bull-dog still suited him well. After working for four years as a gate-boy and two years with the waggons, he had just gone in to work with his adopted father in the stall, filling the coal in the waggon as it was got down, helping to drive the wedges, and at times to use the pick. As the getters--as the colliers working at bringing down the coal are called--are paid by the ton, many of the men have a strong lad working with them as assistant. "Is t' dad like to be at home soon, Jack?" Mrs. Haden asked, as she followed him into the house. "Not he, mother. They pretty well all will be getting themselves in order for earning nothing by getting drunk to-night, and dad's not slack at that. Have you got tea ready, mother?" "Ay, lad." "I've made up my mind, mother," the boy said, as he ate his slice of bacon and bread, "that I shall go over to Birmingham to-morrow, and try to get work there. John Ratcliffe, the engineman, is going to write a letter for me to some mates of his there. The last two years, when I've been on the night-shift, I have gone in and helped him a bit pretty often in the day, so as to get to know something about an engine, and to be able to do a job of smith's work; anyhow, he thinks I can get a berth as a striker or something of that sort. I'd rather go at once, for there will be plenty of hands looking out for a job before long, when the pinch begins, and I don't want to be idle here at home." "They've promised to give some sort o' allowance to non-unionists, Jack." "Yes, mother, but I'd rather earn it honestly. I'm too young to join the union yet, but I have made up my mind long ago never to do it. I mean to be my own master, and I ain't going to be told by a pack of fellows at Stafford or Birmingham whether I am to work or not, and how much I am to do, and how many tubs I am to fill. No, mother, I wasn't born a slave that I know of, and certainly don't mean to become one voluntarily." "Lor, how thou dost talk, Jack! Who'd take 'ee to be a pitman?" "I don't want to be taken for anything that I am not, mother. What with reading and with going two hours twice a week of an evening for six years, to talk and work with Mr. Merton, I hope I can express myself properly when I choose. As you know, when I'm away from you I talk as others do, for I hate any one to make remarks. If the time ever comes when I am to take a step up, it will be time enough for them to talk; at present, all that the other lads think of me is, that I am fond of reading, and that I can lick any fellow of my own age in the mine," and he laughed lightly. "And now, mother, I shall go in and tell Mr. Merton what I have made up my mind to do." Mr. Merton listened to Jack's report of his plans in silence, and then after a long pause said: "I have been for some time intending to talk seriously to you, Jack, about your future, and the present is a good time for broaching the subject. You see, my boy, you have worked very hard, and have thrown your whole strength into it for six years. You have given no time to the classics or modern languages, but have put your whole heart into mathematics; you have a natural talent for it, and you have had the advantage of a good teacher. I may say so," he said, "for I was third wrangler at Cambridge." "You, sir!" Jack exclaimed in astonishment. "Yes, lad, you may well be surprised at seeing a third wrangler a village schoolmaster, but you might find, if you searched, many men who took as high a degree, in even more humble positions. I took a fellowship, and lived for many years quietly upon it; then I married, and forfeited my fellowship. I thought, like many other men, that because I had taken a good degree I could earn my living. There is no greater mistake. I had absolutely no knowledge that was useful that way. I tried to write; I tried to get pupils: I failed all round. Thirteen years ago, after two years of marriage, my wife died; and in despair of otherwise earning my bread, and sick of the struggle I had gone through, I applied for this little mastership, obtained it, and came down with Alice, then a baby of a year old. I chafed at first, but I am contented now, and no one knows that Mr. Merton is an ex-fellow of St. John's. I had still a little property remaining, just enough to have kept Alice always at a good school. I do not think I shall stay here much longer. I shall try to get a larger school, in some town where I may find a few young men to teach of an evening. I am content for myself; but Alice is growing up, and I should wish, for her sake, to get a step up in the world again. I need not say, my lad, that I don't want this mentioned. Alice and you alone know my story. So you see," he went on more lightly, "I may say you have had a good teacher. Now, Jack, you are very high up in mathematics. Far higher than I was at your age; and I have not the slightest doubt that you will in a couple of years be able to take the best open scholarship of the year at Cambridge, if you try for it. That would keep you at college, and you might hope confidently to come out at least as high as I did, and to secure a fellowship, which means three or four hundred a year, till you marry. But to go through the university you must have a certain amount of Latin and Greek. You have a good two years, before you have to go up, and if you devote yourself as steadily to classics as you have to mathematics, you could get up enough to scrape through with. Don't give me any answer now, Jack. The idea is, of course, new to you. Think it very quietly over, and we can talk about it next time you come over from Birmingham." "Yes, sir, thank you very much," Jack said, quietly; "only, please tell me, do you yourself recommend it?" The schoolmaster was silent for a while. "I do not recommend one way or the other, Jack. I would rather leave it entirely to you. You would be certain to do well in one way there. You are, I believe, equally certain to do well here, but your advance may be very much slower. And now, Jack, let us lay it aside for to-night. I am just going to have tea, I hope you will take a cup with us." Jack coloured with pleasure. It was the first time that such an invitation had been given to him, and he felt it as the first recognition yet made that he was something more than an ordinary pit-boy; but for all that he felt, when he followed his master into the next room, that he would have rather been anywhere else. It was a tiny room, but daintily furnished--a room such as Jack had never seen before; and by the fire sat a girl reading. She put down her book as her father entered with a bright smile; but her eyes opened a little wider in surprise as Jack followed him in. "My dear Alice, this is my pupil, Jack Simpson, who is going to do me great credit, and make a figure in the world some day. Jack, this is my daughter, Miss Merton." Alice held out her hand. "I have heard papa speak of you so often," she said, "and of course I have seen you come in and out sometimes when I have been home for the holidays." "I have seen you in church," Jack said, making a tremendous effort to shake off his awkwardness. Jack Simpson will to the end of his life look back upon that hour as the most uncomfortable he ever spent. Then for the first time he discovered that his boots were very heavy and thick; then for the first time did his hands and feet seem to get in his way, and to require thought as to what was to be done with them; and at the time he concluded that white lace curtains, and a pretty carpet, and tea poured out by a chatty and decidedly pretty young lady, were by no means such comfortable institutions as might have been expected. It was two months from the commencement of the strike before Jack Simpson returned from Birmingham, coming home to stay from Saturday till Monday. Nothing can be more discouraging than the appearance of a colliery village where the hands are on strike. For the first week or two there is much bravado, and anticipation of early victory; and as money is still plentiful, the public-houses do a great trade. But as the stern reality of the struggle becomes felt, a gloom falls over the place. The men hang about listlessly, and from time to time straggle down to the committee-room, to hear the last news from the other places to which the strike extends, and to try to gather a little confidence therefrom. At first things always look well. Meetings are held in other centres, and promises of support flow in. For a time money arrives freely, and the union committee make an allowance to each member, which, far below his regular pay as it is, is still amply sufficient for his absolute wants. But by the end of two months the enthusiasm which the strike excited elsewhere dies out, the levies fall off, and the weekly money scarce enables life to be kept together. It is distinctive of almost all strikes, that the women, beforehand averse to the movement, when it has once begun, throw themselves heartily into the struggle. From the time it is fairly entered upon until its termination it is rare indeed to hear a collier's wife speak a word against it. When the hardest pinch comes, and the children's faces grow thin and white, and the rooms are stripped of furniture, much as the women may long for an end of it, they never grumble, never pray their husbands to give in. This patient submission to their husbands' wills--this silent bearing of the greatest of suffering, namely, to see children suffer and to be unable to relieve them--is one of the most marked features of all great strikes in the coal districts. "Well, mother, and how goes it?" Jack asked cheerfully after the first greetings. "We be all right, Jack; if we ain't we ought to be, when we've got no children to keep, and get nigh as much as them as has." "Eight shillings a week now, ain't it?" Mrs. Haden nodded. Jack looked round. "Holloa!" he said, "the clock's gone, and the new carpet!" "Well, you see, my boy," Mrs. Haden said, hesitatingly, "Bill is down-hearted sometimes, and he wants a drop of comfort." "I understand," Jack said significantly. "Jack,"--and she again spoke hesitatingly--"I wish ee'd carry off all they books out o' thy little room. There's scores of 'em, and the smallest would fetch a glass o' beer. I've kept the door locked, but it might tempt him, my boy--not when he's in his right senses, you know, he'd scorn to do such a thing; but when he gets half on, and has no more money, and credit stopped, the craving's too much for him, and he'd sell the bed from under him--anything he's got, I do believe, except his pups;" and she pointed to some of Juno's great grandchildren, which were, as usual, lying before the fire, a mere handful of coal now, in comparison with past times. "I'll pick out a parcel of them that will be useful to me," Jack said, "and take them away. The rest may go. And now look here, mother. After paying you for my board, I have had for a long time now some eight shillings a week over. I have spent some in books, but second-hand books are very cheap--as dad will find when he tries to sell them. So I've got some money put by. It don't matter how much, but plenty to keep the wolf away while the strike lasts. But I don't mean, mother, to have my savings drunk away. I'm getting sixteen bob a week, and I can live on ten or eleven, so I'll send you five shillings a week. But dad mustn't know it. I'll be home in a month again, and I'll leave you a pound, so that you can get food in. If he thinks about it at all, which ain't likely, you can make out you get it on tick. Well, dad, how are you?" he asked, as Bill Haden entered the cottage. "Ah, Jack, lad, how be it with 'ee?" "All right, dad; getting on well. And how are things here?" "Bad, Jack. Those scoundrels, the masters, they won't give in; but we're bound to beat 'em--bound to. If they don't come to our terms we mean to call the engine-men, and the hands they've got to keep the ways clear, out of the pits. That'll bring 'em to their senses quick enough. I've been for it all along." "Call off the engine-hands!" Jack said, in tones of alarm; "you ain't going to do such a mad thing as that! Why, if the water gains, and the mines get flooded, it'll be weeks, and maybe months, before the mines can be cleared and put in working order; and what will you all be doing while that's being done?" "It'll bring 'em to their senses, lad," Bill Haden said, bringing his hand down on the table with a thump. "They mean to starve us; we'll ruin them. There, let's have the price of a quart, Jack; I'm dry." Jack saw that argument against this mad scheme would be of no use, for his foster-father was already half-drunk, so he handed him a shilling, and with a shrug of his shoulders walked off to Mr. Merton's. He had long since written to his master, saying that he preferred working his way up slowly in mining, to entering upon a new life, in which, however successful he might be at college, the after course was not clear to him; and his teacher had answered in a tone of approval of his choice. On his way he stopped at the houses of many of his boy friends, and was shocked at the misery which already prevailed in some of them. Harry Shepherd's home was no better than the others. "Why, Harry, I should scarce have known you," he said, as the lad came to the door when he opened it and called him. "You look bad, surely." "We're a big family, Jack; and the extra children's allowance was dropped last week. There's eight of us, and food's scarce. Little Annie's going fast, I think. The doctor came this morning, and said she wanted strengthening food. He might as well ha' ordered her a coach-and-four. Baby died last week, and mother's ailing. You were right, Jack; what fools we were to strike! I've been miles round looking for a job, but it's no use; there's fifty asking for every place open." The tears came into Jack's eyes as he looked at the pinched face of his friend. "Why did you not write to me?" he asked, almost angrily. "I told you where a letter would find me; and here are you all clemming, and me know nought of it. It's too bad. Now look here, Harry, I must lend you some money--you know I've got some put by, and you and your father can pay me when good times come again. Your dad gets his eight shillings from the union, I suppose?" "Yes," the lad answered. "Well, with fifteen shillings a week you could make a shift to get on. So I'll send you ten shillings a week for a bit; that'll be seven shillings to add to the eight, and the other three will get meat to make broth for Annie. The strike can't last much over another month, and that won't hurt me one way or the other. Here's the first ten shillings; put it in your pocket, and then come round with me to the butcher and I'll get a few pounds of meat just to start you all. There, don't cry, and don't say anything, else I'll lick you." But when Jack himself entered the schoolmaster's house, and was alone with Mr. Merton, he threw himself in a chair and burst into tears. "It is awful, sir, awful. To see those little children, who were so noisy and bright when I went away, so pale, and thin, and quiet now. Poor little things! poor little things! As to the men, they are starving because they don't choose to work, and if they like it, let them; even the women I don't pity so much, for if they did right they would take broomsticks and drive the men to work; but the children, it's dreadful!" "It is dreadful, Jack, and it makes me feel sick and ill when I go into the infant-school. The clergyman's wife has opened a sort of soup-kitchen, and a hundred children get a bowl of soup and a piece of bread at dinner-time every day, and they sell soup under cost price to the women. Mr. Brook has given fifty pounds towards it." "Look here, sir," Jack said; "you know I've over fifty pounds laid by--and money can't be better spent than for the children. The strike can't last over a month, or six weeks at the outside, and maybe not that. I'll give you three pounds a week, if you will kindly hand it over to Mrs. Street, and say it's been sent you. But it's to go to feeding children. Let me see; the soup don't cost above a penny a bowl, and say a halfpenny for a hunch of bread. So that will give a good many of 'em a dinner every day. Will you do that for me, sir?" "I will, my boy," Mr. Merton said heartily. "You may save many a young life." "Well, sir, and what do you think of things?" "I fear we shall have trouble, Jack. Last night there was rioting over at Crawfurd; a manager's house was burnt down, and some policemen badly hurt. There is angry talk all over the district, and I fear we shall have it here." When Jack started on Sunday evening for Birmingham, his last words to his mother were: "Mind, mother, the very first word you hear about violence or assault, you post this envelope I have directed, to me. I will come straight back. I'll keep father out of it somehow; and I'll do all I can to save Mr. Brook's property. He's a good master, and he's been specially kind to me, and I won't have him or his property injured." "Why, lauk a' mercy, Jack, you ain't going to fight the whole place all by yourself, are you?" "I don't know what I am going to do yet," Jack said; "but you may be quite sure I shall do something." And as his mother looked at the set bull-dog expression of his mouth and jaw, she felt that Jack was thoroughly in earnest. CHAPTER X. HARD TIMES. It was when the pinch came, the subscriptions fell off, and the weekly payments by the union dwindled to a few shillings for the support of a whole family, that the rough virtues of the people of the mining districts came strongly into prominence. Starvation was doing its work, and told first upon the women and children. Little faces, awhile since so rosy and bright, grew thin and pinched, chubby arms shrank until the bone could almost be seen through the skin, and low fever, a sure accompaniment of want, made its appearance. No more tender and devoted nurses could be found than the rough women, who hushed their voices, and stole with quiet feet around the little beds, letting fall many a silent tear when the sufferer asked for little things, for tea or lemonade, which there were no means to purchase, or when the doctor shook his head and said that good food and not medicine was needed. The pitmen themselves would saunter aimlessly in and out of the houses, so changed from the cottages well stocked with furniture, with gay-coloured pictures on the wall, an eight-day clock, and many another little valuable, and all gone one after another. Very many of them lived upon the scantiest allowance of dry bread which would keep life together, in order that the allowance might all go for the children, retaining as their sole luxury a penny or two a week for the purchase of a pipe or two of tobacco daily. Had it not been for the soup-kitchen scores of children would have died, but the pint of soup and the slice of bread enabled them to live. There was no talk of surrender yet, although compromises, which would at first have been indignantly rejected, were now discussed, and a deputation had waited upon Mr. Brook, but the owner refused to enter into any compromise. "No, never," he said; "you have chosen to join the hands of the other pits in an endeavour to force your employers into giving you a higher rate of wages than they can afford to pay. I, therefore, have joined the other employers. We know, what you cannot know, what are our expenses, and what we can afford to pay, and we will accept no dictation whatever from the men as to their rate of wages. If I prefer, as I do prefer, that the colliery should stand idle, to raising your rate of wages, it is a clear proof that I should lose money if I agreed to your demand. If needs be I would rather that the pit was closed for a year, or for ten years. We have bound ourselves together to make no advance, just as you have bound yourselves not to go to work at the old rate. When you choose to go in at that rate there are your places ready for you, but I will give way in no single point, I will not pay a halfpenny a ton more than before. You best know how long you can hold out. Don't let it be too long, lads, for the sake of your wives and children; remember that the time may come, when, thinking over some empty chair, recalling some little face you will never see again, you will curse your folly and obstinacy in ruining your homes, and destroying those dependent upon you in a struggle in which it was from the first certain that you could not win, and in which, even if you won, the amount at stake is not worth one day of the suffering which you are inflicting upon those you love." Left to themselves the men would have much sooner given in, would indeed never have embarked on the strike, but the influence of the union being over them, they feared to be called "black sheep," and to be taunted with deserting the general cause, and so the strike went on. The tale of the suffering over the wide district affected by the strike was told through the land, and the subscriptions of the benevolent flowed in. Public opinion was, however, strongly opposed to the strike, and for the most part the money was subscribed wholly for soup-kitchen, for children, and for relief of the sick. But the area was wide, there were scores of villages as badly off as Stokebridge, and the share of each of the general fund was very small. A local committee was formed, of which the vicar was at the head, for the management of the funds, and for organizing a body of nurses. All the women who had no children of their own were enrolled upon its lists, and many of the girls of the sewing-class volunteered their services. No one during this sad time devoted herself more untiringly and devotedly than Nelly Hardy. The quiet manner, the steady and resolute face, rendered her an excellent nurse, and as her father and mother were, perforce, sober, she could devote her whole time to the work. A portion of the funds was devoted to the preparation of the articles of food and drink necessary for the sick, and the kitchen of the schoolroom was freely employed in making milk-puddings, barley-water, and other things which brought pleasure and alleviation to the parched little lips for which they were intended. The distress grew daily more intense. The small traders could no longer give credit; the pawnbrokers were so overburdened with household goods that they were obliged absolutely to decline to receive more; the doctors were worn out with work; the guardians of the poor were nearly beside themselves in their efforts to face the frightful distress prevailing; and the charitable committee, aided as they were by subscriptions from without, could still do but little in comparison to the great need. Jane Haden and the other women without families, did their best to help nurse in the houses where sickness was rife. The children were mere shadows, and the men and women, although far less reduced, were yet worn and wasted by want of food. And still the strike went on, still the men held out against the reduction. Some of the masters had brought men from other parts, and these had to be guarded to and from their work by strong bodies of police, and several serious encounters had taken place. Some of the hands were wavering now, but the party of resistance grew more and more violent, and the waverers dared not raise their voices. The delegates of the union went about holding meetings, and assuring their hearers that the masters were on the point of being beaten, and must give way; but they were listened to in sullen and gloomy silence by the men. Then came muttered threats and secret gatherings; and then Jane Haden, obedient to her promise, but very doubtful as to its wisdom, posted the letter Jack had left with her. It was three o'clock next day before he arrived, for he had not received the letter until he went out for his breakfast, and he had to go back to his work and ask to be allowed to go away for the afternoon on particular business, for which he was wanted at home. "Well, mother, what is it?" was his first question on entering. "I oughtn't to tell 'ee, Jack; and I do believe Bill would kill me if he knew." "He won't know, mother, and you must tell me," Jack said quietly. "Well, my boy, yesterday afternoon Bill came in here with eight or ten others. I were upstairs, but I suppose they thought I were out, and as I did not want to disturb 'em, and was pretty nigh worn out--I had been up three nights with Betsy Mullin's girl--I sat down and nigh dozed off. The door was open, and I could hear what they said downstairs when they spoke loud. At first they talked low, and I didn't heed what they were saying; then I heard a word or two which frighted me, and then I got up and went quiet to my door and listened. Jack, they are going to wreck the engines, so as to stop the pumping and drown the mines. They are going to do for the 'Vaughan,' and the 'Hill Side,' and 'Thorns,' and the 'Little Shaft,' and 'Vale.' It's to be done to-night, and they begin with the 'Vaughan' at ten o'clock, 'cause it's closest, I suppose." "They are mad," Jack said sternly. "How are they to earn bread if they flood the mines? and it will end by a lot of them being sent to jail for years. But I'll stop it if it costs me my life." "Oh, Jack! don't 'ee do anything rash," Mrs. Haden said piteously. "What can one lad do against two or three hundred men?" "Now, mother," Jack said promptly, not heeding her appeal, "what police are there within reach?" "The police were all sent away yesterday to Bampton. There were riots there, I heard say. That's why they chose to-night." "Now the first thing, mother, is to prevent dad from going out to-night. He must be kept out of it, whatever others do. I've brought a bottle of gin from Birmingham. Tell him I've come over for an hour or two to see schoolmaster, and I'm going back again afterwards, but I've brought him this as a present. Get the cork out; he's sure to drink a glass or two anyhow, perhaps more, but it will send him off to sleep, sure enough. It's the strongest I could get, and he's out of the way of drink now. I don't suppose they'll miss him when they start; but if any one comes round for him, you tell 'em I brought him some Old Tom over, and that he's so dead sleepy he can't move. Later on, if you can, get some woman or child to come in, and let them see him, so that there'll be a witness he was at home when the thing came off, that'll make him safe. I've thought it all over." "But what be'est thou going to do, Jack?" "Don't mind me, mother. I'm going to save the Vaughan colliery. Don't you fret about me; all you've got to do is to make dad drink, which ain't a difficult job, and to stick to the story that I have been over for an hour to see schoolmaster. Good-bye, mother. Don't fret; it will all come out right." As Jack went down the street he tapped at the door of his friend's house. "Is Harry in?" Harry was in, and came out at once. "How's Annie?" was Jack's first question. "Better, much better, Jack; the doctor thinks she'll do now. The broth put fresh life into her; we're all better, Jack, thanks to you." "That's all right, Harry. Put on your cap and walk with me to the schoolroom. Now," he went on, as his friend rejoined him, and they turned up the street, "will you do a job for me?" "Anything in the world, Jack--leastways, anything I can." "You may risk your life, Harry." "All right, Jack, I'll risk it willing for you. You risked yours for me at the old shaft." "Dost know what's going to be done to-night Harry?" "I've heard summat about it." "It must be stopped, Harry, if it costs you and me our lives. What's that when the whole district depends upon it? If they wreck the engines and flood the mines there will be no work for months; and what's to become of the women and children then? I'm going to Mr. Merton to tell him, and to get him to write a letter to Sir John Butler--Brook's place would be watched--he's the nearest magistrate, and the most active about here, and won't let the grass grow under his feet by all accounts. The letter must tell him of the attack that is to be made to-night, and ask him to send for the soldiers, if no police can be had. I want you to take the letter, Harry. Go out the other side of the village and make a long sweep round. Don't get into the road till you get a full mile out of the place. Then go as hard as you can till you get to Butler's. Insist on seeing him yourself; say it's a question of life and death. If he's out, you must go on to Hooper--he's the next magistrate. When you have delivered the letter, slip off home and go to bed, and never let out all your life that you took that letter." "All right, Jack; but what be'est thou going to do?" "I'm going another way, lad; I've got my work too. You'd best stop here, Harry; I will bring the letter to you. It may get out some day that Merton wrote it, and it's as well you shouldn't be seen near his place." CHAPTER XI. THE ATTACK ON THE ENGINE-HOUSE. No sooner did Mr. Merton hear of the resolution of the miners to destroy the engines, than he sat down and wrote an urgent letter to Sir John Butler. "Is there anything else, Jack?" "I don't know, sir. If the masters could be warned of the attack they might get a few viewers and firemen and make a sort of defence; but if the men's blood's up it might go hard with them; and it would go hard with you if you were known to have taken the news of it." "I will take the risk of that," Mr. Merton said. "Directly it is dark I will set out. What are you going to do, Jack?" "I've got my work marked out," Jack said. "I'd rather not tell you till it's all over. Good-bye, sir; Harry is waiting for the letter." Mr. Merton did not carry out his plans. As soon as it was dark he left the village, but a hundred yards out he came upon a party of men, evidently posted as sentries. These roughly told him that if he didn't want to be chucked into the canal he'd best go home to bed; and this, after trying another road with the same result, he did. Jack walked with Harry as far as the railway-station, mentioning to several friends he met that he was off again. The lads crossed the line, went out of the opposite booking-office, and set off--for it was now past five, and already dark--at the top of their speed in different directions. Jack did not stop till he reached the engine-house of the Vaughan mine. The pumps were still clanking inside, and the water streaming down the shoot. Peeping carefully in, to see that his friend, John Ratcliffe, was alone, Jack entered. "Well, John," he said, "the engine's still going." "Ay, Jack; but if what's more nor one has told me to-day be true, it be for the last time." "Look here, John; Mr. Brook has been a good master, will you do him a good turn?" "Ay, lad, if I can; I've held on here, though they've threatened to chuck me down the shaft; but I'm a married man, and can't throw away my life." "I don't ask you to, John. I want you to work hard here with me till six o'clock strikes, and then go home as usual." "What dost want done, lad?" "What steam is there in the boiler?" "Only about fifteen pounds. I'm just knocking off, and have banked the fire up." "All right, John. I want you to help me fix the fire hose, the short length, to that blow-off cock at the bottom of the boiler. We can unscrew the pipe down to the drain, and can fasten the hose to it with a union, I expect. You've got some unions, haven't you?" "Yes, lad; and what then?" "That's my business, John. I'm going to hold this place till the soldiers come; and I think that with twenty pounds of steam in the boiler, and the hose, I can keep all the miners of Stokebridge out. At any rate, I'll try. Now, John, set to work. I want thee to go straight home, and then no one will suspect thee of having a hand in the matter. I'll go out when thou dost, and thou canst swear, if thou art asked, that there was not a soul in the house when thou camest away." "Thou wilt lose thy life, Jack." "That be my business," Jack said. "I think not. Now set to work, John; give me a spanner, and let's get the pipe off the cock at once." John Ratcliffe set to work with a will, and in twenty minutes the unions were screwed on and the hose attached, a length of thirty feet, which was quite sufficient to reach to the window, some eight feet above the ground. Along by this window ran a platform. There was another, and a smaller window, on the other side. While they were working, John Ratcliffe tried to dissuade Jack from carrying out his plan. "It's no use, John. I mean to save the engines, and so the pit. They'll never get in; and no one knows I am here, and no one will suspect me. None of 'em will know my voice, for they won't bring boys with them, and dad won't be here. There, it's striking six. Let me just drop a rope out of the window to climb in again with. Now we'll go out together; do thou lock the door, take the key, and go off home. Like enough they'll ask thee for the key, or they may bring their sledges to break it in. Anyhow it will make no difference, for there are a couple of bolts inside, and I shall make it fast with bars. There, that's right. Good-night, John. Remember, whatever comes of it, thou knowest nought of it. Thou camest away and left the place empty, as usual, and no one there." "Good-bye, lad, I'd stop with 'ee and share thy risk, but they'd know I was here, and my life wouldn't be worth the price of a pot o' beer. Don't forget, lad, if thou lowerst the water, to damp down the fire, and open the valves." Jack, left to himself, clambered up to the window and entered the engine-house again, threw some fresh coal on the fire, heaped a quantity of coal against the door, and jammed several long iron bars against it. Then he lighted his pipe and sat listening, occasionally getting up to hold a lantern to the steam-gauge, as it crept gradually up. "Twenty-five pounds," he said; "that will be enough to throw the water fifty or sixty yards on a level, and the door of the winding-engine's not more than thirty, so I can hold them both if they try to break in there." He again banked up the fires, and sat thinking. Harry would be at the magistrate's by a quarter to six. By six o'clock Sir John could be on his way to Birmingham for troops; fifteen miles to drive--say an hour and a half. Another hour for the soldiers to start, and three hours to do the nineteen miles to the Vaughan, half-past eleven--perhaps half an hour earlier, perhaps half an hour later. There was no fear but there was plenty of water. The boiler was a large one, and was built partly into, partly out of the engine-house. That is to say, while the furnace-door, the gauges, and the safety-valve were inside, the main portion of the boiler was outside the walls. The blow-off cock was two inches in diameter, and the nozzle of the hose an inch and a half. It would take some minutes then, even with the steam at a pressure of twenty-five pounds to the inch, to blow the water out, and a minute would, he was certain, do all that was needed. Not even when, upon the first day of his life in the pit, Jack sat hour after hour alone in the darkness, did the time seem to go so slowly as it did that evening. Once or twice he thought he heard footsteps, and crept cautiously up to the window to listen; but each time, convinced of his error, he returned to his place on a bench near the furnace. He heard the hours strike, one after another, on the Stokebridge church clock--eight, nine, ten--and then he took his post by the window and listened. A quarter of an hour passed, and then there was a faint, confused sound. Nearer it came, and nearer, until it swelled into the trampling of a crowd of many hundreds of men. They came along with laughter and rough jests, for they had no thought of opposition--no thought that anyone was near them. The crowd moved forward until they were within a few yards of the engine-house, and then one, who seemed to be in command, said, "Smash the door in with your sledges, lads." Jack had, as they approached, gone down to the boiler, and had turned the blow-off cock, and the boiling water swelled the strong leathern hose almost to bursting. Then he went back to the window, threw it open, and stood with the nozzle in his hand. "Hold!" he shouted out in loud, clear tones. "Let no man move a step nearer for his life." The mob stood silent, paralyzed with surprise. Jack had spoken without a tinge of the local accent, and as none of the boys were there, his voice was quite unrecognized. "Who be he?" "It's a stranger!" and other sentences, were muttered through the throng. "Who be you?" the leader asked, recovering from his surprise. "Never mind who I am," Jack said, standing well back from the window, lest the light from the lanterns which some of the men carried might fall on his face. "I am here in the name of the law. I warn you to desist from your evil design. Go to your homes; the soldiers are on their way, and may be here any minute. Moreover, I have means here of destroying any man who attempts to enter." There was a movement in the crowd. "The soldiers be coming" ran from mouth to mouth, and the more timid began to move towards the outside of the crowd. "Stand firm, lads, it be a lie," shouted the leader. "Thee baint to be frighted by one man, be'est 'ee? What! five hundred Staffordshire miners afeard o' one? Why, ye'll be the laughing-stock of the country! Now, lads, break in the door; we'll soon see who be yon chap that talks so big." There was a rush to the door, and a thundering clatter as the heavy blows of the sledge-hammers fell on the wood; while another party began an assault upon the door of the winding-engine house. Then Jack, with closely pressed lips and set face, turned the cock of the nozzle. With a hiss the scalding water leaped out in a stream. Jack stood well forward now and with the hose swept the crowd, as a fireman might sweep a burning building. Driven by the tremendous force of the internal steam, the boiling water knocked the men in front headlong over; then, as he raised the nozzle and scattered the water broadcast over the crowd, wild yells, screams, and curses broke on the night air. Another move, and the column of boiling fluid fell on those engaged on the other engine-house door, and smote them down. Then Jack turned the cock again, and the stream of water ceased. It was but a minute since he had turned it on, but it had done its terrible work. A score of men lay on the ground, rolling in agony; others danced, screamed, and yelled in pain; others, less severely scalded, filled the air with curses; while all able to move made a wild rush back from the terrible building. When the wild cries had a little subsided, Jack called out,-- "Now, lads, you can come back safely. I have plenty more hot water, and I could have scalded the whole of you as badly as those in front had I wanted to. Now I promise, on my oath, not to turn it on again if you will come and carry off your mates who are here. Take them off home as quick as you can, before the soldiers come. I don't want to do you harm. You'd all best be in bed as soon as you can." The men hesitated, but it was clear to them all that it had been in the power of their unknown foe to have inflicted a far heavier punishment upon them than he had done, and there was a ring of truth and honesty in his voice which they could not doubt. So after a little hesitation a number of them came forward, and lifting the men who had fallen near the engine-house, carried them off; and in a few minutes there was a deep silence where, just before, a very pandemonium had seemed let loose. Then Jack, the strain over, sat down, and cried like a child. Half an hour later, listening intently, he heard a deep sound in the distance. "Here come the soldiers," he muttered, "it is time for me to be off." He glanced at the steam-gauge, and saw that the steam was falling, while the water-gauge showed that there was still sufficient water for safety, and he then opened the window at the back of the building, and dropped to the ground. In an instant he was seized in a powerful grasp. "I thought ye'd be coming out here, and now I've got ye," growled a deep voice, which Jack recognized as that of Roger Hawking, the terror of Stokebridge. For an instant his heart seemed to stand still at the extent of his peril; then, with a sudden wrench, he swung round and faced his captor, twisted his hands in his handkerchief, and drove his knuckles into his throat. Then came a crashing blow in his face--another, and another. With head bent down, Jack held on his grip with the gameness and tenacity of a bull-dog, while the blows rained on his head, and his assailant, in his desperate effort to free himself, swung his body hither and thither in the air, as a bull might swing a dog which had pinned him. Jack felt his senses going--a dull dazed feeling came over him. Then he felt a crash, as his adversary reeled and fell--and then all was dark. [Illustration: A LIFE OR DEATH STRUGGLE.] It could have been but a few minutes that he lay thus, for he awoke with the sound of a thunder of horses' hoofs, and a clatter of swords in the yard on the other side of the engine-house. Rousing himself, he found that he still grasped the throat of the man beneath him. With a vague sense of wonder whether his foe was dead, he rose to his feet and staggered off, the desire to avoid the troops dispersing all other ideas in his brain. For a few hundred yards he staggered along, swaying like a drunken man, and knowing nothing of where he was going; then he stumbled, and fell again, and lay for hours insensible. It was just the faint break of day when he came to, the cold air of the morning having brought him to himself. It took him a few minutes to recall what had happened and his whereabouts. Then he made his way to the canal, which was close by, washed the blood from his face, and set out to walk to Birmingham. He was too shaken and bruised to make much progress, and after walking for a while crept into the shelter of a haystack, and went off to sleep for many hours. After it was dusk in the evening he started again, and made his way to his lodgings at ten o'clock that night. It was a fortnight before he could leave his room, so bruised and cut was his face, and a month before the last sign of the struggle was obliterated, and he felt that he could return to Stokebridge without his appearance being noticed. There, great changes had taken place. The military had found the splintered door, the hose, and the still steaming water in the yard, and the particulars of the occurrence which had taken place had been pretty accurately judged. They were indeed soon made public by the stories of the scalded men, a great number of whom were forced to place themselves in the hands of the doctor, many of them having had very narrow escapes of their lives, but none of them had actually succumbed. In searching round the engine-house the soldiers had found a man, apparently dead, his tongue projecting from his mouth. A surgeon had accompanied them, and a vein having been opened and water dashed in his face, he gave signs of recovery. He had been taken off to jail as being concerned in the attack on the engine-house; but no evidence could be obtained against him, and he would have been released had he not been recognized as a man who had, five years before, effected a daring escape from Portland, where he was undergoing a life sentence for a brutal manslaughter. The defeat of the attempt to destroy the Vaughan engines was the death-blow of the strike. Among the foremost in the attack, and therefore so terribly scalded that they were disabled for weeks, were most of the leaders of the strike in the pits of the district, and their voices silenced, and their counsel discredited, the men two days after the attack had a great meeting, at which it was resolved almost unanimously to go to work on the masters' terms. Great excitement was caused throughout the district by the publication of the details of the defence of the engine-house, and the most strenuous efforts were made by Mr. Brook to discover the person to whom he was so indebted. The miners were unanimous in describing him as a stranger, and as speaking like a gentleman; and there was great wonder why any one who had done so great a service to the mine-owners should conceal his identity. Jack's secret was, however, well kept by the three or four who alone knew it, and who knew too that his life would not be safe for a day did the colliers, groaning and smarting over their terrible injuries, discover to whom they were indebted for them. CHAPTER XII. AFTER THE STRIKE. "Well, Jack, so you're back again," Nelly Hardy said as she met Jack Simpson on his way home from work on the first day after his return. "Ay, Nelly, and glad to see you. How have things gone on?" and he nodded towards her home. "Better than I ever knew them," the girl said. "When father could not afford to buy drink we had better times than I have ever known. It was a thousand times better to starve than as 'twas before. He's laid up still; you nigh scalded him to death, Jack, and I doubt he'll never be fit for work again." "I," Jack exclaimed, astounded, for he believed that the secret was known only to his mother, Harry, John Ratcliffe, Mr. Merton and perhaps the schoolmaster's daughter. "Has Harry--" "No, Harry has not said a word. Oh, Jack, I didn't think it of you. You call me a friend and keep this a secret, you let Harry know it and say nowt to me. I did not think it of you," and the dark eyes filled with tears. "But if Harry did not tell you, how--" "As if I wanted telling," she said indignantly. "Who would have dared do it but you? Didn't I know you were here an hour or two before, and you think I needed telling who it was as faced all the pitmen? and to think you hid it from me! Didn't you think I could be trusted? couldn't I have gone to fetch the redcoats for you? couldn't I have sat by you in the engine-house, and waited and held your hand when you stood against them all? oh, Jack!" and for the first time since their friendship had been pledged, nearly four years before, Jack saw Nelly burst into tears. "I didn't mean unkind, Nell, I didn't, indeed, and if I had wanted another messenger I would have come to you. Don't I know you are as true as steel? Come, lass, don't take on. I would have sent thee instead o' Harry only I thought he could run fastest. Girls' wind ain't as good as lads'." "And you didn't doubt I'd do it, Jack?" "Not for a moment," Jack said. "I would have trusted thee as much as Harry." "Well then, I forgive you, Jack, but if ever you get in danger again, and doant let me know, I'll never speak a word to you again." In the years which had passed since this friendship began Nelly Hardy had greatly changed. The companionship of two quiet lads like Jack and Harry had tamed her down, and her love of reading and her study of all the books on history and travel on Jack's book-shelves had softened her speech. When alone the three spoke with but little of the dialect of the place, Jack having insisted on improvement in this respect. With Nelly his task had been easy, for she was an apt pupil, but Harry still retained some of his roughness of speech. Nelly was fifteen now, and was nearly as tall as Jack, who was square and somewhat stout for his age. With these two friends Jack would talk sometimes of his hopes of rising and making a way for himself. Harry, who believed devoutly in his friend, entered most warmly into his hopes, but Nelly on this subject alone was not sympathetic. "You don't say anything," Jack remarked one day; "do you think my castles in the air will never come true?" "I know they will come true, Jack," she said earnestly; "but don't ask me to be glad. I can't; I try to but I can't. It's selfish, but, but--" and her voice quivered. "Every step thou takest will carry you farther up from me, and I can't be glad on it, Jack!" "Nonsense, Nelly," Jack said angrily, "dos't think so little of me as to think that I shall not be as true to my two friends, Harry and you, as I am now?" The girl shook her head. "You will try, Jack, you will try. Don't think I doubt you, but--" and turning round she fled away at full speed. "I believe she ran away because she was going to cry," Harry said. "Lasses are strange things, and though in some things Nell's half a lad, yet she's soft you see on some points. Curious, isn't it, Jack?" "Very curious," Jack said; "I thought I understood Nell as well as I did you or myself, but I begin to think I doant understand her as much as I thought. It comes of her being a lass, of course, but it's queer too," and Jack shook his head over the mysterious nature of lasses. "You can't understand 'em," he went on again, thoughtfully. "Now, if you wanted some clothes, Harry, and you were out of work, I should just buy you a set as a matter of course, and you'd take 'em the same. It would be only natural like friends, wouldn't it?" Harry assented. "Now, I've been wanting to give Nelly a gown, and a jacket, and hat for the last two years. I want her to look nice, and hold her own with the other lasses of the place--she's as good looking as any--but I daren't do it. No, I daren't, downright. I know, as well as if I see it, how she'd flash up, and how angry she'd be." "Why should she?" Harry asked. "That's what I doan't know, lad, but I know she would be. I suppose it comes of her being a lass, but it beats me altogether. Why shouldn't she take it? other lasses take presents from their lads, why shouldn't Nell take one from her friend? But she wouldn't, I'd bet my life she wouldn't, and she wouldn't say, 'No, and thank you,' but she'd treat it as if I'd insulted her. No, it can't be done, lad; but it's a pity, for I should ha' liked to see her look nice for once." Not satisfied with his inability to solve the question Jack took his mother into his confidence. Jane Haden smiled. "Noa, Jack, I don't think as how thou canst give Nell Hardy a dress. She is a good quiet girl and keeps herself respectable, which, taking into account them she comes from, is a credit to her, but I don't think thou could'st gi' her a gown." "But why not, mother?" Jack persisted. "I might gi' her a pair o' earrings or a brooch, I suppose, which would cost as much as the gown." "Yes, thou might'st do that, Jack." "Then if she could take the thing which would be no manner o' use to her, why couldn't she take the thing that would?" "I doant know as I can rightly tell you, Jack, but there's a difference." "But can't you tell me what is the difference?" Jack insisted. "Noa, Jack, I can't, but there be a difference." Jack seized his candle with a cry of despair, and ran upstairs. He had solved many a tough problem, but this was beyond him altogether. He was not, however, accustomed to be baffled, and the next day he renewed the subject, this time to Nelly herself. "Look here, Nell," he said, "I want to ask you a question. It is a supposition, you know, only a supposition, but it bothers me." "What is it, Jack?" she said, looking up from the ground, upon which as was her custom she was sitting with a book while Jack sat on a gate. "If I was to offer you a pair of gold earrings." "I wouldn't take 'em," the girl said rising, "you know I wouldn't, Jack; you know I never take presents from you." "I know, lass, I know. We'll suppose you wouldn't take it, but you wouldn't be angered, would you?" "I should be angered that you had spent money foolishly," the girl said after a pause, "when you knew I shouldn't take it, but I couldn't be angered any other way." "Well, but if I were to buy you a hat and a jacket and a gown." "You dare not," the girl said passionately, her face flushed scarlet; "you dare not, Jack." "No," Jack said consciously, "I know I dare not, though I should like to; but why don't I dare?" "Because it would be an insult, a gross insult, Jack, and you dare not insult me." "No lass, I darena; but why should it be an insult? that's what I canna make out; why wouldn't it be an insult to offer you a gold brooch worth three or four pounds, and yet be an insult to offer you the other things? what's the difference?" Nelly had calmed down now when she saw that the question was a hypothetical one, and that Jack had not, as she at first supposed, bought clothes for her. She thought for some time. "I suppose, Jack, the difference is this. It's the duty of a girl's father and mother to buy fit clothes for her, and if they don't it's either their fault, or it's because they are too poor. So to give clothes is an interference and a sort of reproach. A brooch is not necessary; it's a pretty ornament, and so a lad may give it to his lass wi'out shame." "Yes, I suppose it must be that," Jack said thoughtfully. "I'm glad I've got some sort of answer." CHAPTER XIII. A HEAVY LOSS. "I thought, sir, that you promised to say nothing about that soup-kitchen money," Jack said rather indignantly one evening a fortnight after he had gone to work again. "Here all the women of the place seem to know about it, and as I was coming home from work to-day, there was Mrs. Thompson run out and shook me by the hand and would ha' kissed me if I'd let her, and said I'd saved her children's lives. I ha' been thinking of going away; I can't stand this; and I thought you promised to say nowt about it." "'Nothing,' Jack," corrected Mr. Merton. "It is a long time since I heard you say 'nowt.' No, Jack, I did not promise; you told me to say nothing about it, but I was careful not to promise. Sit down, lad, you're a little hot now, and I am not surprised, but I am sure that you will credit me for having acted for the best." Jack sat down with a little grunt, and with the expression of dissatisfaction on his face in no way mollified. "In the first place, Jack, you will, I know, be sorry to hear that I am going away." "Going away!" Jack exclaimed, leaping to his feet, all thought of his grievance gone at once. "Oh! Mr. Merton." "I told you, you will remember, Jack, when the strike first began, that for the sake of my daughter I should make an effort to obtain a superior position, and I am glad to say that I have done so. I have obtained the post of mathematical master at the Foundation School at Birmingham, with a salary of three hundred a year, and this, Jack, I partly owe to you." "To me!" Jack exclaimed in astonishment; "how could that be, sir?" "Well, Jack, you got me to write that letter to Sir John Butler, that was the means of bringing the troops over from Birmingham. As we know, they arrived too late, for in point of fact the hot water from the Vaughan boiler put an end to the riot and the strike together. However, Sir John Butler mentioned to Mr. Brook, and the other owners whose mines were threatened, that it was I who at some risk to myself sent the message which brought down the troops. I can assure you that I disclaimed any merit in the affair; however, they chose to consider themselves under an obligation, and when I applied for the vacant mastership, sending in, of course, my college testimonials, they were good enough to exert all their influence with the governors in my favour, and I was elected unanimously. The salary is an increasing one, and I am to be allowed to coach private pupils for the university. So, Jack, you may congratulate me." "I do, sir, most heartily, most heartily," Jack said as he grasped the hand which Mr. Merton held out, but his voice quivered a little and tears stood in his eyes. "I am glad, indeed, although I shall miss you so terribly, you have been so good to me," and Jack fairly broke down now, and cried silently. Mr. Merton put his hand on his shoulder: "Jack, my work is nearly done, so far as you are concerned. You have worked nearly as far as can be of any use to you in pure mathematics. For the next few months you may go on; but then you had better turn your attention to the useful application of what you have learned. You want to fit yourself to be an engineer, especially, of course, a mining engineer; still the more general your knowledge the better. You will have, therefore, to devote yourself to the various strains and stresses in iron bridges, and the calculation of the strength of the various forms of these structures. Then all calculations as to the expenditure of heat and force in steam engines will be quite material for you to master. In fact, there is work before you for another four or five years. But for much of this you will not require a master. You will find the practical part easy to you when you have a thorough knowledge of mathematics. At the same time if you will once a week send me your papers, noting all difficulties that you may meet with, I will go through them and answer you, and will also give you papers to work out." "You are very, very kind, sir," Jack said; "but it will not be the same thing as you being here." "No, not quite the same, Jack; still we can hardly help that." "Oh, no, sir!" Jack said eagerly, "and please do not think that I am not glad to hear that you have got a place more worthy of you. It was a blow to me just at first, and I was selfish to think of myself even for a moment." "Well, Jack, and now about this question of the soup dinner?" "Oh! it does not matter, sir. I had forgot all about it." "It matters a little, Jack, because, although I did not promise to keep silence, I should certainly have respected your wish, had it not been that it seemed to be a far more important matter that the truth should be known." "More important, sir?" Jack repeated in a puzzled tone. "More important, Jack. My successor has been chosen. He is just the man for this place--earnest, well trained, a good disciplinarian. He will be no help to you, Jack. He is simply taught and trained as the master of a national school, but he is thoroughly in earnest. I have told him that his most efficient assistant here will be yourself." "I?" Jack exclaimed in extreme astonishment. "You, Jack, not as a teacher, but as an example. You have immense power of doing good, Jack, if you do but choose to exert it." Jack was altogether too surprised to speak for some time. "A power of good," he said at last. "The only good I can do, sir, and that is not much, is to thrash chaps I see bullying smaller boys, but that's nothing." "Well, that's something, Jack; and indeed I fear you are fond of fighting." "I am not fond of it," Jack said. "I don't care about it, one way or the other. It doesn't hurt me; I am as hard as nails, you see, so I don't think more about fighting than I do about eating my dinner." "I don't like fighting, Jack, when it can be avoided, and I don't think that you are quarrelsome though you do get into so many fights." "Indeed I am not quarrelsome, Mr. Merton; I never quarrel with anyone. If any of the big chaps interfere with us and want to fight, of course I am ready, or if chaps from the other pits think that they can knock our chaps about, of course I show them that the Vaughans can fight, or if I see any fellow pitching in to a young one--" "Or, in fact, Jack, on any pretext whatever. Well, if it were anyone else but yourself I should speak very strongly against it; but in your case I avow that I am glad that you have fought, and fought until, as I know, no one anywhere near your age will fight with you, because it now makes you more useful for my purpose." Jack looked astonished again. "You don't want me to thrash anyone, Mr. Merton?" he said; "because if you do--" "No, no, Jack, nothing is further from my thoughts. I want you to get the lads of your own age to join a night-school, and to become a more decent Christian set of young fellows than they are now. It is just because you can fight well, and are looked up to by the lads as their natural leader, that you can do this. Were anyone else to try it he would fail. He would be regarded as a milksop, and be called a girl, and a Molly, and all sorts of names, and no one would join him. Now with you they can't say this, and boys joining would say to those who made fun of them, 'There's Jack Simpson, he's one of us; you go and call him Molly and see what you'll get.' Now you can talk to your comrades, and point out to them the advantages of learning and decent manners. Show that not only will they become happier men, but that in a worldly point of view they will benefit, for that the mine-owners have difficulty in getting men with sufficient education to act as overmen and viewers. Get them to agree to keep from drink and from the foul language which makes the streets horrible to a decent person. You can work a revolution in the place. You won't get them to do all this at present, but the first step is to get them to attend a night-school. I have for the last year been thinking over the matter, and was intending to speak to you about it when the strike began, and everything else was put aside. Now, I have spoken to my successor, and he is willing, and indeed anxious, to open such a school if the young fellows can be induced to come." Jack sat for some time in silence. He was always slow at coming to a conclusion, and liked to think over every side of a question. "How often would it be held, sir?" he asked presently. "Two or three nights a week, Jack. Those who are anxious to get on can do as you did, and work between times." "Two nights would be enough at first," Jack said; "but I think, yes, I think I could get some of them to give that. Harry Shepherd would, I'm sure, and Bill Cummings, and Fred Wood, and I think five or six others. Yes, sir, I think we could start it, and all I can do I will. It would do a sight--I mean a great deal of good. I'll come myself at first, sir, and then if any of them make a noise or play games with the schoolmaster I'll lick 'em next day." "No, Jack, I don't think that would do, but your presence would no doubt aid the master at first. And you'll think of the other things, Jack, the drinking, and the bad language, and so on." "I'll do what I can, Mr. Merton," Jack said, simply, "but it must be bit by bit." "That's right, Jack, I knew that I could rely upon you; and now come in to tea, and there was one thing I wanted to say, I want you once a month to come over to me at Birmingham on Saturday afternoon and stay till Sunday evening. It will be a great pleasure to me; I shall see how you are getting on, and shall hear all the news of Stokebridge." "I am very very much obliged to you, sir," Jack said, colouring with pleasure, "but I am afraid I am not, not fit--" "You are fit to associate with anyone, Jack, and it is good for you that you should occasionally have other association than that of your comrades of the pit. You will associate with people of higher rank than mine, if you live, and it is well that you should become accustomed to it. And now, Jack, I know you will not take it amiss, but clothes do go for something, and I should advise you to go to a good tailor's at Birmingham the first time you come over--I will obtain the address of such a one--and order yourself a suit of well made clothes. As you get on in life you will learn that first impressions go a long way, and that the cut of the clothes have not a little to do with first impressions. I shall introduce you to my friends there, simply as a friend; not that either you or I are ashamed of your working in a pit--indeed, that is your highest credit--but it would spare you the comments and silly questions which would be put to you. Now let us go into the next room, Alice will be expecting us." Jack had taken tea with Mr. Merton more than once since that first evening before the strike, and was now much more at his ease with Miss Merton, who, having heard from her father that it was he who saved the Vaughan pit, viewed him with a constant feeling of astonishment. It seemed so strange to her that this quiet lad, who certainly stood in awe of her, although he was a year her senior, should have done such a daring action; equally wonderful to think that in spite of his well chosen words and the attainments her father thought so highly of, he was yet a pit boy, like the rough noisy lads of the village. A week later Mr. Merton and his daughter left Stokebridge, and upon the following day his successor arrived, and Jack, at Mr. Merton's request, called upon him the same evening. He was a tall man of some forty years old, with a face expressive of quiet power. Jack felt at once that he should like him. He received the lad very kindly. "I have heard so much of you from Mr. Merton," he said, "and I am sure that you will be a great help to me. Harriet," he said to his wife, a bright-looking woman of about thirty-five years old, who came into the room, "this is Mr. Simpson, of whom Mr. Merton spoke so highly to me. My wife is going to have the girls' school, have you heard?" "No, indeed," Jack said; "Mr. Merton did not mention it." "It was only settled yesterday; the managers heard that my wife was a trained mistress, and as they were going to pension off the present mistress they offered it to her." "I am very glad," Jack said, "for Mrs. White has long been past her work, and the girls did pretty well as they liked." "I expect to have some trouble with them at first," Mrs. Dodgson said cheerfully. "I often tell my husband girls are ever so much more troublesome than boys, but I daresay I shall manage; and now, Mr. Simpson, we are just going to have supper, will you join us? It will be our first regular meal in the house." "Thank you very much," Jack said, colouring and hesitating, "but I think, perhaps, you don't know that I am only a lad in the pit." "Stuff and nonsense," Mrs. Dodgson said, "what has that to do with it? Why, Mr. Merton says that you will be John's right hand. Besides, you will be able to tell us all about the people we shall have to do with." In another moment Jack was seated at table, and really enjoyed the meal, lightened, as it was, by the pleasant talk of his hostess, and the grave but not less kindly conversation of her husband. CHAPTER XIV. THE NIGHT-SCHOOL. Jack found that, as he expected, his friends Harry Shepherd, Bill Cummings, and Fred Wood, would be glad to attend a night-school, and to work in earnest; for the example of what Jack had done for himself, even so far as they knew, had excited a strong desire for improvement among them. They, however, were doubtful as to others, and agreed that it would not do to propose it in a straightforward manner, but that a good deal of careful management would be necessary. Jack, it was arranged, should open the subject after leading up to it carefully. Harry should be the first to consent, Bill Cummings was to give in his adhesion when he saw signs of wavering among the others, and Fred Wood to delay his until a moment when his coming forward would be useful. The following Saturday, when many of them were always together, should be the occasion, and Fred Wood was to lead up to the matter by asking Jack some questions as to the relative bigness of the earth and the sun. Saturday came, the lads gathered in a field which belonged to the Vaughan, and upon which a great tip of rubbish and shale was gradually encroaching. Here choosing sides they played at rounders for a couple of hours, and then flung themselves down on the grass. Some of them lighted pipes, and all enjoyed the quiet of the fine autumn evening. Presently Fred Wood artfully fired off the questions he had prepared, which Jack answered. "What a sight o' things thou know'st, Jack!" Bill Cummings said. "I don't know much yet, Bill, but I hopes to know a goodish deal some day." "And thou really lik'st reading, Jack? I hate it," John Jordan said. "I didn't like it ower much at first," Jack answered, "but as I got on I liked it more and more. I wish you chaps had the chances I had. It isn't every one who would take the pains wi' a fellow as Merton took wi' me." "What ud be t' good o't?" John Jordan asked. "I doan't see no good in knowing that t' sun be a hundred thousand times as big as t' world." "There's use in a great deal o' what one gets to know, though," Jack said; "not so much now as some day, maybe. A chap as has some sort o' edication has chances over another o' being chosen as a viewer or an oversman." "Oh! that's what thou be'est looking forward to, Jack, eh? Well there's summat in that, and I shouldna' wonder if we see thee that some day; but we can't all be oversmen." "Not in the Vaughan," Jack said; "but there's plenty o' other pits, and a chap as has got his head screwed on straight, and can write well and figure a bit, and have read up his work, may always look forward to getting a step up wherever he goes. Besides, look at the difference it makes to the pleasures o' life. What has a man got to do who ain't learnt to be fond o' reading? Nowt but to go to t' public to spend his evenings and drink away his earnings. So 'ee goes on, and his woife doan't care about taking pains about a house when t' maister ain't never at home but to his meals, and his children get to look for him coming home drunk and smashing the things, and when he gets old he's just a broken-down drunkard, wi'out a penny saved, and nowt but the poorhouse before him. Now, that's the sort o' life o' a man who can't read, or can't read well enough to take pleasure in it, has before him. That is so, bean't it?" There was a long silence; all the lads knew that the picture was a true one. "Now look at t'other side," Jack went on; "look at Merton. He didn't get moore pay a week than a pitman does; look how he lived, how comfortable everything was! What a home that ud be for a man to go back to after his work was done! Noice furniture, a wife looking forward neat and tidy to your coming hoam for the evening. Your food all comfortable, the kids clean and neat, and delighted to see feyther home." There was again a long silence. "Where be the girls to make the tidy wife a' cooming from, I wonder?" John Jordan said; "not in Stokebridge, I reckon!" "The lasses take mostly after the lads," Jack said. "If we became better they'd be ashamed to lag behind. Mrs. Dodgson, the new schoolmaister's wife, told me t'other day she thought o' opening a sort o' night class for big girls, to teach 'em sewing, and making their own clothes, and summat about cooking, and such like." "That would be summat like," said Harry Shepherd, who saw that his opportunity had come. "I wonder whether t' maister would open a night-school for us; I'd go for one, quick enough. I doan't know as I've rightly thought it over before, but now ye puts it in that way, Jack, there be no doubt i' my moind that I should; it would be a heap better to get some larning, and to live like a decent kind o' chap." "I doan't know," John Jordan said; "it moight be better, but look what a lot o' work one ud have to do." "Well, John, I always finds plenty o' time for play," Jack said. "You could give an hour a day to it, and now the winter's coming on you'd be main glad sometimes as you'd got summat to do. I should ha' to talk to the schoolmaister a bit. I doan't know as he'd be willing to give up his time of an evening two or three evenings a week, say two, when he's been at work all day. It be a good deal to ask a man, that is." "It be, surely," Harry said; "but what a sight o' good it would do, and if his woife be willing to give oop her time to the girls, maybe he would do as much for us." There was a pause again. Several of the lads looked irresolute. "Well," Bill Cummings said, "I be ready for another if some more of 'ee will join't." The example was contagious. Four others agreed to join. "Come," Harry Shepherd said, "it bean't no use if Jack can't tell schoolmaister that a dozen o' us will come in ef he will open a school two nights a week. You'll join, woan't you, Fred Wood?" "Oi allers hated my books," Fred said, "and used to be bottom o' class. It ain't as I doan't believe what Jack Simpson says; there be no doubt as it would be a sight better look-out if one got to be fond o' books, and such loike. I doan't believe as ever I shall be, but I doan't mind giving it a trial for six months, and if at the end o' that time I doan't like it, why I jacks it oop." The adhesion of this seemingly reluctant recruit settled the matter. Even John Jordan yielded upon the same terms, and the whole party, fifteen in number, put down their names, and Jack Simpson undertook to speak to Mr Dodgson. "See how we shall get laughed at," John Jordan said. "Why, we shall get made fun o' by the whole place." "Let 'em laugh," Jack said, "they won't laugh long. I never was laughed at, and why should you be? They canna call us Jennies, for we sixteen will play any sixteen wi'in five miles round, at any game they like, or fight 'em if it comes to that. We has only got to stick together. I sha'n't be one of the night-school, but I am one wi' you, and we'll just stick together. Don't let us mind if they do laugh; if they go on at it, and I doubt they will, just offer to fight anyone your own size, and if he be bigger than you like I'll take him in hand." "That's it," Harry Shepherd said enthusiastically; "we'll stick together, and you see how we'll get on; and look here, I vote we each pay threepence a week, that will get us a room at two bob, and candles. Then we can work a' night wi'out being disturbed." "This be a good idea o' thine, Harry. I'll give my threepence a week as well as the rest, and I'll come in on the nights when you don't go to school and help any that wants it." "Yes," Bill Cummings said, "and we'll send round challenges to the other pits to play football and rounders. I vote we call ourselves the 'Bull-dogs,' and Jack shall be our captain." The proposition was carried with unanimity, and the "Bull-dogs" became a body from that time. Harry was appointed treasurer, and the first week's subscriptions were paid forthwith, and an hour later a room was hired. "Hullo!" Fred Wood said, as they poured in and took possession; "we forgot furniture. We must have a table and some benches." "It is the captain's duty to provide furniture," Jack said. "I will get a big table and some benches on Monday, and then we'll draw up rules and get 'em framed and hung over the fireplace, then we shall be all in order." Nothing could have been more happy than this plan of starting a club; it gave all the members a lively interest in the matter, and united them by a bond which would keep the lazy and careless from hanging back, and it was quite with a sense of excitement that they met on the Monday evening. Jack had got a large table and some benches. Inkstands, slates, paper, and pencils were on the table, and four candles were burning. He took the place of honour at the head of the table, and the others, much pleased with the appearance of the room, took their seats round the table. "In the first place," Jack said, striking the table with his fist to call for order, "I have to report to you that I ha' seen the schoolmaister, and he says that he will willingly give two hours two nights a week to teaching the 'Bull-dogs.'" This announcement was received with great applause, for the lads had all become deeply interested in the matter. "He says Tuesdays and Fridays will suit him, from seven till nine; and I have, in your name, accepted with very many thanks his offer; for, lads, it be no light thing that a man who has been all day teaching, should give up two evenings a week to help us on, and that wi'out charge or payment." "That's so, Jack!" Fred Wood said. "I voate we pass a vote o' thanks to Mr. Dodgson." There was a chorus of approval. "Someone ha' got to second that proposal," Jack said; "we must do things in the proper form." "I second it," John Jordan said. "Very well," Jack said, "are you all agreed?" "All." "Very well, then, I'll write that out neatly in this book I ha' bought to keep the records o' the club, and I'll send a copy to Mr. Dodgson; I'm sure he will be pleased. I had best act as secretary as well as captain at present, till one o' you gets on wi' his writing and can take it off my hands. Now we must draw out our rules. First, we must put down that the following are the original members of the Bull-dog Club. Then, that the objects of the club are to improve ourselves, and to make decent men o' ourselves. Next, to stick together in a body and to play all sorts o' games against any other set. All that's been agreed, ain't it?" There were cries of "Ay, ay," and Jack wrote down the items on the sheet o' paper before him. "Now about new members. Do we mean to keep it to ourselves, or to let in other chaps?" "Keep it to ourselves," shouted several. "Well, I dunno," Harry Shepherd said; "if this is going to do us as much good as we hopes, and think it is, would it be right to keep the chaps o' the place out? O' course we wouldn't go beyond Stokebridge, but we might keep it to that." The point was hotly debated, the majority being in favour of confining the club to its present members; some saying that if it were opened the original members would be swamped by numbers, and that their bond of union would be broken. When all had spoken Jack Simpson said: "I think we might go between both opinions. If we were to limit the club to twenty-four members, this room would just about hold 'em. We would only elect one each week, so as to have time to make a good choice. Any member who broke the rules or made himself unpleasant would be expelled, and so we should see in a while all the young chaps o' t' village wanting to join, and it would get to be looked upon as a feather in a chap's cap to belong to it." This proposal was agreed to unanimously. "Now the next rule I propose," Jack said, "is that this room is to be used from seven to nine for work. No talking to be allowed. Arter nine, books to be put away and pipes to be lit by them as smoke, and to talk till ten. I ha' been talking to the woman o' the house, and she will supply cups o' coffee or tea at a penny a piece between nine and ten." This rule was agreed to without a dissentient voice. "Now," Jack said, "I doan't know as you'll all like the next rule I ha' to propose, but I do think it is a needful one. That is that no swearing or bad language be used in this room. A fine of a penny being inflicted for each time the rule be broken." There was a dead silence. "You see," Jack said, "you will all be fined a few times at first, but this money will go to the club fund, and will help up to get fires i' winter. You'll soon break yourselves of it, it be only a trick. I did. Mr. Merton told me that it was a bad habit and horrible to decent people. I said I could never break myself o't. He said if I fined myself a penny every time I did it, and put it in the poor box o' Sunday, I should soon get out o' t'way. Well, the first day cost me thirteen pence, the next fourpence, and afterwards it was only a penny now and then. First and last it didn't cost me half a crown, and you never hear me swear or use bad language now. Come, Bull-dogs, this will be the first step toward improving yourselves, and when you find how easy it be to do wi'out it here, you will soon do wi'out it outside." The rule was finally agreed to, but during the first week it carried a good deal of heart-burning in the club. One of the members left altogether, but the rest soon found that the fines, which had been so alarming for the first day or two, dwindled down. It cost the Bull-dogs collectively over three pounds to cure themselves of using bad language, and the fines kept them in firing, paper, pens, and ink all the winter. On the evening after the opening of the club-room the whole party accompanied by Jack went to the night-school. They looked rather shamefaced as they tramped in, but Jack introduced them one by one to the master, who with a few cordial words put them at their ease. For the first night he contented himself by finding out how much each knew, how much he remembered of what he had formerly heard. For the last half hour he gave them a short lecture on geography, drawing a map on the black-board, taking a traveller from place to place, and telling them what he saw there. Then he set them each a task to be learned and a few sums to be done by the following Friday, and they returned to the club-room greatly pleased with the first night's lessons. It was not always so light, but the lads were in earnest and really worked hard. Jack visited the room on the off nights, explained questions they did not understand, and after nine o'clock generally read aloud for half an hour while they smoked; that is to say, he read short sentences and then one or other read them after him, Jack correcting mistakes in dialect and pronunciation. Mr. Merton had indeed been a friend to Jack Simpson, but there was another friend to whom, according to his promise, Jack reported his doings, not telling everything, perhaps, for Jack was not very apt to talk or write about himself; but once a year he sent a letter in reply to a long and wise one which he received from his friend the artist, according to their agreement, for Jack had not "given up." Before the end of a month Mr. Dodgson wrote to Mr. Merton, saying that, thanks to Jack, the night-school was a great success, that the lads all behaved extremely well, and were making really surprising efforts to improve themselves. He augured great things for the village from the movement. CHAPTER XV. THE SEWING CLASS. Stokebridge contained altogether a population of some three thousand souls, of whom more than half consisted of the men and boys of the Vaughan mine, and the families dependent upon them. It was a place where, except as to accidents at one or other of the pits, news was scarce, and a small thing therefore created much interest. Thus the news that the new schoolmaster had opened a night school, and that some sixteen or eighteen of the lads belonging to the Vaughan had joined it, created quite an excitement. At first the statement was received with positive disbelief. There was no precedent for such a thing, and in its ways at least Stokebridge was strictly conservative. When the tale was confirmed wonder took the place of unbelief. The women were unanimous in the opinion that if the school only kept the lads from drink it would be a blessing to the place. Drink was indeed the grand test by which they viewed all things. To anything which led lads to avoid this curse of their homes their approval was certain and complete. Whether the acquisition of learning was likely to improve their prospects in life, or to make them better men, was not considered, the great point about the new organization was that it would keep them from the public-houses, the curses of the working men, and still more of the working men's wives and families, of this country. Among the men, who were, however, disposed to view the matter as a boys' fancy which would soon die away, the movement met with slight approval. Newfangled notions were held in but low estimation among the miners of Stokebridge. They had got on wi'out larning, and saw no reason why t' lads could not do as they had done. "They'll be a cocking they noses oop aboove their feythers, joost acause they know moore reading and writing, but what good ul it do they I wonder?" an elderly pitman asked a circle of workmen at the "Chequers;" and a general affirmatory grunt betokened assent with the spirit of his words. Among the young men, those of from eighteen to three or four and twenty, the opposition was still stronger, for here a strong feeling of jealousy was aroused at the thought that their juniors were, as they considered, stealing a march upon them. Gibes and jeers were showered upon the "Bull-dogs," and two of them were ducked in the canal by a party of five or six of their elders. On scrambling out, however, they ran back to the village, and the rest of the party, headed by Jack, at once started on the war-path. Coming up to the band who had assaulted their comrades they fell upon them with fury, and in spite of the latter's superior individual strength, thrashed them soundly, and then gave them a ducking in the canal, similar to that which they had inflicted. After that it came to be understood in Stokebridge that it was best to leave the bull-dogs alone, or at least to be content with verbal assaults, at which indeed the lads were able to hold their own. But it was among the girls of Stokebridge, those of from fourteen to seventeen years old, that this movement upon the part of the boys excited the greatest discussion and the widest divergence of opinion. Up to the time of the strike Jack Simpson had been by no means popular among their class. It was an anomaly in Stokebridge that a lad should have no avowed favourite of his own age among the lasses. These adhesions were not often of a permanent character, although later on sometimes marriages came of them, but for a time, and until the almost inevitable quarrel came, they were regarded as binding. The lad would sometimes buy a ribbon or neckerchief for the lass, and she and two or three others would accompany him as with some of his comrades he strolled in the lanes on Sunday, or would sit by him on a wall or a balk of timber as he smoked and talked with his friends. Jack's rigid seclusion after his hour of play was over, his apparent indifference to the lasses of the place, was felt as a general slight, and resented accordingly; although the girls were not insensible to his prowess in battle and in sports, to his quiet steadiness of character, or to the frankness and good temper of his face. The general opinion, therefore, among the young girls of Stokebridge was that he was "stuck up," although in fact few boys in the place had less of conceit and self-glorification than he had. "Did 'ee ever hear of such a tale," asked one of a group of girls sitting together on a bank, while the little ones, of whom they were supposed to be in charge, played and rolled on the grass, "as for a lot o' boys to go to school again o' their own free-will." "I don't see no good in it," another said, "not for the schooling they'll get. But if it teaches them to keep out o' the publics, it will be good for their wives some day." "It will that," put in another earnestly; "my! how feyther did beat mother last night; he were as drunk as could be, and he went on awful." "I think sometimes men are worse nor beasts," another said. "Do 'ee know I've heard," Sarah Shepherd said, "that the new schoolmistress be a-going to open a night-school for girls, to teach sewing, and cutting out, and summat o' cooking." There was a general exclamation of astonishment, and so strange was the news that it was some time before any one ventured a comment on it. "What dost think o't?" Sarah questioned at last. "Only sewing and cutting out and cooking and such like, and not lessons?" Bess Thompson asked doubtfully. "Not reg'lar lessons I mean. She'll read out while the girls work, and perhaps they will read out by turns; not lessons, you know, but stories and tales, and travels, and that kind o' book. What dost think o't?" "'Twould be a good thing to know how to make dresses," Fanny Jones, who was fond of finery, remarked. "And other things too," put in Peggy Martin, "and to cook too. Mother ain't a good hand at cooking and it puts feyther in such tempers, and sometimes I hardly wonder. I shall go if some others go. But be'est sure it be true, Sally?" "Harry told me," she said, "and I think Jack Simpson told him as the schoolmaster said so." The news was too important to be kept to themselves, and there was soon a general move homewards. There Sally Shepherd's story received confirmation. The schoolmistress had been going from house to house, asking all the women who had daughters between the ages of fifteen and eighteen, to let them attend a working class in the schoolroom two evenings a week, and the answer she almost always received was, "Well, I ha' no objection to my lass going if she be willing; and I think it would be very good for her to know how to make her clothes; I can hardly do a stitch myself." Mrs. Dodgson had also informed the women that any of them who liked to supply the material for undergarments or for children's dresses, could have them for the present made up without charge by the class. "But suppose they spiles 'em?" "They wont spoil them. The work may not be very neat at first, but the things will be well cut out and strongly put together. I will see to that." In a short time the class was opened, and forty girls at once attended. So pleased were these with their teacher, and with the pleasant books that Mr. Dodgson read to them--for his wife was far too much occupied to read, and too wise to give the girls a distaste for the class by asking them to do so--that the number of applicants for admission soon far exceeded the number who could be received. Mr. Brook heard shortly afterwards from Mr. Dodgson of the success of the scheme and the great benefit which was likely to accrue from it, and at once offered to contribute twenty pounds a year to secure the services of a young woman capable of assisting in the girls' school by day and of teaching needlework. Thenceforth the number of class evenings was raised to three a week, and sixty girls in all were admitted. The books chosen for reading were not always tales, but for a portion of each evening books treating on domestic matters, the care of a house, the management of illness, cottage gardening, &c., were read; and these were found greatly to interest the hearers. The book on gardening was a special favourite, and soon the pitmen were astonished to see changes in the tiny plots of ground behind their houses. The men in charge of the pit horses were coaxed for baskets of manure, pennies were saved and devoted to the purchase of seed, and the boys found that the most acceptable present was no longer a gay handkerchief or ribbon, but a pot of flowers. Revolutions are not made in a day, but as month passed after month the change in Stokebridge became marked. The place assumed a smarter and brighter aspect; it was rare to hear bad language from lads or girls in the streets, for the young ones naturally followed the fashion set by their elder brothers and sisters, and as a foul expression not unfrequently cost its utterer a cuff on the head, they soon became rare. The girls became more quiet in demeanour, neater in dress, the boys less noisy and aggressive. The boys' night-school had increased greatly in number. The Bull-dogs, after much deliberation, had declined to increase their numbers, but at Jack Simpson's suggestion it had been agreed that any of them might join other similar associations, in order that these might be conducted on the same lines as their own, and the benefits of which they were conscious be thus distributed more widely. Four other "clubs" were in consequence established, all looking upon the Bull-dogs as their central association. The vicar of the parish aided the efforts of the school master and mistress for the improvement of the rising generation of Stokebridge. Hitherto all efforts that way had failed, but he now got over a magic lantern from Birmingham, hiring sets of slides of scenery in foreign countries, astronomical subjects, &c., and gave lectures once a fortnight. These were well attended, and the quiet attention with which he was listened to by the younger portion of his audience, contrasted so strongly with the indifference or uproar with which a similar attempt had been met some two years before, that he told Mr. Brook something like a miracle was being wrought in the parish. Mr. Brook warmly congratulated Mr. and Mrs. Dodgson on the change, but these frankly said that although they had done their best, the change was in no slight degree due to the influence of one of the pit lads, with whom Mr. Merton had taken great pains, and who was certainly a remarkable lad. "Ah, indeed," Mr. Brook said. "I have a faint recollection of his speaking to me some years ago of one of the boys; and, now I think of it, he is the same boy who behaved so bravely in going down that old shaft to save another boy's life. The men gave him a gold watch; of course, I remember all about it now. I am glad to hear that he is turning out so well. In a few years I must see what I can do for him." Mr. Dodgson would have said much more, but Mr. Merton had impressed upon him that Jack would object, above all things, to be brought forward, and that it was better to let him work his way steadily and bide his time. It was not for some months after the sewing classes had been instituted that those for cooking were established. The difficulty was not as to the necessary outlay for stoves and utensils, for these Mr. Brook at once offered to provide, but as to the food to be cooked. The experiments began on a small scale. At first Mrs. Dodgson sent round to say that in all cases of illness, she would have broths, puddings, and cooling drinks prepared at the schools free of charge, upon the necessary materials being sent to her. This was followed by the plan of buying the materials for food for invalids, which was to be supplied at a price that just paid the cost. Then little steak puddings and pies were made, and these commanded a ready sale; excellent soups from cheap materials were also provided, and for this in winter the demand was greater than they could supply; and so the work was extended until the two stoves were fully occupied for three days a week. Eight girls at a time were instructed in cookery, doing the whole work under the supervision of the mistress. Two fresh hands came as two left each week; thus each received a month's teaching. On the first week the new-comers simply cleaned and washed the utensils, stoves, &c., during the remaining three weeks they learned to make simple soups, puddings, and pies, to cook meat and vegetables. The time was short for the purpose, but the girls were delighted with their lessons, and took the greatest pride in keeping up the reputation of the school kitchens, and learned at any rate sufficient to enable them to assist their mothers at home with such effect, that the pitmen of Stokebridge were astonished at the variety and improvement of their fare. CHAPTER XVI. A NEW LIFE. Jack Simpson did not forget the advice Mr. Merton had given him about clothes, and a fortnight after his master had gone to Birmingham Jack went over on Saturday afternoon, and his kind friend accompanied him to one of the leading tailors there, and he was measured for two suits of clothes. He went to other shops and bought such articles as Mr. Merton recommended--hats, gloves, boots, &c. Mr. Merton smiled to himself at the grave attention which Jack paid to all he said upon the subject; but Jack was always earnest in all he undertook, and he had quite appreciated what his friend had told him as to the advantage of being dressed so as to excite no attention upon the part of those whom he would meet at Mr. Merton's. The following Saturday he went over again, and went again to the tailor's to try his things on. "Do you want a dress suit, sir?" the foreman asked with suppressed merriment. "What is a dress suit?" Jack said simply. "I am ignorant about these matters." "A dress suit," the foreman said, struck with the young fellow's freedom from all sort of pretence or assumption, "is the dress gentlemen wear of an evening at dinner parties or other gatherings. This is it," and he showed Jack an engraving. Jack looked at it--he had never seen anyone so attired. "He looks very affected," he said. "Oh, that is the fault of the artist," the foreman answered. "Gentlemen look just as natural in these clothes as in any other. They are quite simple, you see--all black, with open vest, white shirt, white tie and gloves, and patent leather boots." A quiet smile stole over Jack's face. Humour was by no means a strong point in his character, but he was not altogether deficient in it. "I had better have them," he said; "it would look strange, I suppose, not to be dressed so when others are?" "It would be a little marked in the event of a dinner or evening party," the foreman answered, and so Jack gave the order. It was two weeks later before he paid his first visit to Mr. Merton; for the pretty little house which the latter had taken a mile out of the town had been in the hands of the workmen and furnishers, Mr. Merton having drawn on his little capital to decorate and fit up the house, so as to be a pretty home for his daughter. It was, indeed, a larger house than, from the mere salary attached to his post, he could be able to afford, but he reckoned upon considerably increasing this by preparing young men for the university, and he was wise enough to know that a good establishment and a liberal table go very far in establishing and widening a connection, and in rendering people sensible to a man's merits, either in business or otherwise. As Mr. Merton, M.A., late of St. John's, Cambridge, and third wrangler of his year, he had already been received with great cordiality by his colleagues, and at their houses had made the acquaintance of many of the best, if not the wealthiest men in Birmingham, for at Birmingham the terms were by no means more synonymous than they are elsewhere. Jack had ordered his clothes to be sent to a small hotel near the railway station, and had arranged with the landlord that his portmanteau should be kept there, and a room be placed at his service on Saturday afternoon and Monday morning once a month for him to change his things. He had walked with Mr. Merton and seen the house, and had determined that he would always change before going there on a Saturday, in order to avoid comments by servants and others who might be visiting them. In thus acting Jack had no personal thoughts in the matter; much as he always shrank from being put forward as being in any way different from others, he had otherwise no self-consciousness whatever. No lad on the pits thought less of his personal appearance or attire, and his friend Nelly had many times taken him to task for his indifference in this respect. Mr. Merton perceived advantages in Jack's position in life not being generally known, and Jack at once fell into the arrangement, and carried it out, as described, to the best of his ability. But even he could not help seeing, when he had attired himself for his first visit to Mr. Merton's house, how complete had been the change in his appearance. "Who would have thought that just a little difference in the make of a coat would have made such an alteration in one's look?" he said to himself. "I feel different altogether; but that is nonsense, except that these boots are so much lighter than mine, that it seems as if I were in my stockings. Well, I suppose I shall soon be accustomed to it." Packing a black coat and a few other articles in a hand-bag, and locking up the clothes he had taken off in his portmanteau, Jack started for Mr. Merton's. He was dressed in a well-fitting suit of dark tweed, with a claret-coloured neckerchief with plain gold scarf-ring. Jack's life of exercise had given him the free use of his limbs--he walked erect, and his head was well set back on his shoulders; altogether, with his crisp short waving hair, his good-humoured but resolute face, and his steadfast look, he was, although not handsome, yet a very pleasant-looking young fellow. He soon forgot the fact of his new clothes, except that he was conscious of walking with a lightness and elasticity strange to him, and in half an hour rang at the visitors' bell of Mr. Merton's villa. "A visitor, papa," said Alice, who was sitting near the window of the drawing-room. "How tiresome, just as we were expecting Jack Simpson. It is a gentleman. Why, papa!" and she clapped her hands, "it is Jack himself. I did not know him at first, he looks like a gentleman." "He is a gentleman," Mr. Merton said; "a true gentleman in thought, feeling, and speech, and will soon adapt himself to the society he will meet here. Do not remark upon his dress unless he says something about it himself." "Oh, papa, I should not think of such a thing. I am not so thoughtless as that." The door was opened and Jack was shown in. "How are you, Jack? I am glad to see you." "Thank you, sir, I am always well," Jack said. Then turning to Miss Merton he asked her how she liked Birmingham. He had seen her often since the time when he first met her at the commencement of the strike, as he had helped them in their preparations for removing from Stokebridge, and had entirely got over the embarrassment which he had felt on the first evening spent there. After talking for a few minutes, Jack said gravely to Mr. Merton, "I hope that these clothes will do, Mr. Merton?" "Excellently well, Jack," he answered smiling; "they have made just the difference I expected; my daughter hardly knew you when you rang at the bell." "I hardly knew myself when I saw myself in a glass," Jack said. "Now, on what principle do you explain the fact that a slight alteration in the cutting and sewing together of pieces of cloth should make such a difference?" "I do not know that I ever gave the philosophy of the question a moment's thought, Jack," said Mr. Merton smiling. "I can only explain it by the remark that the better cut clothes set off the natural curve of the neck, shoulders, and figure generally, and in the second place, being associated in our minds with the peculiar garb worn by gentlemen, they give what, for want of a better word, I may call style. A high black hat is the ugliest, most shapeless, and most unnatural article ever invented, but still a high hat, good and of the shape in vogue, certainly has a more gentlemanly effect, to use a word I hate, than any other. And now, my boy, you I know dined early, so did we. We shall have tea at seven, so we have three hours for work, and there are nearly six weeks' arrears, so do not let us waste any more time." After this first visit Jack went out regularly once every four weeks. He fell very naturally into the ways of the house, and although his manner often amused Alice Merton greatly, and caused even her father to smile, he was never awkward or boorish. As Alice came to know him more thoroughly, and their conversations ceased to be of a formal character, she surprised and sometimes quite puzzled him. The girl was full of fun and had a keen sense of humour, and her playful attacks upon his earnestness, her light way of parrying the problems which Jack, ever on the alert for information, was constantly putting, and the cheerful tone which her talk imparted to the general conversation when she was present, were all wholly new to the lad. Often he did not know whether she was in earnest or not, and was sometimes so overwhelmed by her light attacks as to be unable to answer. Mr. Merton looked on, amused at their wordy conflicts; he knew that nothing does a boy so much good and so softens his manner as friendly intercourse with a well-read girl of about his own age, and undoubtedly Alice did almost as much towards preparing Jack's manner for his future career as her father had done towards preparing his mind. As time went on Jack often met Mr. Merton's colleagues, and other gentlemen who came in in the evening. He was always introduced as "my young friend Simpson," with the aside, "a remarkably clever young fellow," and most of those who met him supposed him to be a pupil of the professor's. Mr. Merton had, within a few months of his arrival at Birmingham, five or six young men to prepare for Cambridge. None of them resided in the house, but after Jack had become thoroughly accustomed to the position, Mr. Merton invited them, as well as a party of ladies and gentlemen, to the house on one of Jack's Saturday evenings. Jack, upon hearing that a number of friends were coming in the evening, made an excuse to go into the town, and took his black bag with him. Alice had already wondered over the matter. "They will all be in dress, papa. Jack will feel awkward among them." "He is only eighteen, my dear, and it will not matter his not being in evening dress. Jack will not feel awkward." Alice, was, however, very pleased as well as surprised when, upon coming down dressed into the drawing-room, she found him in full evening dress chatting quietly with her father and two newly arrived guests. Jack would not have been awkward, but he would certainly have been uncomfortable had he not been dressed as were the others, for of all things he hated being different to other people. He looked at Alice in a pretty pink muslin dress of fashionable make with a surprise as great as that with which she had glanced at him, for he had never before seen a lady in full evening dress. Presently he said to her quietly, "I know I never say the right thing, Miss Merton, and I daresay it is quite wrong for me to express any personal opinions, but you do look--" "No, Jack; that is quite the wrong thing to say. You may say, Miss Merton, your dress is a most becoming one, although even that you could not be allowed to say except to some one with whom you are very intimate. There are as many various shades of compliment as there are of intimacy. A brother may say to a sister, You look stunning to-night--that is a very slang word, Jack--and she will like it. A stranger or a new acquaintance may not say a word which would show that he observes a lady is not attired in a black walking dress." "And what is the exact degree of intimacy in which one may say as you denoted, 'Miss Merton, your dress is a most becoming one?'" "I should say," the girl said gravely, "it might be used by a cousin or by an old gentleman, a friend of the family." Then with a laugh she went off to receive the guests, now beginning to arrive in earnest. After this Mr. Merton made a point of having an "at home" every fourth Saturday, and these soon became known as among the most pleasant and sociable gatherings in the literary and scientific world of Birmingham. So young Jack Simpson led a dual life, spending twenty-six days of each month as a pit lad, speaking a dialect nearly as broad as that of his fellows, and two as a quiet and unobtrusive young student in the pleasant home of Mr. Merton. Before a year had passed the one life seemed as natural to him as the other. Even with his friends he kept them separate, seldom speaking of Stokebridge when at Birmingham, save to answer Mr. Merton's questions as to old pupils; and giving accounts, which to Nelly Hardy appeared ridiculously meagre, of his Birmingham experience to his friends at home. This was not from any desire to be reticent, but simply because the details appeared to him to be altogether uninteresting to his friends. "You need not trouble to tell me any more, Jack," Nelly Hardy said indignantly. "I know it all by heart. You worked three hours with Mr. Merton; dinner at six; some people came at eight, no one in particular; they talked, and there was some playing on the piano; they went away at twelve. Next morning after breakfast you went to church, had dinner at two, took a walk afterwards, had tea at half-past six, supper at nine, then to bed. I won't ask you any more questions, Jack; if anything out of the way takes place you will tell me, no doubt." CHAPTER XVII. THE DOG FIGHT. Saturday afternoon walks, when there were no special games on hand, became an institution among what may be called Jack Simpson's set at Stokebridge. The young fellows had followed his lead with all seriousness, and a stranger passing would have been astonished at the talk, so grave and serious was it. In colliery villages, as at school, the lad who is alike the head of the school and the champion at all games, is looked up to and admired and imitated, and his power for good or for evil is almost unlimited among his fellows. Thus the Saturday afternoon walks became supplements to the evening classes, and questions of all kinds were propounded to Jack, whose attainments they regarded as prodigious. On such an afternoon, as Jack was giving his friends a brief sketch of the sun and its satellites, and of the wonders of the telescope, they heard bursts of applause by many voices, and a low, deep growling of dogs. "It is a dog fight," one of the lads exclaimed. "It is a brutal sport," Jack said. "Let us go another way." One of the young fellows had, however, climbed a gate to see what was going on beyond the hedge. "Jack," he exclaimed, "there is Bill Haden fighting his old bitch Flora against Tom Walker's Jess, and I think the pup is a-killing the old dorg." With a bound Jack Simpson sprang into the field, where some twenty or thirty men were standing looking at a dog fight. One dog had got the other down and was evidently killing it. "Throw up the sponge, Bill," the miners shouted. "The old dorg's no good agin the purp." Jack dashed into the ring, with a kick he sent the young dog flying across the ring, and picked up Flora, who, game to the last, struggled to get at her foe. A burst of indignation and anger broke from the men. "Let un be." "Put her down." "Dang thee, how dare'st meddle here?" "I'll knock thee head off," and other shouts sounded loudly and threateningly. "For shame!" Jack said indignantly. "Be ye men! For shame, Bill Haden, to match thy old dog, twelve year old, wi' a young un. She's been a good dorg, and hast brought thee many a ten-pun note. If be'est tired of her, gi' her poison, but I woant stand by and see her mangled." "How dare 'ee kick my dorg?" a miner said coming angrily forward; "how dare 'ee come here and hinder sport?" "Sport!" Jack said indignantly, "there be no sport in it. It is brutal cruelty." "The match be got to be fought out," another said, "unless Bill Haden throws up the sponge for his dog." "Come," Tom Walker said putting his hand on Jack's shoulder, "get out o' this; if it warn't for Bill Haden I'd knock thee head off. We be coom to see spoort, and we mean to see it." "Spoort!" Jack said passionately. "If it's spoort thee want'st I'll give it thee. Flora sha'n't go into the ring agin, but oi ull. I'll fight the best man among ye, be he which he will." A chorus of wonder broke from the colliers. "Then thou'st get to fight me," Tom Walker said. "I b'liev'," he went on looking round, "there bean't no man here ull question that. Thou'st wanted a leathering for soom time, Jack Simpson, wi' thy larning and thy ways, and I'm not sorry to be the man to gi' it thee." "No, no," Bill Haden said, and the men round for the most part echoed his words. "'Taint fair for thee to take t' lad at his word. He be roight. I hadn't ought to ha' matched Flora no more. She ha' been a good bitch in her time, but she be past it, and I'll own up that thy pup ha' beaten her, and pay thee the two pounds I lay on her, if ee'll let this matter be." "Noa," Tom Walker said, "the young 'un ha' challenged the best man here, and I be a-goaing to lick him if he doant draw back." "I shall not draw back," Jack said divesting himself of his coat, waistcoat, and shirt. "Flora got licked a'cause she was too old, maybe I'll be licked a'cause I be too young; but she made a good foight, and so'll oi. No, dad, I won't ha' you to back me. Harry here shall do that." The ring was formed again. The lads stood on one side, the men on the other. It was understood now that there was to be a fight, and no one had another word to say. "I'll lay a fi'-pound note to a shilling on the old un," a miner said. "I'll take 'ee," Bill Haden answered. "It hain't a great risk to run, and Jack is as game as Flora." Several other bets were made at similar odds, the lads, although they deemed the conflict hopeless, yet supporting their champion. Tom Walker stood but little taller than Jack, who was about five feet six, and would probably grow two inches more; but he was three stone heavier, Jack being a pound or two only over ten while the pitman reached thirteen. The latter was the acknowledged champion of the Vaughan pits, as Jack was incontestably the leader among the lads. The disproportion in weight and muscle was enormous; but Jack had not a spare ounce of flesh on his bones, while the pitman was fleshy and out of condition. It is not necessary to give the details of the fight, which lasted over an hour. In the earlier portion Jack was knocked down again and again, and was several times barely able to come up to the call of time; but his bull-dog strain, as he called it, gradually told, while intemperate habits and want of condition did so as surely upon his opponent. The derisive shouts with which the men had hailed every knock-down blow early in the fight soon subsided, and exclamations of admiration at the pluck with which Jack, reeling and confused, came up time after time took their place. "It be a foight arter all," one of them said at the end of the first ten minutes. "I wouldn't lay more nor ten to one now." "I'll take as many tens to one as any o' ye like to lay," Bill Haden said, but no one cared to lay even these odds. At the end of half an hour the betting was only two to one. Jack, who had always "given his head," that is, had always ducked so as to receive the blows on the top of his head, where they were supposed to do less harm, was as strong as he was after the first five minutes. Tom Walker was panting with fatigue, wild and furious at his want of success over an adversary he had despised. The cheers of the lads, silent at first, rose louder with each round, and culminated in a yell of triumph when, at the end of fifty-five minutes, Tom Walker, having for the third time in succession been knocked down, was absolutely unable to rise at the call of "time" to renew the fight. [Illustration: JACK IS VICTORIOUS.] Never had an event created such a sensation in Stokebridge. At first the news was received with absolute incredulity, but when it became thoroughly understood that Bill Haden's boy, Jack Simpson, had licked Tom Walker, the wonder knew no bounds. So struck were some of the men with Jack's courage and endurance, that the offer was made to him that, if he liked to go to Birmingham and put himself under that noted pugilist the "Chicken," his expenses would be paid, and £50 be forthcoming for his first match. Jack, knowing that this offer was made in good faith and with good intentions, and was in accordance with the custom of mining villages, declined it courteously and thankfully, but firmly, to the surprise and disappointment of his would-be backers, who had flattered themselves that Stokebridge was going to produce a champion middle-weight. He had not come unscathed from the fight, for it proved that one of his ribs had been broken by a heavy body hit; and he was for some weeks in the hands of the doctor, and was longer still before he could again take his place in the pit. Bill Haden's pride in him was unbounded, and during his illness poor old Flora, who seemed to recognize in him her champion, lay on his bed with her black muzzle in the hand not occupied with a book. The victory which Jack had won gave the finishing stroke to his popularity and influence among his companions, and silenced definitely and for ever the sneers of the minority who had held out against the change which he had brought about. He himself felt no elation at his victory, and objected to the subject even being alluded to. "It was just a question of wind and last," he said. "I was nigh being done for at the end o' the first three rounds. I just managed to hold on, and then it was a certainty. If Tom Walker had been in condition he would have finished me in ten minutes. If he had come on working as a getter, I should ha' been nowhere; he's a weigher now and makes fat, and his muscles are flabby. The best dorg can't fight when he's out o' condition." But in spite of that, the lads knew that it was only bull-dog courage that had enabled Jack to hold out over these bad ten minutes. As for Jane Haden, her reproaches to her husband for in the first place matching Flora against a young dog, and in the second for allowing Jack to fight so noted a man as Tom Walker, were so fierce and vehement, that until Jack was able to leave his bed and take his place by the fire, Bill was but little at home; spending all his time, even at meals, in that place of refuge from his wife's tongue,--"the Chequers." CHAPTER XVIII. STOKEBRIDGE FEAST. Even among the mining villages of the Black Country Stokebridge had a reputation for roughness; and hardened topers of the place would boast that in no village in the county was there so much beer drunk per head. Stokebridge feast was frequented by the dwellers of the mining villages for miles round, and the place was for the day a scene of disgraceful drunkenness and riot. Crowds of young men and women came in, the public-houses were crowded, there was a shouting of songs and a scraping of fiddles from each tap-room, and dancing went on in temporary booths. One of these feasts had taken place just after the establishment of the night classes, and had been marked by even greater drunkenness and more riotous scenes than usual. For years the vicar in the church and the dissenting ministers in their meeting-houses had preached in vain against the evil. Their congregations were small, and in this respect their words fell upon ears closed to exhortation. During the year which had elapsed, however, there was a perceptible change in Stokebridge, a change from which those interested in it hoped for great results. The Bull-dogs and their kindred societies had set the fashion, and the demeanour and bearing of the young men and boys was quiet and orderly. In every match which they had played at rounders, football, and quoits, with the surrounding villages Stokebridge had won easily, and never were the games entered into with more zest than now. The absence of bad language in the streets was surprising. The habit of restraint upon the tongue acquired in the club-rooms had spread, and two months after Jack's first proposal had been so coldly received, the proposition to extend the fines to swearing outside the walls as well as in was unanimously agreed to. The change in the demeanour of the girls was even greater. Besides the influence of Mrs. Dodgson and her assistant, aided perhaps by the desire to stand well in the eyes of lads of the place, their boisterous habits had been toned down, dark neatly made dresses took the place of bright-coloured and flimsy ones; hair, faces, and hands showed more care and self-respect. The example of the young people had not been without its influence upon the elders. Not indeed upon the regular drinking set, but upon those who only occasionally gave way. The tidier and more comfortable homes, the better cooked meals, all had their effect; and all but brutalized men shrank from becoming objects of shame to their children. As to the women of Stokebridge they were for the most part delighted with the change. Some indeed grumbled at the new-fangled ways, and complained that their daughters were getting above them, but as the lesson taught in the night-classes was that the first duty of a girl or woman was to make her home bright and happy, to bear patiently the tempers of others, to be a peacemaker and a help, to bear with children, and to respect elders, even the grumblers gave way at last. The very appearance of the village was changing. Pots of bright flowers stood in the windows, creepers and roses climbed over the walls, patches full of straggling weeds were now well-kept gardens; in fact, as Mr. Brook said one day to the vicar, one would hardly know the place. "There has indeed been a strange movement for good," the clergyman said, "and I cannot take any share of it to myself. It has been going on for some time invisibly, and the night schools and classes for girls have given it an extraordinary impulse. It is a changed place altogether. I am sorry that the feast is at hand. It always does an immense deal of mischief, and is a time of quarrel, drunkenness, and license. I wish that something could be done to counteract its influence." "So do I," Mr. Brook said. "Can you advise anything?" "I cannot," the vicar said; "but I will put on my hat and walk with you down to the schoolhouse. To Dodgson and his wife is due the real credit of the change; they are indefatigable, and their influence is very great. Let us put the question to them." The schoolmaster had his evening class in; Mrs. Dodgson had ten girls working and reading in her parlour, as she invited that number of the neatest and most quiet of her pupils to tea on each evening that her husband was engaged with his night-school. These evenings were greatly enjoyed by the girls, and the hope of being included among the list of invited had done much towards producing a change of manners. It was a fine evening, and the schoolmaster and his wife joined Mr. Brook out of doors, and apologizing for the room being full asked them to sit down in the rose-covered arbour at the end of the garden. The vicar explained the object of the visit. "My wife and I have been talking the matter over, Mr. Brook," the schoolmaster said, "and we deplore these feasts, which are the bane of the place. They demoralize the village; all sorts of good resolutions give way under temptation, and then those who have given way are ashamed to rejoin their better companions. It cannot be put down, I suppose?" "No," Mr. Brook said. "It is held in a field belonging to "The Chequers," and even did I succeed in getting it closed--which of course would be out of the question--they would find some other site for the booths." "Would you be prepared to go to some expense to neutralize the bad effects of this feast, Mr. Brook?" "Certainly; any expense in reason." "What I was thinking, sir, is that if upon the afternoon of the feast you could give a fête in your grounds, beginning with say a cricket-match, followed by a tea, with conjuring or some such amusement afterwards--for I do not think that they would care for dancing--winding up with sandwiches and cakes, and would invite the girls of my wife's sewing-classes with any other girls they may choose to bring with them, and the lads of my evening class, with similar permission to bring friends, we should keep all those who are really the moving spirits of the improvement which has taken place here out of reach of temptation." "Your idea is excellent," Mr. Brook said. "I will get the band of the regiment at Birmingham over, and we will wind up with a display of fireworks, and any other attraction which, after thinking the matter over, you can suggest, shall be adopted. I have greatly at heart the interests of my pitmen, and the fact that last year they were led away to play me a scurvy trick is all forgotten now. A good work has been set on foot here, and if we can foster it and keep it going, Stokebridge will in future years be a very different place to what it has been." Mr. Dodgson consulted Jack Simpson the next day as to the amusements likely to be most popular; but Jack suggested that Fred Wood and Bill Cummings should be called into consultation, for, as he said, he knew nothing of girls' ways, and his opinions were worth nothing. His two friends were sent for and soon arrived. They agreed that a cricket-match would be the greatest attraction, and that the band of the soldiers would delight the girls. It was arranged that a challenge should be sent to Batterbury, which lay thirteen miles off, and would therefore know nothing of the feast. The Stokebridge team had visited them the summer before and beaten them, therefore they would no doubt come to Stokebridge. They thought that a good conjuror would be an immense attraction, as such a thing had never been seen in Stokebridge, and that the fireworks would be a splendid wind up. Mr. Brook had proposed that a dinner for the contending cricket teams should be served in a marquee, but to this the lads objected, as not only would the girls be left out, but also the lads not engaged in the match. It would be better, they thought, for there to be a table with sandwiches, buns, lemonade, and tea, from which all could help themselves. The arrangements were all made privately, as it was possible that the publicans might, were they aware of the intended counter attraction, change the day of the feast, although this was unlikely, seeing that it had from time immemorial taken place on the 3rd of September except only when that day fell on a Sunday; still it was better to run no risk. A meeting of the "Bull-dogs" was called for the 27th of August, and at this Jack announced the invitation which had been received from Mr. Brook. A few were inclined to demur at giving up the jollity of the feast, but by this time the majority of the lads had gone heart and soul into the movement for improvement. The progress made had already been so great, the difficulties at first met had been so easily overcome, that they were eager to carry on the work. One or two of those most doubtful as to their own resolution were the most ready to accept the invitation of their employer, for it was morally certain that everyone would be drunk on the night of the feast, and it was an inexorable law of the "Bull-dogs" that any of the members getting drunk were expelled from that body. The invitation was at last accepted without a dissenting voice, the challenge to Batterbury written, and then the members went off to the associated clubs of which they were members to obtain the adhesion of these also to the fête at Mr. Brook's. Mrs. Dodgson had harder work with the sewing-class. The attraction of the dancing and display of finery at the feast was greater to many of the girls than to the boys. Many eagerly accepted the invitation; but it was not until Mr. Dodgson came in late in the evening and announced in an audible tone to his wife that he was glad to say that the whole of the young fellows of the night-school had accepted the invitation, that the girls all gave way and agreed to go to the fête. Accordingly on the 3rd of September, just as the people from the pit villages round were flocking in to Stokebridge, a hundred and fifty of the young people of that place, with a score or two of young married couples and steady men and women, set out in their Sunday suits for Mr. Brook's. It was a glorious day. The cricket-match was a great success, the military band was delightful, and Mr. Brook had placed it on the lawn, so that those of the young people who chose could dance to the inspiring strains. Piles of sandwiches disappeared during the afternoon, and the tea, coffee, and lemonade were pronounced excellent. There was, too, a plentiful supply of beer for such of the lads as preferred it; as Mr. Brook thought that it would look like a want of confidence in his visitors did he not provide them with beer. Batterbury was beaten soundly; and when it was dark the party assembled in a large marquee. There a conjuror first performed, and after giving all the usual wonders, produced from an inexhaustible box such pretty presents in the way of well-furnished work-bags and other useful articles for the girls that these were delighted. But the surprise of the evening was yet to come. It was not nine o'clock when the conjuror finished, and Mr. Dodgson was thinking anxiously that the party would be back in Stokebridge long before the feast was over. Suddenly a great pair of curtains across the end of the tent drew aside and a regular stage was seen. Mr. Brook had obtained the services of five or six actors and actresses from the Birmingham theatre, together with scenery and all accessories; and for two hours and a half the audience was kept in a roar of laughter by some well-acted farces. When the curtain fell at last, Mr. Brook himself came in front of it. So long and hearty was the cheering that it was a long time before he could obtain a hearing. At last silence was restored. "I am very glad, my friends," he said, "that you have had a happy afternoon and evening, and I hope that another year I shall see you all here again. I should like to say a few words before we separate. You young men, lads and lasses, will in a few years have a paramount influence in Stokebridge; upon you it depends whether that place is to be, as it used to be, like other colliery villages in Staffordshire, or to be a place inhabited by decent and civilized people. I am delighted to observe that a great change has lately come over it, due in a great measure to your good and kind friends Mr. and Mrs. Dodgson, who have devoted their whole time and efforts to your welfare." The cheering at this point was as great as that which had greeted Mr. Brook himself, but was even surpassed by that which burst out when a young fellow shouted out, "and Jack Simpson." During this Jack Simpson savagely made his way out of the tent, and remained outside, muttering threats about punching heads, till the proceedings were over. "And Jack Simpson," Mr. Brook went on, smiling, after the cheering had subsided. "I feel sure that the improvement will be maintained. When you see the comfort of homes in which the wives are cleanly, tidy, and intelligent, able to make the dresses of themselves and their children, and to serve their husbands with decently cooked food; and in which the husbands spend their evenings and their wages at home, treating their wives as rational beings, reading aloud, or engaged in cheerful conversation, and compare their homes with those of the drunkard and the slattern, it would seem impossible for any reasonable human being to hesitate in his or her choice between them. It is in your power, my friends, each and all, which of these homes shall be yours. I have thought that some active amusement is necessary, and have arranged, after consultation with your vicar and with Mr. and Mrs. Dodgson, that a choir-master from Birmingham shall come over twice a week, to train such of you as may wish and may have voices, in choir-singing. As the lads of Stokebridge can beat those of any of the surrounding villages at cricket, so I hope in time the choir of the lads and lasses of this place will be able to hold its own against any other." Again the speaker had to pause, for the cheering was enthusiastic. "And now, good-night; and may I say that I hope and trust that when the fireworks, which will now be displayed, are over, you will all go home and straight to bed, without being tempted to join in the doings at the feast. If so, it will be a satisfaction to me to think that for the first time since the feast was first inaugurated, neither lad nor lass of Stokebridge will have cause to look back upon the feast-day with regret or shame." CHAPTER XIX. THE GREAT RIOT. Stokebridge feast had not gone off with its usual spirit. The number of young pitmen and lads from the surrounding villages were as large as ever, and there was no lack of lasses in gay bonnets and bright dresses. The fact, however, that almost the whole of the lads and girls of Stokebridge between the ages of fifteen and eighteen had left the village and gone to a rival fête elsewhere, cast a damper on the proceedings. There were plenty of young women and young men in Stokebridge who were as ready as ever to dance and to drink, and who were, perhaps, even gaudier in attire and more boisterous in manner than usual, as a protest against the recession of their juniors; for Stokebridge was divided into two very hostile camps, and, as was perhaps not unnatural, those over the age of the girls and lads at the night-schools resented the changes which had been made, and rebelled against the, as they asserted, airs of superiority of younger sisters and brothers. In some cases no doubt there was ground for the feeling. The girls and lads, eager to introduce the new lessons of order and neatness which they had learned, may have gone too fast and acted with too much zeal, although their teacher had specially warned them against so doing. Hence the feeling of hostility to the movement was strong among a small section of Stokebridge, and the feeling was heightened by the secession in a body of the young people from the feast. As the day went on the public-houses were as full as ever, indeed it was said that never before had so much liquor been consumed; the fiddles played and the dancing and boisterous romping went on as usual, but there was less real fun and enjoyment. As evening came on the young fellows talked together in angry groups. Whether the proposal emanated from some of the Stokebridge men or from the visitors from other villages was afterwards a matter of much dispute, but it gradually became whispered about among the dancing booths and public-houses that there was an intention to give the party from Brook's a warm reception when they arrived. Volleys of mud and earth were prepared, and some of the overdressed young women tossed their heads, and said that a spattering with mud would do the stuck-up girls no harm. The older pitmen, who would have certainly opposed any such design being carried out, were kept in ignorance of what was intended; the greater portion were indeed drunk long before the time came when the party would be returning from the fête. At a quarter before twelve Jane Haden, who had been sitting quietly at home, went up to the "Chequers" to look after her husband, and to see about his being brought home should he be incapable of walking. The music was still playing in the dancing booths, but the dancing was kept up without spirit, for a number of young men and lads were gathered outside. As she passed she caught a few words which were sufficient to inform her of what was going on. "Get some sticks oot o' hedges." "Fill your pockets oop wi' stones." "We'll larn 'em to spoil the feast." Jane saw that an attack was going to be made upon the party, and hesitated for a moment what to do. The rockets were going up in Mr. Brook's grounds, and she knew she had a few minutes yet. First she ran to the house of James Shepherd. The pitman, who was a sturdy man, had been asleep for the last three hours. She knocked at the door, unlocked it, and went in. "Jim," she called in a loud voice. "Aye, what be't?" said a sleepy voice upstairs; "be't thou, Harry and Sally?" "No, it be I, Jane Haden; get up quickly, Jim; quick, man, there be bad doings, and thy lad and lass are like to have their heads broke if no worse." Alarmed by the words and the urgent manner of his neighbour, Jim and his wife slipped on a few clothes and came down. Jane at once told them what she had heard. "There be between two and three hundred of 'em," she said, "as far as I could see the wust lot out o' Stokebridge, and a lot o' roughs from t' other villages. Quick, Jim, do you and Ann go round quick to the houses o' all the old hands who ha' kept away from the feast or who went home drunk early, they may ha' slept 't off by this, and get 'un together. Let 'em take pick-helves, and if there's only twenty of ye and ye fall upon this crowd ye'll drive 'em. If ye doan't it will go bad wi' all our lads and lasses. I'll go an' warn 'em, and tell 'em to stop a few minutes on t' road to give 'ee time to coom up. My Jack and the lads will foight, no fear o' that, but they can't make head agin so many armed wi' sticks and stones too; but if ye come up behind and fall on 'em when it begins ye'll do, even though they be stronger." Fully awake now to the danger which threatened the young people, for the pitman and his wife knew that when blows were exchanged and blood heated things would go much further than was at first intended, they hurried off to get a few men together, while Jane Haden started for the hall. Already the riotous crowd had gone on and she had to make a detour, but she regained the road, and burst breathless and panting into the midst of the throng of young people coming along the lane chatting gaily of the scenes of the evening. "Stop, stop!" she cried; "don't go a foot further--where be my Jack?" "It's Mrs. Haden," Nelly Hardy said. "Jack, it's your mother." "What is it?" Jack said in astonishment. "Anything wrong wi' dad?" "Stop!" Mrs. Haden gasped again; "there's three hundred and more young chaps and boys wi' sticks and stones joost awaiting on this side t'village, awaiting to pay you all oot." Ejaculations of alarm were heard all round, and several of the girls began to whimper. "Hush!" Mr. Dodgson said, coming forward. "Let all keep silence, there may be no occasion for alarm; let us hear all about it, Mrs. Haden." Mrs. Haden repeated her story, and said that Harry's father and mother were getting a body of pitmen to help them. "I think, Mr. Dodgson," said Jack, "the girls had best go back to Mr. Brook's as quickly as possible; we will come and fetch them when it's all over." "I think so too," said Mr. Dodgson, "they might be injured by stones. My dear, do you lead the girls back to Mr. Brook's. The house will hardly be shut up yet, and even if it is, Mr. Brook will gladly receive you. There is no chance of any of the ruffians pursuing them, do you think, Jack, when they find they have only us to deal with?" "I don't know, sir. If three or four of us were to put on their cloaks, something light to show in the dark, they will think the girls are among us." "Quick! here they come," Mr. Dodgson said, "go back silently, girls, not a word." Two or three cloaks and shawls were hastily borrowed and the lads then turned up the road, where the sound of suppressed laughter and coarse oaths could be heard, while the young women went off at a rapid pace towards the hall. "There are four of the clubs, nigh twenty in each," Jack said; "let each club keep together and go right at 'em. Stick together whatever ye do." "I'll take my place by you, Jack," Mr. Dodgson said; "you are our captain now." Talking in a careless voice the party went forward. The road here was only divided from the fields on either side by a newly planted hedge of a foot or so in height. Jack had arranged that he, with the few married pitmen, Mr. Dodgson, and the eight Bull-dogs who did not belong to the other associations, should hold the road; that two of the other clubs should go on each side, fight their way as far as they could, and then close in on the road to take the assailants there on both flanks. The spirit of association did wonders; many of the lads were but fourteen or fifteen, yet all gathered under their respective leaders and prepared for what they felt would be a desperate struggle. Presently they saw a dark mass gathered in the road. As soon as the light shawls were seen there was a cry of "Here they be, give it 'em well, lads;" and a volley of what were, in the majority of cases, clods of earth, but among which were many stones, was poured in. Without an instant's pause the party attacked separated, two bands leapt into the field on either side, and then the whole rushed at the assailants. No such charge as this had been anticipated. The cowardly ruffians had expected to give a complete surprise, to hear the shrieks of the girls, and perhaps some slight resistance from a few of the older lads; the suddenness of this attack astonished them. In an instant Jack and his supporters were in their midst, and the fury which animated them at this cowardly attack, and the unity of their action, bore all before them; and in spite of their sticks the leaders of the assailants were beaten to the ground. Then the sheer weight of the mass behind stopped the advance and the conflict became a general one. In the crowd and confusion it was difficult to distinguish friend from foe, and this prevented the assailants from making full use of their stakes, rails, and other implements with which they were armed. They were, however, getting the best of it, Mr. Dodgson had been knocked down with a heavy stake and several others were badly hurt, when the strong bands in the field who had driven back the scattered assailants there, fell upon the flanks of the main body in the road. For five minutes the fight was a desperate one, and then, just as numbers and weapons were telling, there was a shout in the rear, and fifteen pitmen, headed by Jim Shepherd and armed with pick handles, as formidable weapons as could be desired in the hands of strong men, fell upon the rear of the assailants. Yells, shouts, and heavy crashing blows told the tale to those engaged in front; and at once the assailants broke and scattered in flight. "Catch 'em and bring 'em down," Jack shouted; "they shall pay for this night's work." Such of the lads as were not disabled started off, and being fleet of foot, those of the assailants nearest to them had little chance of escape. Two or three lads together sprung upon one and pulled him down, and so when the pursuit ended twenty-nine of the assailants had fallen into their hands. In addition to this a score of them lay or sat by the road with broken heads and bones, the work of the pitmen's weapons. Of the lads the greater part had been badly knocked about, and some lay insensible in the road. The prisoners were brought together, five of the pitmen with twenty of the lads marched with those able to walk, to the village, where they shut them up in the school-room. The other pitmen remained in charge of the wounded of both sides, and the rest of the party were sent back to Mr. Brook's to fetch the women and girls. Near the house they met Mr. Brook, accompanied by his two men-servants and gardener, armed with spades, hurrying forward; and he expressed his delight at the issue of the conflict, but shook his head at the number of serious injuries on both sides. In a shed near the house were a number of hurdles, and twenty of these were at once sent forward with the men to carry those unable to walk into the village. Mrs. Dodgson turned pale as her husband, his face covered with blood, entered the dining-room, where, huddled together, the frightened girls were standing; Mrs. Dodgson, aided by Nelly Hardy, having done her utmost to allay their fears. "I am not hurt," Mr. Dodgson said heartily, "at least not seriously; but I fear that some are. It is all over now, and those ruffians have fled. Jack Simpson and a party are outside to escort you home. We don't know who are hurt yet, but they will be carried to the girls' school-room and attended there. Harry Shepherd has gone on to get the doctor up, and Mr. Brook is sending off a man on horseback to Birmingham for some more medical aid and a body of police to take charge of the fellows we have captured; they will be in by the early train." Everything was quiet in Stokebridge when the party with the prisoners arrived. The pitmen, before starting, had gone into the public-house to get any sober enough to walk to join them; and the few who had kept up the dancing, alarmed at the serious nature of the affair, of which they had tacitly approved, scattered to their homes. The news of the conflict, however, quickly circulated, lights appeared in windows, and the women who had sons or daughters at the fête flocked out into the streets to hear the news. Many other pitmen, whom there had not been time enough to summon, soon joined them, and deep indeed was the wrath with which the news of the assault was received. Most of the men at once hurried away to the scene of conflict to see who were hurt, and to assist to carry them in; and the sole ground for satisfaction was that the women and girls had all escaped injury. CHAPTER XX. THE ARM OF THE LAW. That was a sad night at Stokebridge. Seven of the lads were terribly injured, and in two cases the doctors gave no hope of recovery. Thirteen of the other party were also grievously hurt by the blows of the pitmen's helves, some had limbs broken, and three lay unconscious all night. Most of the boys had scalp wounds, inflicted by stones or sticks, which required dressing. Worst of all was the news that among the twenty-five uninjured prisoners were eight who belonged to Stokebridge, besides five among the wounded. Very few in the village closed an eye that night. Mothers went down and implored the pitmen on guard to release their sons, but the pitmen were firm; moreover Mr. Brook as a magistrate had placed the two constables of the place at the door, with the strictest order to allow none of the prisoners to escape. The six o'clock train brought twenty policemen from Birmingham, and these at once took charge of the schoolhouse, and relieved the pitmen of their charge. The working of the mine was suspended for the day, and large numbers of visitors poured into the place. So desperate a riot had never occurred in that neighbourhood before, for even the attack upon the machinery of the mine was considered a less serious affair than this. Not only did curiosity to learn the facts of the case attract a crowd of visitors, but there were many people who came from the pit villages near to inquire after missing husbands and sons, and loud were the wailings of women when it was found that these were either prisoners or were lying injured in the temporary hospital. Strangers entering the village would have supposed that a great explosion had taken place in some neighbouring pit. Blinds were down, women stood at the doors with their aprons to their eyes, children went about in an awed and silent way, as if afraid of the sound of their own voice, many of the young men and lads had their heads enveloped in surgical bandages, and a strange and unnatural calm pervaded the village. The "Chequers" and other public-houses, however, did a roaring trade, for the sight-seer in the black country is the thirstiest of men. It was soon known that the magistrates would sit at Mr. Brook's at one o'clock, and a policeman went round the village with a list of names given him by Mr. Dodgson, to summon witnesses to attend. Jack Simpson had strongly urged that his name might not be included, in the first place because above all things he hated being put forward, and in the second, as he pointed out to the schoolmaster, it might excite a feeling against him, and hinder his power for good, if he, the leader of the young men, was to appear as a witness against the elders, especially as among the prisoners was Tom Walker, with whom he had fought. As Jack could give no more testimony than his companions, and as generally it was considered an important and responsible privilege to appear as witness, Mr. Dodgson omitted Jack's name from the list. There was some groaning in the crowd when the uninjured prisoners were marched out under escort of the police, for the attack upon young women was so contrary to all the traditions of the country that the liveliest indignation prevailed against all concerned in it. The marquee used the night before for the theatricals had been hastily converted into a justice room. At a table sat Mr. Brook with four other magistrates, with a clerk to take notes; the prisoners were ranged in a space railed off for the purpose, and the general public filled the rest of the space. Jane Haden was the first witness called. She gave her evidence clearly, but with an evident wish to screen some of the accused, and was once or twice sharply reproved by the bench. She could not say who were among the men she saw gathered, nor recognize any of those who had used the threatening expressions which had so alarmed her that she went round to arouse the elder men, and then ran off to warn the returning party. "Mrs. Haden," Sir John Butler, who was the chairman of the magistrates, said, "very great praise is due to you for your quickness and decision; had it not been for this there can be no doubt that the riot would have led to results even more disastrous than those which have taken place. At the same time it is the feeling of the court that you are now trying to screen the accused, for it can hardly be, that passing so close you could fail to recognize some of those whom you heard speak." Mr. Dodgson then gave his evidence, as did several of the lads, who proved the share that the accused had taken in the fray, and that they were captured on the spot; while two of the pitmen proved that when they arrived upon the spot a desperate riot was going on, and that they joined in the fray to assist the party attacked. The examination lasted for four hours, at the end of which the whole of the prisoners were remanded to prison, the case being adjourned for two days. Before these were passed, both the lads whose cases had been thought hopeless from the first, died, and the matter assumed even a more serious appearance. Before the next hearing several of the prisoners offered to turn king's evidence, and stated that they had been incited by the young women at the feast. Great excitement was caused in the village when ten or twelve young women were served with warrants to appear on the following day. They were placed in the dock with the other prisoners, but no direct evidence was taken against them. The number of the accused were further swelled by two men belonging to other villages, who had been arrested on the sworn evidence of some of the lads that they had been active in the fray. At the conclusion of the case the whole of the male prisoners were committed for trial on the charges of manslaughter and riot. After these had been removed in custody, Sir John Butler addressed a severe admonition to the women. It had, he said, been decided not to press the charge against them of inciting to riot, but that they had used expressions calculated to stir the men up to their foul and dastardly attack upon a number of young women and girls there could be no doubt. The magistrates, however, had decided to discharge them, and hoped that the inward reproach which they could not but feel at having a hand in this disgraceful and fatal outrage would be a lesson to them through life. Trembling and abashed, the women made their way home, many of the crowd hissing them as they passed along. When, six weeks later, the assizes were held, four of the prisoners, including Tom Walker, who was proved to be the leader, were sentenced to seven years penal servitude. Ten men had terms of imprisonment varying from two to five years, and the rest were let off with sentences of from six to eighteen months. Very long did the remembrance of "The Black Feast," as it came to be called, linger in the memories of the people of Stokebridge and the surrounding district. Great as was the grief and suffering caused alike to the friends of those injured and of those upon whom fell punishment and disgrace, the ultimate effect of the riot was, however, most beneficial to Stokebridge. Many of the young men who had most strongly opposed and derided the efforts of their juniors to improve themselves, were now removed, for in addition to those captured and sentenced, several of those who had taken part in the riot hastily left the place upon the following day, fearing arrest and punishment for their share in the night's proceedings. Few of them returned after the conclusion of the trial, nor did the prisoners after the termination of their sentences, for the feeling against them in the district was so strong that they preferred obtaining work in distant parts of the country. A similar effect was produced upon the young women. The narrow escape which they had had of being sent to prison, the disgrace of being arrested and publicly censured, the averted looks of their neighbours, and the removal from the place of the young men with whom they had been used to associate, combined to produce a great effect upon them. Some profited by the lesson and adapted themselves to the altered ways of the place; others, after trying to brave it out, left Stokebridge and obtained employment in the factories of Birmingham; while others again, previously engaged to some of the young men who had left the village, were sooner or later married to them, and were heard of no more in Stokebridge. This removal by one means or another of some forty or fifty of the young men and women of the place most opposed to the spirit of improvement, produced an excellent effect. Other miners came of course to the village to take the places of those who had left, but as Mr. Brook instructed his manager to fill up the vacant stalls as far as possible with middle-aged men with families, and not with young men, the new-comers were not an element of disturbance. The price of coal was at this time high, and Mr. Brook informed the clergyman that, as he was drawing a larger income than usual from the mines, he was willing to give a sum for any purpose which he might recommend as generally useful to the families of his work-people. The vicar as usual consulted his valued assistants the Dodgsons, and after much deliberation it was agreed that if a building were to be erected the lower story of which should be fitted up as a laundry and wash-house upon the plan which was then being introduced in some large towns, it would be an immense boon to the place. The upper story was to be furnished as a reading-room with a few papers and a small library of useful and entertaining books for reading upon the spot or lending. Plans were obtained and estimates given, and Mr. Brook expressed his willingness to contribute the sum of eighteen hundred pounds for which a contractor offered to complete the work. CHAPTER XXI. A KNOTTY QUESTION. It has not been mentioned that at the fête at Mr. Brook's on the memorable occasion of the Black Feast, Mr. Merton and his daughter were staying as guests with Mr. Brook. Mr. Merton was much struck with the extraordinary improvement which had taken place in the bearing and appearance of the young people. "Yes," Mr. Dodgson, whom he congratulated upon the change, said; "it is entirely due to the suggestion which you made upon my arrival here. The night-schools for lads and the sewing and cooking classes for the girls have done wonders, and I have found in the lad you recommended to my attention, Jack Simpson, an invaluable ally. Without him, indeed, I think that our plan would have been a failure. He is a singular young fellow, so quiet yet so determined; the influence he has over the lads of his own age is immense." "He is more than singular," Mr. Merton said warmly; "he is extraordinary. You only see one side of his character, I see both. As a scholar he is altogether remarkable. He could carry off any open scholarship at Cambridge, and could take away the highest honours; he could pass high up among the wranglers even now, and has a broad and solid knowledge of other subjects." "Indeed!" Mr. Dodgson said, surprised; "this is quite new to me. I know that he studies hard privately, and that he went over to see you once a month, but I had no idea that his acquirements were anything exceptional, and, indeed, although his speech is often superior to that of the other young fellows, he often makes mistakes in grammar and pronunciation." Mr. Merton laughed. "That is one of his peculiarities; he does not wish to be thought above his fellows: look at his dress, now! But if you saw him with me, and heard him talking with the first men of education and science in Birmingham you would share the astonishment they often express to me, and would take him not only for a young gentleman, but for one of singular and exceptionally cultured mind." Jack's attire, indeed--it was after the conclusion of the cricket-match, and he had changed his clothes--was that of the ordinary pitman in his Sunday suit. A black cutaway coat, badly fitting, and made by the village tailor, a black waistcoat and trousers, with thick high-low shoes. His appearance had attracted the attention of Miss Merton, who, as he approached her, held out her hand. "How are you, Jack? What on earth have you been doing to yourself? You look a complete guy in these clothes. I was half tempted to cut you downright." Jack laughed. "This is my Sunday suit, Miss Merton, it is just the same as other people's." "Perhaps it is," the girl said, laughing, and looking round with just a little curl of her lip; "but you know better, Jack: why should you make such a figure of yourself?" "I dress here like what I am," Jack said simply, "a pitman. At your house I dress as one of your father's guests." "I suppose you please yourself, and that you always do, Mr. Jack Simpson; you are the most obstinate, incorrigible--" "Ruffian," Jack put in laughing. "Well, I don't know about ruffian," the girl said, laughing too; "but, Jack, who is that girl watching us, the quiet-looking girl in a dark brown dress and straw bonnet?" "That is my friend Nelly Hardy," Jack said seriously. "Yes, you have often spoken to me about her and I have wanted to see her; what a nice face she has, and handsome too, with her great dark eyes! Jack, you must introduce me to her, I should like to know her." "Certainly," Jack said with a pleased look; and accompanied by Alice he walked across the lawn towards her. Nelly turned the instant that they moved, and walking away joined some other girls. Jack, however, followed. "Nelly," he said, when he reached her, "this is Miss Merton, who wants to know you. Miss Merton, this is my friend Nelly Hardy." Nelly bent her head silently, but Alice held out her hand frankly. "Jack has told me so much about you," she said, "that I wanted, above all things, to see you." Nelly looked steadily up into her face. It was a face any one might look at with pleasure, frank, joyous, and kindly. It was an earnest face too, less marked and earnest than that now looking at her, but with lines of character and firmness. Nelly's expression softened as she gazed. "You are very good, Miss Merton; I have often heard of you too, and wanted to see you as much as you could have done to see me." "I hope you like me now you do see me," Miss Merton laughed; "you won't be angry when I say that I like you, though you did turn away when you saw us coming. "You are accustomed to meet people and be introduced," Nelly said quietly; "I am not, you see." "I don't think you are shy," Miss Merton said smiling, "but you had a reason; perhaps some day when we know each other better you will tell me. I have been scolding Jack for making such a figure of himself. You are his friend and should not let him do it." Jack laughed, while Nelly looked in surprise at him. "What is the matter with him?" she asked; "I don't see that there is anything wrong." "Not wrong," Miss Merton said, "only singular to me. He has got on clothes just like all the rest, which don't fit him at all, and look as if they had been made to put on to a wooden figure in a shop window, while when we see him he is always properly dressed." Nelly flashed a quiet look of inquiry at Jack. "You never told me, Jack," she said, with an aggrieved ring in her voice, "that you dressed differently at Birmingham to what you do here." "There was nothing to tell really," he said quietly. "I told you that I had had some clothes made there, and always wore them at Mr. Merton's; but I don't know," and he smiled, "that I did enter into any particulars about their cut, indeed I never thought of this myself." "I don't suppose you did, Jack," the girl said gently, for she knew how absolutely truthful he was; "but you ought to have told me. But see, they are getting ready to go into the tent, and I must help look after the young ones." "What a fine face she has!" Alice said; "but I don't think she quite likes me, Jack." "Not like you!" Jack said astonished, "what makes you think that? she was sure to like you; why, even if nobody else liked you Nelly would, because you have been so kind to me." * * * * * For the next few days the serious events of the night absorbed all thought; indeed, it was not until the following Sunday afternoon that Jack and Nelly Hardy met. Harry Shepherd, who generally accompanied them in their walks upon this day, was still suffering from the effects of the injuries he had received in the riot. Jack and his companion talked over that event until they turned to come back. Then after a pause the girl asked suddenly, "How do you like Alice Merton, Jack?" Jack was in no way taken by surprise, but, ignorant that the black eyes were keenly watching him, he replied: "Oh, I like her very much, I have often told you so, Nelly." "Do you like her better than me, Jack?" Jack looked surprised this time. "What should put such a thought in your head, lass? You know I like you and Harry better than any one in the world. We are like three brothers. It is not likely I should like Alice Merton, whom I only see once a month, better than you. She is very kind, very pleasant, very bright. She treats me as an equal and I would do anything for her, but she couldn't be the same as you are, no one can. Perhaps," he said, "years on--for you know that I have always said that I should not marry till I'm thirty, that's what my good friend told me more than ten years ago--I shall find some one I shall like as well as you, but that will be in a different way, and you will be married years and years before that. Let me think, you are nearly seventeen, Nelly?" The girl nodded, her face was turned the other way. "Yes, you are above a year younger than I am. Some girls marry by seventeen; I wonder no one has been after you already, Nelly; there is no girl in the village to compare with you." But Nelly, without a word, darted away at full speed up the lane towards home, leaving Jack speechless with astonishment. "She hasn't done that for years," he said; "it's just the way she used to do when we were first friends. If she got in a temper about anything she would rush away and hide herself and cry for hours. What could I have said to vex her, about her marrying, or having some one courting her; there couldn't be anything in that to vex her." Jack thought for some time, sitting upon a stile the better to give his mind to it. Finally he gave up the problem in despair, grumbling to himself, "One never gets to understand girls; here I've known Nelly for the last seven years like a sister, and there she flies away crying--I am sure she was crying, because she always used to cry when she ran away--and what it is about I have not the least idea. Now I mustn't say anything about it when I meet her next, I know that of old, unless she does first, but as likely as not she will never allude to it." In fact no allusion ever was made to the circumstance, for before the following Sunday came round John Hardy had died. He had been sinking for months, and his death had been looked for for some time. It was not a blow to his daughter, and could hardly be a great grief, for he had been a drunken, worthless man, caring nothing for his child, and frequently brutally assaulting her in his drunken fits. She had attended him patiently and assiduously for months, but no word of thanks had ever issued from his lip. His character was so well known that no one regarded his death as an event for which his daughter should be pitied. It would, however, effect a change in her circumstances. Hardy had, ever since the attack upon the Vaughan, received an allowance from the union, as well as from the sick club to which he belonged, but this would now cease; and it was conjectured by the neighbours that "th' old ooman would have to go into the house, and Nelly would go into a factory at Birmingham or Wolverhampton, or would go into service." Nelly's mother was a broken woman; years of intemperance had prematurely aged her, and her enforced temperance during the last few months had apparently broken her spirit altogether, and the coarse, violent woman had almost sunk into quiet imbecility. CHAPTER XXII. THE SOLUTION. Among others who talked over Nelly Hardy's future were Mr. and Mrs. Dodgson. They were very fond of her, for from the first she had been the steadiest and most industrious of the young girls of the place, and by diligent study had raised herself far in advance of the rest. She had too been always so willing and ready to oblige and help that she was a great favourite with both. "I have been thinking," Mrs. Dodgson said to her husband on the evening of the day of John Hardy's death, "whether, as Miss Bolton, the assistant mistress, is going to leave at the end of the month, to be married, Nelly Hardy would not make an excellent successor for her. There is no doubt she is fully capable of filling the situation; her manners are all that could be wished, and she has great influence with the younger children. The only drawback was her disreputable old father. It would hardly have done for my assistant to appear in school in the morning with a black eye, and for all the children to know that her drunken father had been beating her. Now he is gone that objection is at an end. She and her mother, who has been as bad as the father, but is now, I believe, almost imbecile, could live in the little cottage Miss Bolton occupies." "I think it would be an excellent plan, my dear, excellent; we could have no one we should like better, or who could be a more trustworthy and helpful assistant to you. By all means let it be Nelly Hardy. I will go up and speak to Mr. Brook to-morrow. As he is our patron I must consult him, but he will agree to anything we propose. Let us say nothing about it until you tell her yourself after the funeral." Mrs. Dodgson saw Nelly Hardy several times in the next few days, and went in and sat with her as she worked at her mourning; but it was not until John Hardy was laid in the churchyard that she opened the subject. "Come up in the morning, my dear," she had said that day; "I want to have a talk with you." On the following morning Nelly, in her neatly-fitting black mourning dress, made her appearance at the school-house, after breakfast, a quarter of an hour before school began. "Sit down, my dear," Mrs. Dodgson said, "I have some news to give you which will, I think, please you. Of course you have been thinking what to do?" "Yes, 'm; I have made up my mind to try and get work in a factory." "Indeed! Nelly," Mrs. Dodgson said, surprised; "I should have thought that was the last thing that you would like." "It is not what I like," Nelly said quietly, "but what is best. I would rather go into service, and as I am fond of children and used to them, I might, with your kind recommendation, get a comfortable situation; but in that case mother must go to the house, and I could not bear to think of her there. She is very helpless, and of late she has come to look to me, and would be miserable among strangers. I could earn enough at a factory to keep us both, living very closely." "Well, Nelly, your decision does you honour, but I think my plan is better. Have you heard that Miss Bolton is going to leave us?" "I have heard she was engaged to be married some day, 'm, but I did not know the time was fixed." "She leaves at the end of this month, that is in a fortnight, and her place has already been filled up. Upon the recommendation of myself and Mr. Dodgson, Mr. Brook has appointed Miss Nelly Hardy as her successor." "Me!" exclaimed Nelly, rising with a bewildered air. "Oh, Mrs. Dodgson, you cannot mean it?" "I do, indeed, Nelly. Your conduct here has been most satisfactory in every way, you have a great influence with the children, and your attainments and knowledge are amply sufficient for the post of my assistant. You will, of course, have Miss Bolton's cottage, and can watch over your mother. You will have opportunities for studying to fit yourself to take another step upwards, and become a head-mistress some day." Mrs. Dodgson had continued talking, for she saw that Nelly was too much agitated and overcome to speak. "Oh, Mrs. Dodgson," she sobbed, "how can I thank you enough?" "There are no thanks due, my dear. Of course I want the best assistant I can get, and I know of no one upon whom I can rely more thoroughly than yourself. You have no one but yourself to thank, for it is your good conduct and industry alone which have made you what you are, and that under circumstances of the most unfavourable kind. But there is the bell ringing for school. I suppose I may tell Mr. Brook that you accept the situation; the pay, thirty pounds a year and the cottage, is not larger, perhaps, than you might earn at a factory, but I think--" "Oh, Mrs. Dodgson," Nelly said, smiling through her tears, "I accept, I accept. I would rather live on a crust of bread here than work in a factory, and if I had had the choice of everything I should prefer this." Mr. Dodgson here came in, shook Nelly's hand and congratulated her, and with a happy heart the girl took her way home. Jack, upon his return from the pit, found Nelly awaiting him at the corner where for years she had stood. He had seen her once since her father's death, and had pressed her hand warmly to express his sympathy, but he was too honest to condole with her on a loss which was, he knew, a relief. He and Harry had in the intervening time talked much of Nelly's prospects. Jack was averse in the extreme to her going into service, still more averse to her going into a factory, but could suggest no alternative plan. "If she were a boy," he said, "it would be easy enough. I am getting eighteen shillings a week now, and could let her have five easily, and she might take in dressmaking. There are plenty of people in the villages round would be glad to get their dresses made; but she would have to live till she got known a bit, and you know she wouldn't take my five shillings. I wouldn't dare offer it to her. Now if it was you there would be no trouble at all; you would take it, of course, just as I should take it of you, but she wouldn't, because she's a lass--it beats me altogether. I might get mother to offer her the money, but Nelly would know it was me sharp enough, and it would be all the same." "I really think that Nelly might do well wi' dressmaking," Harry said after a pause. "Here all the lasses ha' learnt to work, but, as you say, in the other villages they know no more than we did here three years back; if we got some bills printed and sent 'em round, I should say she might do. There are other things you don't seem to ha' thought on, Jack," he said hesitatingly. "You're only eighteen yet, but you are earning near a pound a week, and in another two or three years will be getting man's pay, and you are sure to rise. Have you never thought of marrying Nelly?" Jack jumped as if he had trodden on a snake. "I marry Nelly!" he said in astonishment. "What! I marry Nelly! are you mad, Harry? You know I have made up my mind not to marry for years, not till I'm thirty and have made my way; and as to Nelly, why I never thought of her, nor of any other lass in that way; her least of all; why, she is like my sister. What ever put such a ridiculous idea in your head? Why, at eighteen boys haven't left school and are looking forward to going to college; those boy and girl marriages among our class are the cause of half our troubles. Thirty is quite time enough to marry. How Nelly would laugh if she knew what you'd said!" "I should advise you not to tell her," Harry said dryly; "I greatly mistake if she would regard it as a laughing matter at all." "No, lasses are strange things," Jack meditated again. "But, Harry, you are as old as I am, and are earning the same wage; why don't you marry her?" "I would," Harry said earnestly, "to-morrow if she'd have me." "You would!" Jack exclaimed, as much astonished as by his friend's first proposition. "To think of that now! Why, you have always been with her just as I have. You have never shown that you cared for her, never given her presents, nor walked with her, nor anything. And do you really care for her, Harry?" "Aye," Harry said shortly, "I have cared for her for years." "And to think that I have never seen that!" Jack said. "Why didn't you tell me? Why, you are as difficult to understand as she is, and I thought I knew you so well!" "What would have been the use?" Harry said. "Nelly likes me as a friend, that's all." "That's it," Jack said. "Of course when people are friends they don't think of each other in any other way. Still, Harry, she may get to in time. Nelly's pretty well a woman, she's seventeen now, but she has no one else after her that I know of." "Well, Jack, I fancy she could have plenty after her, for she's the prettiest and best girl o' the place; but you see, you are always about wi' her, and I think that most people think it will be a match some day." "People are fools," Jack burst out wrathfully. "Who says so? just tell me who says so?" "People say so, Jack. When a young chap and a lass walk together people suppose there is something in it, and you and Nelly ha' been walking together for the last five years." "Walking together!" Jack repeated angrily; "we have been going about together of course, and you have generally been with us, and often enough half-a-dozen others; that is not like walking together. Nelly knew, and every one knew, that we agreed to be friends from the day we stood on the edge of the old shaft when you were in the water below, and we have never changed since." "I know you have never changed, Jack, never thought of Nelly but as a true friend. I did not know whether now you might think differently. I wanted to hear from your own lips. Now I know you don't, that you have no thought of ever being more than a true friend to her, I shall try if I cannot win her." "Do," Jack said, shaking his friend's hand. "I am sure I wish you success. Nothing in the world would please me so much as to see my two friends marry, and though I do think, yes, I really do, Harry, that young marriages are bad, yet I am quite sure that you and Nelly would be happy together anyhow. And when do you mean to ask her?" "What an impatient fellow you are, Jack!" Harry said smiling. "Nelly has no more idea that I care for her than you had, and I am not going to tell her so all at once. I don't think," he said gravely, "mark me, Jack, I don't think Nelly will ever have me, but if patience and love can win her I shall succeed in the end." Jack looked greatly surprised again. "Don't say any more about it, Jack," Harry went on. "It 'ull be a long job o' work, but I can bide my time; but above all, if you wish me well, do not even breathe a word to Nelly of what I have said." From this interview Jack departed much mystified. "It seems to me," he muttered to himself, "lads when they're in love get to be like lasses, there's no understanding them. I know nowt of love myself, and what I've read in books didn't seem natural, but I suppose it must be true, for even Harry, who I thought I knew as well as myself, turned as mysterious as--well as a ghost. What does he mean by he's got to be patient, and to wait, and it will be a long job. If he likes Nelly and Nelly likes him--and why shouldn't she?--I don't know why they shouldn't marry in a year or two, though I do hate young marriages. Anyhow I'll talk to her about the dressmaking idea. If Harry's got to make love to her, it will be far better for him to do it here than to have to go walking her out o' Sundays at Birmingham. If she would but let me help her a bit till she's got into business it would be as easy as possible." Jack, however, soon had the opportunity of laying his scheme fully before Nelly Hardy, and when she had turned off from the road with him she broke out: "Oh, Jack, I have such a piece of news; but perhaps you know it, do you?" she asked jealously. "No, I don't know any particular piece of news." "Not anything likely to interest me, Jack?" "No," Jack said puzzled. "Honour, you haven't the least idea what it is?" "Honour, I haven't," Jack said. "I'm going to be a schoolmistress in place of Miss Bolton." [Illustration: THE NEW SCHOOLMISTRESS.] "No!" Jack shouted delightedly; "I am glad, Nelly, I am glad. Why, it is just the thing for you; Harry and I have been puzzling our heads all the week as to what you should do!" "And what did your united wisdom arrive at?" Nelly laughed. "We thought you might do here at dressmaking," Jack said, "after a bit, you know." "The thought was not a bad one," she said; "it never occurred to me, and had this great good fortune not have come to me I might perhaps have tried. It was good of you to think of it. And so you never heard a whisper about the schoolmistress? I thought you might perhaps have suggested it somehow, you know you always do suggest things here." "No, indeed, Nelly, I did not hear Miss Bolton was going." "I am glad," the girl said. "Are you?" Jack replied in surprise. "Why, Nelly, wouldn't you have liked me to have helped you?" "Yes and no, Jack; but no more than yes. I do owe everything to you. It was you who made me your friend, you who taught me, you who urged me on, you who have made me what I am. No, Jack, dear," she said, seeing that Jack looked pained at her thanks; "I have never thanked you before, and I must do it now. I owe everything to you, and in one way I should have been pleased to owe this to you also, but in another way I am pleased not to do so because my gaining it by, if I may say so, my own merits, show that I have done my best to prove worthy of your kindness and friendship." Tears of earnestness stood in her eyes, and Jack felt that disclaimer would be ungracious. "I am glad," he said again after a pause. "And now, Miss Hardy," and he touched his hat laughing, "that you have risen in the world, I hope you are not going to take airs upon yourself." Nelly laughed. "It is strange," she said, "that I should be the first to take a step upwards, for Mrs. Dodgson is going to help me to go in and qualify for a head-schoolmistress-ship some day; but, Jack, it is only for a little time. You laugh and call me Miss Hardy to-day, but the time will come when I shall say 'sir' to you; you are longer beginning, but you will rise far higher; but we shall always be friends; shall we not, Jack?" "Always, Nelly," Jack said earnestly. "Wherever or whatever Jack Simpson may be, he will ever be your true and faithful friend, and nothing which may ever happen to me, no rise I may ever make, will give me the pleasure which this good fortune which has befallen you has done. If I ever rise it will make me happy to help Harry, but I know you would never have let me help you, and this thought would have marred my life. Now that I see you in a position in which I am sure you will be successful, and which is an honourable and pleasant one, I shall the more enjoy my rise when it comes.--Does any one else know of it?" he asked as they went on their way. "No one," she said. "Who should know it before you?" "Harry will be as glad as I am," he said, remembering his friend's late assertion. "Yes, Harry will be very glad too," Nelly said; but Jack felt that Harry's opinion was of comparatively little importance in her eyes. "He is a good honest fellow is Harry, and I am sure he will be pleased, and so I hope will everyone." Jack felt that the present moment was not a propitious one for putting in a word for his friend. * * * * * Harry Shepherd carried out his purpose. For two years he waited, and then told his love to Nelly Hardy, one bright Sunday afternoon when they were walking in the lane. "No, Harry, no," she said humbly and sadly; "it can never be, do not ask me, I am so, so sorry." "Can it never be?" Harry asked. "Never," the girl said; "you know yourself, Harry, it can never be. I have seen this coming on for two years now, and it has grieved me so; but you know, I am sure you know, why it cannot be." "I know," the young fellow said. "I have always known that you cared for Jack a thousand times more than for me, and it's quite natural, for he is worth a thousand of me; but then, then--" and he hesitated. "But then," she went on. "Jack does not love me, and you do. That is so, Harry; but since I was a child I have loved him. I know, none better, that he never thought of me except as a friend, that he scarcely considered me as a girl. I have never thought that it would be otherwise. I could hardly wish that it were. Jack will rise to be a great man, and must marry a lady, but," she said steadfastly, "I can go on loving him till I die." "I have not hoped much, Nelly, but remember always, that I have always cared for you. Since you first became Jack's friend I have cared for you. If he had loved you I could even stand aside and be glad to see you both happy, but I have known always that this could never be. Jack's mind was ever so much given up to study, he is not like us, and does not dream of a house and love till he has made his mark in the world. Remember only that I love you as you love Jack, and shall love as faithfully. Some day, perhaps, long hence," he added as Nelly shook her head, "you may not think differently, but may come to see that it is better to make one man's life happy than to cling for ever to the remembrance of another. At any rate you will always think of me as your true friend, Nelly, always trust me?" "Always, Harry, in the future more than lately, for I have seen this coming. Now that we understand each other we can be quite friends again." CHAPTER XXIII. THE EXPLOSION AT THE VAUGHAN. At twelve o'clock on a bright summer day Mr. Brook drove up in his dog-cart, with two gentlemen, to the Vaughan mine. One was the government inspector of the district; the other, a newly-appointed deputy inspector, whom he was taking his rounds with him, to instruct in his duties. "I am very sorry that Thompson, my manager, is away to-day," Mr. Brook said as they alighted. "Had I known you were coming I would of course have had him in readiness to go round with you. Is Williams, the underground manager, in the pit?" he asked the bankman, whose duty it was to look after the ascending and descending cage. "No, sir; he came up about half an hour ago. Watkins, the viewer, is below." "He must do, then," Mr. Brook said, "but I wish Mr. Thompson had been here. Perhaps you would like to look at the plan of the pit before you go down? Is Williams's office open?" "Yes, sir," the bankman answered. Mr. Brook led the way into the office. "Hullo!" he said, seeing a young man at work making a copy of a mining plan; "who are you?" The young man rose-- "Jack Simpson, sir. I work below, but when it's my night-shift Mr. Williams allows me to help him here by day." "Ah! I remember you now," Mr. Brook said. "Let me see what you are doing. That's a creditable piece of work for a working collier, is it not?" he said, holding up a beautifully executed plan. Mr. Hardinge looked with surprise at the draughtsman, a young man of some one or two-and-twenty, with a frank, open, pleasant face. "Why, you don't look or talk like a miner," he said. "Mr. Merton, the schoolmaster here, was kind enough to take a great deal of pains with me, sir." "Have you been doing this sort of work long?" Mr. Hardinge asked, pointing to the plan. "About three or four years," Mr. Brook said promptly. Jack looked immensely surprised. Mr. Brook smiled. "I noticed an extraordinary change in Williams's reports, both in the handwriting and expression. Now I understand it. You work the same stall as Haden, do you not?" "Yes, sir, but not the same shift; he had a mate he has worked with ever since my father was killed, so I work the other shift with Harvey." "Now let us look at the plans of the pit," Mr. Hardinge said. The two inspectors bent over the table and examined the plans, asking a question of Mr. Brook now and then. Jack had turned to leave when his employer ceased to speak to him, but Mr. Brook made a motion to him to stay. "What is the size of your furnace, Mr. Brook?" asked Mr. Hardinge. "It's an eight-foot furnace," Mr. Brook replied. "Do you know how many thousand cubic feet of air a minute you pass?" Mr. Brook shook his head: he left the management of the mine entirely in the hands of his manager. Mr. Hardinge had happened to look at Jack as he spoke; and the latter, thinking the question was addressed to him, answered: "About eight thousand feet a minute, sir." "How do you know?" Mr. Hardinge asked. "By taking the velocity of the air, sir, and the area of the downcast shaft." "How would you measure the velocity, theoretically?" Mr. Hardinge asked, curious to see how much the young collier knew. "I should require to know the temperature of the shafts respectively, and the height of the upcast shaft." "How could you do it then?" "The formula, sir, is M = h(t'-t)/480+x, h being the height of the upcast, t' its temperature, t the temperature of the exterior air, and x = t'-32 degrees." "You are a strange young fellow," Mr. Hardinge said. "May I ask you a question or two?" "Certainly, sir." "Could you work out the cube-root of say 999,888,777?" Jack closed his eyes for a minute and then gave the correct answer to five places of decimals. The three gentlemen gave an exclamation of surprise. "How on earth did you do that?" Mr. Hardinge exclaimed. "It would take me ten minutes to work it out on paper." "I accustomed myself to calculate while I was in the dark, or working," Jack said quietly. "Why, you would rival Bidder himself," Mr. Hardinge said; "and how far have you worked up in figures?" "I did the differential calculus, sir, and then Mr. Merton said that I had better stick to the mechanical application of mathematics instead of going on any farther; that was two years ago." The surprise of the three gentlemen at this simple avowal from a young pitman was unbounded. Then Mr. Hardinge said: "We must talk of this again later on. Now let us go down the pit; this young man will do excellently well for a guide. But I am afraid, Mr. Brook, that I shall have to trouble you a good deal. As far as I can see from the plan the mine is very badly laid out, and the ventilation altogether defective. What is your opinion?" he asked, turning abruptly to Jack, and wishing to see whether his practical knowledge at all corresponded with his theoretical acquirements. "I would rather not say, sir," Jack said. "It is not for me to express an opinion as to Mr. Thompson's plan." "Let us have your ideas," Mr. Brook said. "Just tell us frankly what you would do if you were manager of the Vaughan?" Jack turned to the plan. "I should widen the airways, and split the current; that would raise the number of cubic feet of air to about twelve thousand a minute. It is too far for a single current to travel, especially as the airways are not wide; the friction is altogether too great. I should put a split in here, take a current round through the old workings to keep them clear, widen these passages, split the current again here, and then make a cut through this new ground so as to take a strong current to sweep the face of the main workings, and carry it off straight to the upcast. But that current ought not to pass through the furnace, but be let in above, for the gas comes off very thick sometimes, and might not be diluted enough with air, going straight to the furnaces." "Your ideas are very good," Mr. Hardinge said quietly. "Now we will get into our clothes and go below." So saying, he opened a bag and took out two mining suits of clothes, which, first taking off their coats, he and his companion proceeded to put on over their other garments. Mr. Brook went into his office, and similarly prepared himself; while Jack, who was not dressed for mining, went to the closet where a few suits were hung up for the use of visitors and others, and prepared to go down. Then he went to the lamp-room and fetched four Davy-lamps. While he was away Mr. Brook joined the inspectors. "That young pitman is as steady as he is clever," he said; "he has come several times under my attention. In the first place, the schoolmaster has spoken to me of the lad's efforts to educate himself. Then he saved another boy's life at the risk of his own, and of late years his steadiness and good conduct have given him a great influence over his comrades of the same age, and have effected great things for the place. The vicar and schoolmaster now are never tired of praising him." "He is clearly an extraordinary young fellow," Mr Hardinge said. "Do you know his suggestions are exactly what I had intended to offer to you myself? You will have some terrible explosion here unless you make some radical changes." That evening the inspectors stayed for the night at Mr. Brook's, and the next day that gentleman went over with them to Birmingham, where he had some business. His principal object, however, was to take them to see Mr. Merton, to question him farther with regard to Jack Simpson. Mr. Merton related to his visitors the history of Jack's efforts to educate himself, and gave them the opinion he had given the lad himself, that he might, had he chosen, have taken a scholarship and then the highest mathematical honours. "He has been working lately at engineering, and calculating the strains and stresses of iron bridges," he said. "And now, Mr. Brook, I will tell you--and I am sure that you and these gentlemen will give me your promise of secrecy upon the subject--what I have never yet told to a soul. It was that lad who brought me word of the intended attack on the engines, and got me to write the letter to Sir John Butler. But that is not all, sir. It was that boy--for he was but seventeen then--who defended your engine-house against the mob of five hundred men!" "Bless my heart, Merton, why did you not tell me before? Why, I've puzzled over that ever since. And to think that it was one of my own pit-boys who did that gallant action, and I have done nothing for him!" "He would not have it told, sir. He wanted to go on as a working miner, and learn his business from the bottom. Besides, his life wouldn't have been safe in this district for a day if it had been known. But I think you ought to be told of it now. The lad is as modest as he is brave and clever, and would go to his grave without ever letting out that he saved the Vaughan, and indeed all the pits in the district. But now that he is a man, it is right you should know; but pray do not let him imagine that you are aware of it. He is very young yet, and will rise on his own merits, and would dislike nothing so much as thinking that he owed anything to what he did that night. I may tell you too that he is able to mix as a gentleman with gentlemen. Ever since I have been over here he has come over once a month to stay with me from Saturday to Monday, he has mixed with what I may call the best society in the town here, and has won the liking and esteem of all my friends, not one of whom has so much as a suspicion that he is not of the same rank of life as themselves." "What am I to do, Mr. Hardinge?" Mr. Brook asked in perplexity. "What would you advise?" "I should give him his first lift at once," Mr. Hardinge said decidedly. "It will be many months before you have carried out the new scheme for the ventilation of the mine; and, believe me, it will not be safe, if there come a sudden influx of gas, till the alterations are made. Make this young fellow deputy viewer, with special charge to look after the ventilation. In that way he will not have to give instruction to the men as to their work, but will confine his attention to the ventilation, the state of the air, the doors, and so on. Even then his position will for a time be difficult; but the lad has plenty of self-control, and will be able to tide over it, and the men will get to see that he really understands his business. You will of course order the underground manager and viewers to give him every support. The underground manager, at any rate, must be perfectly aware of his capabilities, as he seems to have done all his paper work for some time." Never were a body of men more astonished than were the pitmen of the Vaughan when they heard that young Jack Simpson was appointed a deputy viewer, with the special charge of the ventilation of the mine. A deputy viewer is not a position of great honour; the pay is scarcely more than that which a getter will earn, and the rank is scarcely higher. This kind of post, indeed, is generally given to a miner of experience, getting past his work--as care, attention, and knowledge are required, rather than hard work. That a young man should be appointed was an anomaly which simply astonished the colliers of the Vaughan. The affair was first known on the surface, and as the men came up in the cages the news was told them, and the majority, instead of at once hurrying home, stopped to talk it over. "It be the rummest start I ever heard on," one said. "Ah! here comes Bill Haden. Hast heard t' news, Bill?" "What news?" "Why, your Jack's made a deputy. What dost think o' that, right over heads o' us all? Did'st e'er hear tell o' such a thing?" "No, I didn't," Bill Haden said emphatically. "It's t' first time as e'er I heard o' t' right man being picked out wi'out a question o' age. I know him, and I tell 'ee, he mayn't know t' best place for putting in a prop, or of timbering in loose ground, as well as us as is old enough to be his fathers; but he knows as much about t' book learning of a mine as one of the government inspector chaps. You mightn't think it pleasant for me, as has stood in t' place o' his father, to see him put over my head, but I know how t' boy has worked, and I know what he is, and I tell 'ee I'll work under him willing. Jack Simpson will go far; you as live will see it." Bill Haden was an authority in the Vaughan pit, and his dictum reconciled many who might otherwise have resented the appointment of such a lad. The enthusiastic approval of Harry Shepherd and of the rest of the other young hands in the mine who had grown up with Jack Simpson, and knew something of how hard he had worked, and who had acknowledged his leadership in all things, also had its effect; and the new deputy entered upon his duties without anything like the discontent which might have been looked for, being excited. The most important part of Jack's duties consisted in going round the pit before the men went down in the morning, to see that there was no accumulation of gas in the night, and that the ventilation was going on properly. The deputy usually takes a helper with him, and Jack had chosen his friend Harry for the post--as in the event of finding gas, it has to be dispersed by beating it with an empty sack, so as to cause a disturbance of the air, or, if the accumulation be important, by putting up a temporary bratticing, or partition, formed of cotton cloth stretched on a framework, in such a way as to turn a strong current of air across the spot where the gas is accumulating, or from which it is issuing. The gas is visible to the eye as a sort of dull fog or smoke. If the accumulation is serious, the main body of miners are not allowed to descend into the mine until the viewer has, with assistance, succeeded in completely dispersing it. "It's a lonesome feeling," Harry said the first morning that he entered upon his duties with Jack Simpson, "to think that we be the only two down here." "It's no more lonesome than sitting in the dark waiting for the tubs to come along, Harry, and it's far safer. There is not the slightest risk of an explosion now, for there are only our safety-lamps down here, while in the day the men will open their lamps to light their pipes; make what regulations the master may, the men will break them to get a smoke." Upon the receipt of Mr. Hardinge's official report, strongly condemning the arrangements in the Vaughan, Mr. Brook at once appointed a new manager in the place of Mr. Thompson, and upon his arrival he made him acquainted with the extent of Jack's knowledge and ability, and requested him to keep his eye specially upon him, and to employ him, as far as possible, as his right-hand man in carrying out his orders. "I wish that main wind drift were through," Jack said one day, six months after his appointment, as he was sitting over his tea with Bill Haden. "The gas is coming in very bad in the new workings." "Wuss nor I ever knew't, Jack. It's a main good job that the furnace was made bigger, and some o' th' airways widened, for it does come out sharp surely. In th' old part where I be, a' don't notice it; but when I went down yesterday where Peter Jones be working, the gas were just whistling out of a blower close by." "Another fortnight, and the airway will be through, dad; and that will make a great change. I shall be very glad, for the pit's in a bad state now." "Ah! thou think'st a good deal of it, Jack, because thou'st got part of the 'sponsibility of it. It don't fret me." "I wish the men wouldn't smoke, dad; I don't want to get a bad name for reporting them, but it's just playing with their lives." Bill Haden was silent; he was given to indulge in a quiet smoke himself, as Jack, working with him for five years, well knew. "Well, Jack, thou know'st there's a craving for a draw or two of bacca." "So there is for a great many other things that we have to do without," Jack said. "If it were only a question of a man blowing himself to pieces I should say nought about it; but it is whether he is willing to make five hundred widows and two thousand orphans rather than go for a few hours without smoking. What is the use of Davy-lamps? what is the use of all our care as to the ventilation, if at any moment the gas may be fired at a lamp opened for lighting a pipe? I like my pipe, but if I thought there was ever any chance of its becoming my master I would never touch tobacco again." Three days later, when Jack came up from his rounds at ten o'clock, to eat his breakfast and write up his journal of the state of the mine, he saw Mr. Brook and the manager draw up to the pit mouth. Jack shrank back from the little window of the office where he was writing, and did not look out again until he knew that they had descended the mine, as he did not wish to have any appearance of thrusting himself forward. For another hour he wrote; and then the window of the office flew in pieces, the chairs danced, and the walls rocked, while a dull heavy roar, like distant thunder, burst upon his ears. He leaped to his feet and rushed to the door. Black smoke was pouring up from the pit's mouth, sticks and pieces of wood and coal were falling in a shower in the yard; and Jack saw that his worst anticipation had been realized, and that a terrible explosion had taken place in the Vaughan pit. CHAPTER XXIV. IN DEADLY PERIL. For a moment Jack stood stunned by the calamity. There were, he knew, over three hundred men and boys in the pit, and he turned faint and sick as the thought of their fate came across him. Then he ran towards the top of the shaft. The bankman lay insensible at a distance of some yards from the pit, where he had been thrown by the force of the explosion. Two or three men came running up with white scared faces. The smoke had nearly ceased already; the damage was done, and a deadly stillness seemed to reign. Jack ran into the engine-house. The engine-man was leaning against a wall, scared and almost fainting. "Are you hurt, John?" "No!" "Pull yourself round, man. The first thing is to see if the lift is all right. I see one of the cages is at bank, and the force of the explosion is in the upcast shaft. Just give a turn or two to the engine and see if the winding gear's all right. Slowly." The engineman turned on the steam; there was a slight movement, and then the engine stopped. "A little more steam," Jack said. "The cage has caught, but it may come." There was a jerk, and then the engine began to work. "That is all right," Jack said, "whether the lower cage is on or not. Stop now, and wind it back, and get the cage up again. Does the bell act, I wonder?" Jack pulled the wire which, when in order, struck a bell at the bottom of the shaft, and then looked at a bell hanging over his head for the answer. None came. "I expect the wire's broke," Jack said, and went out to the pit's mouth again. The surface-men were all gathered round now, the tip-men, and the yard-men, and those from the coke-ovens, all looking wild and pale. "I am going down," Jack said; "we may find some poor fellows near the bottom, and can't wait till some headman comes on the ground. Who will go with me? I don't want any married men, for you know, lads, there may be another blow at any moment." "I will go with you," one of the yard-men said, stepping forward; "there's no one dependent on me." "I, too," said another; "it's no odds to any one but myself whether I come up again or not. Here's with you, whatever comes of it." [Illustration: AFTER THE FIRST EXPLOSION--THE SEARCH PARTY.] Jack brought three safety-lamps from the lamp-room, and took his place in the cage with the two volunteers. "Lower away," he shouted, "but go very slow when we get near the bottom, and look out for our signal." It was but three minutes from the moment that the cage began to sink to that when it touched the bottom of the shaft, but it seemed an age to those in it. They knew that at any moment a second explosion might come, and that they might be driven far up into the air above the top of the shaft, mere scorched fragments of flesh. Not a word was spoken during the descent, and there was a general exclamation of "Thank God!" when they felt the cage touch the bottom. Jack, as an official of the mine, and by virtue of superior energy, at once took the lead. "Now," he said, "let us push straight up the main road." Just as they stepped out they came across the bodies of two men, and stooped over them with their lamps. "Both dead," Jack said; "we can do nought for them." A little way on, and in a heap, were some waggons, thrown together and broken up, the body of a pony, and that of the lad, his driver. Then they came to the first door--a door no longer, not a fragment of it remaining. In the door-boy's niche the lad lay in a heap. They bent over him. "He is alive," Jack said. "Will you two carry him to the cage? I will look round and see if there is any one else about here; beyond, this way, there is no hope. Make haste! Look how the gas is catching inside the lamps, the place is full of fire-damp." The men took up the lad, and turned to go to the bottom of the shaft. Jack looked a few yards down a cross-road, and then followed them. He was in the act of turning into the next road to glance at that also, when he felt a suck of air. "Down on your faces!" he shouted, and, springing a couple of paces farther up the cross-road, threw himself on his face. CHAPTER XXV. THE IMPRISONED MINERS. There was a mighty roar--a thundering sound, as of an express train--a blinding light, and a scorching heat. Jack felt himself lifted from the ground by the force of the blast, and dashed down again. Then he knew it was over, and staggered to his feet. The force of the explosion had passed along the main road, and so up the shaft, and he owed his life to the fact that he had been in the road off the course. He returned into the main road, but near the bottom of the shaft he was brought to a standstill. The roof had fallen, and the passage was blocked with fragments of rock and broken waggons. He knew that the bottom of the shaft must be partly filled up, that his comrades were killed, and that there was no hope of escape in that direction. For a moment he paused to consider; then, turning up the side road to the left, he ran at full speed from the shaft. He knew that the danger now was not so much from the fire-damp--the explosive gas--as from the even more dreaded choke-damp, which surely follows after an explosion and the cessation of ventilation. Many more miners are killed by this choke-damp, as they hasten to the bottom of the shaft after an explosion, than by the fire itself. Choke-damp, which is carbonic acid gas, is heavier than ordinary air, and thus the lowest parts of a colliery become first filled with it, as they would with water. In all coal-mines there is a slight, sometimes a considerable, inclination, or "dip" as it is called, of the otherwise flat bed of coal. The shaft is almost always sunk at the lower end of the area owned by the proprietors of the mine, as by this means the whole pit naturally drains to the "sump," or well, at the bottom of the shaft, whence it is pumped up by the engine above; the loaded waggons, too, are run down from the workings to the bottom of the shaft with comparative ease. The explosion had, as Jack well knew, destroyed all the doors which direct the currents of the air, and the ventilation had entirely ceased. The lower part of the mine, where the explosion had been strongest, would soon be filled with choke-damp, the product of the explosion, and Jack was making for the old workings, near the upper boundary line of the pit. There the air would remain pure long after it had been vitiated elsewhere. It was in this quarter of the mine that Bill Haden and some twenty other colliers worked. Presently Jack saw lights ahead, and heard a clattering of steps. It was clear that, as he had hoped, the miners working there had escaped the force of the explosion, which had, without doubt, played awful havoc in the parts of the mine where the greater part of the men were at work. "Stop! stop!" Jack shouted, as they came up to him. "Is it fire, Jack?" Bill Haden, who was one of the first, asked. "Yes, Bill; didn't you feel it?" "Some of us thought we felt a suck of air a quarter hour since, but we weren't sure; and then came another, which blew out the lights. Come along, lad; there is no time for talking." "It's of no use going on," Jack said; "the shaft's choked up. I came down after the first blow, and I fear there's no living soul in the new workings. By this time they must be full of the choke-damp." The men looked at each other with blank faces. "Hast seen Brook?" Jack asked eagerly. "Ay, he passed our stall with Johnstone ten minutes ago, just before the blast came." "We may catch him in time to stop him yet," Jack said, "if he has gone round to look at the walling of the old goafs. There are three men at work there." "I'll go with you, Jack," Bill Haden said. "Our best place is my stall, lads," he went on, turning to the others; "that is pretty well the highest ground in the pit, and the air will keep good there as long as anywhere--may be till help comes. You come along of us, mate," he said, turning to the man who worked with him in his stall. As they hurried along, Jack, in a few words, told what had taken place, as far as he knew it. Five minutes' run brought them to the place where the masons were at work walling up the entrance to some old workings. They looked astonished at the new-comers. "Have you seen the gaffers?" "Ay, they ha' just gone on. There, don't you see their lights down the heading? No; well I saw 'em a moment since." "Come along," Jack said. "Quick! I expect they've met it." At full speed they hurried along. Presently they all stopped short; the lights burnt low, and a choking sensation came on them. "Back, Jack, for your life!" gasped Bill Haden; but at that moment Jack's feet struck something, which he knew was a body. "Down at my feet; help!" he cried. He stooped and tried to raise the body. Then the last gleam of his light went out--his lungs seemed to cease acting, and he saw no more. When he came to himself again he was being carried on Bill Haden's shoulder. "All right, dad," he said. "I am coming round now; put me down." "That's a good job, Jack. I thought thou'd'st scarce come round again." "Have you got either of the others?" "We've got Brook; you'd your arm round him so tight that Ned and I lifted you together. He's on ahead; the masons are carrying him, and Ned's showing the way. Canst walk now?" "Yes, I'm better now. How did you manage to breathe, dad?" "We didn't breathe, Jack; we're too old hands for that. When we saw you fall we just drew back, took a breath, and then shut our mouths, and went down for you just the same as if we'd been a groping for you under water. We got hold of you both, lifted you up, and carried you along as far as we could before we drew a breath again. You're sharp, Jack, but you don't know everything yet." And Bill Haden chuckled to find that for once his practical experience taught him something that Jack had not learned from his books. Jack now hurried along after Bill Haden, and in a few minutes reached the place fixed upon. Here the miners were engaged in restoring consciousness to Mr. Brook, who, under the influence of water dashed on his face and artificial respiration set up by alternately pressing upon the chest and allowing it to rise again, was just beginning to show signs of life. Their interest in their employment was so great that it was not until Mr. Brook was able to sit up that they began to talk about the future. Jack's account of the state of things near the shaft was listened to gravely. The fact that the whole of the system of ventilation had been deranged, and the proof given by the second explosion that the mine was somewhere on fire, needed no comment to these experienced men. It sounded their death-knell. Gallant and unceasing as would be the efforts made under any other circumstance to rescue them, the fact that the pit was on fire, and that fresh explosions might at any moment take place, would render it an act of simple madness for their friends above to endeavour to clear the shaft and headings, and to restore the ventilation. The fact was further impressed upon them by a sudden and simultaneous flicker of the lamps, and a faint shake, followed by a distant rumble. "Another blast," Bill Haden said. "That settles us, lads. We may as well turn out all the lamps but two, so as to have light as long as we last out." "Is there no hope?" Mr. Brook asked presently, coming forward after he had heard from Haden's mate the manner in which he had been so far saved. "Not a scrap, master," said Bill Haden. "We are like rats in a trap; and it would ha' been kinder of us if we'd a let you lay as you was." "Your intention was equally kind," Mr. Brook said. "But is there nothing that we can do?" "Nowt," Bill Haden said. "We have got our dinners wi' us, and might make 'em last, a mouthful at a time, to keep life in us for a week or more. But what 'ud be th' use of it? It may be weeks--ay, or months--before they can stifle the fire and make their way here." "Can you suggest nothing, Jack?" Mr. Brook asked. "You are the only officer of the pit left now," he added with a faint smile. Jack had not spoken since he reached the stall, but had sat down on a block of coal, with his elbows on his knees and his chin on his hands--a favourite attitude of his when thinking deeply. The other colliers had thrown themselves down on the ground; some sobbed occasionally as they thought of their loved ones above, some lay in silence. Jack answered the appeal by rising to his feet. "Yes, sir, I think we may do something." The men raised themselves in surprise. "In the first place, sir, I should send men in each direction to see how near the choke-damp has got. There are four roads by which it could come up. I would shut the doors on this side of the place it has got to, roll blocks of coal and rubbish to keep 'em tight, and stop up the chinks with wet mud. That will keep the gas from coming up, and there is air enough in the stalls and headings to last us a long time." "But that would only prolong our lives for a few hours, Jack, and I don't know that that would be any advantage. Better to be choked by the gas than to die of starvation," Mr. Brook said, and a murmur from the men showed that they agreed with him. "I vote for lighting our pipes," one of the miners said. "If there is fiery gas here, it would be better to finish with it at once." There was a general expression of approval. "Wait!" Jack said authoritatively; "wait till I have done. You know, Mr. Brook, we are close to our north boundary here, in some places within a very few yards. Now the 'Logan,' which lies next to us, has been worked out years ago. Of course it is full of water, and it was from fear of tapping that water that the works were stopped here. A good deal comes in through the crevices in No. 15 stall, which I expect is nearest to it. Now if we could work into the 'Logan,' the water would rush down into our workings, and as our pit is a good deal bigger than the 'Logan' ever was it will fill the lower workings and put out the fire, but won't reach here. Then we can get up through the 'Logan,' where the air is sure to be all right, as the water will bring good air down with it. We may not do it in time, but it is a chance. What do you say, sir?" "It is worth trying, at any rate," Mr. Brook said. "Bravo, my lad! your clear head may save us yet." "By gum, Jack! but you're a good un!" Bill Haden said, bringing down his hand upon Jack's shoulder with a force that almost knocked him down; while the men, with revived hope, leaped to their feet, and crowding round, shook Jack's hands with exclamations of approval and delight. "Now, lads," Mr. Brook said, "Jack Simpson is master now, and we will all work under his orders. But before we begin, boys, let us say a prayer. We are in God's hands; let us ask his protection." Every head was bared, and the men stood reverently while, in a few words, Mr. Brook prayed for strength and protection, and rescue from their danger. "Now, Jack," he said, when he had finished, "give your orders." Jack at once sent off two men along each of the roads to find how near the choke-damp had approached, and to block up and seal the doors. It was necessary to strike a light to relight some of the lamps, but this was a danger that could not be avoided. The rest of the men were sent round to all the places where work had been going on to bring in the tools and dinners to No. 15 stall, to which Jack himself, Bill Haden, and Mr. Brook proceeded at once. No work had been done there for years. The floor was covered with a black mud, and a close examination of the face showed tiny streamlets of water trickling down in several places. An examination of the stalls, or working places, on either side, showed similar appearances, but in a less marked degree. It was therefore determined to begin work in No. 15. "You don't mean to use powder, Jack?" Bill Haden asked. "No, dad; without any ventilation we should be choked with the smoke, and there would be the danger from the gas. When we think we are getting near the water we will put in a big shot, so as to blow in the face." When the men returned with the tools and the dinners, the latter done up in handkerchiefs, Jack asked Mr. Brook to take charge of the food. "There are just twenty of us, sir, without you, and nineteen dinners. So if you divide among us four dinners a day, it will last for five days, and by that time I hope we shall be free." Four men only could work at the face of the stall together, and Jack divided the twenty into five sets. "We will work in quarter-of-an-hour shifts at first," he said; "that will give an hour's rest to a quarter of an hour's work, and a man can work well, we know, for a quarter of an hour. When we get done up, we will have half-hour shifts, which will give two hours for a sleep in between." The men of the first shift, stripped as usual to the waist, set to work without an instant's delay; and the vigour and swiftness with which the blows fell upon the face of the rock would have told experienced miners that the men who struck them were working for life or death. Those unemployed, Jack took into the adjacent stalls and set them to work to clear a narrow strip of the floor next to the upper wall, then to cut a little groove in the rocky floor to intercept the water as it slowly trickled in, and lead it to small hollows which they were to make in the solid rock. The water coming through the two stalls would, thus collected, be ample for their wants. Jack then started to see how the men at work at the doors were getting on. These had already nearly finished their tasks. On the road leading to the main workings choke-damp had been met with at a distance of fifty yards from the stall; but upon the upper road it was several hundred yards before it was found. On the other two roads it was over a hundred yards. The men had torn strips off their flannel jackets and had thrust them into the crevices of the doors, and had then plastered mud from the roadway on thickly, and there was no reason to fear any irruption of choke-damp, unless, indeed, an explosion should take place so violent as to blow in the doors. This, however, was unlikely, as, with a fire burning, the gas would ignite as it came out; and although there might be many minor explosions, there would scarcely be one so serious as the first two which had taken place. The work at the doors and the water being over, the men all gathered in the stall. Then Jack insisted on an equal division of the tobacco, of which almost all the miners possessed some--for colliers, forbidden to smoke, often chew tobacco, and the tobacco might therefore be regarded both as a luxury, and as being very valuable in assisting the men to keep down the pangs of hunger. This had to be divided only into twenty shares, as Mr. Brook said that he could not use it in that way, and that he had, moreover, a couple of cigars in his pocket, which he could suck if hard driven to it. Now that they were together again, all the lamps were extinguished save the two required by the men employed. With work to be done, and a hope of ultimate release, the men's spirits rose, and between their spells they talked, and now and then even a laugh was heard. Mr. Brook, although unable to do a share of the work, was very valuable in aiding to keep up their spirits, by his hopeful talk, and by anecdotes of people who had been in great danger in many ways in different parts of the world, but who had finally escaped. Sometimes one or other of the men would propose a hymn--for among miners, as among sailors, there is at heart a deep religious feeling, consequent upon a life which may at any moment be cut short--and then their deep voices would rise together, while the blows of the sledges and picks would keep time to the swing of the tune. On the advice of Mr. Brook the men divided their portions of food, small as they were, into two parts, to be eaten twelve hours apart; for as the work would proceed without interruption night and day, it was better to eat, however little, every twelve hours, than to go twenty-four without food. The first twenty-four hours over, the stall--or rather the heading, for it was now driven as narrow as it was possible for four men to work simultaneously--had greatly advanced; indeed it would have been difficult even for a miner to believe that so much work had been done in the time. There was, however, no change in the appearances; the water still trickled in, but they could not perceive that it came faster than before. As fast as the coal fell--for fortunately the seam was over four feet thick, so that they did not have to work upon the rock--it was removed by the set of men who were next for work, so that there was not a minute lost from this cause. During the next twenty-four hours almost as much work was done as during the first; but upon the third there was a decided falling off. The scanty food was telling upon them now. The shifts were lengthened to an hour to allow longer time for sleep between each spell of work, and each set of men, when relieved, threw themselves down exhausted, and slept for three hours, until it was their turn to wake up and remove the coal as the set at work got it down. At the end of seventy-two hours the water was coming through the face much faster than at first, and the old miners, accustomed to judge by sound, were of opinion that the wall in front sounded less solid, and that they were approaching the old workings of the Logan pit. In the three days and nights they had driven the heading nearly fifteen yards from the point where they had begun. Upon the fourth day they worked cautiously, driving a borer three feet ahead of them into the coal, as in case of the water bursting through suddenly they would be all drowned. At the end of ninety hours from the time of striking the first blow the drill which, Jack holding it, Bill Haden was just driving in deeper with a sledge, suddenly went forward, and as suddenly flew out as if shot from a gun, followed by a jet of water driven with tremendous force. A plug, which had been prepared in readiness, was with difficulty driven into the hole; two men who had been knocked down by the force of the water were picked up, much bruised and hurt; and with thankful hearts that the end of their labour was at hand all prepared for the last and most critical portion of their task. CHAPTER XXVI. A CRITICAL MOMENT. After an earnest thanksgiving by Mr. Brook for their success thus far, the whole party partook of what was a heartier meal than usual, consisting of the whole of the remaining food. Then choosing the largest of the drills, a hole was driven in the coal two feet in depth, and in this an unusually heavy charge was placed. "We're done for after all," Bill Haden suddenly exclaimed. "Look at the lamp." Every one present felt his heart sink at what he saw. A light flame seemed to fill the whole interior of the lamp. To strike a match to light the fuse would be to cause an instant explosion of the gas. The place where they were working being the highest part of the mine, the fiery gas, which made its way out of the coal at all points above the closed doors, had, being lighter than air, mounted there. "Put the lamps out," Jack said quickly, "the gauze is nearly red hot." In a moment they were in darkness. "What is to be done now?" Mr. Brook asked after a pause. There was silence for a while--the case seemed desperate. "Mr. Brook," Jack said after a time, "it is agreed, is it not, that all here will obey my orders?" "Yes, certainly, Jack," Mr. Brook answered. "Whatever they are?" "Yes, whatever they are." "Very well," Jack said, "you will all take your coats off and soak them in water, then all set to work to beat the gas out of this heading as far as possible. When that is done as far as can be done, all go into the next stall, and lie down at the upper end, you will be out of the way of the explosion there. Cover your heads with your wet coats, and, Bill, wrap something wet round those cans of powder." "What then, Jack?" "That's all," Jack said; "I will fire the train. If the gas explodes at the match it will light the fuse, so that the wall will blow in anyhow." "No, no," a chorus of voices said; "you will be killed." "I will light it, Jack," Bill Haden said; "I am getting on now, it's no great odds about me." "No, Dad," Jack said, "I am in charge, and it is for me to do it. You have all promised to obey orders, so set about it at once. Bill, take Mr. Brook up first into the other stall; he won't be able to find his way about in the dark." Without a word Bill did as he was told, Mr. Brook giving one hearty squeeze to the lad's hand as he was led away. The others, accustomed to the darkness from boyhood, proceeded at once to carry out Jack's instructions, wetting their flannel jackets and then beating the roof with them towards the entrance to the stall; for five minutes they continued this, and then Jack said: "Now, lads, off to the stall as quick as you can; cover your heads well over; lie down. I will be with you in a minute, or--" or, as Jack knew well, he would be dashed to pieces by the explosion of the gas. He listened until the sound of the last footstep died away--waited a couple of minutes, to allow them to get safely in position at the other end of the next stall--and then, holding the end of the fuse in one hand and the match in the other, he murmured a prayer, and, stooping to the ground, struck the match. No explosion followed; he applied it to the fuse, and ran for his life, down the narrow heading, down the stall, along the horse road, and up the next stall. "It's alight," he said as he rushed in. A cheer of congratulation and gladness burst from the men. "Cover your heads close," Jack said as he threw himself down; "the explosion is nigh sure to fire the gas." For a minute a silence as of death reigned in the mine; then there was a sharp cracking explosion, followed--or rather, prolonged--by another like thunder, and, while a flash of fire seemed to surround them, filling the air, firing their clothes, and scorching their limbs, the whole mine shook with a deep continuous roaring. The men knew that the danger was at an end, threw off the covering from their heads, and struck out the fire from their garments. Some were badly burned about the legs, but any word or cry they may have uttered was drowned in the tremendous roar which continued. It was the water from the Logan pit rushing into the Vaughan. For five minutes the noise was like thunder, then, as the pressure from behind decreased, the sound gradually diminished, until, in another five minutes, all was quiet. Then the party rose to their feet. The air in the next stall was clear and fresh, for as the Logan pit had emptied of water, fresh air had of course come down from the surface to take its place. "We can light our lamps again safely now," Bill Haden said. "We shall want our tools, lads, and the powder; there may be some heavy falls in our way, and we may have hard work yet before we get to the shaft, but the roof rock is strong, so I believe we shall win our way." "It lies to our right," Jack said. "Like our own, it is at the lower end of the pit, so, as long as we don't mount, we are going right for it." There were, as Haden had anticipated, many heavy falls of the roof, but the water had swept passages in them, and it was found easier to get along than the colliers had expected. Still it was hard work for men weakened by famine; and it took them five hours of labour clearing away masses of rock, and floundering through black mud, often three feet deep, before they made their way to the bottom of the Logan shaft, and saw the light far above them--the light that at one time they had never expected to see again. "What o'clock is it now, sir?" Bill Haden asked Mr. Brook, who had from the beginning been the timekeeper of the party. "Twelve o'clock exactly," he replied. "It is four days and an hour since the pit fired." "What day is it, sir? for I've lost all count of time." "Sunday," Mr. Brook said after a moment's thought. "It could not be better," Bill Haden said; "for there will be thousands of people from all round to visit the mine." "How much powder have you, Bill?" Jack asked. "Four twenty-pound cans." "Let us let off ten pounds at a time," Jack said. "Just damp it enough to prevent it from flashing off too suddenly; break up fine some of this damp wood and mix with it, it will add to the smoke." In a few minutes the "devil" was ready, and a light applied; it blazed furiously for half a minute, sending volumes of light smoke up the shaft. "Flash off a couple of pounds of dry powder," Bill Haden said; "there is very little draught up the shaft, and it will drive the air up." For twenty minutes they continued letting off "devils" and flashing powder. Then they determined to stop, and allow the shaft to clear altogether of the smoke. Presently a small stone fell among them--another--and another, and they knew that some one had noticed the smoke. CHAPTER XXVII. RESCUED. A stranger arriving at Stokebridge on that Sunday morning might have thought that a fair or some similar festivity was going on, so great was the number of people who passed out of the station as each train came in. For the day Stokebridge was the great point of attraction for excursionists from all parts of Staffordshire. Not that there was anything to see. The Vaughan mine looked still and deserted; no smoke issued from its chimneys; and a strong body of police kept all, except those who had business there, from approaching within a certain distance of the shaft. Still less was there to see in Stokebridge itself. Every blind was down--for scarce a house but had lost at least one of its members; and in the darkened room women sat, silently weeping for the dead far below. For the last four days work had been entirely suspended through the district; and the men of the other collieries, as well as those of the Vaughan who, belonging to the other shift, had escaped, hung about the pit yard, in the vague hope of being able in some way to be useful. Within an hour of the explosion the managers of the surrounding pits had assembled; and in spite of the fact that the three volunteers who had first descended were, without doubt, killed, plenty of other brave fellows volunteered their services, and would have gone down if permitted. But the repeated explosions, and the fact that the lower part of the shaft was now blocked up, decided the experienced men who had assembled that such a course would be madness--an opinion which was thoroughly endorsed by Mr. Hardinge and other government inspectors and mining authorities, who arrived within a few hours of the accident. It was unanimously agreed that the pit was on fire, for a light smoke curled up from the pit mouth, and some already began to whisper that it would have to be closed up. There are few things more painful than to come to the conclusion that nothing can be done, when women, half mad with sorrow and anxiety, are imploring men to make an effort to save those below. Jane Haden, quiet and tearless, sat gazing at the fatal shaft, when she was touched on the shoulder. She looked up, and saw Harry. "Thou art not down with them then, Harry?" "No; I almost wish I was," Harry said. "I came up with Jack, and hurried away to get breakfast. When I heard the blow I ran up, and found Jack had just gone down. If I had only been near I might have gone with him;" and the young man spoke in regret at not having shared his friend's fate rather than in gladness at his own escape. "Dost think there's any hope, Harry?" "It's no use lying, and there's no hope for Jack, mother," Harry said; "but if any one's saved it's like to be your Bill. He was up in the old workings, a long way off from the part where the strength of the blow would come." "It's no use telling me, Harry; I ask, but I know how it is. There ain't a chance--not a chance at all. If the pit's afire they'll have to flood it, and then it will be weeks before they pump it out again; and when they bring Jack and Bill up I sha'n't know 'em. That's what I feel, I sha'n't even know 'em." "Don't wait here, Mrs. Haden; nought can be done now; the inspectors and managers will meet this evening, and consult what is best to be done." "Is your father down, Harry? I can't think of aught but my own, or I'd have asked afore." "No; he is in the other shift. My brother Willy is down. Come, mother, let me take you home." But Mrs. Haden would not move, but sat with scores of other women, watching the mouth of the pit, and the smoke curling up, till night fell. The news spread round Stokebridge late in the evening that the managers had determined to shut up the mouth of the pit, if there was still smoke in the morning. Then, as is always the case when such a determination is arrived at, there was a cry of grief and anger throughout the village, and all who had friends below protested that it would be nothing short of murder to cut off the supply of air. Women went down to the inn where the meeting was held, and raved like wild creatures; but the miners of the district could not but own the step was necessary, for that the only chance to extinguish the fire was by cutting off the air, unless the dreadful alternative of drowning the pit was resorted to. In the morning the smoke still curled up, and the pit's mouth was closed. Boards were placed over both the shafts, and earth was heaped upon them, so as to cut off altogether the supply of air, and so stifle the fire. This was on Thursday morning. Nothing was done on Friday; and on Saturday afternoon the mining authorities met again in council. There were experts there now from all parts of the kingdom--for the extent of the catastrophe had sent a thrill of horror through the land. It was agreed that the earth and staging should be removed next morning early, and that if smoke still came up, water should be turned in from the canal. At six in the morning a number of the leading authorities met at the mine. Men had during the night removed the greater part of the earth, and the rest was now taken off, and the planks withdrawn. At once a volume of smoke poured out. This was in any case expected; and it was not for another half-hour, when the accumulated smoke had cleared off, and a straight but unbroken column began to rise as before, that the conviction that the pit was still on fire seized all present. "I fear that there is no alternative," Mr. Hardinge said; "the pit must be flooded." There was not a dissentient voice; and the party moved towards the canal to see what would be the best method of letting in the water, when a cry from the men standing round caused them to turn, and they saw a dense white column rise from the shaft. "Steam!" every one cried in astonishment. A low rumbling sound came from the pit. "What can have happened?" Mr. Hardinge exclaimed, in surprise. "This is most extraordinary!" All crowded round the pit mouth, and could distinctly hear a distant roaring sound. Presently this died away. Gradually the steam ceased to rise, and the air above the pit mouth was clear. "There is no smoke rising," one of the inspectors said. "What on earth can have happened? Let us lower a light down." Hoisting gear and rope had been prepared on the first day, in case it should be necessary to lower any one, for the wire rope had snapped when the attempt had been made to draw up the cage after the second explosion, and the sudden release from the strain had caused the engine to fly round, breaking some gear, and for the time disabling it from further work. A hundred and forty fathoms of rope, the depth of the shaft being a hundred and twenty, had been prepared, and was in readiness to be passed over a pulley suspended above the shaft. A lighted candle in a candlestick was placed on a sort of tray, which was fastened to the rope, and then it was lowered gradually down. Eagerly those above watched it as it descended--down--down, till it became a mere speck below. Then it suddenly disappeared. "Stop," Mr. Hardinge, who was directing the operations, said. "There are six more fathoms yet, sir--nigh seven--before it gets to the hundred-and-twenty fathom mark." "Draw up carefully, lads. What can have put the light out forty feet from the bottom of the shaft? Choke-damp, I suppose; but it's very singular." When the candle came up to the surface there was a cry of astonishment; the tray and the candle were wet! The whole of those present were astounded, and Mr. Hardinge at once determined to descend himself and verify this extraordinary occurrence. There was no fear of an explosion now. Taking a miner's lamp, he took his seat in a sling, and was lowered down. Just before the rope had run out to the point at which the light was extinguished he gave the signal to stop by jerking a thin rope which he held in his hands. There was a pause, and in a minute or two came two jerks, the signal to haul up. "It is so," he said, when he gained the surface; "there are forty feet of water in the shaft, but where it came from is more than I can tell." Much astonished at this singular occurrence, the group of mining engineers walked back to breakfast at Stokebridge, where the population were greatly excited at the news that the pit was flooded. To the miners it was a subject of the greatest surprise, while the friends of those in the pit received the news as the death-blow of their last hopes. It was now impossible that any one could be alive in the pit. At ten o'clock the mining authorities went again to discuss the curious phenomenon. All agreed that it was out of the question that so large a quantity of water had accumulated in any old workings, for the plan of the pit had been repeatedly inspected by them all. Some inclined to the belief that there must have been some immense natural cavern above the workings, and that when the fire in the pit burned away the pillars left to support the roof, this must have fallen in, and let the water in the cavern into the mine; others pointed out that there was no example whatever of a cavern of such dimensions as this must have been, being found in the coal formation, and pointed to the worked-out Logan pit, which was known to be full of water, as the probable source of supply. During the previous four days the plan had been discussed of cutting through from the Logan, which was known to have been worked nearly up to the Vaughan boundary. This would enable them to enter the pit and rescue any miners who might be alive, but the fact that to erect pumping gear and get out the water would be an affair of many weeks, if not months, had caused the idea to be abandoned as soon as broached. To those who argued that the water had come from the Logan, it was pointed out that there were certainly several yards of solid coal between the Vaughan and the Logan still standing, and that as the force of the explosion was evidently near the Vaughan shaft it was incredible that this barrier between the pits should have been shattered. However, it was decided to solve the question one way or the other by an immediate visit to the top of the old Logan shaft. They were just starting when they heard a movement in the street, and men setting off to run. A moment later a miner entered the room hurriedly. "There be a big smoke coming up from the old Logan shaft; it be too light for coal smoke, and I don't think it be steam either." With exclamations of surprise the whole party seized their hats and hurried off. It was twenty minutes' sharp walking to the shaft, where, by the time they reached it, a large crowd of miners and others were already assembled. As they approached, eager men ran forward to meet them. "It be gunpowder smoke, sir!" There was indeed no mistaking the sulphurous smell. "It's one of two things," Mr. Hardinge said; "either the fire has spread to the upper workings, some powder bags have exploded, and the shock has brought down the dividing wall, in which case the powder smoke might possibly find its way out when the water from the Logan drained in; or else, in some miraculous way some of the men have made their escape, and are letting off powder to call our attention. At any rate let us drop a small stone or two down. If any one be below he will know he is noticed." Then he turned to the miners standing round: "I want the pulley and rope that we were using at the Vaughan, and that small cage that was put together to work with it. I want two or three strong poles, to form a tripod over the pit here, and a few long planks to make a stage." Fifty willing men hurried off to fetch the required materials. "The smoke is getting thinner, a good deal," one of the managers said. "Now if you'll hold me, I will give a shout down." The mouth of the pit was surrounded by a wooden fencing, to prevent any one from falling down it. The speaker got over this and lay down on his face, working nearer to the edge, which sloped dangerously down, while others, following in the same way, held his legs, and were in their turn held by others. When his head and shoulders were fairly over the pit he gave a loud shout. There was a death-like silence on the part of the crowd standing round, and all of those close could hear a faint murmur come from below. Then arose a cheer, echoed again and again, and then half-a-dozen fleet-footed boys started for Stokebridge with the news that some of the imprisoned pitmen were still alive. Mr. Hardinge wrote on a piece of paper, "Keep up your courage; in an hour's time the cage will come down;" wrapped it round a stone, and dropped it down. A messenger was despatched to the Vaughan, for the police force stationed there to come up at once to keep back the excited crowd, and with orders that the stretchers and blankets in readiness should be brought on; while another went into Stokebridge for a surgeon, and for a supply of wine, brandy, and food, and two or three vehicles. No sooner were the men sent off than Mr. Hardinge said, in a loud tone: "Every moment must be of consequence; they must be starving. Will any one here who has food give it for them?" The word was passed through the crowd, and a score of picnic baskets were at once offered. Filling one of them full with sandwiches from the rest, Mr. Hardinge tied the lid securely on, and threw it down the shaft. "There is no fear of their standing under the shaft," he said; "they will know we shall be working here, and that stones might fall." In less than an hour, thanks to the willing work of many hands, a platform was constructed across the mouth of the Logan shaft, and a tripod of strong poles fixed in its place. The police kept the crowd, by this time very many thousands strong, back in a wide circle round the shaft, none being allowed inside save those who had near relatives in the Vaughan. These were for the most part women, who had rushed wildly up without bonnets or shawls--just as they stood when the report reached them that there were yet some survivors of the explosion. At full speed they had hurried along the road--some pale and still despairing, refusing to allow hope to rise again, but unable to stay away from the fatal pit; others crying as they ran; some even laughing in hysterical excitement. Most excited, because most hopeful, were those whose husbands had stalls in the old workings, for it had from the first been believed that while all in the main workings were probably killed at once by the first explosion, those in the old workings might have survived for days. Jane Haden walked steadily along the road, accompanied by Harry Shepherd, who had brought her the news, and by Nelly Hardy. "I will go," she said, "but it is of no use; they are both gone, and I shall never see them again." Then she had put on her bonnet and shawl, deliberately and slowly, and had started at her ordinary pace, protesting all along against its being supposed that she entertained the slightest hope; but when she neared the spot, her quivering lips and twitching fingers belied her words. Nelly remained outside the crowd, but Harry made a way for Jane Haden through the outside circle of spectators. A smaller circle, of some thirty yards in diameter, was kept round the shaft, and within this only those directing the operations were allowed to enter. Mr. Hardinge and one of the local managers took their places in the cage. The rope was held by twenty men, who at first stood at its full length from the shaft, and then advanced at a walk towards it, thus allowing the cage to descend steadily and easily, without jerks. As they came close to the shaft the signal rope was shaken; another step or two, slowly and carefully taken, and the rope was seen to sway slightly. The cage was at the bottom of the shaft. Three minutes' pause, the signal rope shook, and the men with the end of the rope, started again to walk from the shaft. As they increased their distance, the excitement in the great crowd grew; and when the cage showed above the surface, and it was seen that it contained three miners, a hoarse cheer arose. The men were assisted from the cage, and surrounded for a moment by those in authority; and one of the head men raised his hand for silence, and then shouted: "Mr. Brook and twenty others are saved!" An announcement which was received with another and even more hearty cheer. [Illustration: SAVED!] Passing on, the rescued men moved forward to where the women stood, anxiously gazing. Blackened as they were with coal-dust, they were recognizable, and with wild screams of joy three women burst from the rest and threw themselves in their arms. But only for a moment could they indulge in this burst of happiness, for the other women crowded round. "Who is alive? For God's sake tell us! who is alive?" Then one by one the names were told, each greeted with cries of joy, till the last name was spoken; and then came a burst of wailing and lamentation from those who had listened in vain for the names of those they loved. Jane Haden had not risen from the seat she had taken on a block of broken brickwork. "No, no!" she said to Harry; "I will not hope! I will not hope!" and while Harry moved closer to the group, to hear the names of the saved, she sat with her face buried in her hands. The very first names given were those of Jack Simpson and Bill Haden, and with a shout of joy he rushed back. The step told its tale, and Jane Haden looked up, rose as if with a hidden spring, and looked at him. "Both saved!" he exclaimed; and with a strange cry Jane Haden swayed, and fell insensible. An hour later, and the last survivor of those who were below in the Vaughan pit stood on the surface, the last cage load being Mr. Brook, Jack Simpson, and Mr. Hardinge. By this time the mourners had left the scene, and there was nothing to check the delight felt at the recovery from the tomb, as it was considered, of so many of those deemed lost. When Mr. Brook--who was a popular employer, and whose popularity was now increased by his having, although involuntarily, shared the dangers of his men--stepped from the cage, the enthusiasm was tremendous. The crowd broke the cordon of police and rushed forward, cheering loudly. Mr. Hardinge, after a minute or two, held up his hand for silence, and helped Mr. Brook on to a heap of stones. Although Mr. Brook, as well as the rest, had already recovered much, thanks to the basket of food thrown down to them, and to the supply of weak brandy and water, and of soup, which those who had first descended had carried with them, he was yet so weakened by his long fast that he was unable to speak. He could only wave his hand in token of his thanks, and sobs of emotion choked his words. Mr. Hardinge, however, who had, during the hour below, learned all that had taken place, and had spoken for some time apart with Mr. Brook, now stood up beside him. "My friends," he said, in a loud clear voice, which was heard over the whole crowd, "Mr. Brook is too much shaken by what he has gone through to speak, but he desires me to thank you most heartily in his name for your kind greeting. He wishes to say that, under God, his life, and the lives of those with him, have been saved by the skill, courage, and science of his under-viewer, Jack Simpson. Mr. Brook has consulted me on the subject, and I thoroughly agree with what he intends to do, and can certify to Jack Simpson's ability, young as he is, to fill any post to which he may be appointed. In a short time I hope that the Vaughan pit will be pumped out and at work again, and when it is, Mr. Jack Simpson will be its manager!" The story of the escape from death had already been told briefly by the miners as they came to the surface, and had passed from mouth to mouth among the crowd, and Mr. Hardinge's announcement was greeted with a storm of enthusiasm. Jack was seized by a score of sturdy pitmen, and would have been carried in triumph, were it not that the startling announcement, coming after such a long and intense strain, proved too much for him, and he fainted in the arms of his admirers. CHAPTER XXVIII. CHANGES. Beyond the body of the crowd, outside the ring kept by the police, stood Nelly Hardy, watching, without a vestige of colour in her face, for the news from below. She had given a gasping sigh of relief as the names, passed from mouth to mouth by the crowd, met her ear, and had leaned for support against the wall behind her. So great was her faith in Jack's resources and in Jack's destiny that she had all along hoped, and the assertion that those who had first gone down to rescue the pitmen must have fallen victims to the second explosion had fallen dead upon her ears. The school had been closed from the date of the accident, and had it not been so, she felt that she could not have performed her duties. Hour after hour she had sat in her cottage alone--for her mother had died a year before--except when Mrs. Dodgson, who had long suspected her secret, came to sit awhile with her, or Harry brought the latest news. During this time she had not shed a tear, and, save for her white face and hard unnatural voice, none could have told how she suffered. Harry had brought her the news of the smoke being seen from the shaft of the Logan pit before he carried it to Mrs. Haden, and she had at once thrown on her bonnet and jacket and joined them as they started from the village. When she reached the pit she had not attempted to approach, but had taken her place at a distance. Several of her pupils, with whom she was a great favourite, had come up to speak to her, but her hoarse, "Not now, dear; please go away," had sufficed to send them off. But deeply agitated as she was, she was hopeful; and deep as was her joy at the news of Jack's safety she was hardly surprised. Dropping her veil to hide the tears of joy which streamed down her cheeks, she turned to go home; but she was more shaken than she had thought, and she had to grasp at the wall for support. So she waited until the last of the miners arrived at the surface, and heard the speech of the government inspector. Then when she heard Jack's elevation announced, the news shook her even more than that of his safety had done, and she fainted. When she recovered the crowd was gone, and Harry only stood beside her. He had felt that she would rather stand and watch alone, and had avoided going near her, but when Jack was driven off he had hastened to her side. He knew how she would object to her emotion becoming known, and had contented himself with lifting her veil, untying her bonnet strings, putting her in a sitting attitude against the wall, and waiting patiently till she came round. "Are you better now?" he inquired anxiously when she opened her eyes. "Yes, I am well now," she said, glancing hastily round to see if others beside himself had noticed her situation; "I am quite well." "Don't try to get up; sit still a few minutes longer," he said. "Don't try to talk." "He has got his rise at last," she said smiling faintly and looking up; "he has gone right away from us at a bound." "I am glad," Harry said simply. "He has earned it. He is a grand, a glorious fellow, is Jack. Of course I shall never be to him now what I have been, but I know that he will be as true a friend as ever, though I may not see so much of him." "You are more unselfish than I, Harry; but as he was to rise, it was better that it should be at a bound far above me. Now I am better; let me go home." Jack Simpson's fainting fit had been but of short duration. His sturdy organization soon recovered from the shock which the fresh air and Mr. Hardinge's announcement had made upon a frame exhausted by privation, fatigue, and excitement. None the less was he astonished and indignant with himself at what he considered a girlish weakness. His thoughts were, however, speedily diverted from himself by a pitman telling him that Jane Haden was in a second faint close by. Mr. Brook's carriage had been sent for in readiness, immediately the possibility of his being found alive had appeared; and that gentleman insisted upon Mrs. Haden being lifted into it, and upon Jack taking his seat beside her to support her. He then followed, and, amidst the cheers of the crowd, started for Stokebridge. Mrs. Haden recovered before reaching the village; and leaving her and Jack at their home, with an intimation that the carriage would come at an early hour next morning to fetch the latter up to the hall, Mr. Brook drove off alone. That afternoon was a proud day for Bill Haden and his wife, but a trying one for Jack. Every one in the place who had the slightest knowledge of him called to shake his hand and congratulate him on his promotion, his friends of boyhood first among them. Harry was one of the earliest comers, and tears fell down the cheeks of both as they clasped hands in silent joy at their reunion. Not a word was spoken or needed. "Go round to Nelly," Jack said in an undertone as other visitors arrived; "tell her I will come in and see her at seven o'clock. Come again yourself before that, let us three meet together again." So quickly did the callers press in that the little room could not hold them; and Jack had to go to the front door, there to shake hands and say a word to all who wanted to see him. It was quite a levée, and it was only the fact that the gloom of a terrible calamity hung over Stokebridge that prevented the demonstration being noisy as well as enthusiastic. By six o'clock all his friends had seen him, and Jack sat down with Bill Haden and his wife. Then Jane Haden's feelings relieved themselves by a copious flood of tears; and Bill himself, though he reproached her for crying on such an occasion, did so in a husky voice. "Thou art going to leave us, Jack," Jane Haden said; "and though we shall miss thee sorely, thou mustn't go to think that Bill or me be sorry at the good fortune that be come upon you. Thou hast been a son, and a good son to us, and ha' never given so much as a day's trouble. I know'd as how you'd leave us sooner or later. There was sure to be a time when all the larning thou hast worked so hard to get would bring thee to fortune, but I didn't think 'twould come so soon." Bill Haden removed from his lips the pipe--which, in his endeavour to make up for loss of time, he had smoked without ceasing from the moment of his rescue--and grunted an acquiescence with his wife's speech. "My dear mother and dad," Jack said, "there must be no talk of parting between us. As yet, of course, it is too soon to form plans for the future; but be assured that there will be no parting. You took me when I was a helpless baby; but for you I should have been a workhouse child, and might now be coming out of my apprenticeship to a tinker or a tailor. I owe all I have, all I am, to you; and whatever fortune befall me you will still be dad and mother. For a short time I must go to the hall, as Mr. Brook has invited me; and we shall have much to arrange and talk over. Afterwards I suppose I shall have to go to the manager's house, but, of course, arrangements will have to be made as to Mr. Fletcher's widow and children; and when I go there, of course you will come too." "Thee'st a good un, lad," Bill Haden said, for Mrs. Haden's tears prevented her speech; "but I doubt what thou say'st can be; but we needn't talk that over now. But t' old 'ooman and I be none the less glad o' thy words, Jack; though the bit and sup that thou had'st here till you went into th' pit and began to pay your way ain't worth the speaking o'. Thou beats me a'together, Jack. When un see's a good pup un looks to his breed, and un finds it pure; but where thou get'st thy points from beats me a'together. Thy mother were a schoolmaster's daughter, but she had not the name o' being fond o' larning, and was a'ways weak and ailing; thy dad, my mate Jack Simpson, was as true a mate as ever man had; but he were in no ways uncommon. The old 'ooman and I ha' reared ye; but, arter all, pups don't follow their foster-mother, for the best bull pup ain't noways injured by having a half-bred un, or for the matter o' that one wi' no breed at all, as a foster-mother; besides the old 'ooman and me has no points at all, 'cept on my part, such as are bad uns; so it beats me fairly. It downright shakes un's faith in breeding." Here Harry's tap was heard at the door, and Jack, leaving Bill Haden to ponder over his egregious failure in proving true to blood, joined his friend outside. Scarce a word was spoken between the two young men as they walked across to Nelly Hardy's little cottage by the schoolhouse. The candles were already lighted, and Nelly rose as they entered. "My dear Nelly." "My dear Jack," she said, throwing her arms round his neck as a sister might have done, and kissing him, for the first time in her life; and crying, "My dear Jack, thank God you are restored alive to us." "Thank God indeed," Jack said reverently; "it has been almost a miracle, Nelly, and I am indeed thankful. We prayed nearly as hard as we worked, and God was with us; otherwise assuredly we had never passed through such danger uninjured. I thought many a time of you and Harry, and what you would be doing and thinking. "I never gave up hope, did I, Harry?" she said; "I thought that somehow such a useful life as yours would be spared." "Many other useful lives have been lost, Nelly," Jack said sadly; "but it was not my time." "And now," Nelly said changing her tone, "there are other things to talk of. Will you please take a chair, sir," and she dropped a curtsy. "Didn't I tell you, Jack," she said, laughing at the astonishment in Jack's face, "that when you congratulated me on getting my post here and called me Miss Hardy, that the time would come when I should say, Sir to you. It has come, Jack, sooner than we expected, but I knew it would come." Then changing her tone again, as they sat looking at the fire, she went on, "You know we are glad, Jack, Harry and I, more glad than we can say, that needs no telling between us, does it?" "None," Jack said. "We are one, we three, and no need to say we are glad at each other's success." "We have had happy days," Nelly said, "but they will never be quite the same again. We shall always be friends, Jack, always--true and dear friends, but we cannot be all in all to each other. I know, dear Jack," she said as she saw he was about to speak vehemently, "that you will be as much our friend in one way as ever, but you cannot be our companion. It is impossible, Jack. We have trod the same path together, but your path leaves ours here. We shall be within sound of each other's voices, we shall never lose sight of each other, but we are no longer together." "I have not thought it over yet," Jack said quietly. "It is all too new and too strange to me to see yet how things will work; but it is true, Nelly, and it is the one drawback to my good fortune, that there must be some little change between us. But in the friendship which began when you stood by me at the old shaft and helped me to save Harry, there will be no change. I have risen as I always had determined to rise; I have worked for this from the day when Mr. Pastor, my artist friend, told me it was possible I might reach it, but I never dreamed it would come so soon; and I have always hoped and thought that I should keep you both with me. How things will turn out we do not know, but, dear friends," and he held out a hand to each, "believe me, that I shall always be as I am now, and that I shall care little for my good fortune unless I can retain you both as my dearest friends." CHAPTER XXIX. THE NEW MANAGER. The next day preparations for pumping out the Vaughan commenced; but it took weeks to get rid of the water which had flowed in in five minutes. Then the work of clearing the mine and bringing up the bodies commenced. This was a sad business. A number of coffins, equal to that of the men known to be below at the time of the explosion, were in readiness in a shed near the pit mouth. These were sent down, and the bodies as they were found were placed in them to be carried above. In scarcely any instances could the dead be identified by the relatives, six weeks in the water having changed them beyond all recognition; only by the clothes could a clue be obtained. Then the funerals began. A great grave a hundred feet long by twelve wide had been dug in the churchyard, and in this the coffins were laid two deep. Some days ten, some fifteen, some twenty bodies were laid there, and at each funeral the whole village attended. Who could know whether those dearest to them were not among the shapeless forms each day consigned to their last resting-place? At last the tale was complete; the last of the victims of the great explosion at the Vaughan was laid to rest, the blinds were drawn up, and save that the whole of the people seemed to be in mourning, Stokebridge assumed its usual aspect. Upon the day before the renewal of regular work, Jack Simpson, accompanied by Mr. Brook appeared upon the ground, and signified that none were to descend until he had spoken to them. He had already won their respect by his indefatigable attention to the work of clearing the mine, and by the care he had evinced for the recovery of the bodies. Few, however, of the hands had spoken to him since his accession to his new dignity; now they had time to observe him, and all wondered at the change which had been wrought in his appearance. Clothes do not make a man, but they greatly alter his appearance, and there was not one but felt that Jack looked every inch a gentleman. When he began to speak their wonder increased. Except to Mr. Dodgson, Harry, Nelly Hardy, and some of his young comrades, Jack had always spoken in the dialect of the place, and the surprise of the colliers when he spoke in perfect English without a trace of accent or dialect was great indeed. Standing up in the gig in which he had driven up with Mr. Brook he spoke in a loud, clear voice heard easily throughout the yard. "My friends," he said, "my position here is a new and difficult one, so difficult that did I not feel sure that you would help me to make it as easy as possible I should shrink from undertaking it. I am a very young man. I have grown up among you, and of you, and now in a strange way, due in a great measure to the kindness of your employers, and in a small degree to my own exertions to improve myself, I have come to be put over you. Now it is only by your helping me that I can maintain this position here. You will find in me a true friend. I know your difficulties and your wants, and I will do all in my power to render your lives comfortable. Those among you who were my friends from boyhood can believe this, the rest of you will find it to be so. Any of you who are in trouble or in difficulty will, if you come to me, obtain advice and assistance. But while I will try to be your friend, and will do all in my power for your welfare, it is absolutely necessary that you should treat me with the respect due to Mr. Brook's manager. Without proper discipline proper work is impossible. A captain must be captain of his own ship though many of his men know the work as well as he does. And I am glad to be able to tell you that Mr. Brook has given me full power to make such regulations and to carry out such improvements as may be conducive to your comfort and welfare. He wants, and I want, the Vaughan to be a model mine and Stokebridge a model village, and we will do all in our power to carry out our wishes. We hope that no dispute will ever again arise here on the question of wages. There was one occasion when the miners of the Vaughan were led away by strangers and paid dearly for it. We hope that such a thing will never occur again. Mr. Brook expects a fair return, and no more than a fair return, for the capital he has sunk in the mine. When times are good you will share his prosperity, when times are bad you, like he, must submit to sacrifices. If disputes arise elsewhere, they need not affect us here, for you may be sure that your wages will never be below those paid elsewhere. And now I have said my say. Let us conclude by trusting that we shall be as warm friends as ever although our relations towards each other are necessarily changed." Three rousing cheers greeted the conclusion of Jack's speech, after which he drove off with Mr. Brook. As the men gathered round the top of the shaft, an old miner exclaimed: "Dang it all, I ha' it now. I was wondering all the time he was speaking where I had heard his voice before. I know now. As sure as I'm a living man it was Jack Simpson as beat us back from that there engine-house when we were going to stop the pumps in the strike." Now that the clue was given a dozen others of those who had been present agreed with the speaker. The event was now an old one, and all bitterness had passed. Had it been known at the time, or within a few months afterwards, Jack's life would probably have paid the penalty, but now the predominant feeling was one of admiration. Those who had, during the last few weeks, wearily watched the pumping out of the Vaughan, felt how fatal would have been the delay had it occurred when the strike ended and they were penniless and without resources, and no feeling of ill-will remained. "He be a game 'un; to think o' that boy standing alone agin' us a', and not a soul as much as suspected it! Did'st know o't, Bill Haden?" "Noa," Bill said, "never so much as dream't o't, but now I thinks it over, it be loikely enoo'. I often thought what wonderful luck it were as he gave me that 'ere bottle o' old Tom, and made me as drunk as a loord joost at th' roight time, and I ha' thought it were curious too, seeing as never before or since has he giv'd me a bottle o' liquor, but now it all comes natural enough. Well, to be sure, and to think that lad should ha' done all that by hisself, and ne'er a soul the wiser! You may be sure the gaffer didn't know no more than we, or he'd a done summat for the lad at the time. He offered rewards, too, for the finding out who 't were as had done it, and to think 'twas my Jack! Well, well, he be a good plucked un too, they didn't ca' him Bull-dog for nowt, for it would ha' gone hard wi' him had 't been found out. I'm main proud o' that lad." And so the discovery that Jack had so wished to avoid, when it was at last made, added much to the respect with which he was held in the Vaughan pit. If when a boy he would dare to carry out such a scheme as this, it was clear that as a man he was not to be trifled with. The reputation which he had gained by his courage in descending into the mine, in his battle with Tom Walker, and by the clear-headedness and quickness of decision which had saved the lives of the survivors of the explosion, was immensely increased; and any who had before felt sore at the thought of so young a hand being placed above them in command of the pit, felt that in all that constitutes a man, in energy, courage, and ability, Jack Simpson was worthy the post of manager of the Vaughan mine. Bill Haden was astonished upon his return home that night to find that his wife had all along known that it was Jack who had defended the Vaughan, and was inclined to feel greatly aggrieved at having been kept in the dark. "Did ye think as I wasn't to be trusted not to split on my own lad?" he exclaimed indignantly. "We knew well enough that thou mightest be trusted when thou wer't sober, Bill," his wife said gently; "but as about four nights a week at that time thou wast drunk, and might ha' blabbed it out, and had known nowt in the morning o' what thou'dst said, Jack and I were of a mind that less said soonest mended." "May be you were right," Bill Haden said after a pause; "a man has got a loose tongue when he's in drink, and I should never ha' forgiven myself had I harmed t' lad." CHAPTER XXX. RISEN. It was not until the pit was cleared of water and about to go to work again, that the question of Bill Haden and his wife removing from their cottage came forward for decision. Jack had been staying with Mr. Brook, who had ordered that the house in which the late manager had lived should be put in good order and furnished from top to bottom, and had arranged for his widow and children to remove at once to friends living at a distance. Feeling as he did that he owed his life to the young man, he was eager to do everything in his power to promote his comfort and prosperity, and as he was, apart from the colliery, a wealthy man and a bachelor, he did not care to what expense he went. The house, "the great house on the hill," as Jack had described it when speaking to his artist friend Pastor years before, was a far larger and more important building than the houses of managers of mines in general. It had, indeed, been originally the residence of a family owning a good deal of land in the neighbourhood, but they, when coal was discovered and work began, sold this property and went to live in London, and as none cared to take a house so close to the coal-pits and village of Stokebridge, it was sold for a nominal sum to the owner of the Vaughan, and was by him used as a residence for his manager. Now, with the garden nicely laid out, redecorated and repaired outside and in, and handsomely furnished, it resumed its former appearance of a gentleman's country seat. Mr. Brook begged Jack as a favour not to go near the house until the place was put in order, and although the young man heard that a Birmingham contractor had taken it in hand, and that a large number of men were at work there, he had no idea of the extensive changes which were taking place. A few days before work began again at the Vaughan Jack went down as usual to the Hadens', for he had looked in every day to say a few words to them on his way back from the pit-mouth. "Now, dad," he said, "we must not put the matter off any longer. I am to go into the manager's house in a fortnight's time. I hear they have been painting and cleaning it up, and Mr. Brook tells me he has put new furniture in, and that I shall only have to go in and hang up my hat. Now I want for you to arrange to come up on the same day." "We ha' been talking the matter over in every mortal way, the old woman and me, Jack, and I'll tell 'ee what we've aboot concluded. On one side thou really wan't t' have us oop wi' 'ee." "Yes, indeed, dad," Jack said earnestly. "I know thou dost, lad; me and Jane both feels that. Well that's an argiment that way. Then there's the argiment that naturally thou would'st not like the man who hast brought thee oop to be working in the pit o' which thou wast manager. That's two reasons that way; on the other side there be two, and the old 'ooman and me think they are stronger than t'others. First, we should be out o' place at the house oop there. Thou wilt be getting to know all kinds o' people, and whatever thou may'st say, Jack, your mother and me would be oot o' place. That's one argiment. The next argiment is that we shouldn't like it, Jack, we should feel we were out o' place and that our ways were out o' place; and we should be joost miserable. Instead o' doing us a kindness you'd joost make our lives a burden, and I know 'ee don't want to do that. We's getting on in loife and be too old to change our ways, and nothing thou could'st say could persuade us to live a'ways dressed up in our Sunday clothes in your house." "Well, dad, I might put you both in a comfortable cottage, without work to do." "What should I do wi'out my work, Jack? noa, lad, I must work as long as I can, or I should die o' pure idleness. But I needn't work at a stall. I'm fifty now, and although I ha' got another fifteen years' work in me, I hope, my bones bean't as liss as they was. Thou might give me the job as underground viewer. I can put in a prop or see to the firing o' a shot wi' any man. Oi've told my mates you want to have me and the old woman oop at th' house, and they'll know that if I stop underground it be o' my own choice. I know, lad, it wouldn't be roight for me to be a getting droonk at the "Chequers" and thou manager; but I ha' told t' old 'ooman that I will swear off liquor altogether." "No, no, dad!" Jack said, affected at this proof of Bill Haden's desire to do what he could towards maintaining his dignity. "I wouldn't think o't. If you and mother feel that you'd be more happy and comfortable here--and maybe you are right, I didn't think over the matter from thy side as well as my own, as I ought to have done--of course you shall stay here; and, of course, you shall have a berth as under-viewer. As for swearing off drink altogether, I wouldn't ask it of you, though I do wish you could resolve never to drink too much again. You ha' been used to go to the "Chequers" every night for nigh forty years, and you couldn't give it up now. You would pine away without somewhere to go to. However, this must be understood, whenever you like to come up to me I shall be glad to see you, and I shall expect you on Sundays to dinner if on no other day; and whenever the time shall come when you feel, dad, that you'd rather give up work, there will be a cottage for you and mother somewhere handy to me, and enough to live comfortably and free from care." "That's a bargain, lad, and I'm roight glad it be off my mind, for I ha' been bothering over't ever since thee spoke to me last." The same evening Jack had a long talk with Harry. His friend, although healthy, was by no means physically strong, and found the work of a miner almost beyond him. He had never taken to the life as Jack had done, and his friend knew that for the last year or two he had been turning his thoughts in other directions, and that of all things he would like to be a schoolmaster. He had for years read and studied a good deal, and Mr. Dodgson said that with a year in a training college he would be able to pass. He had often talked the matter over with Jack, and the latter told him now that he had entered his name in St. Mark's College, Chelsea, had paid his fees six months in advance, his savings amply sufficing for this without drawing upon his salary, and that he was to present himself there in a week's time. The announcement took away Harry's breath, but as soon as he recovered himself he accepted Jack's offer as frankly as it was made. It had always been natural for Jack to lend him a hand, and it seemed to him, as to Jack, natural that it should be so now. "Have you told Nelly?" "No, I left it for you to tell, Harry. I know, of course, one reason why you want to be a schoolmaster, and she will know it too. She is a strange girl, is Nelly; I never did quite understand her, and I never shall; why on earth she should refuse you I can't make out. She's had lots o' other offers these last four years, but it's all the same. There's no one she cares for, why shouldn't she take you?" "I can wait," Harry said quietly, "there's plenty of time; perhaps some day I shall win her, and I think--yes, I think now--that I shall." "Well," Jack said cheerfully, "as you say there's plenty of time; I've always said thirty was the right age to marry, and you want eight years of that, and Nelly won't get old faster than you do, so if she don't fall in love with any one else it must come right; she has stood out for nearly four years, and though I don't pretend to know anything of women, I should think no woman could go on saying no for twelve years." Harry, although not given to loud mirth, laughed heartily at Jack's views over love-making, and the two then walked across to Nelly Hardy's cottage. Jack told her what Bill Haden and his wife had decided, and she approved their determination. Then Harry said what Jack had arranged for him. Nelly shook her head as if in answer to her own thoughts while Harry was speaking, but when he ceased she congratulated him warmly. "You were never fit for pit-work, Harry, and a schoolmaster's life will suit you well. It is curious that Jack's two friends should both have taken to the same life." Jack's surprise was unbounded when, a month after the reopening of the Vaughan, Mr. Brook took him over to his new abode. His bewilderment at the size and completeness of the house and its fittings was even greater than his pleasure. "But what am I to do alone in this great place, Mr. Brook?" he asked; "I shall be lost here. I am indeed deeply grateful to you, but it is much too big for me altogether." "It is no bigger now than it has always been," Mr. Brook said, "and you will never be lost as long as you have your study there," and he pointed to a room snugly fitted up as a library and study. "You will be no more lonely than I or other men without wives and families; besides you know these may come some day." "Ah! but that will be many years on," Jack said; "I always made up my mind not to marry till I was thirty, because a wife prevents you making your way." "Yes; but now that you have made your way so far, Jack, a wife will aid rather than hinder you. But it will be time to think of that in another three or four years. You will not find it so dull as you imagine, Jack. There is your work, which will occupy the greater part of your day. There is your study for the evening. You will speedily know all the people worth knowing round here; I have already introduced you to a good many, and they will be sure to call as soon as you are settled here. In the stable, my dear boy, you will find a couple of horses, and a saddle, and a dog-cart, so that you will be able to take exercise and call about. I shall keep the horses. I consider them necessary for my manager. My men will keep the garden in order, and I think that you will find that your salary of £350 a year to begin with ample for your other expenses." Jack was completely overpowered by the kindness of his employer, but the latter would not hear of thanks. "Why, man, I owe you my life," he said; "what are these little things in comparison?" Jack found fewer difficulties than he had anticipated in his new position. His speech at the opening of the mine added to the favour with which he was held for his conduct at the time of the explosion, and further heightened the respect due to him for his defence of the Vaughan. As he went through the mine he had ever a cheery "Good morning, Bob," "Good morning, Jack," for his old comrades, and the word "sir" was now universally added to the answered "Good morning," a concession not always made by colliers to their employers. The miners soon felt the advantages of the new manager's energy, backed as he was in every respect by the owner. The work as laid down by the government inspector was carried out, and Mr. Brook having bought up for a small sum the disused Logan mine, in which several of the lower seams of coal were still unworked, the opening between the pits was made permanent, and the Logan shaft became the upcast to the Vaughan, thus greatly simplifying the work of ventilation, lessening the danger of explosion, and giving a means of escape for the miners should such a catastrophe recur in spite of all precautions. As nearly half the old workers at the pit had perished in the explosion, an equal number of new hands had to be taken on. Jack, sharing the anxiety of the vicar and Mr. Dodgson, that all the good work should not be checked by the ingress of a fresh population, directed that all vacancies should be filled up by such colliers of good character as resided at Stokebridge, working for other pits in the neighbourhood. As the Vaughan promised to be the most comfortable and well-worked pit in the country, these were only too glad to change service, and more names were given in than vacancies could be found for. As all the inhabitants of Stokebridge had participated in the benefits of the night schools and classes, and in the improvements which had taken place, the advance of the village suffered no serious check from the catastrophe at the Vaughan. CHAPTER XXXI. CONCLUSION. Three years more of progress and Stokebridge had become the model village of the Black Country. The chief employer of labour, his manager, the vicar, and schoolmaster all worked together for this end. The library had been a great success, and it was rare, indeed, for a drunken man to be seen in the streets even of a Saturday night. Many of the public-houses had closed their doors altogether; and in addition to the library a large and comfortable club-house had been built. The men of an evening could smoke their pipes, play at bagatelle, chess, draughts, or cards, and take such beer as they required, any man getting drunk or even noisy to be expelled the club. This, however, was a rule never requiring to be called into force. The building was conducted on the principle of a regimental canteen. The beer was good and cheap but not strong, no spirits were sold, but excellent tea, coffee, and chocolate could be had at the lowest prices. The building was closed during the day, but beer was sent out both for dinners and suppers to those who required it. There was a comfortable room where women could sew, knit, and talk as they pleased, or they could, if they liked, sit in the general room with their husbands. Entertainments and lectures were of frequent occurrence, and the establishment, supplemented by the library and wash-house, did wonders for Stokebridge. The promise made by Mr. Brook at the fête had been carried out. A choir-master came over twice a week from Birmingham, and the young people entered into the scheme with such zest that the choir had carried away the prize three years in succession at Birmingham. The night-school was now carried on on a larger scale than ever, and the school for cooking and sewing was so well attended that Mrs. Dodgson had now a second assistant. To encourage the children and young people an annual show was held at which many prizes were given for gardening, needlework, dressmaking, carpentering, and a variety of other subjects. It was seldom, indeed, that an untidy dress was to be seen, still more uncommon that a foul word was heard in the streets of Stokebridge. Nothing could make the rows of cottages picturesque as are those of a rural village; but from tubs, placed in front, creepers and roses climbed over the houses, while the gardens behind were gay with flowers. No young woman needed to remain single in Stokebridge longer than she chose, for so noteworthy were they for their housewifely qualities that the young pitmen of the villages round thought themselves fortunate indeed if they could get a wife from Stokebridge. Bill Cummings, Fred Wood, and several others of Jack's boy friends, were viewers or under-managers of the Vaughan, and many had left to take similar situations elsewhere. Jack Simpson was popular with all classes. With the upper class his simple straightforwardness, his cheerfulness and good temper, made him a great favourite, although they found it hard to understand how so quiet and unassuming a young fellow could be the hero of the two rescues at the Vaughan, for, now when the fact was known, Jack no longer made a secret of his share in the attack by the rioters on the engine-house. Among the pitmen his popularity was unbounded. Of an evening he would sometimes come down to the club-room and chat as unrestrainedly and intimately as of old with the friends of his boyhood, and he never lost an opportunity of pushing their fortunes. Once a week he spent the evening with Bill Haden and his wife, who always came up and passed Sunday with him when he was at home. At this time all ceremony was dispensed with, the servants were sent out of the room, and when the pitman and his wife became accustomed to their surroundings they were far more at their ease than they had at first thought possible. On the evenings when he went down to his mother he always dropped in for an hour's talk with his friend Nelly. There was no shadow of change in their relations. Nelly was his friend firm and fast, to whom he told all his thoughts and plans. Harry was assistant master in a school at Birmingham, and was, as he told Jack, still waiting patiently. Jack was now often over at Birmingham, and one night he said to Nelly: "Nelly, I promised you long ago that I would tell you if I ever fell in love." "And you have come to tell me now?" she asked quietly. "Yes," he said, "if it can be called falling in love; for it has been so gradual that I don't know how it began. Perhaps three years ago, when she refused another man. I was glad of it, and of course asked myself why I was glad. There came no answer but one--I wanted her myself." "I suppose it is Alice Merton?" Nelly said as quietly as before. "Of course," Jack said; "it could be no one else. I suppose I like her because she is the reverse of myself. She is gentle but lively and full of fun, she is made to be the light of a hard working man's home. I am not at all gentle, and I have very little idea of fun. Alice is made to lean on some one. I suppose I am meant to be leant upon. I suppose it is always the case that opposite natures are attracted towards one another, the one forms the complement of the other." Nelly sat thinking. This then was the reason why she had never attracted Jack. Both their natures were strong and firm. Both had full control over themselves, although both of a passionate nature; both had the capability of making great sacrifices, even of life if necessary; both had ambition and a steady power of work. No wonder Jack had thought of her as a comrade rather than as a possible wife; while Harry, gentler and easily led, patient rather than firm, leaned upon her strong nature. "I think, dear Jack," she said, "that Miss Merton is the very woman to make you happy. You have known each other for twelve years, and can make no mistake. I need not say how truly and sincerely I wish you every happiness." There was a quiver in her voice as she spoke, but her face was as firm and steadfast as ever; and Jack Simpson, as he walked homewards, did not dream that Nelly Hardy was weeping as if her heart would break, over this final downfall of her life's dream. It was not that she had for the last seven years ever thought that Jack would ask her to be his wife, but she would have been content to go on to the end of her life as his first and dearest friend. Then she said at last, "That's done with. Jack and I will always be great friends, but not as we have been. Perhaps it is as well. Better now than ten years on." Then her thoughts went to Harry, to whom, indeed, during the last few years they had gone oftener than she would have admitted to herself. "He is very faithful and kind and good, and I suppose one of these days I shall have to give in. He will not expect much, but he deserves all I could give him." In after years, however, Nelly Shepherd learned that she could give her husband very true and earnest love; and the headmaster and mistress of the largest school at Wolverhampton are regarded by all who know them, and by none less than by Jack Simpson and his wife, as a perfectly happy couple. It is ten years since Jack married Alice Merton, who had loved him for years before he asked her to be his wife. Jack is now part proprietor of the Vaughan pit, and is still its real manager, although he has a nominal manager under him. He cannot, however, be always on the spot, as he lives near Birmingham, and is one of the greatest authorities on mining, and the first consulting engineer, in the Black Country. At Mr. Brook's death he will be sole proprietor of the Vaughan, that gentleman having at Jack's marriage settled its reversion upon his wife. Dinner is over, and he is sitting in the garden, surrounded by those he most cares for in the world. It is the 1st of June, a day upon which a small party always assembles at his house. By his side is his wife, and next to her are Harry Shepherd and Nelly. Between the ladies a warm friendship has sprung up of late years, while that between the three friends has never diminished in the slightest. On Jack's other hand sits an artist, bearing one of the most honoured names in England, whose health Jack always proposes at this dinner as "the founder of his fortune." Next to the artist sits Mr. Brook, and beyond him Mrs. Simpson's father, a permanent resident in the house now, but some years back a professor of mathematics in Birmingham. Playing in the garden are six children, two of whom call the young Simpsons cousins, although there is no blood relationship between them; and walking with them are an old couple, who live in the pretty cottage just opposite to the entrance of the grounds, and whom Jack Simpson still affectionately calls "dad" and "mother." THE END. Transcriber's Note Punctuation has been standardized. Inconsistent hyphenation has not been changed. This book includes a lot of dialect, which often looks misspelled but was intentionally written that way. Therefore, some irregularities that might be errors have not been corrected in order to preserve author intent. On page 83, the name Ratcliffe was misspelled in the original text. This has been corrected. In the paragraph beginning "There was a movement in the crowd," the next sentence in the original text is, '"The soldiers be coming" run from mouth to mouth.' As this is likely an error in the text, "run" has been changed to "ran." In the formula given by Jack, the original text has an extraneous 1. This seems to be an error by the author and has been removed. Italics in the original text are indicated by _ in the text version, with one exception: the above-mentioned formula was originally in italics, but the _ characters have been removed for clarity. 
33257	----	UNDER THE MENDIPS. Under the Mendips _A TALE_ _By_ EMMA MARSHALL _Author of_ IN COLSTON'S DAYS, LIFE'S AFTERMATH, IN THE EAST COUNTRY, &c. SIXTH THOUSAND [Illustration: Bristol Harbour.] LONDON SEELEY AND CO., LIMITED, ESSEX STREET, STRAND 1892 PREFACE I am greatly indebted to that very interesting book, "Bristol Past and Present," for the details of the Bristol Riots, in the autumn of 1831, which are introduced into this story. It closes with the birth of the new year, 1832; and therefore the special commission appointed to try the prisoners does not come within its limits. But anyone who may be interested in the fate of Colonel Brereton, may, by referring to "Bristol Past and Present," and other contemporary records, learn his sad and most lamentable end. Feeling the evidence of the Court Martial was entirely against him, he forestalled his sentence with his own hand, and shot himself through the heart, on Thursday night, January the 14th, 1832. With all the many complications of Colonel Brereton's position it is not for us to deal, nor judge him harshly for apparent failure in duty at a time when the hearts of many brave men sank within them, for looking on these things which were coming on their ancient city. But this, his last act, must ever awaken one of the saddest memories of those sad times, casting a shadow over the name of an English officer, and presenting the most painful and pathetic picture of what a man may do, who, in a moment of despair and helplessness, cannot cry to the strong for strength. WOODSIDE, LEIGH WOODS, CLIFTON, BRISTOL _Nov. 1, 1885._ CONTENTS. PART I. CHAP. PAGE I. FAIR ACRES 1 II. THE CITY OF THE DEEP SPRINGS 31 III. THE PALACE 59 IV. THE LADY OF BARLEY WOOD 83 V. SUNDAY AT FAIR ACRES 108 VI. AMONGST THE HEATHER 126 VII. ON SION HILL, CLIFTON 150 VIII. BARLEY WOOD 176 IX. A DARK CLOUD OVER FAIR ACRES 200 X. THE FIFTH OF NOVEMBER 226 XI. MEETING 260 PART II. XII. ON THE ROAD TO BRISTOL 285 XIII. A LULL IN THE STORM 314 XIV. THE STORM BURSTS 332 XV. TUMULT 358 XVI. "FIRE SEVEN TIMES HEATED" 372 PART III. CHAPTER THE LAST. AT ABBOT'S LEIGH 405 PART I. An English Home: grey twilight poured On dewy pastures, dewy trees, Softer than sleep: all things in order stored; A haunt of ancient Peace. TENNYSON. CHAPTER I. FAIR ACRES. It was a fair morning of early summer, when the low beams of the eastern sun, threw flickering shadows across the lawn, which lay before Fair Acres Manor, nestling under the shelter of the Mendip Hills, somewhere between Wells and Cheddar. Truth compels me to say, that the lawn was covered with daisies, and that their bright eyes looked fearlessly up into the blue sky; for mowing machines were unknown, and the old gardener, coachman, and universal out-of-door servant sharpened his scythe, only at long intervals, to lay the heads of the flowers low, so that the daisies grew and flourished, and had a good time of it. I know that daisy-speckled turf is considered an offence in the eyes of the modern gardener. I know with what zeal the spud is used; how large bare places are regarded with delight; how seed is scattered over them, which the birds watch with cunning glances from the neighbouring shrubs and trees, and pounce down upon, as soon as the diligent master of the place, has straightened his aching back and turned it upon the scene of his labours. The dewy lawn before Fair Acres, with its beautiful mosaic of white and gold, fringed with circles of deepest crimson here and there, would not suit the taste of the conventional gardener of these days; nor would the low, irregular building which overlooked it, be considered an attractive or fitting residence, for the sons and daughters of the small country squire in the ninth decade of the century. But in the second decade, in which my story opens, things were different. The country squire lived a country life. He farmed his own acres, he walked over his own fields; his 'stock' were individual cows and horses to him; he could pat each one and call it by its name. His house was his home, and the restlessness of travel, and longing for excitement had not as yet, for the most part, disturbed either him or his children. Now the resonant steam eagle, as it flies across the country side, seems to call upon the dwellers in rural districts to follow where it leads, and an isolated manorial farm like Fair Acres, and a family like the Falconers who inhabited it, are all but impossible to find nowadays. Nor would we grumble that the stream of Progress bears us all upon its breast with the strong resistless current, of which we are scarcely conscious. The busy rush of life has its brighter side, for there are wider fields of service opened out for our sons, and the selfishness which was apt to spring from a secluded life in the heart of the hills, is counteracted by contact with many men, and many minds. Human sympathy is quickened, and love is drawn forth, and the labourers who long for work in the harvest field have the way made easy for them; tools are put into the hands of our daughters with which they may, if they will, carve their own lot in life, and none can complain now that life is wasted for lack of opportunity, for opportunities start up on every side in this active, zealous, go-a-head age in which we find ourselves. But in spite of all such advantages and due acknowledgment of their value, it is refreshing to turn to quiet and peaceful habitations like Fair Acres, and live again a quieter and less complex life than that which we have grown to believe is necessary in these later times. As the sun threw its level beams from the east across the lawn, thousands of diamond drops sparkled and shimmered in the light, and it touched with radiance the figure of a young girl who was standing by a white gate which led into a copse sloping upward to the crest of a hill, behind the old manor, and crowned by a belt of fir-trees. Joyce had her hand on the latch of the gate, but paused for a moment to look back on the landscape which lay stretched out before her. A peaceful valley was below, where the tower of Fair Acres church rose against a background of trees, now in their first fresh beauty. A few cottages with red roofs clustered round the church, and two or three farms were sprinkled at a farther distance. A rugged outline of hills at a higher level, showed where the Ebbor rocks open out a miniature Cheddar, and on the other side of that little gorge lay the open country, where the city of the deep springs lies, with its noble cathedral, and quaint Close, and stately baronial Palace--the beautiful cathedral village of Wells. Joyce Falconer was looking forth upon life as upon this goodly landscape. She was in the fresh spring-time of seventeen summers. Her father called her Sunshine, and her brothers Birdie; while her mother, who was a plain, practical person, and who indulged in no flights of fancy, would say, "Joyce is the child's name; and what can suit her better? I don't like nick-names." Nevertheless the nick-names held their own, and as Joyce stood by the white gate, a voice was heard resounding from the lawn below: "Hallo, Sunshine!" "Father, come up the hill. It is so lovely this morning." The squire advanced with steady, even footsteps. He was a fine, stalwart man, dressed in a stout suit of corduroy, and with leggings buttoned up to his knees. He carried a gun under his arm--more from habit than from any idea of using it just then--and close at his heels walked, with sedate and leisurely bearing, his chief friend and companion, a large retriever, Duke; while two little terriers, Nip and Pip, bustled about in every direction, scenting with their sharp noses, and occasionally turning upon each other to have a playful passage of arms which, though accompanied by ominous growls, meant nothing but fun. "I am up first to-day, daddy!" Joyce exclaimed, as she went down the gentle descent and linked her arm in her father's. "I am first, and is not it beautiful to be alive on such a day?" The squire paused, and putting his arm round his daughter's waist, he said, looking down at her with eyes of loving pride: "Beautiful! yes," thinking, though he did not say so, that the most beautiful thing in all that beautiful world was his little Sunshine, his darling Joyce. "I hope the weather will keep fine for the hay," he said; "but the glass went up with a gallop yesterday; still, it looks fair enough this morning." "When are we to begin to cut the grass, daddy?" "To-morrow, in the home meadow," was the reply. "I am going into Wells to-day, for the magistrates' meeting." "May I come, father?" "Well, I've no objection, if mother has not," was the answer. "You must ask her leave." "I expect she will let me come. She is sure to have some shopping to do; and you don't like commissions at shops, daddy." The squire gave a significant shrug of his broad shoulders, and then the two began to thread their way through the copse, and came out at last on the side of the grass-covered hill, up which Joyce skipped with the light step of a young fawn, with Nip and Pip scuffling along with her in the highest glee, while the squire and Duke followed more slowly. As she stood there in the light of the morning, Joyce Falconer was a fair picture of happy, joyous maidenhood. Her figure was lithe and supple, and though I am afraid her lilac cotton frock would be despised as only fit for a maid-servant in these days, it became her well. It was made with a full skirt and a loose body, cut rather low at the neck, with sleeves which were large on the shoulder, gradually tightening to the wrist, and displayed to advantage a well-rounded arm. Joyce's shoes were thick; but though, perhaps, a trifle clumsy, they did not spoil the symmetry of her pretty ankle and high-arched instep. Snowy "tuckers" of crimped muslin were sewn into the neck and wrists of her gown, and she wore an apron with a bib; an old-fashioned apron, guiltless of bows or lace. Her abundant chestnut hair was gathered on the top of her small head, and fell in curls on either side of her smooth white brow; not concealed now by the large Dunstable straw bonnet, which was hanging to her arm by the strings, and left the gentle breeze of the morning free, to play amongst the clustering curls, at their own sweet will. Joyce's features were regular, and her complexion rosy and healthy. Indeed, everything about her seemed to tell of youth and the full enjoyment of the gifts which God had given her. "A perfect little rustic!" her aunt in the Vicar's close at Wells called her sometimes, and would suggest to her father that a year or two at a "finishing school" would be an advantage. But the squire could not bring himself to part from his only daughter, and her education had been, I am afraid, sadly neglected. "Well, little one," Mr. Falconer said, as he seated himself on a rough wooden bench, "what is this?" touching the cover of a book that peeped from her apron pocket. "It is a book, father, Charlotte lent me: Mrs. Hemans' poems." "Ah! poetry is a good thing when it is kept in its right place." "I have been learning a long poem called 'Edith,' and I repeat it when I am darning stockings, picking up a stitch for every word. Don't you understand, father?" "I never darned a stocking," he said, laughing. "Ah! happy father! Mother has now given me six pairs of Melville's new socks, to strengthen the heels. In and out, in and out with the long needle; I have to try very hard not to grumble, so I say 'Edith' as a comfort, and to help me on." 'The woods--oh! solemn are the boundless woods Of the great Western world when day declines, And louder sounds the roll of distant floods, More deep the rustling of the solemn pines; When darkness gathers o'er the stilly air, And mystery seems o'er every leaf to brood, Awful it is for human heart to bear The weight and burden of the solitude.' "Father," she said, suddenly stopping, "you are thinking of something that troubles you. I know it by the deep line on your forehead, between your eyes. May I know, father?" "Well, Sunshine, I am troubled about Melville; he wants to go and see the world, he says. I have given him as good an education as befits his station in life. He has made little use of it; and the bills for the last term at Oxford have been enormous." "How shameful!" Joyce exclaimed. "Things are so different from what they were when I was a boy," the squire said. "Why, I never dreamed of anything beyond doing my duty here. I took the farming business off your grandfather's shoulders before I was five-and-twenty. I was his steward, as Melville ought to be mine, and leave me free. As it is, I have to pay Watson, and look into everything myself, when I have a son of three-and-twenty, who ought to do all this for me. I suppose it can't be helped," the squire said, stretching out his legs, and taking up the gun which had been resting against the bench, "and as far as I can see the younger boys will be very little, if any, better than Melville." "Oh! yes, father. Ralph will do anything you wish, I know; and Hal and Bunny are very good at school. Remember what the master said of them at Christmas." "Yes, yes; they are good little fellows. Then there is poor Piers; he must always be an anxiety, poor boy!" "I don't think any of us can be happier than Piers," Joyce said. "He never complains because he is lame; and he is as contented as possible, making his collection of moths and butterflies, and bird's eggs, and things. No, father, don't be unhappy about Piers." "Do you think, Joyce, I ever forget that it was my carelessness which made the boy a cripple? I never forget it." "No one else thinks of it, dear daddy," Joyce said, slipping her hand into her father's, as it rested on his knee. "No one else thinks of it; and you know the colt had been broken in, and----" "The child ought never to have put his legs across it, Joyce; and I lifted him on, and told him not to be a coward. Ah!" said the squire, suddenly starting to his feet. "I cannot speak of it; I dare not." He began an abrupt descent the way that they had come. Nip and Pip, who had been sleeping with their noses on their paws, and one eye open, raced off, while Duke drew himself into a standing position, and walked demurely down the steep bit of turf, with the brush of his tail waving from side to side as he went. Joyce did not follow immediately. Her bright face was clouded with the sympathy she felt for her father. It all came back to her: the group before the Manor, the child of eight years old, saying, "I am afraid of riding Rioter, father." Then the father's answer, "Afraid! Don't be a coward, Piers; you have a good seat enough for such a little chap. Here, let me put you on." The boy's white, set face, as he grasped the reins; and Rioter was off like lightning. "His brothers rode long before they were his age," the squire had said; "it won't do to tie him to his mother's apron strings, because he happens to be the youngest." Then the sound of returning horse's feet, and Rioter rushed up the side drive to the stables riderless. Another minute and old Thomas appeared with a lifeless burden in his arms, which the squire took from him, with a groan of remorse, as he turned into the house with him and said to his wife, "I have killed the boy." But Piers was not killed. His injuries were life-long, but his life was spared. Whether it was from an instinctive feeling, that his father considered himself the cause of his lameness and generally invalided condition, or whether the latent buoyancy of his nature asserted itself above all the privations which the accident had brought upon him, or whether both of these causes were at work within him, certain it is that Piers was the most cheerful and most uncomplaining member of the squire's household, and never allowed any one to pity him, or to treat him as an object of compassion. Joyce was right when she said that no one was happier than Piers. Every bird and insect had a charm for him, and were his friends and companions. Books of natural history were rare; but Bewick's Birds sufficed for Piers' needs. The "Natural History of Selborne" and old Isaak Walton's "Angler" were also amongst the boy's scanty library, and keen perception and acute observation supplied the place of extraneous help; and Piers was content. The cloud soon cleared from Joyce's face as a well-known whistle was heard from the copse, and Joyce answered it with a clear note of welcome: "Here, Piers." Then the quick, even thud of crutches, and Piers came in sight. In a moment Joyce was springing down the grassy hill-side, and, with a hardly perceptible touch on her brother's shoulder, she joined him as he came up. "I say, Joyce, if you go to Wells to-day with father, will you take this little sparrow-hawk to old Plume's to be stuffed? Here, rummage in my pocket, left-hand side--there he is! He is a perfect specimen, and a pretty rare one. The stable-boy found him lying on his back under the dove-cot. Perhaps he got the worst of it in a fight. Anyhow, he is dead, and I have a nice nook for him in my big case." "Poor dear little birdie," Joyce said, stroking the soft feathers. "Oh! Piers, why must everything die? It seems so hard. And this is the puzzle, that we--you and I--may die to-day, next week, any day; and yet we don't really behave as if we believed it. I feel on a morning like this, for instance, so full of life, it is so delicious to live, and as if I never could die. It is so beautiful to be living, so sad to be dead! To think, Piers, of this little bird singing sweetly----" "Sparrow-hawks don't sing very sweetly; they chirrup and whistle," Piers interrupted. "Ah, well, he thought he sang sweetly, and so did his mother; so it came to the same thing. Poor little sweet." And Joyce held the little lifeless bird against her rounded chin and pressed her lips upon it. Suddenly Piers said: "What is wrong about Melville; there's something fresh, for I heard my mother talking about it before I was up." "He says he won't come here and take care of the farm. He wants to travel." "Well, I don't blame him for that," said Piers. "But his debts have hampered father dreadfully I know, and he does so detest his fine gentleman airs. It seems to me," said Joyce, vehemently, "to be ashamed of a father like ours is--Oh! I have no word bad enough, and Melville _is_ ashamed, and he does not like mother looking after the dairy and the butter." "Well," said Piers, tapping his crutch upon the ground, "I think mother does fidget and worry too much in the house and about the place; but it is her way, and no one could alter it." "I don't know that I wish to alter it," Joyce said, hotly. "Mother has done so much for us, and I hate to think she is slighted by her children. Melville _does_ slight her, and when he talks in that drawling, affected voice, and ties his starched cravats twenty times, and flings them down again if the bow is crooked. I despise _him_, and that is the truth." Piers shrugged his shoulders. "Well, we must go back to breakfast," he said; "I am hungry, and it must be nearly eight o'clock." The brother and sister walked slowly towards the house, and as they crossed the lawn, from which the sun had kissed away all the dewdrops, a bell over the stables rang, and a little alert figure appeared in the porch. "Joyce, Joyce! What are you dawdling for? It is past eight o'clock. Getting your feet drenched with the dew, I'll warrant. No, don't bring any dead birds here, Piers; I won't have it. The house is just like a pigsty with all your rubbish. Take it round to the back kitchen. I have a pretty hard morning's work before me, and you must lend a hand, Joyce, I can tell you." "Father said I was to go with him to Wells, mother, and do your shopping." "Well, that won't be till eleven o'clock. There's time enough first to help me to give out the stores and get the linen aired for the boys' room and the spare bedroom, and you forget, I suppose, that your brothers are coming home for the holidays on Friday, and this is Wednesday. I shall be all behindhand, if I don't look out. I wish Melville's fine gentleman visitor farther!" Mrs. Falconer spoke rapidly, and in rather a high key. Her accent was decidedly provincial, and she did not measure out her words with the slow precision which her eldest son Melville considered a mark of _bon ton_. Mrs. Falconer was the daughter of a large farmer in a neighbouring county, and the squire had married her in haste, though he had never repented at leisure. She was thoroughly loyal-hearted and true as a wife and mother; brusque and blunt, holding all fine things and fine people in supreme contempt. And yet, according to the perversity of women-kind, she spoiled and indulged the son whose love of fine things seemed likely to be his bane, and brought perpetual trouble upon his good and honourable father. To make bread and cakes, to skim milk, churn butter, at a pinch, and make all the sweet, cooling drinks for the summer, and elderberry wine for the winter, were domestic duties in which Mrs. Falconer gloried. She would put on a large apron and a pair of dusting-gloves every morning and go the round of the parlours, and rub the old mahogany chair-backs and bureau with vigour, sprinkle the tea-leaves on stated days, and follow one of her stout maid-servants, as they swept the carpets on their knees, with dustpan and brush, and remove every suspicion of "fluff" from every corner or crevice where it might be supposed to accumulate. While her children were young these household duties which their mother took upon herself, were considered as a matter of course, but with added years came added wisdom, to some of them at least, and Melville, her eldest son, and her great darling and idol, began to show unmistakable signs of annoyance, at his mother's household accomplishments. He was at home now, and a stormy scene the night before had deepened the lines on the squire's brow; and hard things Melville had said were as sharp swords to his mother's soul. She was not particularly sensitive, it is true; by no means thin-skinned, or laying herself out--as is the fashion of some women of her temperament, to take offence. Still, Melville had succeeded the night before in wounding her in her tenderest place, reminding her that while his father's pedigree could be stretched out to meet the royal blood of the Saxon kings, the race of sturdy yeomen, from which his mother came, had no blue blood in their veins and were sons of the soil. There is an old saying that "sharper than a serpent's tooth is an ungrateful child;" and Mrs. Falconer was still smarting from the wound given her the evening before, when she began to dispense the excellent breakfast, laid in a large, cool hall at the back of the manor, which was connected, by a square opening in the thick wall, with the kitchen. The squire, who was generally so jovial and cheery, ate his cold pressed beef and drank his glass of "home-brew" in silence. He professed to be engrossed with a Bath paper several days old, and did not invite conversation. Piers played with some bread-and-milk his mother set before him: his appetite was never good; but Joyce despatched hot rolls and ham with a great appetite, which I am afraid would shock some of our modern notions nowadays. Tea and coffee were not the staple beverages at breakfast in those times; but when the heavier part of the meal was over Joyce handed her father a fragrant cup, with some thin toast done to a turn, for which Mrs. Falconer called from the kitchen through the window, communicating with it, and fitted with a sliding shutter, which was promptly closed when the tray had been received from the hands of one of the maids. "So you are thinking of going into Wells to-day, Arthur?" Mrs. Falconer said when, breakfast drawing to a conclusion, she began to pile the plates together, and put all the scraps on one, for the benefit of Nip and Pip, who had been lying in the window-seat for the past half-hour in a state of suppressed excitement, with their noses on their paws, and their eyes fixed upon that end of the table where their mistress presided. The noise made by the piling up of the plates was now a decided movement, and Nip and Pip began to wriggle and leap, and finally subside on their hind legs as Joyce called out: "Trust, Nip! trust, Pip!" and then, after what she considered a due time spent in an erect position, the plate was put down before them, and its contents vanished in a twinkling. "Well, Joyce, will you be ready by eleven o'clock?" Mr. Falconer asked as he left the room. Joyce was silent, and her mother said: "Yes, yes, she shall be ready; if she is brisk she can get through all I want." Then Mrs. Falconer began to put all the silver into a wooden bowl, and rubbed it herself with the washleather when it was dried. She had just finished this part of her daily routine when the door opened and her son Melville came in. His appearance would be ridiculous in the eyes of the dandies of to-day, but in his own, at least, it was as near perfection as possible. His hair was curled in tight and very-much-oiled curls on his forehead and round his ears. He wore a high neckcloth, tied evidently with much care, supporting his retreating chin. His coat was of Lincoln green, very short in the waist, with large silver buttons, and turned back with a wide collar to display two waistcoats, the white one only showing an edge beyond the darker one of deep salmon-colour, which opened to set off a frilled shirt. The trousers were tight, and caught at the ankles by straps, and his shoes were tied with large bows. The servile imitators of "the first gentleman in Europe" followed in his steps with as much precision as possible, and Melville Falconer spared no pains to let the county folk of Somersetshire see what the real scion of _bon ton_ looked like. Melville had a pleasant, weak face; he was almost entirely forgetful of the interests or tastes of anyone but himself, and he had never given up his own wishes for the sake of another in his life. He had a ridiculous idea of his own importance, and a supreme contempt for what he called old-fashioned usage; from the vantage-ground of superior wisdom he looked down on the county gentry of Somersetshire, who, in those days, did not frequent London in the season, or tread hard on the heels of the nobility in all their customs, as is now the case. The great mercantile wealth which rose into colossal importance, when railway traffic brought the small towns near the large ones, and the large ones near the metropolis, had not begun to overshadow the land; the tide of speculation had not set in; and there was less hastening to be rich and desire to display all that riches could give. It was a time of comparative stagnation, which preceded the great rush, which was to bear on its tide, as the stream of progress and discovery gathered strength, the next generation with relentless power. Of all that lay outside Fair Acres, Mrs. Falconer was almost indifferent, if not ignorant. She liked things as they were, and was averse to change, lest that change should be for the worse. Her tongue, which was a sharp one, had been swift to condemn the establishment of the schools in her neighbourhood, and she resisted all invitations from her husband to make the acquaintance of Mrs. Hannah More. Teaching lads and lasses to read and write was, in the opinion of Mrs. Falconer, a crying evil. They had enough learning if they kept their church once a week, and as to arithmetic, if they could count their own fingers it was enough; and she, for one, would never take a servant who had schooling. "A pack of nonsense," she called it; and she would tell Mrs. Hannah More so if only she had the chance. Mrs. Falconer turned from her occupation at the table, when her son entered. "Breakfast!" she exclaimed. "No, indeed; breakfast is over and done with. I can't keep the things about half the morning." The prototype of the fine gentleman seated himself in a chair at the table, and said in a drawling voice, suppressing a yawn: "Joyce, get me some clean plates, and go and order a rasher of bacon; and let the eggs be poached; and----" But Mrs. Falconer pushed Joyce aside: "No," she said; "your sister has something else to do than wait on you. I'll get your breakfast; and if you have to wait an hour, it will serve you right; lie-a-beds don't generally have sharp appetites." "Nay, mother," Melville said, "do not let the want of appetite be laid to my door, with so many other sins; I am particularly hungry this morning. And I beseech you, do not do servant's work for _me_." Mrs. Falconer's face betrayed that she felt the thrust. "Servant's work must be done for folks too lazy to do it for themselves," she said, as she let the heavy door swing behind her, and repaired to the kitchen to prepare, far too carefully, a breakfast for her son. Joyce hesitated a moment, and then said: "It always vexes mother when you are late, Melville. I wish you would get up earlier." "My dear little sister, I should have vexed mother if I had come down at six. She is out of temper with me, and so is my father, simply because I desire to get a little education, to fit me for my position here, you know, when I come into the place." "Oh, Melville, you have had every advantage; you ought to know everything. But Aunt Letitia was quite right--the money spent upon you at Oxford was wasted." "Thanks for your high opinion. I ought to be vastly grateful for it. But to speak of other things: I have bidden a friend to stay here for a week. He will like country air, and to drink milk and curds-and-whey. He arrives at Wells by the Bath mail; and I shall drive in with you and my father, and hire a post-chaise at the Swan to bring him out." "I hope he is not a fine gentleman," Joyce said. "He is a very fine gentleman indeed," was the answer; "and, Joyce, persuade mother _not_ to put on that big bib, and make herself look like a housekeeper. It will appal Arundel, and make him feel out of his element." "If he is to feel that, what does he come for?" Joyce said, angrily. "We want no upstarts here." "Upstarts! that is fine talking. Arundel comes of one of the oldest families in England. Not older than ours; though, unhappily, we live as if we had sprung from the gutter, and do not get any proper respect." "Respect!" exclaimed Joyce, indignantly. "Respect! As if father were not respected as a justice! and as if _you_----" Joyce stopped; she felt too indignant to go on. "My dear little sister," Melville said, with a grand air of pity--"my dear little sister, you are only ignorant. If you knew a little more of the habits and customs of the higher classes, you would not talk so foolishly." "I do not wish to know more about them if you have got _your_ habits from associating with them." Melville smiled, and did not betray the least irritation. "My dear," he said, "facts are stubborn things. Does it never strike you, that though my father dines at the houses of the gentry in the county, sits on the bench, and rides to cover, you and my mother are not invited to accompany him. The truth is my good mother dislikes the usages of _genteel_ life." Melville used that objectionable word with emphasis. Genteel was in those days used as some of us now use words which are scarcely more significant, though generally accepted--"Good form," "A 1," and so forth. "It is," Melville continued, grandly, "the result of early associations; and so we eat heavy one o'clock meals and nine o'clock suppers, instead of dining at three or four o'clock; and my mother, instead of receiving company in the house, works in it like a servant. It is a vast pity, my dear. It keeps the family down, and destroys your chances in life. So I advise you to try to alter things. Now Arundel is coming, I want to dine at a less outlandish hour, and I----" Whatever Mr. Melville Falconer wanted Joyce did not stay to hear. She left the large hall by one door as her mother entered by the other, bearing in her hand a tray of delicately prepared breakfast for her son, who was wholly unworthy of her attentions, and would have been better without them. "Thank you, mother," Melville said. "I hope the toast is not dried up. There is so much skill even in the poaching of an egg." "There are two ways of doing everything," was Mrs. Falconer's rejoinder. "Now I must be quick, for I have a deal of work upstairs." "Why should you have work, mother?" "Why did you invite a fine gentleman here? You had better answer that question. The best room must be got ready, and the feather bed laid before the fire." "A fire in this weather!" exclaimed Melville. "No one ever sleeps in my house in an unaired bed; and never will, while I am mistress of it, that I can tell you. I hope your fine gentleman is not one to scoff at plain people." "Arundel is far too well bred to make invidious remarks. But for all that, things may strike him as a little odd. I was going to suggest that we should dine at four o'clock while he is here, and that the boys should not sit down with us elders. It is not the custom in great houses." "It is the custom here, and mine is _not_ a great house: it is a comfortable English home, where there is no waste, and no extravagance, and no show. I'll warrant your grand friend never slept in a better bed nor between finer sheets than he will to-night. They are as sweet as lavender can make them, and----" Melville shrugged his shoulders. "Nay, spare me, mother, and let us leave the arrangements of bed-chambers to the fitting people. And, if I might suggest it, let all things wear their best appearance when Arundel arrives, including the mistress of the mansion. It is a pity when one so young and comely-looking as my mother should pay such scant heed to the little feminine ornaments which are----Phaugh! what is this? Positively a red ant crawling from the bread-trencher. What a beast! Quick! catch it, mother. I hope we shall have no red ants when Arundel is here." Mrs. Falconer darted down upon the ant with her forefinger, and speedily despatched it, exclaiming there was a perfect plague of ants in the larder, and she did not know how to be rid of them. "Disgusting!" said her son, carefully covering the body of the ant with a leaf which had garnished the pat of butter. "It is enough to make one sick. I must have a little brandy to settle myself, or rather, my breakfast, before I start." Mrs. Falconer made no response to this request. But the spirit-stand was in the sideboard, and when his mother was gone Melville helped himself to a pretty strong dram, and then lounged about till it was time to mount the "four-wheel" and drive into Wells. [Illustration] CHAPTER II. THE CITY OF THE DEEP SPRINGS. The squire's high "four-wheel" drew up before the door of the Swan Hotel at Wells about twelve o'clock that day. Mr. Falconer was well-known there, and there was a general rush to meet him. The landlord came briskly to the side of the vehicle to assist Miss Joyce to alight, while the ostler and stable-boy ran to the head of the mare; and in the dark entrance below the portico the landlady and a waiter with a napkin over his arm, were in readiness. "Good-day to you," said the squire, in a cheery voice. "We are proud to see you, sir. Nice weather for the hay. Will you please to walk in, sir? and Mrs. Maltby will receive your orders for dinner." "Thank ye kindly. Dinner for two at one o'clock. My daughter will go up to the Liberty, to her aunt's." "Here, you fellow," exclaimed the prototype of the first gentleman in Europe. "Here, can't you get the carriage nearer the pavement? I don't care to set my foot in that puddle." The ostler backed the horse, and the landlord advanced to give Melville his arm, while a knot of people had assembled in Saddler Street, watching with some curiosity the movements of the smart young gentleman in the back seat. The squire, provoked at the tone in which his son had spoken, vanished within the dark lobby of the inn, while Joyce said, laughing: "Melville, surely you don't want to be helped from the carriage!" "Look at 'im, now," said a poor woman, who was carrying a basket of vegetables to one of the Canon's houses; "did ye ever see the like? His shoes are made of paper; and, lor! what bows!" "Take care; you'll be heerd," said an old man, who was leaning on his stick. "Take care. Don't 'ee chatter like a magpie. You'll be heerd, Peggy Loxley." "Ha, ha!" laughed the woman, "I know why you are affrighted; I know. You've got your 'nephy' up to-day afore the justices, and you don't want to affront one of the justices; I see." The old man shook his stick at the woman, and meantime Melville had accomplished his descent without splashing his shoes or the edge of his trowsers. "I shall want a post-chaise ready, in the afternoon, after the Bath mail arrives," he said. "I expect a friend by the coach." "Very good, sir," said the landlord, who now reappeared; "very good. The squire has ordered dinner for two at one o'clock." "Where are you off to, Joyce?" Melville said. "I am going to do some shopping, and to wait at Aunt Letitia's for father." Then Joyce drew a little nearer Melville. "Why can't your friend ride with you in the back seat?" "Why? Because I don't choose to let him jog over the roads in such a rough conveyance." Joyce's lip curled. "It is good enough for father and for me," she said, "and ought to be good enough for you." Melville arranged his hair, and touched the ends of his lace cravat. "My dear child, don't make a scene before witnesses, I beseech you." Joyce waited to hear no more, but tripped away, turning, through a quaint archway, to the Cathedral Green, where the cathedral stood before her in all its majesty. The great west front of Wells Cathedral has few rivals, and dull indeed must be the heart that does not respond in some measure to its grandeur. Involuntarily Joyce said, "How beautiful!" and then, leaving the road, she passed through a turnstile and pursued her way under the shadow of a row of limes, which skirted the wide expanse of turf before the cathedral. The blue sky of the summer day over-arched the stately church, and a few white clouds sailed above the central tower. There were no jarring sounds of wheels, no tread of many feet, no traffic which could tell of trade. Although it was high noontide, the stillness was profound: the jackdaw's cry, the distant voices of children in the market-square, the rustle of the leaves in the trees, and a faint murmur of tinkling water, only seemed to make the quiet more quiet, the silence more complete. The great west door was open, and Joyce walked towards it, and passed under it into the cool shadows of the nave. She had often done this before, going out from the north porch into the Close again, but to-day there seemed, she scarcely knew why, the stirring of a new life within her. [Illustration: Wells Cathedral.] It was the moment, perhaps, of crossing the barrier which divides childhood from womanhood; the pause which comes in most young lives, when there is, as it were, a hush before the dawn of the coming day. Joyce had been silent during the drive from Fair Acres; her father had invited no conversation, and a glance now and then at his profile as he sat on the high box seat at her side, had convinced Joyce that the lines of care on his forehead were not traced there without a reason. The fop, who condescended to sit in the back seat of the cumbrous vehicle, indulged in sundry grumbles at the bad road, the dust, the slow pace of Mavis the mare, the heat, and such like trifles, which were, however, sufficient to disturb the serenity of Melville Falconer. Joyce had felt ashamed and annoyed as she had never done before; and when a neighbouring squire jogged past on horseback with his son, and looked back with a smile at the highly-decorated figure in the back seat, Joyce felt sure they were laughing at him! Why could not Melville wear a short riding coat like Charlie Paget, and top-boots, and bear himself like a country gentleman, instead of bringing down London fashions into the heart of Somersetshire, and finding fault with everything in his own home; bring his fine friends there without warning, and behave as if he were indeed monarch of all he surveyed. Joyce's sweet young face was shadowed with the awakening sense of responsibility and the longing to do something, which might smooth the rough places in her father's life, which her brother apparently made without the slightest compunction. As Joyce stood in the cathedral, not far from the north porch, her head raised towards the belfry-tower, which the great inverted arches support, a ray of sunshine entering at a window in the south transept touched her figure, and illuminated it with a subdued and chastened beauty. Her head was thrown back, and the high coal-scuttle or gipsy bonnet did not hide the sweet face, which, when she had walked demurely down the nave, had been hardly visible. The little quaint figure was motionless, and the old verger turned twice to look at it, with a strange and curious thrill of admiration. Presently the cloister door opposite opened, and the Dean's swift footsteps were heard approaching, with a regular pit-pat, on the floor of the nave. He, like the verger, was attracted by Joyce's attitude and the rapt expression on her fair face. "Why, it's Falconer's little girl!" he thought. "She is generally all smiles and sunshine; now she looks like a nun." As the Dean passed her, Joyce started. The brightest colour came to her face, and she turned hastily towards the north porch. The Dean, with old-fashioned and chivalrous courtesy, held the little door, which was cut out of the big one for ordinary use, to let her pass, and then he said: "Miss Falconer, I think. I hope your good father is well. Is he in Wells to-day?" "Yes, sir," Joyce replied, bright smiles rippling over her face. "Yes, sir; on magistrates' business." "Ah, ah! I heard there was some bad case brought in from Mendip. The good lady at Barley Wood will have to learn that much prating about religion ain't what we want. It's like the crackling of thorns under the pot. Let us see you at the Deanery before long; make my compliments to your good father and Mrs. Falconer." And then the Dean ambled away, his thin, black-stockinged legs beneath the decanal coat and apron giving him the appearance of a black stork. Joyce now hastened towards the Vicar's Close, where her aunt, her father's only sister, lived. The Vicar's Close at Wells is a sight to delight the heart of the antiquary and the lover of ancient buildings and olden times. It is entered from the north end of the cathedral by a wide, low gateway, and on either side of a fairly broad footway stands a row of small, picturesque houses with twisted chimneys and low doorways, round which the clematis and honeysuckle climb at their own sweet will. The Vicar's Close, at the further end, is closed in by a small chapel, which entirely blocks the entrance, for any but foot passengers, who obtain egress into the North Liberty by some uneven stone steps at the side of the chapel, leading into the road a few feet above the level of the Close. If Wells is quiet outside the Vicar's Close, it is quiet indeed within it. Since the summer day when Joyce went into the little garden before a house half-way up on the right side, the hand of the modern Wells builder and plasterer may have marred the complete effect, with stucco and sash-windows; but for the most part the houses in the second decade of the century were guiltless of plate glass and white-wash, and their antique frontage was, even more than now, one of the most picturesque features of the city of Wells. Joyce had scarcely touched the bright brass handle of the bell when the door opened, and a girl of two or three and twenty sprang out. "Oh, Joyce, how glad I am to see you! Come in Aunt Letitia, here is Joyce." Miss Falconer was in the parlour on the right-hand side of the little, low-roofed lobby, and rose somewhat feebly from her chair by the wide grate, which was gay with pots of flowers and evergreens. "Well, my child, welcome. Have you come to Wells with your father?" "Yes, auntie; and I am come here for dinner, and after dinner may Charlotte come and do some shopping with me? I have a long list of commissions at the china shop and at Wilmott's." "Charlotte will be pleased to accompany you, dear child; and when you have taken off your bonnet, come and tell me home news." There were not many stairs to ascend to Charlotte's bedroom, which looked into the gardens at the back of two other houses of some pretension, between the Vicar's Close and the Deanery. Charlotte curled herself up in the deep window-seat, and watched her cousin as she laid aside her large bonnet, smoothed her hair, and arranged her white pelerine over her pelisse. Charlotte had a genuine, if rather romantic, admiration for her cousin Joyce. Though a good girl, she was somewhat given to sentiment and languishing, complained of being fatigued, of headaches, and low spirits. She fed upon romance and poetry--the poetry of albums and keepsakes, which was then fashionable. Of course she had a hero who figured in her day-dreams; and she would spend hours at the little window of the sitting-room to catch a sight of him as he passed along the Close. Charlotte would have been much better for some active employment; but Miss Falconer was getting old and feeble in health, and if Charlotte was obedient and gentle, she was well satisfied. So she worked covers in cross-stitch for the chairs, knitted her own stockings, read all the light literature which came in her way, and played on the cabinet piano which stood against the wall in the sitting-room, with its crimson silk front gathered into the centre by a large rosette, and displaying, when open, a very narrow keyboard with very yellow keys. [Illustration: The Vicar's Close, Wells.] "How sweetly pretty you look to-day, Joyce. I can't help saying so. Don't be angry. I want to read you some verses I have written, called, 'The Drooping Rosebud.'" And Charlotte took out of her pocket the crumpled page of a copy-book. "You had better not read it now, Charlotte; Aunt Letitia will expect us to go downstairs." "Only the first verse," Charlotte said, and then she began: "'She bent her head in sorrow, The pretty fragile rose; She languished for the morrow, Where light and gladness grows She languished for a rain drop To cheer her thirsty heart: She was so sad and weary; In joy she had no part. 'As the raindrop to the rosebud, So is his smile to me; As----'" Here Charlotte stopped and blushed. "You know who I mean by the rosebud, and who the raindrop is?" Joyce laughed merrily. "Oh, Charlotte, you must not come to me for sympathy. I can't understand such sentiment. You have never spoken to Mr. Bamfylde in your life." "_Not spoken_; no, but there is such a thing as the language of eyes. Joyce, you don't understand." "No, I don't; and I think, Charlotte, it is nonsense to waste your thoughts on Mr. Bamfylde, who probably has never given you a thought in his life." "I am not so sure about _thoughts_, dear. However, I see you don't care about it, or my verses, or me." "Come, Charlotte, don't be silly! Of course I care about you, but I don't think I am poetical or romantic. Indeed, we ought to go downstairs." "You must go first, and I will follow," said poor Charlotte, putting "The Drooping Rosebud" in her pocket again, with a sigh; and Joyce tripped downstairs alone. "Well, my little rustic," Miss Falconer said; "come and sit down by me, and tell me the news." "Melville came home last week," Joyce said. "He is determined to travel, and father did so want him to settle down at home and help him with the estate. But, oh! Aunt Lettice, nothing will ever make him into a farmer. He is dressed to-day, to come into Wells, like a fine gentleman. I get so angry with Melville, Aunt Lettice." "He will come round in time, my dear. Young men are often a little difficult to manage, and then sober down so wonderfully." "But Melville is twenty-three, nearly twenty-four, Aunt Lettice. Father has given him every advantage, and all he wished for, and now he says he cannot possibly live a country gentleman's life." "Oxford was a poor preparation for that life, I must own," said Miss Falconer; "only it was natural perhaps, that your father should yield to your mother's wishes." "Mother suffers the most," said Joyce hotly, "far, far the most. It makes me so angry when I think of the way mother is treated." "My dear child, she has spoiled Melville, and this is the result." "It would not be the result if Melville had an atom of gentleman-like feeling. Looking down on mother, who----" Joyce's voice faltered. "It was unfortunate that your father married below him in the social scale; he was caught in the rebound, as we say. But all that is over and done with: still, we may deplore it; though no one can respect your dear mother more than I do. Marriage," said Miss Falconer, slowly and deliberately, "has not been successful in our family. Charlotte's mother, our only sister, made a very unwise marriage, and her only child has been thrown upon me to support. Not that I regret it. Charlotte is an amiable, gentle girl, and a companion to me. I have given her such advantages as I could afford, and she is fairly accomplished. I had a visitor yesterday I little expected, at her very advanced age. Mrs. Hannah More paid her first call on our new Bishop, and was so obliging as to come on here. She was speaking of you with interest, my dear." "Of me!" exclaimed Joyce. "What does she know of me?" "She knows about most people in the county; and, naturally, your mother's opposition to Mrs. More's views has reached her. She forbade a dairy-maid to read, who had once been in Mrs. More's school, and when she disobeyed her, dismissed her on the spot. It was much to be regretted. Greatly as I respect your mother, I must confess this act annoyed me." "Did Mrs. More mention it yesterday, Aunt Lettice?" "Yes; and she said she would like to have some communication with you. She had seen you riding with your father, and was taken by your looks. She inquired what education you had, and was shocked when I told her absolutely none. I told her I had implored your father to send you to a boarding-school at Clifton, but that he was obstinate. For, with all his good qualities, Joyce, we must concede that your father _is_ obstinate." "He is determined to do what is right," said Joyce, "if that is obstinacy." Miss Falconer smiled. "I have known him longer than you have, little Joyce," she said. "But tell me about this proposition of Mrs. More's: is it possible to carry it out? Mrs. More has such frequent attacks of illness, that it is well to lose no time. Shall I write to Mrs. More, and propose that you should spend a week at Barley Wood?" "Oh! I don't think mother could spare me for a week. Did Mrs. More ask Charlotte?" "No, but I may suggest it. Probably she thinks Charlotte is in good hands; she knows that I have not neglected her education. She has refined, poetical tastes; she can work beautifully in coloured silks; she can paint flowers, and she can play on the piano very prettily. These are the accomplishments which we look for in a young gentlewoman; and----" "I have none of them!" Joyce exclaimed; not hopelessly, but almost defiantly: "but, Aunt Lettice, I am not sure that I want them." "Dear child, I am sure that you _do_ want them," was the reply, with a smile. "There is a want of 'finish' about you; the more to be lamented----" Miss Falconer's speech was interrupted by the appearance of the neat maid-servant, who laid the cloth, and set out, with the utmost precision, the glasses and plates and dishes. "We will adjourn to the sitting-room after dinner," Miss Falconer said. "I am glad to be spared coming down twice in the day. It was fortunate that I was seated in this room yesterday when Mrs. More called; she could not have mounted the stairs. Oh! here is Charlotte. Now we will sit down to the table; say grace, dear Charlotte." Charlotte obeyed, and then the cover was lifted from a fowl, done to a turn; and Patty handed round the vegetables, and poured out cider for Miss Falconer, while Charlotte had a glass of port-wine, as she had been rather "below par" for a day or two; and Joyce drank water from preference. Before the meal was concluded, Miss Falconer had decided that she would write to Mrs. More, and propose that her niece from Fair Acres should accept her invitation to Barley Wood, at such time as might be most convenient to her to arrange it. She did not tell Joyce of this decision, but she considered by making it she was conferring a real favour on the "little rustic," whose beauty she was inwardly comparing to that of a wild rose; scarcely the drooping rose of Charlotte's poem! The two girls set out, soon after dinner, for the market-place, where the shops were situated. The market-place at Wells is not without its picturesque features; old gabled houses skirt the north side and part of the south side, while a cross stands at the bottom of the square. Clear water, from one of the many springs, which first attracted the College of Priests, in the time of Alfred's son Edward, to found their religious house in Wells, makes soft music as it runs down the streets in crystal streams. Two quaint archways, or, as they were in old documents called, the Palace Eye and the Deanery Eye, stand at the head of the market-square, and between them are two ancient houses, one of which was built by Bishop Beckington, and has rooms over the porch, or gateway, through which foot-passengers pass into the Cathedral Green. There is a delightful sense that life flows easily and peacefully at Wells by the appearance of its citizens. The master of the large shop where the two girls stopped, was standing complacently at the door, his hands in his pockets, calmly surveying the rush of the cathedral choristers across the square, for the first chime had sounded for afternoon service. Joyce was known as Squire Falconer's daughter at Fair Acres, and treated with respect. She was conducted to a counter at the end of the dark, low shop, where the head shopwoman waited on her. Joyce's list of commissions was for the most part of the homely and useful kind; but Charlotte was attracted by a display of gauze ribbons, then greatly in fashion, for the large loops worn on the crown of gipsy bonnets. She was not proof against buying two yards of straw-coloured ribbon with a blue edge, and when the ring was pulled down the ends of her purse again, it slipped off, for there was nothing left in it. [Illustration: The Market Place, Wells.] "Look, Joyce, what lovely ribbon! Do get some, Joyce." But Joyce was intently examining some homely towelling, and weighing the respective merits of bird's-eye and huckaback. "I don't want any ribbons," she said. "Yes, it is pretty, but what are you going to do with it?" Then turning to the counter: "I want a box of needles--all sizes, and half-a-dozen reels of cotton, and----" "Joyce, I think I will go to the door while you are finishing all these dull things; and then----" Joyce glanced at the large clock over the counter: "Then, I think, we will go to the service, and if we are not too late----" "Oh, yes," Charlotte said, eagerly. "Do let us go, and come back to the china-shop afterwards." Charlotte had her own reasons for desiring to go to the cathedral. The hero of her silent worship was Mr. Bamfylde, a new minor Canon, and it was his week for doing the duty. Joyce completed her purchases, and left orders for them to be sent to the Swan; and then, just as the last chime was ringing and the old clock struck three, the two girls passed up the nave to the choir. The work of restoration had not been begun, and the beautiful proportions of the choir of Wells Cathedral, were disfigured by high seats and an ugly pulpit. But Joyce's eyes were not critical, and she gave herself up to the soothing and elevating influence of the place, without any very distinct idea of why it was soothing and elevating. The service was slovenly enough in those days, and the new minor Canon got through it as fast as he could. The choristers straggled in, with no regard to order, and the lay-vicars conversed freely with each other, now and then giving the head of the chorister nearest to them a sharp rap with the corner of an anthem-book, or their own knuckles, through the open desk. The boys' behaviour was a little better than that of the men, for they had a wholesome fear of being reported to the Dean and Chapter, and feeling the weight of the old Grammar School master's birch-rod. When the service was half over there was a sound of feet and voice's in one of the side aisles, and the Dean, who was in his stall, looked sharply round. The verger hobbled out to see what his coadjutor outside the choir could be about, to allow such a disturbance. The verger was sound asleep, with his chin upon his capacious breast, and quite unconscious of the presence of the two young gentlemen who were chatting and laughing with each other, in the south transept. The verger stumped after them, vainly endeavouring to rouse his heavy friend, and said: "There's service going on; you mustn't make a disturbance, gentlemen; it's contrary to the Dean's wishes." The elder of the two men answered with a laugh, but the younger said: "Be quiet, Falconer. Don't you hear they are reading prayers?" "Well, I am neither reading them nor saying them," was the answer. "I had enough of that at Pembroke. Now, old fellow, keep a civil tongue in your head, will you?" as the verger, angry at the contemptuous disregard of his commands, said: "I'll turn you out, if you don't go peaceably." Again another laugh; and the fat verger, who had now recovered from his heavy afternoon nap, came bearing down on the young men. "You'll walk out this instant," he said, raising his staff of office. "I wonder you ain't ashamed of yourself." "No, my good man; on the contrary, I am proud of myself." "Proud! Yes, a popinjay like you is proud enough, I'll warrant," murmured the other verger. "Can we get into the choir, Arundel?" "We had better wait here," was the answer. "The service is nearly over. Come this way into the cloisters. Don't be aggressive, Falconer, and make a row." "I hate rows as much as you do," was the answer; "but I am not inclined to knock under, to this pair of drivelling old idiots." I cannot say how this unseemly wrangle might have ended had not the verger in charge of the Dean heard the blowing of the organ pipes, which was a warning that he was to hasten to perform his office, and conduct the Dean back to the Deanery. Almost immediately the organ sounded, and those who had taken part in the service came out. Joyce and Charlotte were amongst the last of the very scanty congregation. Melville, for reasons of his own, did not care to introduce his friend at that moment, and Mr. Arundel was quite unconscious that the fair face of which he caught sight, from under the shadow of the large bonnet, was that of Melville's sister. "What a sweet face!" he thought; and then, as Joyce turned suddenly towards the spot by the font where the two gentlemen were standing, a bright blush and smile, made her look irresistibly lovely. "Who is that young lady, Melville? She knows you." For Joyce had made a step forward, and then apparently changed her mind and went towards the north door with Charlotte. Melville fingered his cravat, and settled his chin in its place above it. "That little girl dressed as if she came out of Noah's ark is my sister! Come, you will have another opportunity of cultivating her acquaintance, and you want to call at the Palace, don't you?" "My mother charged me to do so; but there is no haste." "Oh, you had better not lose time, or you may not find your legs under the Bishop's mahogany. We live some miles out, you know." Mr. Arundel turned his head round twice to take a last look at the retreating figures, and then allowed Melville to tuck his arm in his, and walk down the cloisters with him to the Palace. Melville was in fact very anxious to show off his intimacy with Mr. Arundel to the bishop, for he could not hide from himself the fact that the ecclesiastical _élite_ of Wells had not paid him the attention he hoped to receive. The truth was that rumours of Melville's gay and careless life, and the anxiety he had given his father, had reached the ears of some in authority. Heads of colleges reported his behaviour at Oxford, and Melville had been sent down, not for what may be called serious offences; but still the character hung about him of a man who cared for nothing earnestly; reading or rowing, it was all alike. Nothing that Melville did was done with singleness of purpose, except, as his father sometimes said, with a sigh, "dress himself like a mountebank and copy London fashions." [Illustration] CHAPTER III. THE PALACE. The old baronial Palace of Wells, surrounded by its moat and reached by a drawbridge--not raised now as in olden times,--is in perfect harmony with the city in which it stands. In it, but not of it; for when once the gateway is passed, the near neighbourhood of the market-place is forgotten, such traffic as this little city knows is left behind; and the gardens of the Palace might well be supposed to be far from all human habitations, so complete is the repose which broods over it. Encircled by battlemented walls, and standing in a wide demesne, a stranger is at once struck with the unusual beauty of its surroundings. Mr. Arundel's admiration rather disconcerted his friend. "Come on, Arundel. Don't stare about like that; some of the family may be at the windows." But Mr. Arundel did not heed his friend's entreaty. "Come on; it is so like a country clodhopper to stand looking at a big house, as if you had never seen one before." "I never have seen one before, in the least like this big house," was the reply; "and what are those ruins? It is odd, Falconer, that you never prepared me for the beautiful things I was to find in Somersetshire." "It's a mighty damp place," Melville said. "Rheumatism and low fever haunt the servants' quarters, which are on a level with the moat; but, my dear fellow, do come on." "Can't we cross over to that old wall? It is like a glimpse of Paradise through there." "No, no, we must go up to the front like well-mannered folk. Come, don't be so obstinate, Arundel." Whether Melville would have succeeded in his attempts to draw his friend towards the entrance-porch, which stood in the centre of a long line of windows of the lower story of this side of the Palace, I do not know, had not a clerical figure in knee-breeches and shovel hat, been seen advancing over the emerald turf, and approaching the two young men. [Illustration: Gateway of the Bishop's Palace, Wells.] Melville began to show signs of nervousness, and the grand air which he maintained to his inferiors gave place to a rather servile and cringing manner, as he carefully removed his high narrow hat from his curled head and, bowing low, said: "My lord, my friend Mr. Arundel is anxious to pay his respects to you." The bishop looked with keen grey eyes at Melville, and said stiffly: "Mr. Falconer's son, I think?" "Yes, my lord; your lordship's humble servant," again bowing till the tails of his short-waisted coat stood up like those of a robin-redbreast. "Arundel, Arundel," the bishop repeated; "Arundel: the name is familiar to me." "My mother, my lord, had the honour of your lordship's acquaintance some years ago. She was Annabella Thorndeane." The bishop's somewhat stiff manner changed at once. He extended his hand, and said: "To have known your mother is to bear her always in affectionate remembrance. Where is she living?" "Since my father's death, my lord, my mother has had no settled home. She has lived within reach of me, first at Winchester, and then at Oxford. Now she will settle where I do." "And what profession are you taking, may I inquire?" "The law I believe; things are not yet decided, my lord; but there is some notion of a partnership in Bristol, when I have passed the needful examinations." "Well, well, we must have lawyers, and can no more do without them than doctors, eh?" All this time Melville had fidgeted, and felt annoyed at the bishop's coldness to him. "I am alone just now in the Palace; health, or rather the search for health, has taken the ladies to the east coast, a very distant spot--Cromer in Norfolk. But bracing was recommended, and our Western sea cannot come under that head. But will you walk round; I shall be pleased to show you over the grounds, and the gallery, where the portraits of my predecessors hang. One has the mark of a bullet in his cheek, caught in the battle of Sedgemoor. All our surroundings speak of warlike times, and there are moments now when I feel as if I would gladly pull up my drawbridge and have done with the world without. There is strife in the streets, and storms even in our little tea-cup, I can assure you." The bishop now led the way round to the gardens at which Arundel had looked with longing eyes through the ruins. Suddenly the bishop turned sharply on Melville, looking him down from head to foot with anything but an approving glance. "And what profession, sir, do you mean to take up?--law, like your friend--or what?" "I am going to travel for a year, my lord." "Travel! humph! Your good father has several sons, I think?" "Four younger sons, my lord; so much the worse for me." "I hope you set them a good example," said the bishop, drily. "I should venture to suggest that your father might want help with his estate." "He has a steward, my lord, an old servant." "Stewards mean money, don't they? and a gentleman with a small landed property cannot be overburdened with that article nowadays, more especially if he has five sons." Melville's brow clouded, and he would fain, if he had dared, given vent to some rather uncomplimentary adjectives, of which "old meddler" was one. "Here," said the bishop, "are the ruins of the old Hall, where, report says, the last abbot of Glastonbury was hanged. He was tried here by the king's orders, for suppression of some of the church lands which the king had seized. That," pointing to the end of the Palace, "is the part of the building which was blown down, or, rather, the roof blown in, upon one of my predecessors during the last century. Both Bishop Kidder and his wife were buried in their bed in the ruins. But not to dwell on these memories, I have pleasanter ones to recount. On that terrace walk, where we will now mount and take a view of the surrounding country, the pious Ken--that God-fearing and steadfast man--composed the hymns, which, morning and night, bring him to our minds." Melville Falconer had forgotten, if he had ever heard, those hymns; but Mr. Arundel said: "My mother will be interested, indeed, my lord, to hear I have been on the spot where those hymns had birth." "Ay," said the bishop; "and we must have her here one day and show her this fair place. One can imagine, as he gazed out on this prospect, that the saintly Ken was eager to call on every one to 'shake off dull sloth,' and rise early with the birds to offer the sacrifice of the morning." It was indeed a fair prospect towards which the bishop waved his hand. Fields of buttercups lay like burnished gold in the summer sunshine. Beyond these fields, known as the Bishop's Fields, was a belt of copse, and further still the grassy slopes of a hill, really of no very exalted height, but from its strongly defined outline and the sudden elevation of its steep sides from the valley below it, it assumes almost mountainous proportions, and is a striking feature in the landscape as seen from Wells and its neighbourhood. A wooded height, known as Tor Hill, rises nearer to the Palace, and then the line sweeps round to the Mendip range, which shuts in Wells on the north-east, and across which a long, straight road lies in the direction of Bristol. The bishop continued to chat pleasantly as he led his visitors along the broad terrace walk on the top of the battlemented wall. Then he passed down into the garden, and ascended a spiral stone staircase which led to a small ante-chamber, and then into the long gallery. This room is one of the principal features of the Palace at Wells, with its long line of small, deep bay windows, and its beautiful groined roof, the walls covered with portraits of many bishops who have held the see. Archbishop Laud looks down with a somewhat grim face, like a man who had set himself to endure hardness, and never flinch from the line he had marked out for himself. Saintly Ken, too, is there, and keen, thin-lipped Wolsey, who had not learned when he sat for that picture the bitter lesson which his old age brought him, not to put his trust in princes, or in any child of man. The war-like bishop, too, with the hole in his cheek, had, a very unwarlike expression. "A jolly old fellow!" Mr. Arundel remarked; "not like a man who cared to handle a musket or bayonet." "No; appearances are deceitful at times," the bishop said. "The stairs up which we came, open into my study, from that little ante-chamber; and I confess I should take flight by them and get into the chapel if by chance the Palace is besieged." "Not much fear of that," Melville said, "in these days." "These days are not as quiet as they may look, young sir. It strikes me, before you are grey-headed, there will be a desperate struggle between law and anarchy--between the king and the people. The horizon is dark enough. There are graver matters pressing than gewgaws and finery and personal indulgence. We are too much given in Wells to look upon it as the world, and refuse to believe in the near approach of the storm of which there are signs already, and not far from us. But, young gentlemen, I have an appointment, and must not delay if I wish to be punctual. I shall hope to see you again, Mr. Arundel. How long will you be in our neighbourhood?" "For a few days, my lord." "Well, well. I shall come out to Fair Acres with my son, and pay my respects to your excellent parents, Mr. Falconer, of whom I have heard much during my short residence in Wells." The young men felt that the time for departure had come, and taking leave of the bishop, they passed under the old gateway, and were again on the square of green turf which separated it from the cloister door. A row of noble elms skirted the moat, and Melville proposed that they should take a turn under them. The moat was full, and the stately swans came sailing towards the sloping bank, where two girls were standing. Quaint figures now we should think they were, with the short, plain skirts of their frocks bordered with a narrow frill, thin white stockings, which sandalled shoes displayed to advantage, and little tippets crossed over their shoulders surmounted by large gipsy hats or bonnets. But nothing could destroy the symmetry of the arm and hand, which was stretched out towards the swans with a bit of bread. And Mr. Arundel exclaimed: "There are the two girls we saw in the cathedral Falconer; one is your sister." Before Melville could rejoin, Joyce had turned, and now came forward to her brother with heightened colour, saying: "I think my father will be ready to go home now, Melville, and we had better go back to the Swan." Charlotte all this time had been posing before her grand cousin and his friend, hoping to attract his attention. "Introduce me, Falconer," Mr. Arundel said, standing with a native grace which characterised him, with his hat in his hand. "My sister," said Melville, carelessly, "and my cousin, Miss Benson;" and he was passing on to continue his walk towards the Bishop's Fields; but Mr. Arundel did not follow him. "Your sister says we shall be wanted at the Swan Inn, and must not linger by the live swans." "Oh, no; we are going to Fair Acres quite independently of my father. I have ordered our carriage; you ought to come to the end of the Moat, there is a fine view of Dulcot." But Mr. Arundel showed no intention of following his friend. "Nay," he said, "let me see the swans have the last bit of bun. See, they are coming for it. Do you always bring them buns?" "Not always; but I had a convenient halfpenny left from the change at Willmott's, so I went to buy a stale bun at the little shop in Saddler Street." "Happy swans to be so remembered!" Mr. Arundel said, as he watched the last wedge of the stale bun gobbled up by the master of the brood, while his wife gave him a savage peck with her black bill. "It is a pity they are so greedy; it spoils their beauty," Joyce said. Then, with sudden recollection, she said, "Oh! Charlotte, I have forgotten to take Piers' sparrow-hawk to Mr. Plume's. I must go at once to Aunt Letitia's and fetch it. I left it in the basket there." "Can I go and fetch the sparrow-hawk, Miss Falconer?" Mr. Arundel began. "Come, Arundel," Melville interrupted, "you and I can stroll round this moat; we are not returning, as I told you, with Joyce." But Mr. Arundel deliberately turned in the direction in which Joyce was hastening; and Charlotte, much to her cousin's vexation, was left with him. A muttered exclamation, which was not fit for ears polite to hear, escaped Melville's lips, and Charlotte's soft speeches were lost on him. "It is so nice to see you here, Cousin Melville. Won't you come and pay auntie a visit?" Melville had particularly desired to escape a visit to the Vicar's Close, but he began to fear it was inevitable. "Do tell me about college," Charlotte began. "I am dying to hear, because I have a special interest in college now." This was said with a smile and glance which were meant to make an impression. "And do you wear one of those sweet hoods with snow-white fur round it, Cousin Melville? They do look so pretty!" "Well--no," drawled Melville, evasively; "I have not taken my B.A. yet." "Mr. Bamfylde, the new minor Canon at the cathedral, wears one; and it is so charming!" "Humph!" Melville rejoined. What were all the minor canons in the world to him that he should care whether they wore fur-lined or silk-lined hoods at their backs? They had reached the turnstile now leading into the Cathedral Green. "I say," he began, "I think I must bid you good-bye here, Charlotte. I will call on Aunt Letitia another day, for I must look after the carriage. I am afraid there should be some mistake. I want a pair of greys to post with, and I should not wonder if they tried to pass off two old bays, with their bones just through their skins." And the next minute the fine gentleman was sauntering off in the opposite direction to poor Charlotte, who went away disconsolate. Meantime Mr. Arundel and Joyce had walked quickly to the Vicar's Close, and Joyce, having captured her basket with the dead bird, was surprised to find Mr. Arundel waiting for her at the little gate. "Mr. Plume's shop is in New Street," she said. "It is scarcely to be called a shop, but there are a few stuffed birds in the window. We must go up the steps by the chapel into the North Liberty." Mr. Arundel was struck with the business-like fashion in which Joyce conducted her interview with Mr. Plume. He was a little dried-up-looking man, whose front parlour had that peculiar scent which is characteristic of rooms where stuffed animals are kept. Mr. Plume did not confine himself to birds. A large fox, with gleaming teeth and glassy eyes, stared at the customers from a shelf in a recess by the fire-place. A badger was on another; and owls of all sizes and colours were standing, with one foot tucked up, and a certain stony stare in their great round, unshadowed eyes. Mr. Plume did not waste words. "Sparry-'awk," he said "sparry-'awk; it is of not great value, missie. Humph!" he continued, "it's not a rare speciment, but I'll set it up. How's the young gentleman, eh?" "Quite well, thank you, Mr. Plume; and please have the bird ready by the next time we come into Wells. We must not stop now; but what a noise those men are making." As she spoke, Mr. Arundel went out to the door, and Joyce, peeping through the cases in the window, saw a cart being dragged up the hill towards the Bristol Road by four rough-looking men. Another huge man sat in the cart, his head lolling upon his breast, evidently the worse for drink. A few wild-looking men and boys and a lean pony followed; and two or three women, with their hair hanging down their backs, brought up the rear; and all were shouting at the top of their voices some rhyme, the drift of which was, that the justices had got the worst of it, and that Bob was free. "What does it all mean?" Mr. Arundel said. "Oh, it's only some of the rough Mendip folk. One of 'em was taken up for snaring rabbits, and there was a great row. I suppose the justices have let him off--afraid to do anything else. There is a deal of ill-blood in them parts; and they say it's even worse in the cities than what it is in the country. Dear me!" said Mr. Plume, stroking the back of a stuffed spaniel which was handy. "It's a thousand pities folks can't mind their own business, instead of annoying respectable folks. Good-day to you, Miss Falconer. Good-day to you, sir." When outside the shop Joyce paused and watched the straggling crowd wind up the steep hill. "It is dreadful to see people like this," she said, with a sigh. "I must ask father about it; for he has been sitting on the bench to-day. I hope they are not angry with him." "I hope not," Mr. Arundel said; "they look little better than savages, and would knock any one on the head for a trifle." "We must make haste," Joyce said, "for father does not like to be kept waiting, and mother expects us home to tea. I dare say we shall get to Fair Acres before you do." "Why can't we all drive together?" Mr. Arundel asked. Joyce hesitated a moment, but only for a moment. "You are thought too grand to drive in our four-wheel," she said, smiling. "Grand! Who said so?" "Melville, of course. He said you would be shocked to rumble and jolt over the roads, and that your luggage must go on the roof of the post-chaise." Mr. Arundel laughed a merry, pleasant laugh, and said: "I am sorry your brother should have given you such a bad account of me. Poor fellow!" Joyce looked up quickly. "Then you don't think exactly as Melville does?" "No, I hope not," was the reply. "But he is a friend of yours, is not he?" "Yes, he is a friend--up to a certain point. Do not think me ungracious." "Oh! no. I understand." "Melville thinks a great deal of you, and is so proud that you have come here. I am glad you have come also, now I have seen you, though when I first heard you were coming I dreaded it; and so did mother. But I must not stop to talk any more now, except to ask you to make mother feel as you have made me feel, that you are not so very grand, after all." The squire was seen at the door of the Crown as Joyce and Mr. Arundel turned into Saddler Street, and Joyce ran quickly towards him. Her father waved his hand impatiently. [Illustration: S. Cuthbert's, Wells.] "Come, Joyce; come, make haste!" In another moment she had mounted to her seat by his side, and they were off at a quick trot. The good old horse knew that her head was turned homewards and went cheerily down the High Street, past the noble church of St. Cuthbert, where there was no traffic to impede its progress. The squire was silent until they were fairly out of the town, when he said: "So your grand brother can't ride in his father's carriage! He and his fine friend may pay for the chaise; I shall not." "I do not think the friend is fine after all," Joyce said; "he laughed at the idea of the post-chaise." The squire cracked his whip impatiently. "He may well laugh. Ah! little Joyce, there are many graver questions at issue than the freaks of an over-indulged, reckless boy like Melville. We had a stormy scene in the court to-day. That man who was let off a month, in gaol richly deserved punishment; but there was a division on the bench and my conviction was overruled." "Oh!" Joyce exclaimed, "I saw a crowd of rough people going up the Bristol Road; they had taken a pony out of a cart, and were dragging it up the hill, with a man in it, who was half asleep." "Half drunk," said the squire; "that is more likely. They are a rough lot on Mendip, more like savages than the inhabitants of a civilised country." "What is to be done to make them better, father? Has not Mrs. More tried to get the children taught?" "Yes, she has been trying for years to make the schools succeed; but there is plenty of labour and little to show for it." "Perhaps," said Joyce, "there is some good done, though we don't see it. It is always easier to see bad things than good ones; so easy to see faults in those about us, and to be blind to their goodness." The squire laughed; between this father and daughter there existed a sympathetic friendship wholly independent of the natural tie of parent and child. "You are right, Joyce, quite right; but I am afraid one does not need glasses to find out the bad things." "Father, let us put them on to find the good ones, then," Joyce rejoined. The squire leaned back, and let the old horse go her own pace, and her own way. "Ah! my little Joyce, that is wise advice. Thank God, I need no spectacles to find out the good in _you_. I look to you to keep things smooth at home for the next few days, and to help me to do the same. I am quick-tempered, I know, and when I flare out, I am sorry afterwards." "You don't often 'flare out,' as you say, to _me_, dear dad." "What did your aunt say to you to-day?--called you her 'rustic,' I'll answer for it." "Oh, yes, of course she did; and she wants me to pay a grand visit to Barley Wood." "To Barley Wood!--to Mrs. Hannah More! Mother won't hear of it. Your aunt had better not meddle. What do you think about it yourself?" "I should like to pay a visit--a _short_ visit--to Barley Wood. That is quite different from going to school. But with the boys coming home, and Melville and his friend at Fair Acres, I doubt if I could be spared. It might do me good to go, father; I mean, make me all the more useful at home afterwards." "What do you expect Mrs. Hannah More to do to you?--cut you into a pattern, as she would cut an old woman's cloak, eh? However, if you wish to go, and any more is said, I'll manage it for you. Perhaps no more _will_ be said; your aunt is just as likely to forget all about it." "Yes, I know that," Joyce said, with a little ring of disappointment in her voice. "I'll tell you what pattern I would not have you cut into on any account; and that is poor die-away, languishing Charlotte Benson. Poor thing! if she is a specimen of boarding-schools and accomplishments, I would sooner have Jane Watson for a daughter." "Charlotte paints flowers very well, father," Joyce said; "and she has worked a figure in Berlin wool of a woman in a red gown feeding chickens; and----" They had been jogging along at a very leisurely pace, and the sound of fast-trotting horses made Joyce look back. "To the right, father! quick! it's the post-chaise from the Swan." The squire pulled up towards the high hedge, and the post-chaise dashed past, the luggage behind, and the two young men lying back in it. The gates of Fair Acres were in sight, and the carriage turned in with an imposing flourish of the post-boy's whip. "Look here, Joyce, that is a sign of the times. That poor foolish popinjay of ours is only drifting on with the tide. He has brought another young fellow, I daresay, as idle as himself, to eat my bread and give himself airs. Well, I will put up with it for a week, and then _both_ have notice to quit; nor do I desire to see either of them darken my door again. Melville shall travel if he likes, but it shall be across the water--to America, where, if a little of this nonsense is not knocked out of him, my name is not Arthur Falconer." With this outburst of masculine indignation the squire subsided, and then quietly drove round to the stables, while the post-chaise was being unloaded at the front door; and Melville was giving the post-boy as large a "douceur"--or, as we should have it called in these days, a "tip"--as befitted the imitator of the first gentleman in Europe. [Illustration] CHAPTER IV. THE LADY OF BARLEY WOOD. There was a mixture of dignity and simplicity in the reception which Mrs. Falconer gave her son's friend which did not fail to strike him. "We sup at nine o'clock, sir," she said, "we dine at one, and take tea at five. Thus it is to the first of these meals that I would bid you welcome, as it is close upon eight o'clock now. Will you follow me to your room?--which I hope you will find comfortable." "I am sure I shall," said Mr. Arundel, warmly. "It is very good of you, madam, to invite me to Fair Acres." These few words had passed in the hall; and the tap of Piers' crutches was heard approaching, while Nip and Pip came bustling about the new-comers, their short tails vibrating as if they were screwed on with a wire! "This is our youngest child, sir--Piers," Mrs. Falconer said. "Where is Joyce, mother?" Piers asked. "Your sister is behind; our chaise passed her close to the gate." "Why did not you come with her?" Piers asked, bluntly. "Because I was not allowed to do so," Mr. Arundel said, good-temperedly. "I can tell you what you will be glad to hear, that your sister did not forget your sparrow-hawk." Melville, who had after all been wrangling with the postboy about his gratuity in a somewhat undignified manner, now came into the hall as his father and Joyce appeared from a door under the wide staircase. "Well," said the squire, "you seem holding a counsel here; I hope it is peace, not war. Come, Melville, show your friend to his room." Considering how greatly the squire had been annoyed by his son's driving out in the post-chaise, he spoke kindly and pleasantly; but Melville was already assuming his grand airs. "Here, Arundel," he said, "I will take you to your room: first door on the left, I suppose?" "You will allow me to do as I have done all my life, Melville," said his mother. "I always go with my guests to their chambers, to see they are comfortable. Now, Mr. A_run_del." To Melville's horror, his mother put the accent on the second syllable. And as she tripped away--for her figure was still light and supple--he whispered: "He won't know who she means. Tell her, pray, not to say A_run_del." Joyce was indignant about the proceedings of the whole day, and she said: "If you think it becoming to correct your mother, do it yourself." Then, going up to her father, she put her hand through his arm. "Come and see the last brood of chickens with me and Piers. They are lovely, dear dad." Melville turned away with a satirical smile on his lips, thinking it was impossible to do anything with Joyce: she was content to let things remain as they were. Meantime his friend was conducted to the "best room" Mrs. Falconer had to offer--a spacious square room, with a large four-post bed, hung with white dimity, and so high that a pair of steps by which to climb into it did not seem out of place. The window was rather small for the size of the room, and the frames thick, but roses and honeysuckle hung their wreaths round it and perfumed the air. Mrs. Falconer showed Mr. Arundel the high chest of drawers, and pointed to a hanging-closet, one of the top panels of which was glass, so that it might have a dim light from the room. "I hope you will be comfortable," she said; "the sheets are well aired, and so were the mattresses and beds, by the fire. I never trust to servants, but see to those things myself. We sup at nine o'clock; and if you want anything please pull the bell." "You are very kind," Mr. Arundel said. "I hope my visit is not inconvenient." "Oh, no; the boys are coming home from school to-morrow. Three boys make some difference in a house; but I dare say you will be out a great deal with my son Melville." A scarcely perceptible sigh accompanied the words, and then Mrs. Falconer vanished; on the stairs she met Melville. "I say, mother, what have you got for supper? I hope there will be something that Arundel can eat. And, by the bye, mother, his name is _Ar_undel, not Ar_un_del." "Oh, is it, indeed! I don't know that it matters what a man is called. As to the supper, there's a round of beef, and a pie, and a baked custard, and plenty of bread and cheese." "I wish you could have some made dish to-morrow. Big joints are all very well for a pack of hungry schoolboys." Mrs. Falconer did not reply sharply, as she did sometimes. She turned and preceded Melville to his room, which was at the other end of the long passage or corridor, which ran across the house, dividing it into two parts, front and back. Melville followed her, and assumed a careless and indifferent air, throwing himself on the deep window-seat and giving a prolonged yawn. A pack of cards lay on the drawers, with a dicebox. "We had high words last night, Melville," his mother began; "and I was sorry----" "Don't scold or preach any more; I am sick of it. If you'll get my father to let me travel, I'll come back in two years and settle into quite the country-gentleman; but you can't expect a fellow to bury himself here at my age with a set of rustics." "I have heard all this before," his mother said, in a sad voice, very unlike her usual sharp tones. "What I want to ask is this: you have brought your friend here without so much as consulting your father or me. I ask a plain question, is he a well-behaved man and fit to be the associate of your sister and young brothers?" "Fit to associate with them! His mother is an Honourable, his grandfather was a peer. Fit to associate with us, indeed, who are nothing but a pack of farmers!" "So you said last evening. I don't care a fig for lords and ladies; nor princes either, for that matter: but this I say--if your friend teaches my boys to gamble and drink, and is not to be trusted with your sister, but may talk all kinds of rubbish to her, and you know it, you'll repent bringing him here to your latest day. I must just trust you, Melville, and if you say he is a well-behaved young man, well, I will believe you, and he is welcome to stay here." "My good mother, you have got hold of the wrong end of the stick. The fact is Gilbert Arundel is a trifle _too_ good. He has a sort of mission to reform _me_. He has helped me out of scrapes and--well, I owe him something; and so, as he is of high family, I asked him to come here, as we don't catch such folks often at Fair Acres. He said he would like a week in the country, and he is looking after some place in Bristol, which is handy; so I asked him to come on here. Now are you satisfied?" "I know looks don't go for much," Mrs. Falconer said, "but I do like his looks very much; and his manners, too." Mrs. Falconer hesitated, and seemed uncertain what she should say next. She was not given to much demonstration of affection at any time, but her mother's heart yearned over this shallow-pated, self-indulgent son of hers. It seemed but yesterday that he was seated on her knee and throwing his arms round her neck in his innocent childhood. But yesterday! and yet what a gulf lay between that time and this! She could not have told why, or what innermost chord was touched, but certain it is that she drew nearer Melville, and putting her hand on his forehead, and brushing back the stiff curls, which were persuaded by pomade to lie in regular order on his head, she kissed him fondly. "Oh! Melville," she said, "my son, my son, you know how dearly I love you. Do give up all your extravagant ways and high notions, and be a comfort to your father and me, and set your young brothers a good example." Even Melville was a little touched. "Yes," he said, kissing his mother in return, "yes, if you will let me off for a year, I will settle down and walk behind the plough, if you wish it then. Will that satisfy you?" She kissed him again, and saying, "I will see what I can do with father about your travelling," she resumed her accustomed brisk manner and left him. In spite of the large joint, and the big pie, the supper passed off pleasantly, for Gilbert Arundel listened to all the squire had to say, and showed an interest in agriculture and farming, and won golden opinions in consequence. Before the meal was over Mr. and Mrs. Falconer were both wondering how it was that their son and their guest could be friends; except by the law of contrast, a friendship between them seemed so impossible. The school boys arrived the next day; the first acre of grass was cut, and the weather remained perfect. On the third day there was tea in the hay-field, and every one, from the squire downwards, was in high spirits. No one could resist Gilbert Arundel. His were the free, unrestrained good manners of the true gentleman, who can accommodate himself to every circumstance, and is neither too fine nor too fastidious for anything, which comes in his way. Ralph, who was the grave-eyed student of the brothers, could not resist Gilbert's genial interest in his history of his success at the school at Exeter, where he was pursuing his education at one of the academies for young gentlemen, which are now a thing of the past. Bunny and Harry buried him in the hay and nearly smothered him, and Piers found abundant cause for liking him in the attention he gave to the peculiarities of an insect which he had found under one of the haycocks. Melville was lazily indifferent to what was passing, but he liked to lie full length under a spreading oak by the hedge, and have his tea brought to him in a large mug with a coppery coloured, brilliant surface which blazed in the light and concentrated the rays in a mimic sun on its outer side. What Mrs. Falconer called 'harvest-cakes' were freely dispersed with cider and mead, and the fields of Fair Acres had never seen a happier party collected at hay-making time than met there on this June day. Pip and Nip, exhausted with romping and hunting for field-mice, lay close to Melville; and Duke, with his wise head erect, despising rest while his master was astir, surveyed the whole scene with lofty indifference, which rivalled Melville's. It was about five o'clock when the unusual sound of wheels was heard in the road leading up to the house, and the squire, who was in the further part of the field, said: "There's a carriage driving up! I think it is Mrs. More's." "Mrs. More!" exclaimed Mrs. Falconer, sharply. "I hoped I had heard the last of the dairy-maid." Joyce, who was at that moment seated on a haycock, with her rake thrown carelessly at her side, sprang up. "Did you say Mrs. More's carriage, father? Oh, I am afraid--" She stopped. "Afraid of what?" Gilbert Arundel asked. "Oh, nothing; only Aunt Letitia said Mrs. More wanted to see me, or, rather, know me. Mother does not like Mrs. More, and Mrs. More thinks her very careless about the maids' education, just as Aunt Letitia thinks she is careless about mine; here comes Sarah." "If you please, ma'am, I was to say Mrs. More wished you to come and speak to her. She won't get out of the carriage, because her legs are too stiff." "Come, my dear," the squire said, "make haste, and go round to the front door." "Not I. I shall not make haste; indeed, I'll send Joyce instead. Go, Joyce, at once. Say we are having a hay-making party, and end with a supper when the last wain is carried; which, I'll be bound, she will call sinful." Joyce had to free herself from the wisps of hay which clung to her, and to smooth her tangled curls. They were confined by combs and pins, but all had fallen out in the scrimmage in the hay, and they now fell on either side of her flushed face. Perhaps she had never looked more lovely than at that moment when, turning to her father, she said: "Do you really wish me to go like this, dear dad?" "My dear, some one must go; and at once. Mrs. More is not a person to keep waiting." Joyce did not delay a moment, but went with her quick, light step across the field, and then through a little gate which opened into a belt of low-growing shrubs, beyond which was the carriage-road from the village. An old-fashioned _barouche_--old-fashioned even in those days--stood before the door, and sitting in it were two ladies; the elder one upright and alert, the younger leaning back as if to resign herself to the long waiting time, before any of the family appeared. Although comparatively near neighbours in the county, Joyce never remembered to have seen Mrs. More before. Her name was familiar enough, and her schools, established on all sides, were known by every one, though it cannot be said they were approved by every one. Mrs. More and her sister had in times past made some overtures towards Mrs. Falconer, but they were coldly repulsed, and a parcel of tracts had even been returned. Later there had been the disagreement about the dairy-maid, and the time for Mrs. Hannah More to carry the crusade into the enemy's camp was over. She had, in the year 1824, nearly numbered her four-score years; and the loss of her sisters, and repeated attacks of illness, made her more willing to rest from her labours, only taking care that the good seed sown in the days of health and vigour, should be watered and cared for, that it might yield a good harvest. It had happened that several times during the lovely spring of this year she had met Joyce Falconer driving in the high gig with her father, or trotting by his side on the rough pony, the use of which she shared with all her young brothers. The sweet, frank face had attracted her, and she had inquired about Joyce when on a visit of ceremony at the Palace at Wells a few weeks before. The result was, as we know, that Miss Falconer gave a melancholy account of her niece's ignorance, which she believed was entirely due to her mother's prejudices as to boarding-schools and her father's over-indulgence and excessive affection for his only daughter. With her accustomed sympathy with all the young who were just setting forth on life's journey, Mrs. More determined to see something of Mr. Falconer's little daughter, and her aunt's letter had decided her to lose no time in paying a visit to Fair Acres. As Joyce came up to the steps of the carriage Mrs. More held out her hand--a white, delicately-formed hand, half covered by a lace mitten. Joyce had heard Mrs. More spoken of as an old lady of near eighty, and her surprise was written on her lovely face, as she said, simply: "Are you Mrs. More?" For the beautiful dark eyes were still lustrous, and the lips, parted with a smile, displayed a row of even teeth which many a young woman in these days might envy. A quantity of white hair was turned back from a round, full forehead, which was shadowed by a drawn-silk riding-hood, with a deep curtain and a wide bow under the chin. Intellect and benevolence shone on the face, which was marked by few lines, and the still young spirit lighted up the whole countenance as Mrs. More said: "Yes, I am Mrs. More; and I have come to pay my respects to your good father and mother, and to make your acquaintance." "A great hay-making party is in the home meadow," Joyce said. "My mother bids me present her apology; but my father will be here, I think, shortly. Will you not alight from the carriage?" "No, thank you kindly, my dear;" and turning to Miss Frowde: "my friend thinks me over-bold to drive so great a distance as this; but a desire to convey to you an invitation in person has brought me hither, in the delightful cool of the summer afternoon." "We must be getting home before the dew falls," Miss Frowde said, addressing Joyce for the first time; "I have to take great care of precious Mrs. More." "Miss Frowde is kindly solicitous," the old lady said; "I should be ungrateful to disobey her orders so if I may ask for a drink of water for the horses, and a cup of cider for the post-boy, we will not delay our departure beyond a few minutes." "I am so sorry," Joyce began, "that all the people are in the hay-field; but I will send a message for a man who will attend to the horses, if you will excuse me for a moment." She tripped away into the house, and very soon the maid, who had been left in charge, was despatched to the hay-field, while Joyce returned to the carriage with a jug of milk and two glasses on a tray, with some sweet cakes of her own making, and said: "May I ask you, madam, to take a glass of milk, as a little refreshment?" Hannah More beamed down upon the sweet young face with her brightest smile. She sipped the milk and told her companion to taste the lightest little cakes she ever ate; then she said: "After all, I have not come to the real object of my call. I want your parents to spare you to me for a visit; and that you may not lack company, Miss Frowde will invite your cousin from the Close at Wells to meet you." "Thank you, madam," Joyce said; "but I fear I cannot be spared during my little brothers' holidays. But here comes father." The squire made the ladies in the carriage a low bow, and said the water was ordered for the horses, and he much wished Mrs. More would alight from the carriage, and take some refreshment. "The refreshment has been brought to me by the hands of your young Hebe," Mrs. More said, smiling. "As to alighting, my limbs are stiff with age, and when once ensconced in my easy old chariot I am unwilling to leave it. But, Mr. Falconer, I came with a petition, for what is, I am sure, a precious possession: let me have your daughter at Barley Wood for a month. I hope, God willing, to return your treasure, with interest on the loan. Do not refuse me." "Thank you kindly, madam," said the squire; "but her mother must be consulted. Her little brothers demand much of her attention in the holidays, and Joyce has to share her mother's labours in many ways. I fear she cannot be spared. What say you, my Sunshine?" "I could not be spared yet, father; but later--" adding, with glistening eyes--"I should like to go to Barley Wood." The squire put his arm round his daughter, and said: "And I should like you to have the pleasure; but your mother----" "Well, well," Mrs. More said, "then we will leave it, subject to certain conditions. The Bible meeting at Wrington comes on early in July. I shall have many excellent friends as my guests then, and the little Sunshine--I like that name vastly--might dispense a little brightness amongst us, and receive some solid good from intercourse with my friend. May I hope to see you early in July?" "We will see about it, madam," the squire said; "and both Sunshine and I feel gratified by your kind proposal." "Well, then, we leave it so, and I trust to you to drop me a line, my child, when your visit can be made. We shall find a corner for you and your cousin--if only a pigeonhole. You will not grumble, I dare say, but nestle in comfortably." "The sun is getting low, dearest Mrs. More," Miss Frowde said; "we should be starting homewards." "Yes, you are right." Then drawing from a large basket some books, Mrs. More singled out one, and, bending down towards Joyce, said: "This is the best of books; in it is to be found treasures of riches and knowledge. Accept the Bible from me, as a token of desire that now, in the days of your youth, you may find the Pearl of great price. No one can object to _this gift_, though objection to other books may be urged." Joyce took the Bible with a low-spoken "Thank you!" and her father glancing at it, said: "You are very good to my little daughter, and I, at least, am grateful." The squire had been secretly hoping that his wife would change her mind and appear, but his hopes were not realised. The carriage rolled off at a leisurely even pace; the good-byes were said, but Mrs. Falconer did not appear. "It is a pity mother did not come," Joyce said. "What a lovely old lady Mrs. More is." "Yes," and the squire sighed. "You have got a Bible, Joyce." "An old one, not like this," Joyce said, "with gilt edges and such a nice purple binding; and I like to have it from Mrs. More. See, father, there are pencil marks in it." The squire looked over Joyce's shoulder at the page on which she had opened. It was the last chapter of Proverbs, and the words were underlined: "Her price is above rubies." "Carry the book upstairs, Joyce; you had better not display it at present. Then come back to the hay-field as fast as you can. Mother will be expecting you." Joyce did as she was told, and hastened away with her precious book. As she turned over the pages she saw the pencil marks were frequent. It was evidently Mrs. More's way of silent instruction; and for the first time in her young life, Joyce seemed to find in the Bible, words which applied to herself. "Be not overcome of evil," was underlined; "but overcome evil with good." "That means I am not to let Melville's ways get the better of me, and make me cross to him and contemptuous. I must try and overcome by being kind; and then----" She was startled by her mother's voice: "Joyce, what are you about? come down at once. The men want some more cakes, and you may as well trudge down to the field, as I----" Joyce ran down immediately, first hiding her Bible in the small drawer of the high chest in her room. "I wish you had come sooner, mother, and seen Mrs. More." "Do you? I waited till I heard the wheels in the road before I came; but now I am here, I mean to stay. I want to make some custards for supper, and whip the cream for a syllabub. Mr. Arundel shan't grumble at his fare." "Mrs. More is a beautiful old lady," Joyce said. "She did not give you any tracts, I hope," Mrs. Falconer said. "I won't have any cant, and rank Methodism here. You know my mind, Joyce." "Yes, mother," Joyce said, gently. "But I should like to pay a visit to Barley Wood. Do you think, when the boys return to school, I _may_ go." "Well, we will see about it. If you want to gad about you must go, I suppose. You all seem alike now; no rest and no peace unless you are scouring the country like so many wild things. It was very different in my young days. I don't know that I ever slept a night from under my father's roof till I married. I don't mind your going to Barley Wood at the proper time, but I'll have no tracts and no nonsense here, or setting up servant-girls to be wiser than their betters; for all this talk, and preaching, and reading, and writing, the Mendip folk are as bad, as bad can be. Mrs. More has not done much there, anyhow. That was plain enough the other day, when the man was brought before the justices, and they were a pack of chicken-hearts, and dare not commit him for fear of getting their heads broken as they rode home; your father was the only brave man amongst them, and held out that the rascal should be committed for trial." All this was said in Mrs. Falconer's voluble fashion, while she was engaged in piling up a basket full of harvest cakes, which Joyce soon bore off to the field, where her brothers, and Nip and Pip were still tossing about the sweet hay, and burying themselves and everyone else under it. Piers threw a wisp with the end of his crutch at Joyce as she came, and Bunny rushed to possess himself of the basket and scatter the cakes about, which the younger part of the haymakers scrambled for, head foremost, burrowing in the tussocks of hay, like so many young ferrets, while Nip and Pip barked and danced about in the extremity of their excitement. The fair weather lasted all through the week, and Sunday dawned in cloudless beauty. Fair Acres did not have the services of one clergyman, but shared the ministrations of the vicar, with another small parish. The cracked bell began to ring in a querulous, uncertain fashion on Sunday morning, and punctually at half-past ten Mrs. Falconer marshalled her flock down the road to the church. The church, though small, was architecturally a fine specimen of Early English, and raised a noble tower to the sky; but the interior was dilapidated, and the pillars were covered with many coats of yellow wash, and the pews were hung with moth-eaten cloth. The squire's pew was like a square room, with a fire-place and cushioned seats, and a high desk for the books ran round it. Mrs. Falconer and her husband sat facing each other on either side of the door of the pew, and the boys were ranged round, while at the further end Joyce sat with Mr. Arundel, a place being left for Melville. Just as the clergyman had hurried on his very crumpled surplice, and the band in the gallery struck up the familiar air to which the morning hymn was sung, Melville, dressed in his best, came up the uneven pavement of the aisle with the proud consciousness of superiority to the rest of the world. His father threw back the door, and he passed up to the further end of the seat, nodding carelessly to Mr. Arundel, who made no sign in return. Chatting and making engagements for the week was at this time very common in church. There was scant reverence shown for the house of God. He was a God afar off, and the formal recognition of some sort of allegiance to Him being respectable and necessary for the maintenance of social position, brought people like Mrs. Falconer to church Sunday after Sunday. Mrs. Falconer and the squire, with their family, were never absent from their places, and Mr. Watson, the squire's agent, acting as sidesman, was also regular in his attendance. But it was a lifeless mechanical service on the part of both minister and people; and the loud Amens of the old clerk were the only responses to be heard. The Psalms at the end of the book of Common Prayer were used, accompanied by a strangely-assorted band in the worm-eaten gallery, and two or three men and boys supplemented the scraping of the fiddle and bassoon with singing, which might well be called bawling. Nor was Fair Acres an isolated instance of country parish churches; and city churches, too, at this date. The great tide of the evangelical movement had, it is true, set steadily in, and was soon to cover the kingdom with its healing and reviving waters; but its streams did not penetrate into the heart of the hills, and small outlying villages went on, with no schools and no resident clergymen, and were contented because they were asleep. Of course the sound of "the waters of Siloah" were heard in Somersetshire as, one by one, Hannah More's schools grew and flourished, and, one by one, her enemies became her friends. But the apathy at Fair Acres on the part of the clergyman, and the determination of Mrs. Falconer to set her face like a flint against all innovations, was thought to be praiseworthy, and to show a laudable desire to resist methodism in whatever form it took. Gilbert Arundel's home-training had been very different from that of his friend. His mother had early in life been brought in contact with several of the fathers of the evangelical school, and the spirit had quickened her faith into living heart service. "How my mother would admire her!" Gilbert thought, as he carried away with him from the church the picture, in his mind, of the squire's young daughter, as she followed the Psalms in the big prayer-book on the desk, and with her arm round Piers to steady him, pointed with her finger to the words, reading the alternate verse with old Simkins, the clerk, in a voice which Gilbert could barely catch, though he strained his ears to do so. There was an entire absence of self-consciousness in Joyce; and if the undulations of the small mirror over her high chest of drawers, permitted her to discern anything like the real reflection of her lovely face, she did not give it much thought. Brothers are not wont to admire their sisters or to tell them they are fair to look upon, and Joyce would have been very much surprised if she had heard that her brother Melville said, she only wanted the accessories of fashionable dress to be accounted a belle at Bath or Clifton, nay, even likely to make a sensation in the great world of London life. She was a hopeless rustic now, but he saw in her capabilities which few girls possessed. He had said nothing about Joyce's beauty to Mr. Arundel, because he was, in his folly, ashamed to confess how devoid Joyce was of the ornaments which went so far to form his own estimate of a woman, and Mr. Arundel's silence about Joyce, since that first day at the cathedral, seemed to him to show that he only praised her at first, because she was his sister out of courtesy, and that he was, as every man of taste must be, disappointed with her on nearer acquaintance. Superficial and foolish himself, he was almost unable to appreciate the earnest sincerity of his friend, and on this particular Sunday his temper had been tried by the arrival of a letter from the Palace at Wells, brought over on the previous evening by a special messenger, in which the Lord Bishop of Bath and Wells requested the pleasure of Mr. Arundel's company at dinner on the following Monday, but made no mention of him. He inwardly voted the bishop "a stupid old bat," as every one _must_ be who was blind to his perfections! [Illustration] CHAPTER V. SUNDAY AT FAIR ACRES. The boys, perhaps excepting Ralph and Piers, were invariably more turbulent on Sunday than any other day of the week. There was an attempt made by their mother to enforce discipline on Sunday, from the same reason which made her scrupulous in attending church regularly. Besides, the boys' best Sunday jackets and long tight trousers were in peril, if their usual habits of tree-climbing and birds' egg hunting were not laid aside with their week-day garments. The large Sunday dinner at one o'clock was always lengthened out to its utmost limit, but when that was over, the time hung heavy on hand. A smart box on Bunny's ear, administered by Melville, with a hand on which a huge ring glistened, and which left a pretty deep triangular cut on the boy's ear, roused Piers' indignation. "You coward," he said; "just because he trod on your smart shoe. I would not wear such a shoe for a hundred pounds." "You are not very likely to be tried," was Melville's rejoinder. "Your feet are not made for shoes with buckles." "Oh! Melville," Joyce exclaimed, "how can you be so unkind?" while his father said, in a stern voice, "If you have no brains, sir, I always thought you had a heart." Mrs. Falconer was rising to follow Bunny, whose loud crying was heard in the hall; but Joyce said: "Mother, let me go. I had better take all the boys away, mother, and amuse them, if I can. I don't think Bunny need cry like that, though it was too bad to hit him." "It was indeed," Gilbert Arundel could not help exclaiming fervently, though like all guests in a house, when family disputes are going on, he felt it difficult to know whether to speak or be silent. "I hate Melville," Piers said fiercely, as he swung himself out of the room after his sister. Joyce soon persuaded Bunny that he was not much hurt, and said if they would all come up to the seat under the fir-tree she would read to them. The boys willingly consented, and Joyce ran upstairs and fetched the pretty Bible, bound in purple, with its gilt leaves, which she displayed to her admiring brothers. "But you are not going to read _that_, Joyce," Piers said. "Isn't it dull? Can't you find the Pilgrim's Progress?" "Yes," exclaimed Harry; "I like the Giant Despair part, and the history of all the bones and skulls lying about." "I will read about a giant," Joyce said, "a very pretty story from the Bible." "Oh! I know," said Ralph; "very well, I don't mind hearing it again." Joyce seated herself with her brothers round her, and read the familiar Bible story, with a somewhat slow utterance, but with so much dramatic power in the tones of her voice that her listeners were profoundly attentive. Then she talked to them about David, and said she had read that the story was a type of the great battle we had all to fight against the giant of self. She did not know that she had another listener till her brothers had dispersed, and she was left on the seat with the Bible in her hand. Then Mr. Arundel came through the little gate leading from the copse, and looking up at Joyce, said: "May I come nearer?" Joyce started to her feet. "Take care," she said; "the grass is very dry and slippery;" and as Gilbert Arundel made a rather scrambling ascent, Joyce advanced and held out her hand to him to help him up the last few yards. "I have been in hiding behind that tree by the gate," he said; "I did not like to disturb the boys by my presence, after the pains you had taken to keep them quiet." Joyce's colour rose, and she said: "I would rather you had let me know you were listening, especially when I was talking to the boys." "Do not be vexed with me," Mr. Arundel said. "I am so glad to have found you here alone." "I wanted to speak to you, too," she said, quickly, "about my brother; he is"--she stopped, and then went on; "I think I may say it to you--he is the one cloud over our happy life here at Fair Acres. It used not to be so; he was very different once." "Yes," Mr. Arundel said, "I can quite imagine it was so. Your brother is very weak of purpose, and he got into a bad set at the university where I found him." "What made you care for him?" Joyce said, simply; "you are so different from him." "Well, the story is rather a long one, and I do not know that all of it is fit for your ears, or that I ought to inflict it upon you. Still I think you should know something about it. I feel an interest in poor Melville much the same interest which a man takes in anything that has cost him some trouble." "What made you take any trouble about him?" Joyce asked. "I scarcely know; pity, I think, began it; and who could help pitying him? He got into the hands of an unprincipled man, much older than himself, who is, in fact, a relative of mine, and I did what I could to get him out of his clutches. He got all his money out of him, and then persuaded him to gamble to get more; of course ending in losing it." "How dreadful!" Joyce exclaimed. "Does father know?" "He knows about the money part, of course; about the debts and difficulties." "Yes," Joyce exclaimed, with a sigh, "and it has troubled him greatly." "What I wanted to say to you was, that I think if Melville went abroad, as he wishes, it might be a good thing, provided a safe companion could be found for him." "Will you go?" Joyce said, eagerly. "No, it is impossible; I could not leave my mother: I am all she has in the world. We are going to live in Bristol, where I am to be articled to a good firm of lawyers, and perhaps I may study afterwards for the bar." "I thought you were of high family," Joyce said innocently. "Would that prevent my taking to law?" Gilbert asked, with a smile. "No; I don't know exactly why it should do so," she said. "Melville talks so much about things which are right for a gentleman to do, and things which a gentleman cannot do; and then he dresses so fashionably, and people remark upon it." "I don't wonder," Gilbert said, laughing; "but that part of his proceedings is only laughable. Many men are fops in their youth who tone down wonderfully when they get old. Let us hope it will be so with him." "You know," Joyce said, "that Melville ought to spare father expenses instead of adding to them. There have been two bad harvests and hard winters, and Mr. Watson, the steward, is getting rather past his work. Melville ought to take that place now, and save father, for there is Ralph to be educated, and he ought to have the _best_, for he is so studious; and then there are the three other boys, and poor Piers is lame, and they all want something." "You don't seem to want anything yourself," Mr. Arundel said. "No: I have a happy home and everything is beautiful about me. What _can_ I want?" "Not to go to London, or Bath, or to see the world?" he asked. "I think," said Joyce, simply, "if it came in my way--I mean if there was plenty of money--I should like to travel a little. Can you believe that I have only been to Bath once and to Bristol twice in my life? and I am nearly eighteen. My Cousin Charlotte, who lives at Wells with my aunt, has been to school in Bath, but father never wished me to go to school, so I have no accomplishments. But I need not talk any more about myself, it cannot be interesting." Gilbert Arundel was beginning a speech to the effect that what she said was most interesting to him, but somehow it died away on his lips. The sweet earnestness of the face which he had been watching while she spoke, the entire absence of self-consciousness, seemed to lift her above the level of compliments or flattery, which the gentlemen of the time considered the rightful inheritance of the young ladies, with whom they trifled for an hour's amusement. As she sat with her face towards the beautiful landscape over which the westering sun was casting its level rays, she seemed so far above him and bearing the "lily in her hand" of which a poet of later days than those in which Joyce lived has said that-- "Gates of brass cannot withstand One touch of that enchanted wand." The silence which fell over Gilbert was unbroken for a few minutes by any word on either side. At last Joyce said: "Is there anything I can do for Melville? He has rather a way of looking down on me, and I think I speak crossly to him sometimes. I wish you would tell me if you think I could help father about him." "If he does not listen to _you_ I should think it hopeless that he would listen to anyone," Gilbert said; "he has a way of looking down on most people." "Not on _you_?" Joyce said, with a little innocent laugh. "He made us think you were very grand and that we must alter all our ways to suit you; poor mother was to change the hours for meals, and----" "I never heard such nonsense," Gilbert said; "but I know where he got those notions from, and I may tell you this much, that the kindest thing you can do is to ask your father, to consent to his going abroad for a year as soon as may be; he will be out of harm's way. I have had some fears that the person who had such an evil influence over him might follow him here, and I was determined to circumvent him." "It was very kind of you to take this trouble. Who is the person?" "He is a step-uncle of mine; my mother's half-brother, Lord Maythorne." "Quite a grand person, then?" Joyce said. "Grand in his own eyes; yes, undoubtedly; but there is every hope that, having got what he can out of Melville, he will leave him alone. You do not know how ashamed I am to own him as a relation; and I am anxious to do all I can to atone for the mischief he may have done your brother." "Was he at Oxford with Melville?" "No: but, unhappily, he has a small place near Oxford, and was continually coming in." "Shall I tell father all about what you have told me?" "I have told him already a good deal. What I want you to do is to use every effort to persuade your father to let Melville start soon." "It would be far better if I could persuade Melville to stay here, and learn about farming." "Yes; but that, I am afraid, you will never do; and considering that your father wished him to work on the estate it was a mistake to send him to Oxford at all." "Oh, yes; but it was mother's wish, you know," Joyce said, with a heightened colour. "Mother always feels that her family was not considered as good as father's; they were simple, homely, good people, but not what are called gentry, and I think it has always been mother's desire that Melville should have exactly the same advantages as the sons of our neighbours. Charlie Paget went to Oxford; they live at Ebbor Court; and so it seemed her eldest son ought to go. It is so strange that mother should be quite consistent on every subject but one, and that one, the indulgence of Melville; and now I believe he will break her heart." "No, no, I trust not so bad as that," Mr. Arundel said. "I have hopes that there will be a change for the better, and all this folly and aping his betters will drop off like an old cloak one day." Joyce sighed. "I wish I could have hopes too; there is always, I suppose, some cloud in everyone's sky; and we are so happy, that if it were not for Melville, we should have all we wished for. Yesterday in the hay-field I felt as if even to be alive was delicious, everything was so bright and joyful. Then Mrs. Hannah More came and invited me to Barley Wood. Have you heard of Mrs. More?" "Yes, I think I have. A very good old lady, who has set up schools for the poor children. My mother knows all about her. Will you like going to Barley Hill?" "Barley Wood," Joyce corrected. "Yes, I think I shall. Charlotte is to come also; and I dare say I shall like it when I am there, and it may do me good. You know Aunt Letitia always calls me 'a little rustic.' Of course I _am_, but I do not know that it is of such great consequence as Aunt Letitia thinks." "It would be a pity, indeed, if you were anything but what you are," Gilbert said earnestly. "A change could hardly be an improvement." "Oh, do not say that," Joyce said. "I want to _know_ more, and though I read everything I can in father's library, I do not get any new books. Ralph helps me with Latin, and Piers and I learn French together, though I expect our pronunciation would make you laugh. We have just read Madame de Stael's 'Corinne' and a story called 'Matilde,' which Charlotte lent me. Is not Piers wonderful?" she asked; "he is so happy, and have you seen his collection of moths and butterflies? You must come into his room and see them." "Yes, I should like to do so very much, if you will be showwoman." He liked to hear her talk of her simple home pleasures and interests; he liked to watch the ever-changing expression of her lovely face; he felt within himself that this hour on the hill-side, was to remain a bright memory with him for many a day, to which he would recur with pleasure, and over which no cloud could come. At last the sound of the boys' voices in the copse below, roused them both from their earnest talk, and Joyce's name rang through the still summer air-- "Joyce! Joyce! tea has been ready ever so long. Mother does not like waiting. Do come!" "Yes, pray come, Joyce; there is no one to pour out tea, or cut the cake. Mother says you ought not to have put sugar on the cake," said Bunny. "I am so glad you did." Joyce flew swiftly down through the wood, and by the time Mr. Arundel and her brothers had reached the house, she was at her post behind the large bronze urn, and taking up her accustomed duties with a face so bright and winning, that her mother forgot her vexation, merely saying: "I like punctuality at meals, Joyce, especially on Sunday; for it puts the servants out if they are driven." "Why, my Sunshine," her father said, "where have you been hiding? We thought you were lost." "Joyce has been sitting under the fir-tree with Mr. Arundel," shouted Bunny in his ringing, boyish treble. "They have been there two hours." Bunny was in advance of the other boys and their guest; and it was Piers who said: "You need not shout as if you were the town-crier!" While Melville dragged himself out of the depths of a large sofa covered with horse-hair, where he had been sleeping off the effects of his large dinner and repeated glasses of ale and wine, and said the boys' voices were a perfect nuisance, and he did not know what Arundel thought of such a hubbub. A laugh from the person in question, as he passed the open window with Ralph, seemed to point to the fact that Gilbert had as light a heart as any of the young brothers at whom Melville so often took offence. Family prayers were the exception in many households in these days; but as there was only one service in the church on Sundays, the squire, following his father's custom before him, always assembled the household in the evening, and read a chapter from the old family Bible, and a short dry sermon with a prayer from an old book, in which was written his mother's name. It might be questioned whether the rosy-cheeked maiden and the stalwart young men from the Farm, who sat with their hands one on each knee, staring at Melville and the visitor, as strange specimens of humanity, could understand a word of the sermon or follow the prayer. Perhaps Joyce scarcely realised how dry and formal this service was, and yet this evening a new spirit seemed to be stirring within her, an aspiration for something, she hardly knew what, but something which was not outside of her, but touched her inmost heart. Her mood was subdued and quiet during the rest of the evening, and when she knocked at Piers' door to be admitted, as was her invariable custom, to make his room tidy, and place his crutches near the bed, the boy said: "Do you like Mr. Arundel, Joyce?" "Yes, dear; I think I like him very much." Piers was silent. "The next thing will be that you like him better than me." "Nonsense, Piers; is that likely?" Joyce had finished her labours in the little room now, and had seated herself in the window-seat looking out into the grounds. The moon, nearly at the full, was lifting her round, white face above the low-lying range of hills eastward while the colour of the sunset sky still lingered in the west. The window was open, and from below Joyce heard the sound of her father's voice and Mr. Arundel's. She knew what they were talking about, and she said: "Of course I like Mr. Arundel, who is so good about Melville, and came here solely to try to be of use to him: very few people would have taken that trouble." Piers gave a low rejoinder, which might be taken for consent. "He says, Piers, a man he knows has a bad influence over Melville, and that he is a relation of his, and that he thinks Melville ought to be sent abroad." "To do just what he likes, as he always does," was Piers' rejoinder. "It is a shame that Melville should bring so much trouble on us." "Yes, it does seem a shame," Joyce said; and then she went to the bed, and, kneeling down, kissed Piers' hand as it lay upon the counterpane. "I felt so sorry for you this afternoon, dear," she said. "It gave me a great pain to hear Melville speak as he did to you." "Never mind, Joy, never mind. What does it matter?" And the boy stroked his sister's hair fondly. "I don't mind; I would rather have my crooked, helpless legs than be like _him_. Yes, I really would," he repeated. "But Joyce, don't begin to care for any one more than me; that is what I dread." "You foolish boy," she answered; "as if I could care for any one as I do for you! And when I come back from Mrs. More's I shall have so much to tell you; and I may get some nice books there, which we will read together." Piers turned suddenly and threw his arms round his sister's neck. He was not usually demonstrative, but he said, with passionate energy, "While I have you, Joy, I can bear anything. Good-night." "Good-night, dear; and never take foolish fancies into your head. You may be sure I shall always love you and be all I can to you. Good-night." There is no doubt that a protecting maternal element in the love of a sister for a brother makes the tie one of the most beautiful that exists. From the time of Piers' accident Joyce had constituted herself his helper and friend. Mrs. Falconer in her busy life could not devote herself to her crippled boy, as mothers of a less energetic and active nature might have done. Joyce and she had it is true one aim in common: to hide from the father the sad consequences of that one rash act which had shut Piers out for ever from the free, joyous life of his young vigorous brothers. Mrs. Falconer did this by apparently making light of her boy's ailments, and inability to do what others did. It was a good thing, she would say, that he could not climb trees and tear his clothes, or get into the stream by Wookey and ruin his boots and socks, or make her anxious by carrying a gun behind his father, in the time of rabbit and rook shooting. Mrs. Falconer never betrayed what was indeed the truth, that the sound of Piers' crutches as they tapped across the old stone pavement of the hall, sent a thrill of sorrow through her breast, and that when Piers was laid up, as was not unfrequently the case, with an attack of pain in the hip which had been so severely injured, she avoided being much with him, and left him to Joyce, because the sight of his suffering brought back the memory of that morning when she saw him clinging with a frightened face to Rioter's back, and heard her husband say, "Don't make a coward of the boy: his brothers rode long before his age." She knew too well how bitter had been her husband's self-reproaches, and she dreaded adding to them by any impulsive, unguarded word of her own. Thus it was that Joyce was sister, mother, and friend to her lame brother. Their lives were bound up together, and the bond strengthened as time went on. It was sufficient reward for Joyce to know that, however irritable when in pain, or depressed sometimes by a sudden reminder of his helplessness when contrasted with his brother's independence and vigour, she could always be sufficient to charm away the cloud by her own sunny brightness, and that by making his interests hers, she never let him think she did anything for him, which was not a real pleasure to herself. The secret of heart service lies in this, that those who are served never know it to its full extent, and that any effort that may be made, or any trouble that may be taken, is so hidden under the mantle of all-pervading love that it is often wholly unsuspected. When the giver is as happy as the receiver, the gift, in whatever form, is sweetened and enhanced a hundred fold. CHAPTER VI. AMONGST THE HEATHER. Gilbert Arundel's visit to Fair Acres extended far beyond the limit of a week. He felt every day more absorbed by the simple, happy life, in which, as Joyce had said, Melville was the only cloud. He was an universal favourite. A man who has been accustomed to yield respect and courtesy to his own mother, seldom fails in yielding it to the mothers of his friends. If anyone in the household at Fair Acres was dissatisfied it was Melville himself, who found that his friend had been so entirely taken possession of by his brothers and sister, and was held in such high esteem by his father and mother, that his own light was effectually put out. The twins, Harry and Bunny, came to him about fly-fishing, and Ralph consulted him as to a difficult passage in his Homer; while he spent a whole morning in helping Piers to re-arrange his moths and butterflies, and to look out their names with greater precision in a book he had actually borrowed from the Palace at Wells, for this purpose. All the time Joyce went about her accustomed duties: darned Melville's socks, mended the schoolboys' clothes, and was every morning assisting her mother in her household duties. It was an added charm in Gilbert's eyes that Joyce made no difference in her daily routine, and that what are familiarly called "company manners" were apparently unknown at Fair Acres. But the last day came of Gilbert Arundel's visit, as the last must come to everything, and the squire proclaimed a holiday for every one and an excursion to Wookey, and a pic-nic to Ebbor. Then there was a great packing of hampers, and loading of one of the spring carts with the boys and the provisions, and the "four-wheel" with the more grown-up members of the party. Even Mrs. Falconer allowed herself to be enlisted in the service, and to give herself for once a day's pleasure; while Melville put on a riding-coat of the most approved cut, and a pair of wellingtons, and was graciously pleased to lend himself for the occasion, with as much show of satisfaction as was consistent with his dignity. After depositing the party at Wookey, the squire kindly drove into Wells in the "four-wheel" to fetch Charlotte from the Vicar's Close, and before the dinner had been laid in the Ebbor Valley he was back again, bearing Charlotte in triumph, in spite of his sister's entreaties that Charlotte would be careful of adders which swarmed at Ebbor amongst the loose stones; and that she was to be sure to sit upon a cloak with four capes, made of large plaid, which Miss Falconer insisted should be put into the carriage. But nothing spoiled Charlotte's pleasure when fairly off, and she was delighted to be helped down from the carriage by her Cousin Melville, with whose fine ways, and what she would have called "elegant dress," she had keen sympathy. Indeed, the hero of the "drooping rose" was in danger of falling from his pedestal; and the fact of a cousin, who said a great many flattering things to her was, after all, more interesting than a minor Canon, who was to be worshipped from afar, and who when actually introduced to her the day before by her aunt, when he called in virtue of his office in the cathedral, had not seemed to desire to cultivate her acquaintance; certainly had made her no pretty speeches. Melville, on the contrary, made her a great many, and she listened with unquestioning faith, and profound interest to his stories of high life, and the men with titles with whom he was on familiar terms, and the large wine parties at Oxford to which Maythorne came. Gilbert caught the sound of that name, and turning quickly, his deep blue eyes shot a warning glance, which could not be mistaken, as he said in a voice audible to those nearest him: "The less said about _him_ the better." The day passed quickly, and it was proposed that the younger portion of the party should walk up the uneven road between the rocks, and, taking the rough paths over the flat country, into which the gorge opens, reach Fair Acres by crossing it, a distance of some six miles. Charlotte was to remain at Fair Acres for the night, but both she and Melville preferred to drive with the squire and Mrs. Falconer and Piers. Charlotte's shoes were too thin for scrambling, and a country walk was not at all to Melville's taste. "Off with you, then," said the squire, "and mind you keep the road to the left, or you will find yourselves on Mendip, and if it gets dark that may not be so pleasant." "I know the way, father," Ralph said; "and so do Harry and Bunny. We shall not lose ourselves." "Perhaps Joyce had better drive," her father said, just as the five were starting. "Sunshine, what do you think?" "I think that we are more likely to lose our way, sir," Gilbert said, "if you take the sun from us." The squire laughed. "Well, that may be true. Take care of your sister, boys." The ascent through the Ebbor cliffs is difficult; there is a vast quantity of thin sharp stones, worn by the action of the water from the face of the rocks. Although not nearly so grand as Cheddar, Ebbor has many points of beauty. The rocks are fantastic in form, and as the path winds between them they assume various shapes, like miniature towers and bastions, clothed with ivy, and coloured with dark brown and yellow lichen. The air, when they were fairly in the open country, was fresh and crisp; the lark sang his sweet song high above their heads, and the sweet, clear notes of distant thrushes and blackbirds came from the low lying copses, which fringe the head of the Ebbor valley. Harry and Bunny chased moths for Piers: Ralph meditated and repeated to himself some lines of a Greek poet which he wanted to get by heart. Thus, as was only to be expected, Joyce and Mr Arundel were left to themselves, and in Gilbert's heart at least was the weight of coming separation, and the uncertainty as to whether he should ever be able to renew the sweet, free intercourse of the past fortnight. He dreaded to change the present happy relations between him and Joyce by telling her what he felt. She confided so entirely in him; she told him so much of her little joys, and home happiness, of Ralph's cleverness, of Harry and Bunny's frantic desires to be sailors, of her father's goodness to Melville, and infinite patience with him. On this last night especially, he felt that he could not bring himself to break the spell, and disturb the serenity of that sweet, pure life, by letting friendship go, to replace it by the more tumultuous and passionate love, which he knew if once this barrier were broken down, he should pour forth on her in a torrent which might distress and almost frighten, one so simple and so unversed in the world's ways. Whilst Charlotte was always on the look-out for some _preux chevalier_, who was to be at her feet and vow eternal devotion, Joyce had as yet no such airy castles. Her education had been widely different from her cousin's, and home and home interests had so filled her seventeen years with their joys and pleasures, that she had no time to dream over "keepsakes," and read Miss Burney's romances, or steep herself in the unreality of sentimental verses, which Wordsworth was beginning to break down and send into the shadows, by bringing out the beauties of creation into the strong light, which his genius threw around them. Joyce had not wasted her youth in foolish dreams of impossible perfection, but when the real story of her life was ready to unfold itself, she would find a zest and fulness in it, that the sentimental visionary could never know. That was a memorable walk over the sweet country side, with the west all aglow, and the sky above serenely blue. In after years both looked back on it through that mist of tender sadness, which gathers round the happy past of youth, even though the present is full of the fruition of joy to which that very past led. "This is our last evening," Gilbert said; "I hope, if I can be of any use, you will write to me." "Yes," Joyce said, "and I feel as if the worst were over now. If Melville has a year abroad with the gentleman the bishop recommends, he may settle afterwards. Of course it is a great pull upon father's purse; but if Harry and Bunny can get into the navy we shall be able to manage." "When we are settled in Clifton I hope you will come and see my mother." "Oh! I should like that very much; but I have a visit to Barley Wood to come first, and then in the winter I must do all I can to cheer father. He feels the want of out-door exercise now he has given up his hunters. He used to ride to the meet very often." "I am sorry he has had to give that up, all through Melville's extravagance." "Yes, and then farming has been so bad the last year or two. I hope it may be a better crop this year; but the wheat in this district is very poor at all times. We must not get too much to the right," she said, "or we shall get near the miners, who are a rough set of people. Mrs. More has had a school in these parts for many years; but there are a great many discontented folks, who seem to think the gentry are their natural enemies. That man we saw the day you came to Wells was from these parts." Joyce raised her voice in a clear, ringing tone, and called her brothers by name. "They have gone on so far in front," she said; "but I feel sure this is the right track." She called again, but there was no reply. "We had better walk faster," she said, "or we shall be left behind;" then she stopped. "I see a man lying in that dip under the gorse-bushes. I hope he will not beg." She had scarcely spoken the words when a huge form rose before them, and stood in the narrow track between the heather and gorse, filling up the path. "You are Squire Falconer's lass, ain't you?" he said, defiantly. "Yes," Gilbert answered, "yes; this is Miss Falconer, of Fair Acres. How long are you going to stand there and prevent us from passing you?" "Till I've settled my score. Your gov'nor was hard on me t'other day; he tried to get me sent to gaol. I'll smash his head for 'im next time I come across 'im, sure as my name is Bob Priday!" The broad, Somersetshire lingo made the man all but unintelligible to Gilbert; but Joyce understood him well enough. "Ye hand me out a guinea, now, or a trinket, and I'll let bygones be bygones, specially"--with a horrid leer--"if you'll give me a kiss with 'em; eh?" In a moment Gilbert had sprung over the bushes which hedged in the track on either side, and had his hand on the man's throat. "Let this young lady pass, you villain!" he said, shaking the huge form, who, taken unawares, had very little power of resistance. "Let her pass." There is always something in a brave, strong, young spirit which is too much for the brute force of an untutored giant like Bob Priday. He staggered and fell back, Gilbert's hand being still at his throat. Joyce, pale and trembling, did not lose her self-control. "Please let me pass," she said; "I have no money to give you, and if I had it would not be right to bribe you. My father only did his duty on the bench that day. You were guilty, and you know it; you got off unpunished, and you should be thankful, and try to lead a better life." There was something wonderfully grand in the way Joyce spoke, though her face was white with girlish fear, and her lips quivered, her voice did not falter as she appealed to the huge man who might, she knew, shake off Gilbert's restraining hand, and spring on her at any moment. "Let me pass," she said, "and this gentleman will----" At this moment a woman's voice was heard, and a girl with a red handkerchief on her head, with an effort at respectable attire in her short, blue cotton frock, and large, thick boots, came over the tangled mass of heath and ling, and cried: "Father! What are you about now, father?" "You mind your own business, you hussy, and leave me alone." "Oh, father!" the girl said, passionately, "I wish you would be good. Think how mother used to pray for you! Oh, dear lady," the girl said, bursting into tears, "I am heart-broken about father. Please, sir, let him go." "Let me go!" said the giant, with a loud, discordant laugh; "I'll see about that." Then, with a mighty effort, he hurled Gilbert from him, and before he could recover his feet, he had seized Joyce's arm. "Give me the money, or I'll be even with your father; curse him!" But the girl threw herself on her father and held him back, while Gilbert, stunned and bewildered by the force with which he had been hurled over the heather, staggered to his feet again, and, with a well-aimed blow at the back of the man's head, laid him sprawling on the path. "Oh! I hope he is not hurt!" Joyce exclaimed involuntarily, as the huge form lay motionless; the girl leaning over him. "He is not hurt," Gilbert said, "any more than he has hurt me; it was in self-defence," he added. "Father, father!" moaned the girl. "Oh, sir! oh, miss! I don't know what to do!" "Hold your tongue, and let me get up and at him again," growled the man, struggling to sit upright. But his daughter had the advantage, and seated herself on her father's chest, saying to Gilbert, "I'll keep him quiet till you are out of sight, sir; I will indeed. I know you were driven to do it," she said. "Father is always fighting; but, oh! sir, we have a hard time of it. There is no work for the men and boys, and if it were not for the good lady's schools, and the help she gives, I don't know what would become of us. Many were starving last winter, and of course it is kind of hard, to know rich folks have plenty and we are starving. Mother died last fall; and though Mrs. More sent her physic, and the schoolmistress broth, she could not stand up against the fever, and trouble about poor father and Jim, and Dick, and the baby." Joyce's eyes filled with tears. "What is to be done?" she said, helplessly; "what can be done?" "I don't know, miss; I don't know. There's plenty of the ore left, but it is no use working it, there's no market for it. Mrs. More teaches us to pray to God and try to trust Him, but He does not seem to hear or help. I have been in service, and could get a place again at a Farm at Publow, through Mrs. More, but since mother is gone, there is none to look after baby. I do love the baby!" "How long are you going to jaw like this, Sue? Let me get up and settle the question; if not now, I _will_ settle it at last." "Come away," Gilbert said, putting his hand on Joyce's arm; "we can do no good. It is getting so dark. Do come!" He put his hand to his head, for he still felt dazed and giddy with his fall. "Tell me your name," Joyce said, "and where I should find you." "Susan Priday, Mendip Mines, that's my name, miss." "I am going to see Mrs. More soon, and I will tell her about you," Joyce said, in a low tone; "and do believe I am sorry for you. How old are you?" "Eighteen come Christmas," the girl said, looking up into Joyce's beautiful face with undisguised admiration. "Just my age," Joyce said. "Oh, I should like to make you happy! How old is the baby?" "Born when mother died--just nine months old; he is so pretty, he is!" Joyce had seldom, if ever, spoken familiarly to any of the girls about the country side before. Mrs. Falconer had her views on the subject, and the "miner folks" were her especial aversion, while Mrs. More's attempts to civilise them were met with derision and scorn. The gulf set between her and her household of respectable maids, and the rough, half-clothed miner's families, was in her eyes impassable! What was the use of trying to reclaim those who preferred their own rough and evil ways? They ought to be well punished for raids made on farm yards, and snares set in copses and plantations; but to teach them to read, and talk to them about their duty to God and their neighbour, was in Mrs. Falconer's eyes worse than lost labour; it did harm rather than good. And not only by Mrs. Falconer was this view of the unclothed and unwashed masses taken! In our days of widely spread and organised charities, and zeal, sometimes I fear hardly tempered with wisdom, it is difficult to throw ourselves back to the beginning of the century now drawing to its close, when efforts like those of the four sisters of the Mendips, of whom Hannah was the leading spirit, were met with scoffs and disapproval; or deep compassion, that educated women could be so misguided, as to wish to teach the boys and girls of their district, anything but to use their legs and arms in the service of their betters! As I stood by the heavy stone in Wrington churchyard, in the gloom of an autumn afternoon, where the names of the four sisters are inscribed, I could but think of the gratitude we ought to feel to them for their brave efforts to spread the knowledge of the religion of Christ amongst the poor of those 'rolling hills' and peaceful valleys of Somersetshire. It must have been hard for a woman of culture like Hannah More to be met by opposition, and in some cases fierce denunciation; harder still to be smiled at by those in high places, as a fanatic and a visionary. But turning from the ugly, weather-worn stone, enclosed in high rusty railings, to the beautiful church, where what light there was yet in the sky, came through the many-coloured window lately erected to Hannah More's memory, I thought, that as nothing that is good and beautiful, coming from the Fountain of all beauty and all goodness, can ever die, so the light which Hannah More kindled in many humble hearts was still shining in the eternal kingdom, where those that have lived as in the presence of the Son of God here, shine as the stars for ever in their Heavenly Father's realm. That touch of Nature which makes the whole world kin brought the two girls near to each other, as Joyce laid her hand upon Susan's, and said: "I am very sorry for you; I shall not forget you;" then added, looking down on the prostrate form which Susan had so determinedly kept from doing further mischief: "I am sorry for you, too; it must be hard to want bread--but, but--do try to be good and find work." "Find work, find work! If that's all you can say you'd better hold your tongue." But though the words were rough the tones grew less fierce, and Susan, finding her restraint was no longer needed, stood up and watched Gilbert Arundel and Joyce pursue the narrow track across the heather till they were lost in the shadows of the gathering twilight. "Do you know your way?" Gilbert asked. "I think I do," Joyce answered; "our shepherd's cottage is on the next ridge, and when we get there we can see our own valley and the tower of the church." "Are you very tired?" Gilbert asked again. "Not very; but I cannot help trembling; it is so silly. Do tell me if that man hurt you." "He gave me a good shaking. What a giant he is! I felt as your Nip or Pip might feel in Duke's clutches if he were angry." "What a comfort we had not Charlotte with us, and that the boys had gone on so far! I hope they will not be very anxious at home." They made but slow progress. Joyce's usually swift, elastic steps were slow and faltering. She took several wrong paths, and they came once to a steep dip in the heather, and were within a few inches of one of those rocky pits which are frequent on the face of the level country about Cheddar and the neighbouring district. Indeed Cheddar itself begins with one of these small defiles, when entered from the top of the Mendip, and the gradually increasing height of the rocks, and the widening of the gorge as the road winds through it, is one of its most striking features. Joyce was so wholly unaccustomed to feel tired and unnerved, that she surprised herself, as well as Gilbert, by sitting down helplessly, and bursting into tears. "Oh! we should have been killed if we had fallen down there. Won't you leave me, and go on to the shepherd's cottage? What can be the matter with me?" she said, sobbing hysterically. Gilbert hardly knew whether distress at her condition, or delight in having her all to himself to comfort, predominated. "Do not be frightened,' he said; we shall get on very well if you will let me carry you." "Oh! no, no," she said, trying to spring up with her accustomed energy. "I will push on again." But although she summoned all her courage, she was obliged to let Gilbert put his arm round her and support her, and finally she was lifted in his strong arms and carried whether she wished it or not. "I shall tire you so dreadfully," Joyce whispered. "If you do, it is the sweetest tiredness I ever knew; you know that, Joyce." Then they went on in silence. Gilbert was still suffering from the treatment he had received at Bob Priday's hands, and they made slow progress. "Just raise your head," he said, after ten minutes' tramp through the narrow track, which he lost at times through the thick tangle of heath and gorse and low-growing bracken. "Raise your head and tell me if you can see the shepherd's cottage. It is getting very dark." Joyce did as he told her, but, after straining her eyes for a few moments, she said: "I can't see anything, it is so dark. I don't know where we are. Oh, I don't know!" "You are safe with me," Gilbert said; and then added, fervently: "I am not afraid for God is with us." It was so unusual for Joyce to hear that Name spoken. She did not respond, but let her head fall upon his shoulder again. Presently he said: "There is a tiny light now--two lights--they must be in the shepherd's cottage. Take heart, my darling. We shall soon be home." The word had slipped from his lips unawares. "I am going away early to-morrow. You will not forget me?" Once more she raised her face, and in the dim light he saw her beautiful eyes gazing at him with an expression which was half wonder and half joy. But she said, simply: "No, I will never forget you." The light was close to them now, and there was a sound of men's feet drawing nearer and then Duke came bounding up. With a cry of "Father! father!" Joyce struggled to her feet, and threw herself into her father's arms. "Why, Joyce, my Sunshine, where have you been? We have been very anxious, your mother on thorns, and poor Piers imagining all kinds of disasters. Why did you not keep up with the boys? They had been at home an hour before I started. What has happened sir?" the squire said, turning a little sharply on Gilbert Arundel. "It is too long a story to tell now, sir," Gilbert said. "Miss Falconer and I fell into bad hands, and we may thank God nothing worse has happened." "Some of the miners, eh?" "One of them, sir, who is a host in himself; he blocked our way, and threatened us; but I would rather not go over it all now. She is so overwrought, though she has been so splendidly brave." "Oh! father, dearest dad! take me home," Joyce said. "Is it far; is it far?" "Some two miles, my Sunshine; but I can carry you. Now for it, be brave, my sweet one, and we shall soon be home. Now, then, Sam and Thomas, march on." "I think I can walk, father now," Joyce said; "and here is Duke, dear Duke!" "Why, of course, I brought Duke. He is cleverer at finding his way than I am. He soon snuffed you out, good old fellow." The two other men now turned towards home, with the big lanthorns in their hands, which served for guiding stars. Duke paced slowly between the men, and his master and young mistress, and Gilbert brought up the rear. The lights of the village were a welcome sight, and the hall door of Fair Acres was open as they came up the road, showing a group of dark, expectant figures, thrown out by the blaze of a wood fire. "The mistress has lit a fire that we might have a welcome; that is like her wisdom," the squire said. "A few tallow candles would not have been half as cheerful." "Here we are; here we are!" the squire called out; and then there was a rush of boyish feet, and a great chorus of rejoicing, and a host of questions. "We have been so anxious, _dying_ of anxiety," exclaimed Charlotte, thinking it necessary to begin to cry. "What fools you were to walk over that rough, lonely country," Melville said. While Piers could only hover round Joyce, who, seated on a bench or old-fashioned settle by the side of the wide open hearth, held her mother in a tight embrace. "The boys ought never to have left you," Piers said. "How could Mr. Arundel find the way?" "Joyce knew it," said Bunny. "Joyce knew it. We have been over that track several times." "Yes," echoed Harry, "several times; only Joyce and Mr. Arundel were talking so much, they never thought where they were going." "'All's well that ends well,'" said the squire. "She had better go to bed, my dear; and this young gentleman looks white enough. You must get him a good hot glass of negus; and I hope supper is ready; but take the poor child to bed first." Mrs. Falconer had not said much beyond a few words in Joyce's ear, which no one else heard. Her usual vivacity and quick, sharp words seemed to have suddenly failed her. "Yes; I'll take her to bed, and there she will have to lie all to-morrow, I expect. It's the last time I'll allow her to separate from the rest of us, when we are out on an excursion. Order the supper in, boys; and Melville, look after your friend; he is as white as a ghost; perhaps he has seen one!" The tone was a little bitter and satirical. Mrs. Falconer resented the hours' keen anxiety she had endured, and was inclined to lay the fault on Gilbert. He certainly did look exhausted, and leaned back with his head against the wall, over which a large stag's head with spreading antlers gazed down upon him with liquid, meaningless eyes. "Mother," Joyce said, as, with her brother's arm round her, she rose to go upstairs; "mother, Mr. Arundel was so very brave; he was thrown down by that dreadful man and nearly stunned; he carried me till we met father; he was--he was--so good to me. Do pray thank him." Then disengaging herself from her mother's grasp, Joyce tottered across to the old oak chair, on which Gilbert had sunk. "Good-night, and good-bye," she said; "and don't think them ungrateful. Good-bye." He stood upright, and took one of her hands in his, raised it reverently to his lips; and so they parted. He was off the next morning early to catch the coach at Wells. Not this time in a post-chaise with scarlet-clad post-boy, but driven by the squire himself, in a high gig, his portmanteau strapped behind. Melville roused himself to come down in a magnificent flowered dressing-gown, to see him off; and the boys were all there. Just as the gig was starting, Mrs. Falconer appeared. It was unusual for her to be later than her household, but she had a good reason, for Joyce had passed a restless night, and she had not liked to leave her. She was asleep now, she said, and a day's rest would restore her. "I hope we shall see you here again," Mrs. Falconer added, "before long. But you won't be trusted on the Mendips again, I can tell you!" "Let bygones be bygones, that's my motto," said the squire, as the gig went swinging out through the white gates near the house, and turned into the road which led through the village. "And 'all's well that ends well,'" Gilbert said, as he waved his hat in token of farewell. That evening, when the squire and his wife were alone together, Mrs. Falconer said: "Did Mr. Arundel say anything to you as he drove into Wells?" "Say!" exclaimed the squire. "Well, he is not dumb. He said his head ached, for one thing." "Ah!" said Mrs. Falconer; "he did not say any thing about his heart?" The squire puffed a little smoke from his long clay pipe; for he indulged in a pipe sometimes, though the amount of tobacco consumed in the present day would have amazed him, and shocked him also, had he known that the greatest smokers were the young men and boys, to whom, sixty years ago, smoking was forbidden. He did not seem inclined to say anything in reply to his wife's last question. "Because," said Mrs. Falconer, with that far-seeing and oracular wisdom in which men hope in vain to rival us in these matters, at least; "because I believe Gilbert Arundel is in love with our Joyce." "Well," said the squire, "that would be no wonder to me; but I daresay it is only one of your fancies, Kate." "We shall see; we shall see," said Mrs. Falconer. "I only hope he has not trifled with my child, and that my 'fancies,' as you call them, _are_ fancies, that is all." CHAPTER VII. ON SION HILL, CLIFTON. Gilbert Arundel was to meet his mother in Clifton, where arrangements were to be made for their permanent residence there. Clifton was at this time gradually changing its position, or rather enlarging its borders! At the close of the preceding century, or during the latter half of it, Clifton Spa was the chief attraction. To these healing waters, as we know by Mason's celebrated epitaph, a sorrowing husband brought his fading wife. Dowry Square and Dowry Parade, with their little quaint pillars and balconies were in great request for invalids and visitors, from their near neighbourhood to the pump room. Consumptive patients might be seen slowly walking under the row of trees by the banks of the muddy Avon, and gazing across at the deep recesses of the Leigh Woods with wistful eyes. To the weak and the ailing Nightingale Valley was then, though so near, very far off for them, and only the robust and vigorous could cross the river by Rownham Ferry, and scale the wooded heights which at all times and in all seasons are so fair to look upon. But at the time of which I write the tide of visitors was setting in _upwards_. The word "relaxing" was coming into fashion, and enterprising builders had raised, halfway up the hill, Windsor Terrace and the Paragon, that circular range of houses which, entered from the level road before Prince's Buildings, ends abruptly in a house which may indeed be said to "be built upon a rock," the windows looking straight down its precipitous sides. Along the road which I have mentioned, which follows the course of the river, though high above it, was erected 'Prince's Buildings;' the 'first gentleman in Europe' during his long regency appears to have supplied the names of many streets and terraces in this neighbourhood. Coronation Road beneath commemorates the auspicious event when Queen Caroline was shut out from her rights, and Prince's Buildings above was also previously named in his honour. Crescents and terraces were quick to follow one another on the heights, and the glories of the Hot wells, and the salubrity of the waters, became things of the past. Bracing air began to be the panacea for ailments, and the Clifton Downs, now secured to the citizens of Bristol by the merchant venturers for ever, were sought by many who, a few years before, would have buried themselves and their hopes of recovery under the shadow of the rocky heights, instead of facing the keen air upon their summit. There was a medium preserved, however--Prince's Buildings, and the houses built on the slope of Sion Hill, were sheltered at the back and from the front commanded a view of the Leigh Woods before them, and a shoulder of the great St. Vincent Rock to their right, which might well excite the admiration of those who saw it for the first time. After Gilbert Arundel had stepped less briskly than sometimes up the steep slope of Granby Hill, leaving the Crescent to his right, he passed along the back of Prince's Buildings and up Sion Hill, where his mother had taken up her temporary abode. These houses are built with old-fashioned bow windows, some of them running up from the basement to the roof, and one or two with circular balconies on the second story. As Gilbert was beginning to consider which number his mother had given as her address, he heard his name called from above, and looking up, a tall, fashionably dressed young lady said: "Gilbert, we thought you were never coming from Fair Acres. There must have been some great attraction." [Illustration: St Vincent's Rock, From Leigh Woods.] Gilbert did not care to have his personal history proclaimed to the people who were seated on benches at the top of the Zig-zag--a path now cut in the rock and made easier of ascent by means of flights of steps, but then scarcely more than a bridle path, rough and slippery to the feet. The door was open and Gilbert walked in, and walked upstairs. His mother was on the watch, and came to the head of the stairs to meet him, kissing him affectionately. "Well, my dear son, are you pleased with our quarters? But, Gilbert, you do not look well; what is the matter?" "Nothing; I had a tussle with a Somersetshire miner last evening, and feel as if I had got the worst of it to-day. What a lovely view you have from the window!" The young lady who had spoken to him on the balcony now stepped into the room. "Well, Gilbert, Aunt Annabella and I had quite given you up. My dear cousin, you look very lugubrious." "Do I?" Gilbert replied. "A head-ache is a lugubrious thing; and how are you, Gratian?" "Pretty well. I have been rather out of sorts; but I shall soon recover, now you are come." "That is a very pretty speech, Gratian, only I can't quite believe it." "Well, I am going to take a walk abroad now, and leave you and your mother to have a chat together, all about Fairy Acre, or Fair Acre; which is it? I am very stupid; pray forgive me. Any commissions in the Mall or Regent Street, Aunt Bella?" Mrs. Arundel, who had been getting her son some refreshment from one of the deep cupboards by the fire place, and was anxious to administer a glass of wine, now turned towards her niece. "No. Are you going alone, Gratian?" "Yes, I am starting alone; I don't mean to fall over the rocks. Good-bye." Gratian Anson was long past her _première jeunesse_, and had never been actually pretty; but she was one of those women who exercise an extraordinary fascination apparently without any effort, and have their prey in their net, before there is any suspicion that the net is spread. Gratian dressed fashionably, and one of her perfections was a tall and well-proportioned figure. We might not, now-a-days, think it was set off by her short and full-flounced muslin gown, made with a short waist, the body cut low, while over it she wore an enormous pelerine of muslin, edged with lace, which was crossed ever her breast and fastened with a curious antique brooch. Even Gratian's tall figure could scarcely bear gracefully the width which fashion had decreed; and all was surmounted by a hat with a sugar-loaf crown, and a deep brim caught up on the left side by a large red rosette. As she drew on her long, loose gloves, she surveyed her cousin with an appraising, searching glance. Her eyes were at all times too keen, and her wide mouth displayed a row of white teeth more fully than was quite agreeable. "Ah!" she said, tapping Gilbert's shoulder; "ah! he is in love. I have no doubt of it! _Adieu; au revoir, cher cousin!_" "The same as ever!" Gilbert said. "Thank you, dear mother," he said, rising with his accustomed courtesy to take the glass of wine from her hand. "Thanks. I confess I am rather knocked up; and if I had known Sion Hill was so far from the Bristol coach office I should have come up in a hackney, I think, instead of sending my luggage by the carrier. But how beautiful this is!" he said, stepping on the balcony and looking out upon the scene before him. No piers had yet been raised for the great design of the Suspension Bridge--that vast dream of Brunel's, which for so many years seemed fated to remain only a dream; while the naked buttresses, in all their huge proportions, stood like giants on either side of the gorge, connected only by a rod of iron, over which a few people with strong nerves were allowed to pass in a sliding basket. Gilbert looked out on a scene which can hardly be equalled for the unusual beauty of its salient points. "We shall be happy to live here, mother," Gilbert said. "You have no misgivings, my dear son." "No, it is clear I must make my living in some practical way, and why not by the law?" "There is the drudgery of the office first, and then the passing of examinations." "I have weighed all the pros and cons with you before; why do you go over them again?" This was said in an irritable tone. "I would as soon be a man of law as anything; and I want to make a home"--he paused--"for _you_, and for one whom I have found under the Mendips." His mother had seated herself by his side, on a bench which stood in the verandah or balcony. "It can't be thought of yet," he said; "she is Falconer's sister! He never told me he had a sister, or, rather, I should say, _such_ a sister. How should he be able to see what she is? I don't want to talk sentiment, mother, but I will say I did not know how beautiful and simple hearted she was, and how her beauty was supreme with no fine dress, till I saw Gratian just now." His mother laid her hand on his. "What is her name, Gilbert?" "Joyce: it suits her as no other name could. Joyce!" he repeated. "Joy, Sunshine, Birdie; they call her all these names at Fair Acres. Some day, when we are settled at Bristol, will you ask her to visit you, mother? and when you see her you will love her." "I shall love her for your sake," his mother said, gently. They had been all in all to each other for twenty-three years; and though Mrs. Arundel had told herself a hundred times that she desired nothing so much for Gilbert as the love of a true hearted woman, still she was conscious of a little thrill of pain; for she must, in the natural course of things, be _second_ now. "I could not describe her if I tried," he went on, with lover-like enthusiasm. "Then there is such strength in her as well as sweetness. Last night we were attacked by a ruffian whom her father, who is a magistrate, had offended, and her presence of mind and calmness were wonderful. The man knocked me down, and I returned the compliment, which is the cause of my stupidity to-day." His mother scanned his face anxiously. "Have you told her of your love?" "Not formally; but I feel she must know it." "One word more, Gilbert, has she the _real_ spring of all beauty and goodness within. Has she chosen the right path, following her Master?" Gilbert was silent for a minute. "It is not a religious household," he said. "They have no prayers, except on Sundays. It is a miserable church, with an old drone of a parson, who gallops through the service; but, I think, Joyce is ready to follow, if led in the right way." "And you are strong enough to lead, Gilbert?" "I hope so," he said earnestly; and then mother and son were silent for a few minutes. Afterwards they began to speak of Melville, and all the past, in which Gilbert had borne such a noble part. "I have separated him from Maythorne, and at least that is a step in the right direction; but he is so weak. How he came to be her brother, I can't imagine; he is crazed on the subject of titles, and will roll off a list of intimate friends, when he thinks I am not listening, to whom he never spoke ten words in his life. I dined at the palace, and the bishop sent you his love, and so did his son, who lives with him--two courteous gentlemen, with well-turned compliments at their tongue's end. The bishop said I was like you, and that I had followed in the lines of one of the most beautiful women he ever met." "What bare-faced flattery!" Mrs. Arundel said, laughing. "I never was a beauty. Your good looks come from the other side of the house." "Who is flattering now?" Gilbert asked; "but seriously, mother, you shall accept an invitation to the Wells Palace, you must promise to do so. The bishop said something about November, if you did not mind the falling leaves." "I shall wait till I am asked," Mrs. Arundel said. "If his lordship has buried me in the dust of years--out of sight and out of mind--I don't see why he should unearth me now." "And yet you sent your son to call you to mind; now that is unfair, mother. You urged me to go to the Palace at Wells, and now you won't take advantage of what is growing out of it. But to go back to Falconer; a stout, middle-aged gentleman, of small means and weak chest, wants to travel for a year. The bishop suggested Mr. Falconer should give him his son to lead about, as he had previously washed several black sheep to a very fair whiteness, paying expenses, but no further remuneration. If Melville can be got off under such auspices, it will be a grand step in the right direction. Poor fellow! he has got into his head the absolute necessity of seeing the world, and I, who know him pretty well, think that there would be less danger of mischief if he were allowed to follow his bent, than if he were to be forced to follow the pursuits of a country life at Fair Acres, which he thinks it grand to despise. He talks with amazing coolness of all he shall do when he _does_ come, and till he has learned a lesson, he would be a frightful nuisance to them all. The airs he gives himself to the poor old steward are preposterous; but the worst thing about him is the way he speaks to his mother." "What is she like?" "She is a very good woman, rather priding herself on setting aside all conventionality, and bustling about the house, and keeping everyone up to their duty but her son! Is it not extraordinary? She has ruined him with stupid indulgence, and yet she is strict enough with the rest--even with----" "Joyce!" His mother supplied the word with a smile. "Yes, even with Joyce," he rejoined; but starting up, with an exclamation of dismay: "Did you know Maythorne was in Clifton, mother?" Mrs. Arundel followed the direction of her son's eyes, and there on the broken, uneven slopes which lay before Sion Hill, came Gratian, chatting gaily to a man of some six-and-thirty or forty, who answered very well to the description a poet gave some years after of "the dandy despot, the jewelled mass of millinery, oiled and curled, and smelling of musk and insolence." "I am very sorry he has come to Clifton," Mrs. Arundel said quickly. "I suppose he is at the hotel." "Gratian looks satisfied. I hope I shan't get very savage with him, mother. When we last parted it was the night when I--but I need not talk about it--he got that weak, foolish boy into his hands, and I helped to get him out, so he bears me a grudge." "Never mind that, my dear son; and, Gilbert, remember an old watchword: 'He that ruleth his spirit is greater than he that taketh a city.'" "I know I do flare out at Maythorne sometimes; but then was there not a cause?" "Ah! Gilbert, there is never a cause or an excuse for wrath indulged; indignation against _wrong_ is one thing, rage against the wrong-doer another." And now steps were heard in the hall, and Gratian's laugh. She threw open the door and said in a half-mocking tone: "My Lord Maythorne." Mrs. Arundel advanced to meet her brother, and greeted him kindly, but with no profession of extreme delight. "Well, my dear sister," Lord Maythorne said, "I have taken Clifton _en route_ to Plymouth, and wandering aimlessly on the Downs I met your fair visitor, my kinswoman, Gratian. What a quaint little snuggery you have got, Annabella, upon my word; and Gratian tells me my hopeful nephew is here, looking after his future prospects, eh? A little Methodism mixed with law, eh?" And Lord Maythorne produced an elegant gold snuff-box, tapped the lid, and took a delicate pinch between his forefinger and thumb, in the most approved fashion of the time. "Ha! Gilbert, how do? Where is your cub, that you were leading about with such good intentions. Have you brought him to introduce to your mother, eh?" Waiting for no answer, and just touching Gilbert's hand with his finger tips, he went on: "Have you dined, Annabella?" "Long ago; we keep early hours." "Well then, I'll return to my hotel to dine, and Gilbert shall accompany me." "No thank you," Gilbert said, "I shall sup with my mother, and go early to bed." "You had better accept the invitation, Gilbert. Our supper will not be very recherché," Gratian said; "we do not sit down to a royal feast here, we live above such vanities." "I dare say he will not be fastidious after his farmhouse life," said Lord Maythorne, scornfully. "How was your charge; is he walking without leading strings yet?" Gilbert bit his lip and struggled for composure; but his mother watched him anxiously. Lord Maythorne's irony was hard for her to bear sometimes, and she never knew how Gilbert would take it. "My dear boy, there is a wise proverb which in English sounds a little harsh, scarcely courteous; in French it is less abrupt: _'Chargez de vos affaires.'_ There are other renderings: 'Don't put your fingers into other people's pies.'" Poor Gilbert sprang forward and raising his voice said: "I will not submit to your impertinence. What right have you to treat me like this? I saw you, a man almost double my age--" "Gently, gently my dear boy, not _double_; nay, nay--" "I say, I saw you trying to ruin a poor, weak fellow, who, weak as he was, trusted you, and I tried to save him. I wonder you are not ashamed to speak thus; you are--" The fierce torrent of angry words suddenly stopped. His mother laid her hand upon his arm, and with a great effort he regained his composure. "I beg your pardon, mother, for brawling here, in your presence, and in yours, Gratian, also; it is very unseemly." A mocking laugh from Lord Maythorne was his only response, and Gratian left the room saying: "Adieu! I hope to find you in a better temper at supper, Gilbert," which was scarcely less irritating. Gilbert followed her, and left his mother and her brother together. Lord Maythorne was an utterly selfish man of the world; he was the son of his father's second marriage, and therefore much younger than Mrs. Arundel. He was of the type very common in those days, of an openly avowed scoffer at all that was good. Handsome, and with gentleman-like manners when it suited him, he was unscrupulous as to truth, and could send the shafts of his satire, dipped in gall, with a smiling face of indifference. He took a strange pleasure in entrapping the weak and the foolish, and as we know, poor Melville Falconer had not escaped. Gilbert had been roused to indignation against his uncle, and pity for his victim, and he had done his best to open Melville's eyes, and had not altogether failed. The straightforward manliness of Gilbert had an attraction for many besides Melville, and without any pretension or assumption of superiority, or many words about religion, he showed the Power that was in him was sufficient for him. His hot temper was governed, and a torrent of angry words was often checked; while he did his best to trample out the dislike it was impossible not to feel for his uncle. When Mrs. Arundel was left alone with her brother, he threw himself carelessly on a sofa, and again drew out his snuff-box. "So you have quite decided on the law for that boy," he said. "Yes; this seems a good beginning here, and I have been able to article him to a most respectable firm of solicitors." "They are a dirty lot generally; however, I am glad that young fellow is really going to earn his living, and make his own way in the world. It would be a pity if he trusted to us." "It is very unlikely he would trust to you," Mrs. Arundel said. "It would be leaning on a broken reed, you think; well, I will not contradict you, Annabella. In fact, I am a little short of cash, ready cash, just now. I suppose you do not happen to have a hundred pounds you don't know what to do with?" "Certainly not; I cannot imagine, Maythorne, how you can think of such a thing." "Well, I know you send a lot to convert the niggers and Hindoos, and that you subscribe to a society for the flinging about of Bibles, which no one reads." "Stop, please, Maythorne; I could not listen to any more conversation like this; I will not take part in it. I can lend you no money; but once more, for our father's sake, I cannot help begging, entreating you to turn from the ways of sin." "No cant, please, Annabella; it makes me savage, and I don't want to affront you." "I do not care whether you are affronted or not," Mrs. Arundel said, earnestly. "I cannot help feeling that we are of the same blood, and that if you were a worthy successor of my father you might be a joy and support to me. Instead of this, I have to try to keep my son from your influence, and dread that even by hearing your irreverent way of treating sacred things, he may grow accustomed to what is wrong. Oh! it is not too late; you are still a young man, still in your prime; let me entreat you to break off the chains which bind you, or rather, turn to God to free you from the bondage of sin--the _slavery_ of sin--for it is slavery, Maythorne." "I am very much obliged to you, Annabella, for your kindly interest, but I rather prefer deeds to words. Maythornes is pretty well stripped of trees now, and I have all but exhausted the possibility of raising money on it; but _laisser aller_ is my motto, and I am not the one to mourn over a dark, old-fashioned house, and lands which yield no produce; if possible, I shall cut the whole concern. Well, ta-ta, till to-morrow. I have promised to hire horses and trot out Gratian over the Downs." Mrs. Arundel felt that to say anything more would be worse than useless, and yet, as she watched her brother lounge across the road and stand on the slope looking over the river, her eyes filled with tears. "To think what he _might_ have been. May God guard my boy from men like him." Gilbert had gone quickly away from Sion Hill, and found himself on the lower Downs--then not skirted by handsome houses, but with glades and grassy slopes covered with hawthorn bushes, whitened in May-time with blossoms like snow, and covered in autumn with feathery masses of the wild clematis, or traveller's joy. Gilbert found the place suited his mood, and he gave himself up to thoughts of Joyce, and forgot the late encounter with his uncle. How delightful it was to build castles for the future--to think of a home near all this loveliness, where Joyce would reign in all her sweet beauty as his wife. The time had been when Gilbert had admired his cousin Gratian Anson, who was the daughter of his mother's aunt, and therefore his cousin only in the second degree. Now her free, bold bearing, her ringing voice, her fashionable dress and banter, jarred on him. Her laugh was like the rattle of a noisy brook over innumerable stones, when compared to Joyce's musical ripple, which was so real, and so entirely the outcome of her own happiness. Then how charming was her unconsciousness, and how her beauty was enhanced by the absence of all affectation; how pretty was her affection for her father and Piers, and how gracefully and simply she did all the little household duties which her mother expected from her! Some words of a favourite poet of his mother's recurred to him, as he pictured Joyce in her little, short, lilac frock, with an apron, as he had seen her one morning, and her round white arms bare, as she came out of the dairy, and said she had made up twenty pats of butter while he had been asleep. Surely George Herbert's words were verified. The action was made fine by the spirit, which was done as a loving token of obedience to the will of another. "Mother wished me to do it, so I got up an hour earlier," she had said, as she cut a slice from one of the rolls made for breakfast and offered it to him, spread with the butter she had made, with a cup of milk, before it had been skimmed. Dreams of first love are very sweet; and Gilbert wondered if he had been wise to leave Fair Acres without getting a definite answer from Joyce herself. Honourable and straightforward, he determined not to return to Fair Acres unless prepared to ask her father's permission to lay all he had at her feet. He was conscious that at present that _all_ did not imply much, and besides, he had his mother to think of, and he must not marry till he was really in a position to support a wife in that station of life to which he had been called. He could wait for seven years, like Jacob of old--waiting for Joyce was worth any sacrifice. But what if, when she emerged from her retirement and went to Barley Wood, some one else might set his heart on the prize and win it. Then he recalled her words, spoken in answer to his question as he carried her towards home the evening before: "No; I will not forget you." They seemed to possess a double meaning as he repeated them again and again, as he retraced his steps over the observatory towards Sion Hill. They were heard in the late voices of the thrushes in the woods across the river--those dark, mysterious Leigh woods which, in the dim and fading light, clothed the opposite heights with dim and motionless masses; they were heard in the call of the sailor boys from the full river below St. Vincent's Rock, on whose summit he stood; they seemed to wrap him round with a certainty that the giant rock, from which he looked over the fading landscape lying to his left, encircled by a line of hills, on which the fine tower of Dundry stood like a black sentinel against the clear sky, was not more steadfast than would Joyce's heart be, were it once given to him. There were then no railings to protect passers-by from approaching too near the edge of the precipice which falls sheer down from this point a distance of three hundred feet, and Gilbert was startled from his dream by a voice near: "You are perilously near the edge, unless you wish to go over!" He turned with a sudden gesture, and, to his surprise, saw Gratian. "I saw you wander over here from my window," she said. "Look! there are our houses, and I came to look after you." "That was very obliging," Gilbert said, a little satirically. "Now, don't be so high and mighty. I wish to be your friend, as I have always been, Gilbert. I was very sorry for you when you were so shamefully teazed by your young uncle; he does not like to be called _old_. I hope you noticed that." "Oh! it is over now. I had no right to get into a rage." "I think you had every right," Gratian said. "He is too provoking; worse, since he has been so much in London, and welcomed, so we hear, by some boon companions of His Majesty. But do not let us talk of him; let us talk of you. No; I don't choose to walk so near the edge of the rocks, if you do. Tell me about the people where you have been;--tell me about the place. Is it a fine house, or a nice big farm? Fair Acres is a pretty name, and are there no fair maidens as well as acres? Come, Gilbert, you were not always so cross to me." This was said with a gentle pressure on his arm. "I don't mean to be cross; but there is nothing at Fair Acres that would interest you. You know about poor Melville already." "I have heard of him," she said, "and of your taking upon yourself to reform him. Well, who are the others?" "There are two fine boys, who want to be sailors, but they are too old, I am afraid, for the navy; they are thirteen." "They--both thirteen!" "Yes, they are twins. Then there is a lame boy, Piers, a year younger. And oh, I forgot! a quiet, silent fellow, Ralph, he is sixteen." "And does the great Melville, come next to him?" "Two little girls died. But there is a daughter of seventeen." "Ah!" exclaimed Gratian; "I knew there was a daughter. Did I not tell you I knew you were in love? Tell me her name. Come! We are such old friends. Surely you might tell me." "Really, Gratian, I will tell you Miss Falconer's name if you so particularly wish to hear it. I--" "I will guess it. Let me see. I love my love with an A, because she is amiable, and I took her to the sign of the Archer, and fed her with apples, and her name is Angela. Not right? Well, I will go through the alphabet, and I must surely be right at last. I love my love with a B----." "Pray stop," Gilbert said. "I don't feel in a jesting mood, somehow." "Not ready to wear a cap and bells? Poor Gilbert. You feel more like sitting under a willow tree and singing 'Poor Mary Anne.'" "Which is our house?" Gilbert asked. "Not that one; not up the steps. But you shall not go in till you tell me her name." "She is called Joyce," Gilbert said, in despair. "Ah! then you allow there is only one _she_ for you in all the world, and _she_ is called Joyce." "Now, I do hope you are satisfied," Gilbert said. She laughed that loud, ringing laugh, as she ran upstairs before him. "Oh! of course I am satisfied," she said. [Illustration] CHAPTER VIII. BARLEY WOOD. Great preparations were made in the Vicar's Close at Wells for Charlotte's visit to Barley Wood. Her aunt gave her orders as to what she was to wear every day; how she was to be sure to make a proper curtsey at the door of the drawing-room when she entered Mrs. More's presence; that she was to play on the piano, and exhibit the screens she had just painted; and if Mrs. More admired them, she was to beg her to do her the favour to accept them. "Do not let Joyce commit herself by any rustic manners; you who have been carefully educated, my dear Charlotte, must try to do me credit, and give Joyce a hint--" "Joyce is so lovely!" Charlotte exclaimed, "it scarcely matters what she says, or wears." "My dear, Joyce has no _style_, and is given to express herself too freely; and, I _think_, her voice is sometimes pitched in too high a key. Yours is gentle and well modulated; now do me credit at Barley Wood, Charlotte; I have taken so much pains to form you on the model of a true gentlewoman; and you must remember how many girls would think it a great honour to pay a visit to Mrs. Hannah More." Charlotte promised to do her best; and when her uncle called to take her to the "Swan," where the four-wheel was waiting, she was in a flutter of excitement. Mr. Falconer greeted his sister in his usual frank kindly manner; and while Charlotte ran upstairs to get ready, Miss Falconer said: "I am glad to hear Melville is gone." The squire sighed. "Yes, he is gone, and his mother finds it hard to part from him." "Hard to part from him! Really, Arthur, when one considers how much anxiety he has caused, I wonder you should say that." "Ah! Letitia, that is all very well; but mothers' hearts are the same, whether their sons are good or bad. It seems to me that mothers generally love the children best, that give them the most trouble. However, the poor fellow is gone, bag and baggage. I went to Bath with him, and delivered him over to Mr. Crawford, a steady-going man he seems, and Melville will not have a chance of getting into mischief under his care, I hope. But it is an expensive matter. I had to put a hundred pounds into Crawford's keeping as a start; besides twenty I gave Melville." "You ought not to have given him more than five pounds," Miss Falconer said. "The whole management of Melville has been a mistake." "So you have told me before," said the squire. "My dear Letitia, single women always think they know a great deal about the affairs of married people, and, as experience is wanting, they commonly know nothing." "I have long since given up arguing the point with you, Arthur; however, let us say no more. I only hope that Melville may return a changed character, and then you will not regret this outlay for him. I only wish Joyce had some of the money spent on _her_." "Joyce!" the squire exclaimed--a smile breaking over his fine face; "Joyce! all the money in the world could not improve her. She is my joy and comfort. I half grudge letting her go to Barley Wood, even for a short visit." "You ought to be glad that she has had such an invitation; and, really, you have to thank me for it, Arthur. I take such a deep interest in Joyce. I have often tried to put before you what she needs, and now I have great hope that Mrs. More may suggest some plan for her." The squire began to feel very impatient; his sister's interest in his children was undoubted, but he did not want to have it perpetually brought before him. Miss Falconer had an unfortunate habit of sounding her own excellencies, especially with regard to her nieces and nephews. Then there were often little side hits at his wife; and it is always hard for a man like the squire, to be reminded that his sisters do not consider his wife their equal in the social scale, and the nearer the truth the less palatable is the assertion of it. "Is not Charlotte ready?" he exclaimed. "Joyce will be waiting at Draycot, where we are to pick her up. Thomas was to drive her there with her box, as he had an errand at Farmer Scott's." "In what did Joyce drive?" "In the gig; and Joyce likes to pay Mrs. Scott, who is a sad cripple, a visit sometimes, so it all fitted in very well. Come Charlotte, my dear," he said, turning to his niece. "We shall find the four-wheel at the 'Swan,' and I've the ostler at the Close gate waiting to take your luggage. Two boxes! Joyce only took one." "Charlotte was obliged to have a bonnet-box," her aunt said. "Her Tuscan bonnet would have been ruined with the dust if she had worn it." The squire was already in the little lobby, and, cutting short good-byes, he strode down the Close, while Charlotte ran back twice, to kiss her aunt and say in a tearful voice: "I cannot endure to leave you, sweet auntie." "Good-bye, my treasure, good-bye," Miss Falconer repeated again and again, and very genuine tears were on her own cheeks. They were a very demonstrative pair, and, as we should say in these days, "gushed" over each other, but real love did underlie the fanciful expression of it; and Miss Falconer looked on Charlotte with the pride that a modeller in plastic clay, looks upon the work of his hands, and remembers how carefully every detail has been wrought out, and how, in spite of a little flaw here and there, the result is satisfactory. Joyce was watching for her father at the door of Mr. Scott's farm, and came running down the garden between the lavender bushes and high shrub-fuschias, which were glowing scarlet in the sunshine. The squire waved his hand to the farmer's wife, who, crippled with rheumatism, could not leave her seat in the porch to come towards him. A farmboy lifted Joyce's box to the back seat, where she soon mounted with a quick, alert spring, and then, with a shilling handed to the boy, the squire drove off. Joyce's heart sank a little when they turned in at the gates of Barley Wood. "Are you coming in with us, father?" "No, no, my dear; I must get back as fast as I can. It is a good many miles for Mavis at a stretch." They drew up at the door, and an old servant answered the ringing of the bell, which Joyce had jumped down to pull by a handle, made of a deer's foot. The servant's face was not very pleasant, and a forbidding looking woman called out: "Company! yes, there's nothing but company. There's no rest from it." The boxes were taken down, and the squire, unwilling to prolong the parting, which he felt more keenly than he cared to own, waved his whip, and saying "Good bye, my Sunshine, good-bye," drove off. "This way," the woman said, passing across the hall and opening the door of a low, pretty room, sweet with that scent of rose leaves and lavender, which always belonged to the atmosphere of a country house long ago. It was an aroma in which many scents blended, with no very great strength--a fragrance which dwells in the memory amongst the pleasant things of early days. There was nothing very striking about Barley Wood; it was simply a pretty country residence--a place to live and die in. There was an air of tranquility about it, and an absence of anything like fashion or show, which was very refreshing. Miss Frowde rose to greet the two girls, and, saying that Mrs. More would see them after dinner, she led them to two rooms at the back of the house, near the servants' quarters. "The house will be full next week for the Bible meeting at Wrington, so we thought you would not object to these rooms. I hope you will be comfortable." The rooms opened out of each other, and were very plain in their furniture. Joyce, accustomed to her mother's scrupulous care about every little detail, noticed that the counterpane on her bed was a good deal rumpled, and there were rims of dust on the bosses of the old-fashioned round mirror. Evidently the servants at Barley Wood had not taken much trouble about the guests. Indeed, the shameful neglect of Mrs. More's servants, and their bad conduct, had even then been canvassed by outsiders, though the old lady herself was perfectly unconscious of it. The ingratitude of her servants, whom she had spoiled with such excessive indulgence, was a dark cloud over Hannah More's last days, and sent her forth at last, with all the weight of her years upon her, to seek a new home, and turn her back on Barley Wood for ever. The girls made a quick toilette and then went down, linked arm in arm, to the dining room, where Miss Frowde awaited them. The beautiful valley in which Wrington lies, stretched out before the windows, and the range of hills which enclosed it were shining in the full light of the July afternoon. Miss Frowde was not very conversational; she asked a few common-place questions, to which Joyce exerted herself to reply, but Charlotte took refuge in silence; she was far too much occupied with considering what impression she was making, to talk easily and naturally, as her cousin did. "I dare say you would like a turn in the grounds, after dinner," Miss Frowde said, "and I will inquire when dear Mrs. More would like to see you. It will only be one at a time; she is husbanding her strength for the Bible meeting, when seventeen or eighteen friends will dine here." Presently one of the maid servants came into the room. "Mrs. More wishes to see Miss _Fork_ner, and I was to say that the other might go into the village with you, Miss Frowde, if she pleased." "You had better go immediately," Miss Frowde said to Joyce. "Dear Mrs. More does not like to be kept waiting." Joyce rose at once and followed the maid to a small sitting room, where Mrs. More was seated in a deep armchair. A large table was near her, covered with books and papers, and a small fire burned upon the hearth. Joyce felt as if she were going into the presence of royalty, and far more in awe of Mrs. More, than she had done when offering her the milk at the carriage door, before Fair Acres. Indeed Hannah More had a certain queenly dignity about her, and the reflection of those palmy days when she was the admired of all admirers in the gay London world, the friend of Garrick and the great Dr. Johnson, did, in some degree, remain with her always. The spiritual life in which she had lived and moved for so many years, had lifted her far above the interests and pursuits which once she held to be the end and aim of life. Her religion was eminently practical, and to do good and to communicate was never forgotten. Nevertheless, the literary efforts which had made her famous, her brilliant conversation, her intellectual powers, had given her a certain tone and dignity, which while attractive, might yet be called the air of superiority, which in those days was conceded, to be as quite the proper attitude for any woman who had made herself a name. Now, in the great crowd of authors and craftswomen of the pen, it is hard for anyone to lift her head above her neighbours. A thing of the past indeed it is to remember how famous "the little Burney," as Dr. Johnson called her, became; how flattery was poured upon her, how no one dared to be jealous, because no one would dare to emulate her performances. To be great in London Society in Hannah More's early days, was to be great indeed. The author of "Percy" was presented with a laurel crown, the stems confined within an elegant ring, and Garrick himself read aloud the play to a select circle of admiring listeners! But though history repeats itself, and fashion ruled then as now, in literature as in other things, I think there was more honest and kindly appreciation of the work of others than we have now-a-days. The literary field was narrower, it is true, and therefore was not broken up into plots, each plot hedged in by various conceits--a barrier the uninitiated cannot pass. All flowers growing outside the barrier are called weeds; and if they are fragrant, they are pronounced sickly; if bright and vivid in colour, common. I may be wrong, but I think this self-sufficient, dogmatic criticism is very much on the increase, and that the little jealousies and rivalries amongst men and women who follow the same profession in art or literature grow more frequent. Tongue and pen are often both too sharp; and the superficial chatter about books and authors, pictures and music--both English and foreign--is too often passed as the real coin of the great realm of literature, when it is but a base imitation, stamped, it may be, on a showy surface with the same token, but utterly worthless when the first brilliancy is worn off. "Come, my dear Miss Falconer," was Mrs. More's greeting to Joyce; "come and sit near me, that we may have a pleasant chat. Tell me how you have sped since I saw you, and whether you have studied the Book I gave you." "Yes, madam," Joyce said, as she seated herself on a high Chippendale chair, the seat covered with fine cross-stitch, close to Mrs. More; "yes, madam, I have read all the passages you marked; and I had no notion before that the Bible was so beautiful." "Ah, my child, it is a deep mine; its treasures do not lie on the surface; and let me tell you that I, who have drunk of the waters at many springs, find in the Bible alone, the living fountain of water. Your aunt told me she was anxious as to your education; she thought you needed more than your good father found it convenient to give you." "Father has so many boys," Joyce said, "and, of course, boarding schools are very expensive. I have had to help mother a great deal at home, and I never wished to go to school. I think Aunt Letitia means by education accomplishments like Charlotte's, and I have none of them. But," Joyce went on, "I have a very clever brother, Ralph, and, when he is at home for the holidays, I write his Latin exercises, and he corrects them, and I can read French with him; and then I know a good deal of natural history--because my brother Piers is lame, and nothing amuses him like collections of birds, and moths, and insects." "Well," Hannah More said, smiling, "I think you have laid a very good foundation; upon this, as you grow older, you can build up many fair temples of knowledge, and I hope they will be ornamented by wisdom. You know my story, I dare say." Joyce hesitated, "I know you write plays and books. We have 'Christian Morals,' and 'Village Politics.' But----" "Oh," Hannah More said, "those are my published works. I was alluding to the story of my own life. I always like to bring it before the young, because I can say to them, I have tasted all the world can give, and found it vanity. My dear, if I were now depending on the favours of the great for happiness, or the showering upon me of the fame which my literary work brought me, where should I be? An old woman in her eightieth year, can no longer dine with bishops and princes of the land. She can take no part in routs, and theatres would be a weariness; but, thank God, and I beg you, my child, to mark this, I turned from those vanities to strive to serve the living God when I was in my heyday. And why? Because I felt them then to be _but_ vanity, often vexation of spirit, and the higher part of me loathed the false lustre of the gay world." Joyce listened attentively to every word Mrs. More said, and her young heart gave in its allegiance to the beautiful old lady who, in her own brilliant style, told her of the days of her youth, and of many little incidents connected with the names of distinguished men and women who had passed away. "I expected opposition," she said with a sigh, "but we were a fourfold band of sisters then, and we could meet a legion of objectors with a bright face. Now, I alone am left, and can no longer give personal care to the work. But I have kindled the spark, with God's help, and I do trust the light will shine over the hills of Somersetshire when I am laid in yonder churchyard. The Mendip miners give me the most uneasiness; they are so rough, and wild, and lawless." "Yes," Joyce said. "We, that is, Mr. Arundel and I, met the man who had been brought before the magistrates at Wells, and he knocked down Mr. Arundel, and----" "I heard of that. Poor Susan Priday, the man's daughter, has been a good girl, and has had a sad life indeed." "I felt so sorry for her," Joyce said, "and I should like to help her. She must be so unhappy with a bad father. If mother would let me, I should like to have her in the kitchen; but I know she would not allow it." Mrs. More smiled. "I suppose your good mother thinks the education in our school has spoiled Susan for service. "Mother is a good mistress," Joyce ventured to say, "and cares for the maids, as maids, but she has a notion that people who have to earn their bread, ought not to be able to read." "Ah! that is a notion many have shared with your mother. Why, when the great Edward Colston first proposed to begin the good work of education in Bristol, he was voted by the Mayor and Aldermen as a dangerous person, likely to turn the sons of the poor into vipers, who should sting the rich when once they were raised out of ignorance. All that feeling has passed away in Bristol, as it will pass away in time in the country districts. Edward Colston's name is held now in honour; his school sends out useful members of society year by year. Then there is Robert Raikes at Gloucester, how his work has taken root. So I comfort myself with thinking that before this century has counted out its last year, Hannah More's schools for the sons of the soil under Mendip, will have won their way humbly but steadily to swell the great tide of progress which is bearing us on its breast. It is a wonderful age!" she continued. "God has shown us marvellous things. Steam has become our servant, and its concentrated force seems likely to move kingdoms, and verify the prophecy that men shall go to and fro on the earth. Then in our cities coal-gas is captured, and turns night into day. Who shall say what hidden forces yet lie undiscovered, needing only the brain to conceive, and the hand of some Watt to demonstrate the power, lying concealed in the mysteries of God's natural kingdom. Who was with you on Mendip when the rough fellow attacked you?" "Mr. Arundel," Joyce said, in a low voice, the colour rising to her face. Hannah More smiled, and said: "Was he your _preux chevalier_?" Joyce blushed a still rosier red. "I don't understand," she said, simply. "Your devoted knight!" "Of course, how stupid; but I so seldom hear French spoken; and I expect Ralph and I have a strange pronunciation." "French pronunciation can only be acquired by much speaking; and now finish the story of your knight." "Oh, it was only that the man, Susan's father, was angry, and wanted to force me to give him money; and Mr. Arundel made him move out of the way, and then, of course, the man was furious, and hurled him down upon the heather and gorse. We had lost our way, and father had to come out with two men, and lanthorns to look for us." All the time Joyce was speaking she felt those dark eyes were fixed on her, and she hurried on to the end of her story. Hannah More was too keen an observer of faces not to read what was written on Joyce's; but she only stroked the fair, rounded cheek gently, and said; "We shall be friends, I hope; there is only a short space in earth left for me, but, long or short, you may reckon on my sympathy. We will talk about education to-morrow. I have some letters demanding attention. That pile is yet unread; many are begging letters, some are even less pleasant than that;" and the old lady sighed. Even then the dishonesty and extravagance of her household were beginning to be noticed outside Barley Wood. Although her own eyes were blinded as to the cause, she felt the results keenly. This first day at Barley Wood was the beginning of a new life to Joyce. While Charlotte in her secret heart found the country dull, and almost wished herself back in Wells, a new world opened for Joyce. Mrs. More would recite passages from Milton's "Paradise Lost," and fill Joyce's mind with the beauties of the Garden of Eden, till she had thoughts for nothing else. Mrs. More told her she reminded her of a great man who on reading Milton for the first time, said he forgot that there was anyone else in the world but himself and Adam and Eve! Charlotte dawdled over a bit of fancy work, which her aunt had hoped would awake Mrs. More's admiration, but as it met with but faint praise, Charlotte felt herself aggrieved, and made various uncomplimentary remarks, in private, upon the coarse aprons which Miss Frowde produced as needlework which was _really_ wanted. But the stories of London life pleased Charlotte, and she would wake up to interest when Mrs. More described the grand routs where the élite of London were gathered; of Johnson and his witty speeches; of Garrick, and of the continual round of gaiety which she had led, till she awoke from a dream to realities, and from those vanities to serve the living God. The Bible meeting at Wrington was the great event of the year, and the village was in holiday trim. The bells rang from the noble church tower; the school children, in clean white tippets and blue cotton frocks, walked in procession to Barley Wood, where tea was provided for parents and teachers, and several of those who had come to the meeting addressed them in simple words. Sir Thomas Acland had brought with him the Bishop of Ohio, and the good old man looked upon the scene before him, with eyes dim with emotion. Here in this Somersetshire village, lying under the range of low hills, had the influence of a good woman been felt. She had borne bitter scoffs and rudeness from her enemies; she had been laughed at even by her friends, and yet she had carried the banner of the Lord onward, and now in her old age the victory was won. The people loved her, and though there were malcontents in Wrington, as in every other place, still the feeling for the good work the four sisters had done, was stronger than that which was against it, and the Bible had become a treasure in many humble homes. No longer like that of which Joyce had spoken at Fair Acres--rarely opened and seldom read--nor like the one described by Hannah More herself as the only one she found at Cheddar, used to prop up a flower-pot in the window! There was a large dinner-party of seventeen at Barley Wood after the meeting, and this was a novelty to the two girls, who had never before sat down with so many at a table. Charlotte was in good spirits, having captured a pale-faced young clergyman, to whom she talked in her sentimental fashion, and who seemed almost as much fascinated by her, as she intended he should be. Joyce, on the contrary, had no time to think of herself. She was intently listening to all that was said, and the conversation of those refined and educated gentlemen charmed her. It was impossible not to be struck with her beautiful face, glowing with interest and, though silent herself, showing that she was drinking in all that was said around her. It was the same afterwards in Mrs. More's sitting-room, where all the guests gathered to sip fragrant tea and coffee, and talk over the burning questions of the day. The good Bishop of Ohio, who had laboured long in the field abroad, as Hannah More had laboured at home, knew well how rough was the road, which those who desire the highest good of others, must ever tread. Hannah More was speaking of the deep anxiety that the condition of the Mendip miners caused her, and how, of all her work, that seemed to be bringing forth the least fruit. "An ear here and there is gathered," she said; "but the harvest is scant indeed." Joyce, who had been listening earnestly, said: "Susan Priday is an 'ear,' I am sure. She seemed to try to do all she could, and--" The Bishop turned quickly. Joyce almost thought she ought not to have spoken, and that the Bishop and Mrs. More would think her forward, but the good old man said: "That is right, my dear young lady. It is well to remind our dear friend that the grains she has scattered are not all in vain. Some will fall on the good ground, and by God's blessing spring up and bear fruit. Who is Susan Priday?" "Come nearer the Bishop, Joyce," Mrs. More said, kindly, "and tell him your experience of Mendip miners, and of Susan also." Joyce did as she was told, and soon forgot her nervousness at being called upon to talk to so great a person as a Bishop, as she narrated with sweet simplicity, and yet with dramatic power, the story which we already know. By degrees the voices of people in other parts of the room ceased, and Joyce found herself the centre of interest as she told her story. "Who is she?" Sir Thomas Acland asked, as Joyce finished her story, and answered a summons from Miss Frowde at the further end of the room. Failing a little in the good manners, on which Miss Falconer put so high a value, Charlotte answered a question _not_ addressed to her. "She is my cousin, sir--Joyce Falconer. She has led a very retired life at Fair Acres." "There are many flowers that bloom unseen, and she is one of the fairest I ever saw. If a retired life produces such good effect, it strikes me, Mrs. More, we had all better go into retirement. But--" He stopped, for Joyce, with a white face from which every vestige of colour had vanished, came back to her position by Mrs. More's chair. Her hands were clasped tightly together, her whole attitude one of repressed emotion. "If you please, Mrs. More, I must beg you to excuse me. I am sent for to go home, for my father--Oh! my father!--is dying." Miss Frowde was close behind Joyce. "You must not agitate dear Mrs. More," she said. "I will take care of Miss Falconer," she added. "The gig is waiting." "Do you know any particulars?" Miss Frowde shook her head, and was leading Joyce away, when she suddenly turned back. "Dear madam, dear Mrs. More, please pray for me;" and, unable to resist the impulse, she threw her arms round the old lady's neck. "Miss Falconer, indeed you must restrain your emotion; you will agitate dear Mrs. More." But Hannah More held the trembling form of the poor stricken child close. "My dear," she whispered, "many are the sorrows through which I have passed, and He whom I trust has never forsaken me. Trust in Him, and to His loving kindness I commend you." Joyce raised herself from the old lady's arms, and the Bishop, deeply moved, laid his hand upon her head. "The Lord bless you and keep you, my child, now and evermore." Joyce did not weep or make any outward sign of great distress. She left all tears and cries to Charlotte, who, sincerely grieved, took care that every one should know it. "Shall I come? Shall I come with you? Oh, Joyce--my darling Joyce! Oh dear! Oh dear!" "No, Charlotte; don't come; don't come. Help me to fasten my cloak. I--I can't find the clasp." Miss Frowde thrust Charlotte aside, and fastening Joyce's cloak, seemed only anxious to get her off as speedily as possible. It was a very inconvenient episode; and if Mrs. More were the worse for the excitement it would be very disastrous. Secretly Miss Frowde wished she could get rid of Charlotte too, but as she only wept and moaned, and made no attempt to put her things together, Miss Frowde refrained from urging her to do so. Miss Frowde was not unkind or unfeeling, she was simply and absolutely devoted to Mrs. More; and, indeed, it was well that she was always at hand to perform the hundred and one kindly offices, which the spoiled and pampered domestics neglected. Joyce was soon ready, Charlotte clinging to her to the last, and following her to the hall, with sobs and tears. Nevertheless, as the gig drove off, and the wheels crunched the gravel on the drive, Charlotte returned to her room to bathe her eyes and smooth her hair, and soon returned with a woe-begone face to the sitting-room, and received, with some complacency, the condolences of the pale-faced curate in the corner, sharing his hymn-book when the family service of praise and prayer began, with which all gatherings closed at Barley Wood. [Illustration] CHAPTER IX. A DARK CLOUD OVER FAIR ACRES. "How did it happen, Thomas? _Tell_ me, Thomas?" "It's them Mendip fellows," he said. "The master rode to Chewton yesterday, and somewhere about nine o'clock Mavis come home with no one on his back. We knew summat was amiss, and we set out with lant'uns, the mistress and I----" "Mother went!" "Yes; we couldn't keep her back. We was wandering about most of the night. About eight o'clock this morning a cart comed along, and there was the master brought home more dead than alive by one of farmer Scott's carters." "He is alive, then; oh! he is alive?" "Well, yes; he was when I comed off," Thomas said, doubtfully. "And why did not you come for me before? Oh! you should have sent before. Oh, Thomas! Thomas!" "Well," said Thomas, "we've had so much running about for doctors; and Mavis ain't much good. We was short of hands and horses." "Had he had a fall?" Joyce asked, "a fall from Mavis?" "Aye, I dare say; but he was knocked off by a blow of a stone or summat. There's a hole in his temple, just cut clean by a stone so they say." "Oh, father! oh, father!" Joyce murmured. "There's a lot of folks come to see after him. Mr. Paget and Squire Bennett, and the Bishop's son from Wells; and there's no want of help; and they'll try and hunt him out." "Hunt who out?" "Why, the brute that caused the master to fall off Mavis's back, of course. I never did hold with master being so free riding over the Mendips at late hours. I've said so scores of times--_scores_. But there, he had the heart of a lion, he had." _Had! had!_ How the word smote on Joyce's ear. "_Has_ father--_has_--" she murmured, "he cannot, cannot be--dead!" After this Joyce said no more. They went at a fair pace along the lonely lanes; they passed through villages where the men were smoking pipes at the cottage doors, the women standing by with babies in their arms, while dusty, dirty little urchins played at "cross sticks" under the very nose of the old horse. Once they passed a small farm where a mother, neatly dressed, was standing at the gate, and a girl of fourteen ran out to meet a man with her baby brother in her arms, who stretched out his hands as the girl said: "Yes, there's daddy! Go to daddy; welcome, daddy!" Ah! how often had Joyce watched for her father at the gate! How her heart had thrilled with joy as she ran to meet him; and now! A low cry escaped her, which made Thomas turn his head, which he had hitherto kept steadily to the front, as if everything depended on his staring straight between the ears of the horse, and never looking to the right hand, or the left. Thomas was a hard featured man, who had served the old squire, and to whom Mr. Falconer was still "Master Arthur." "Doan't ee fret, my dear Miss Joyce. It's the hand of the Almighty." Ah, _was_ it the hand of Almighty Love, the God that had so lately revealed Himself to her in Christ, the All-loving as well as the All-mighty--was it possible He could take away 'the master from her head that day'? The old servant's voice quavering with sympathy made Joyce feel that she was also trembling on the brink of tears. "Thomas, I want to be brave, for I shall have to comfort him and mother." Then there was silence again. The even jog trot of the horse's heavy hoofs kept up a continuous rhythm: "Home, home again; home, home again--this seemed the burden of the strain--home, home again, but the same home never, never again." The evening shadows were lying across the turf where the daisies had closed their golden eyes for the night, when the gig turned into the familiar road and drew up at the door. The door was open, but there was no one there. Joyce sprang down and passed in, throwing off her large bonnet, and unfastening the clasp of her cloak, which seemed like to choke her. In the supreme moments of life the most trivial things always seem to fasten upon the outward senses, as if to show, by force of contrast, the enormous proportions of the great trouble--or the great joy, it may be--which is at the time overshadowing us. So Joyce, as she stood in the hall, noticed that one of the stag's glass eyes had dropped out and lay upon the bench upon which Gilbert Arundel had sat on the night of their adventure on the moor. She saw, too, lying there, a large pair of scissors, and a roll of lint lay on the window-seat, with a basin in which the water was coloured a pale crimson. "They bandaged his head here," she thought,--and she was going upstairs, when slow, heavy, jerky footsteps were heard, and Duke came down, and, putting his nose into her hand, whined a low, piteous whine. "Oh! Duke, Duke, where is he?" As if he understood her human speech--as, indeed, he did, Duke turned to precede her upstairs. On a bench in the long corridor two maid servants were seated, crying bitterly. But Joyce did not speak to them, she dared not; even the question she had asked Duke died on her lips. The door of her father's room was ajar; and as Duke pushed it open with his nose, Joyce could see the great four-post bed, her mother sitting by it, and curled up in the window-seat was Piers. The friends who had been there in the early part of the day were gone; they could do no more at Fair Acres. And Mr. Paget's aim was to set the constables to work to find the man who must have hurled a sharp stone at Mr. Falconer's head. The Wells doctor, too, was gone. He had a pressing case near Wells upon his hands, but he was to return at eight o'clock, when, it was hoped the doctor greater than himself, who had been summoned from Bristol, would have arrived. In those days help in emergency was slow to obtain. Telegrams were not dreamed of, and horsepower performed the part which steam was soon to take up; to be followed by the marvellous electric force, which now sends on the wings of the wind messages all over the world, multiplied, on the very day on which I write, to an enormous extent, by the introduction of sixpenny telegrams, which will send a call for help, or strike a note of joy, and win an immediate response from thousands. But there were no electric messages possible to get medical help for the squire, nor, indeed, would any help avail. With a great sigh, Duke resumed his watch at the foot of the high bed; and Joyce, crossing over, kissed her mother and Piers, and then gazed down upon her father. "Dear dad!" she said, inadvertently using the familiar name. "He has not spoken nor opened his eyes since we laid him here," Mrs. Falconer said. "He knows no one--no one----" "Did he tell how it happened?" "No." "It might have been that he was thrown from--from--Mavis." "No," Mrs. Falconer said again, "that could not be, they think; besides, they found a heavy stick and a tinder box close by." Presently Piers came down from his place, and Joyce put her arms round him. The boy was very calm, but great tears fell upon Joyce's hand as she pressed him close. The silent watch went on. Duke lay motionless, but his eyes were on the alert. The servants looked in sometimes, and brought Joyce and her mother some tea and cake. Joyce swallowed a cup of tea, but ate nothing. Could this be the evening of the day which dawned so brightly?--the Wrington bells chiming, the village children singing hymns, joyousness and gladness everywhere. The guests gathered round Mrs. More; the bright, intelligent conversation to which she was listening; then her own narrative of the Mendip adventure;--and this brought her to the present from the past! If her father had been assailed by a malicious miner on Mendip, that assailant was Bob Priday; of this she felt no doubt. The Bristol doctor came, and the Wells doctor and they held a consultation. But there was nothing to be done; the injury Mr. Falconer had received was mortal. "Will he give no sign, no word that he knows us?" Mrs. Falconer asked. "Oh, for one word!" "We do not think there will be any return of consciousness," the doctors said, "but we cannot tell." No; no one could tell. And so the sad hours of the night passed, and the dawn broke over the familiar fields, and Fair Acres smiled in the first bright rays of the morning. Piers had slept curled up in his window-seat, worn out with grief. Mrs. Falconer, too, had slept in an upright position, her head resting against the back of the chair, sleeping for sorrow. But Joyce did not sleep; she kept watch, hoping, praying for one word of farewell. As the first sunbeam slanted through the casement, her father opened his eyes, and fastened them on Joyce. "Sunshine," he said, with a faint smile. "Dear child." "Dearest father, dear father!" "I hope my little girl will be named after my mother, _Joyce_. Yes, it is an old-world name, but I fancy it; name her Joyce." The sound of his master's voice roused Duke, who pricked his ears and came to the bedside. Mrs. Falconer also started and awoke. "There is a word I cannot catch, about the _Life_. Try to think of it. I can't." Joyce glanced at her mother. "What does he mean?" she said, helplessly. "Oh! what does he want?" "The Life; I am the Life." The words came with difficulty now. Then Piers, starting up, said: "I know. I think I know. 'Jesus said, I am the resurrection and the _Life_.'" A smile of infinite content came over the father's face. "_Yes_," he said. "Yes, the Life." Presently he murmured Melville's name, and those of the children who had gone before. "The little girls all died but _one_," he said. "One is left--Sunshine." They knelt down as in the presence of something unseen but near; for the shadows gathered on the fine face of the husband and father; and Piers repeated for the second time: "Jesus said, I am the resurrection and the Life!" As if with a great effort to repeat the words, the squire said, faintly, "Jesus said,"--then silence fell; and the next thing Joyce knew was that she was lying in her own little bed, and that she was fatherless. * * * * * The news of the squire's death spread quickly through the whole district. As is often the case, no one knew how much he had been respected till he was gone. Then there were terrible circumstances connected with his death, which, apart from his loss, troubled the magistrates who had sat with him on the bench, and had probably made enemies, as he had done, in the performance of their duty. The roads across the Mendip were avoided more than ever, and as time went on and nothing was heard of or discovered about the man who had thrown the missile which had caused Mr. Falconer's death; if the wonder faded out, the fear remained; the county constabulary were, truth to tell, afraid of their own lives, and there was no machinery of detectives at work then, as now. However, whatever search was made it was fruitless, and the offender had escaped beyond the reach of punishment. As with a sudden transition into a new state of existence, Joyce found herself the central figure to whom everyone looked for help and advice. Her mother collapsed utterly. She would sit for hours in that inaction, which it is so painful to notice in those who have been once so full of life and movement. The boys who had been sent for from school did not return to it. Ralph surprised everyone by saying that he should give up study, and come and live at home and help his mother--at any rate, till Melville came back, if ever he did come back, to take his place at Fair Acres. By interest exerted by the Bishop of Bath and Wells, Harry and Bunny both got into the navy, and went forth, poor little boys, full of hope and delight, to encounter the hardships which then were the universal fate of little middys, in their first acquaintance with the salt sea waves they loved so well. It was touching to see the young brother and sister, who were left at the head of affairs, resolutely doing their utmost to spare their mother, and to keep things, as Mr. Watson called it, "square." If he were old he was intensely useful and honourable; and Ralph's power to adapt himself to his new manner of life was really wonderful. He set himself to study the few and scanty agricultural books which were on his father's shelves, and mastered the accounts in a way which Mr. Gell, the lawyer, and Mr. Paget, the executor under the will, found to be surprising. Miss Falconer had sent many kind little notes on very deep black-edged paper, and sealed with a large black seal, to "her dear afflicted sister;" and Charlotte, who had returned from Barley Wood on the day after Joyce left it, composed verses of doubtful rhythm, and still more doubtful sense, which she sent, done up in brown paper parcels by the carrier, as they were too voluminous to be conveyed in any other way. Verses in which "bleeding hearts" and "rivers of tears," sought vainly for appropriate rhymes; where "fears" refused to follow "bears," and "eyes" was made to do duty again and again with "prize" and "sighs." Mrs. More wrote a tender letter of sympathy to Joyce, and would have driven over to see her, had not the shortening days and threatened cold kept her a close prisoner. Indeed, she was laid low with one of her most dangerous illnesses before September was over; and Miss Frowde and her doctor thought it more than doubtful if, at her advanced age, she would recover. It was on a still October afternoon, when autumnal stillness reigned in the woods and fields, that Joyce went to the seat under the fir trees to be alone with her sorrow. The grassy slope was slippery now with recent rain, and though the clouds had rolled off eastward, the sunshine was pale and watery, coming in fitful gleams through the veil of thin misty vapour which hung over the sky. Joyce often came to this seat; it was associated with her father, and she loved to be there and give full vent to the sorrow which, for the sake of others, she had learned to hide. Miss Falconer and Charlotte had paid one visit of condolence after the funeral. They were surprised, and I may even say disappointed, to see Joyce so calm, and Miss Falconer thought how different it would be with Charlotte when she was taken from her; she would be entirely prostrate and unfit for exertion. It is well for the world that some people are fit for exertion, even in the midst of crushing sorrow. It would be a melancholy thing if all grief-stricken ones fed on their grief in solitude, and shut themselves up from doing their best, to lighten the burden of others. Miss Falconer would not have had cause to lament Joyce's unnatural calm, if she had seen her as she sat upon the old bench, in the dim, pale light of the October day, when, amidst the hush of all around, her sobs and low cry of "Oh! father--father," throbbed in the quiet air. They had been so much to each other; they had understood each other so perfectly. The beautiful tie between father and daughter, which when it exists is one of the most beautiful in the world, seemed severed, cruelly severed, and Joyce was desolate. She was scarcely eighteen, and the freshness and gladness of her life hitherto had been remarkable. Now, all unawares, the storm had swept over her sky, and, when it passed, left her lonely indeed. Mrs. Falconer was one of those people who bury their dead out of sight, and cannot bear the mention of their names. Ralph, setting his face bravely to meet his duty, did not speak of his father as Joyce would have loved to speak of him, and it was only to Piers, that Joyce could sometimes ease her burdened heart, by talking of her father. Just as on the summer morning, now looking so far off, left in the golden haze of joy and glad young life, Joyce had seen her lame brother at the gate of the plantation, so she saw him now. She made a great effort to control her weeping, and said: "It is very slippery on the turf to-day; wait, dear, and I will come down to help you." But Piers said: "I want _you_ to come down; I don't want to come up." "Is anything the matter?" Piers did not answer, and in another minute Joyce was at his side. "Joyce, there is a woman hiding under the maples and brambles." "A woman? Perhaps she is one of the women employed on the farm." "I don't know," said Piers, "I wish you would come and see who it is." "Very well, dear," Joyce said; "you are sure it is a _woman_?" "Yes, and she is crying and sobbing." Joyce followed Piers along the shrubbery path, now covered with a new layer of fallen leaves, and, at the turn of a still narrower side path, she saw, half hidden by the brambles and undergrowth, a woman; her head, bowed upon her hands, and her attitude one of despair. Joyce went near and said: "What is the matter? Are you in pain? Can I help you?" The woman raised her head, and Joyce recognised at once that she was Susan Priday. Thoughts of the night on Mendip; of the fierce onslaught made on Gilbert Arundel by the big giant, and the almost certainty she felt, that the cruel blow aimed at her father was by the same hand, made Joyce start back and say, coldly: "You had better not stay here, these are private grounds." Piers, who was leaning against the bole of a beech tree, said: "Yes; get up and go away. I will show you the gate into the road." "Lady," said the girl, passionately, "I came to see _you_. I saw you sobbing and crying on the bench yonder, for I got into the plantation that way. I heard you sob, and call 'Father,' and then my heart nearly broke, and I came round at the back and got over the hedge. I felt as if I dare not speak to you. Do you know me, lady?" "Yes," Joyce said; "of course I see who you are, but I--I cannot do anything for you, and we are all in great grief, very, very great grief," Joyce said, with a sudden spasm of agony in her voice. "I know it, I know it, that's why I came; and I'm in grief, too. Father is gone away, no one knows where; the boys have run off, and, oh! the baby is dead. I did think I'd keep him, for mother's sake; but, in a drunken fit, father threw a pot of boiling water at me. It missed me, and the baby caught it on his neck and face, and it scalded him dreadful. The school mistress was kind, and so was Mrs. Amos, she that owns the farm; but he died--he died--and I am all alone. Oh! Miss, oh! dear young lady, pity me." "I do pity you," Joyce said. "But where is your father? For you must be aware that suspicion points to him as the cause of my--of my dear father's death." "Yes, I do know it. Oh! miss, forgive me, and let me come and serve you. I want no wage; but I'd die for you, if that would do you good. I have never forgot your face that night, nor how you spoke soft then instead of angry. Oh, miss, let me come and live with you. I will sleep on the ground. I'll do the work of two in the dairy, or in the house, and I want no wage. Poor mother always said God would take care of me, but He has taken away the baby, He has, that is the cruellest part. And father; oh! miss, you can't tell what it is to be filled with shame about a father." "No, indeed," Joyce said. "No; I know what it is to be proud of one, and to----" Her voice broke down, and Piers said: "She ought to go away, Joyce; she can't be left here." But Joyce seemed to be thinking for a few minutes. Here was a girl whose father had, as everyone thought, been the cause of her father's death; here was the daughter of this man, coming to her and begging to be taken into the house, to be her servant? Was it possible? With a discretion far beyond her years, Joyce said, "I will make inquiries about you from the school mistress, and if I find you really bear a good character, I will get you a place, and----" "I want no place apart from _you_" the girl said, passionately. "If I could die to undo my father's wicked deed, I would die, and," she added, sadly, "it ain't much I have to live for now the baby's gone. But if you won't take me, well, I'll tramp to Bristol; and if I can't get bread in an honest way, I must get it somehow else." "No, no; don't say that. I must consider and think, and if I can take you I will. Mrs. More is so ill, so ill that it is feared she will not live, so I can't write to her. But I will _think_, and," she added, in a low voice, "I will pray about it. I am in great trouble myself; we are all in great trouble." "I know it, I know it. Oh! dear lady, ever since night and day, night and day, I have prayed for you, and that God would keep you." There was something in the girl's despairing voice which touched Joyce to the heart. "Come round to the kitchen door with me," she said, "and I will see that you have rest and food. I am sure you want both." "I don't want rest; there is no rest in me, and food chokes me." But Joyce took no notice of this, and saying, decidedly, "follow me," she put her hand on Piers' shoulder, and they went through the plantation to the house, skirting it to the left instead of crossing it, and so round to the stable-yard and the back premises. Mrs. Falconer never had old maid servants; she trained girls to fill the places in her household, and of these, there was an endless stream passing through. The two in the kitchen now were both kindly, good-tempered girls, utterly ignorant, but simple-hearted and honest. "I want this poor young woman," Joyce said, "to rest by the fire; and give her her supper before she leaves. Sarah, do you hear me?" Joyce said. "Yes, miss, I hear," Sarah said, surveying the poor, forlorn girl with scorn. "Yes, miss. I don't know whether missis would hold with taking in a tramp like her." "I am going to ask mother now," Joyce said; "and I know you are kind-hearted, Sarah, and that you will attend to this poor girl, because I wish it." Sarah gave a low sound, which was taken for consent; and Joyce, judging rightly that Susan Priday would be better left to the servants, went to find her mother. As she crossed the hall she met Ralph. "There are letters from Italy," he said. "Melville had not heard when he wrote." "Where are the letters?" Joyce asked. "Mother has them. There is one for you--not from Italy though; it has the Bristol post-mark, and is franked. There was an immense deal to pay for Melville's." Joyce waited to hear no more, but went to her mother. She was sitting with her son's letter open before her. It began, "Dear father and mother," and these words went like a knife through Joyce's heart. Mrs. Falconer sat day after day in the same chair by the fire-place. Her large widow's cap--in those days an immense erection of many thick frillings, and with long "weepers" falling over her shoulders--altered her so entirely, scarcely any one would have recognised her. Joyce glanced through the letter. It was as self-sufficient and trifling as ever. Melville found foreign travel less delightful than he had expected. The diligence was then the universal mode of transit through France, and the two travellers had taken a whole month to reach Hyères, a journey which can now be got through in three days at the longest calculation. Melville complained of the food and the cramped diligence, and how the smell of garlic made him sick; and how old Crawford was as "stiff as starch," and that he did not think he should stay away long. Of Genoa la Superba not a word, except to say that he had seen a fine copy of one of Raphael's pictures for sale, which, if his father would send the money, he would buy, for the dining hall at Fair Acres. Joyce had hardly patience to finish the letter; but her mother said: "Give the letter to me, Joyce." And then she smoothed the thin sheet of foreign paper tenderly, and, refolding it, placed it in her large work-box, which stood unused by her side. Joyce, meantime, opened the other letter, and a bright flush came over her face. She could not read it there; she put it into her deep pocket, and said: "Dear mother, a poor girl is in the kitchen; she is utterly friendless and forlorn. May I let her sleep in the empty attic to-night, till I make inquiries about her of the mistress of one of Mrs. More's schools to-morrow?" "You can do as you like, Joyce," was the reply, as poor Mrs. Falconer relapsed into her usual condition of dreary silence, after kindling into some interest about Melville's letter. "You can do as you like--my day is over." "Mother, dearest mother, do not say so; you will feel better soon. It is--it is the suddenness of the blow that has come upon you--and upon us all--that has stunned you. Do try to take comfort." "Comfort, Joyce! You don't know what you are saying. I lived for your father--and I have lost him. It was cruel, cruel to take him in his prime, to leave me desolate!" "You have got us children to love you, mother," Joyce ventured to say; "and think how good Ralph is, giving up everything he cared for most, to take up the business of the farm." "As if he could do that," was the reply. "Ralph is not fit for it." "Mr. Watson says it is wonderful how he has fallen into the ways of people on the estate. He has such a firm will and purpose in everything he does." Mrs. Falconer sighed. "Well," she said, "I don't want to talk any more about it. I think if you will get me the yarn I will go on knitting Harry's stockings." "Oh, yes," Joyce said; "and Piers will be so pleased to hold the skeins for you, mother." Then she kissed her mother again and again, and whispered: "You will come to church on Sunday, mother, won't you? It is so dull for you, sitting here day after day." "I can do nothing else," was the reply--"nothing else. What else should I do? You are a dear, good child, Joyce. He always said so; he was always right." There is nothing harder to meet than a grief like poor Mrs. Falconer's; or rather, I should say, there is nothing harder to meet than a grief which refuses to recognise love in the midst of anguish which hardens and, as it were, paralyzes the whole being; changes the fountain of sweetness into bitterness; making the accustomed routine of duty impossible and falling on the sufferer like a heavy pall. "Missus is like somebody else; can't believe it is missus at all," the maids said, when Joyce returned with the orders for poor Susan to remain all night, and to be cared for till the morning. The poor girl was so utterly exhausted that she had fallen asleep, her face hidden on her arm, her elbows on the kitchen table; and her attitude of utter helplessness touched Joyce. "Be kind to her," she said; "she is very unhappy. Be kind to her, Sarah. I know you _will_ be kind to her as I wish it." Then Joyce ran to her room and took the letter from her pocket. The evening was closing in fast, but kneeling on the window-seat, she opened the lattice, and all the daylight yet lingering in the west fell upon the clearly written page of Bath post paper. The letter was dated: "Sion Hill, Clifton, near Bristol," and began: "If I have delayed sending you an expression of my sympathy in your trouble, dear Miss Falconer, it has been that I feared to intrude upon you in your grief, and feared, too, that I should touch it with too rough a hand. But I remember your parting words, your kind promise not to forget me. Thus I venture to tell you that I bear you ever in my mind, and that the time may come, _will_ come, when I shall beg you to hear more from me than I can say now, and grant me a very earnest petition. But not now would I speak of myself or of my hopes and fears. Rather would I tell you how I pray God to comfort you for the loss of a father, whom I count it an honour to have known. I would ask you to believe that I, who have had the privilege of watching the happy home-life--now, alas! so sadly broken up--can, at least, understand what the wreck must be. Please present my regards and sympathy to Mrs. Falconer, and assure her of my remembrance of her kindness to me while her guest at Fair Acres, if indeed you think I may venture so far. "I remain, dear Miss Falconer, "Your very faithful and true "GILBERT DECOURCY ARUNDEL." There was a postscript written on the blank part of the sheet of Bath post, which was folded over. "My mother is likely to visit the Palace, at Wells, in November. I have charged her, if possible, to see you at Fair Acres. I have heard nothing from your brother, but I am well satisfied that he is out of England, for reasons which you know.--G. DeC. A." The reserved style of this letter, so different from the random shots of the present day, when young men and maidens seem to think the form of a telegram the most appropriate way of expressing their thoughts, may provoke a smile, and be pronounced priggish and formal. But in Joyce's eyes it was a perfect letter, and she felt it to be a support and comfort to her in her loneliness. Words which come from the heart seldom miss their aim; and Joyce felt that, underlying those carefully written lines, there was the certainty that if her promise to him was fulfilled, and that she thought, even in her sorrow, of him continually, _he_, on his part, did not forget her. In the simplicity of her young heart, she had never dreamed that Gilbert could really care for her, and his long silence had made her think of him only as of someone who had passed out of her life, and was to be in future but a memory. Now the fluttering hope became almost a certainty, and she repeated to herself many times that evening, as a bird repeats its song over and over with the same rapture of content-- "I bear you ever in my mind, and the time may come, _will_ come, when I will beg you to hear more from me than I dare to say now, and grant me a very earnest petition." "The time _will_ come--the time _will_ come, and, meanwhile, I can wait," she thought. "Yes, the time will come, and I can wait." [Illustration] CHAPTER X. THE FIFTH OF NOVEMBER. There are exceptions to every rule, and this applies to cities as well as to individuals. The meek man may be excited to fierce anger, the quietest and most undemonstrative, may suddenly be moved to enthusiasm. So with Wells, that little city of peace, under the Mendips; had anyone visited it for the first time on the fifth of November, in the year of grace eighteen hundred and twenty-four, they must have been struck by the uproar and confusion which reigned in the usually quiet streets. Although Mrs. Arundel had been warned by her courteous host, the Bishop, not to be alarmed if the sound of a tumultuous crowd should even reach the seclusion of the palace itself, neither he nor she were at all prepared for the hubbub and uproar, which, beginning before the sun was well above the horizon, lasted till midnight, and, indeed, into the early hours of the next day. It was the Bishop's first year at Wells, and therefore his first experience of the great demonstration of the fifth of November in his cathedral town; and neither he nor his son had been at all aware that the only place of safety for the whole day, would be within the battlemented walls of the palace, outside of which the tumult and shouting gathered force hour by hour, till the supreme moment of the bull-baiting in the market-place arrived. The bull-baiting was stopped in 1839, but the fifth of November was for many years later marked in Wells, by the most extravagant expressions of Protestant zeal. Enough gunpowder was let off in the market-place to blow up Bishop, Deans, and Canons! A huge bonfire was piled up in the market-square, saturated with tar, of which large barrels were rolled to the scene of the conflagration from time to time during the day, kindled at last as the final outburst of enthusiastic hatred, which the people of Wells thus showed of that ill-contrived plot, which was to have made an end with one fell swoop of the sagacious King James, and his parliament. It always seemed a strange form for such zeal to take; for the law-abiding folk in the little city suffered greatly during the demonstration. The windows overlooking the market-place were boarded up at dusk, and all business suspended in the latter part of the day. The whole population seemed to be gathered in the market-square. Effigies of Guy Fawkes were paraded about the streets, accompanied by those of any persons, who had unhappily incurred public displeasure during the year; to be consigned to the flames with shouts and execrations as soon as the big bonfire was lighted. A company of guests met at the Bishop's hospitable breakfast table on this particular fifth of November, amongst whom were Mrs. Arundel, on the Bishop's right hand, and Gratian Anson, who was levelling her shafts at the chaplain, and declaring her delight at having been so fortunate as to be in Wells at the time of the bull-baiting. "You were so kind to invite us to see it, my lord," she said; "for, of course, I mean to see it." "My dear young lady, I am sure you must not venture forth to-day. We must make the time pass as pleasantly as we can, within the precincts of the palace, unless you like to step over to the cloister-door and attend the cathedral service." "And do you mean to say, my lord, _you_ are not going to see the bull-baiting? Why, Mr. Dacres tells me that the last Dean used to assemble a large party on purpose to see the spectacle; I _must_ see it!" The gentle bishop seemed a little taken aback by Gratian's determination to have her own way. "Well," he said, "I leave you in the hands of your guardian, Mrs. Arundel, and you could not be in better keeping." "Mr. Dacres, Mr. Law, you will take me. I should so love to see the fun, and I can't go alone." "Gratian," Mrs. Arundel said, "it is not safe to think of it. There will be such a crowd, you must not attempt it." Gratian smiled, and, turning to Mr. Dacres, said: "I mean to go; it will be like a scene in Spain." How the discussion would have ended, and whether Gratian would have carried her point or not, I do not know, had not the bishop's servant approached him with a card, which was followed almost immediately by Lord Maythorne. "Pray pardon an early visit, my lord, but I am come to see my sister, and conduct her to the bull-baiting, for which, I hear, your city is celebrated." Mrs. Arundel coloured with vexation as the bishop rose from his chair at the head of the table, and said, reading the name on the card: "Pardon me, my lord, I have not the honour of your acquaintance." "My step-brother, my lord." Mrs. Arundel hastened to say. "I do not know whether you ever heard of my father's second marriage." "My sister will give you my imprimatur, you see, my lord, if _not_ a welcome." This was said with the insolent assurance which the courtly bishop at once discerned. "My lord," he said, "any relation of my dear friend, Mrs. Arundel, is welcome to the palace. Now, ladies, will you adjourn to the gallery; for I have some pressing matters of business to-day after cathedral service, for which a special form is provided; but if you desire to brave the tumults without, horses and carriages are at your disposal." Gratian meantime had gone up to Lord Maythorne, saying: "The very thing I wanted. I will go and prepare for the bull-baiting now. Come, Miss Dacres, come, Mrs. Pearsall," turning to two quietly dressed ladies, "won't you come with us?" "Well, we must be quick if we want to secure our places. The windows are commanding a good price, I assure you," said Lord Maythorne. "I wish you had not come here, Maythorne;" Mrs. Arundel said, "you gave me no warning of your intention." "My dear Bella, I never give any warning about anything. I thought you knew that. I suppose I have as much right to look at a bull-baiting as his lordship. Evidently he is not going to offer me hospitality. What a party of old fogies he has assembled; no one worth looking at! By-the-bye, does not Gilbert's innamorata live near Wells?" Mrs. Arundel evaded a reply by turning to Gratian, who had speedily got ready for the expedition. "I fear it is very imprudent, Gratian, to go out in the crowd. Mr. Dacres thinks so." "Well, if under good care, I do not know that there is much fear," said Mr. Dacres, "in fact; I will accompany Miss Anson, if she will allow me, and just point out the best place to see the bull pass down under the Chain Gate from East Wells." "Ah! I _thought_ you would not be able to resist it, Mr. Dacres," Gratian said. "I _knew_ you wanted to see the fun, though you were afraid to say so." "Really," began poor Mr. Dacres; "really, I--I am only desirous of being of service." "Of course, I know that," Gratian said, laughing. "Good-bye, Aunt Bella;" and away she tripped, Lord Maythorne following, and Mr. Dacres leading the way under Penniless Porch to the Cathedral-green, where all kinds of people were congregated by the wall, separating the green from the road along which the bull was to pass. The rabble were at this time collected in East Wells, and the more respectable part of the spectators were admitted here. The bell was chiming for service, and as Mr. Dacres ambled across the grass, the Dean, preceded by his verger, was coming out of his gate to the cathedral. Unlike his predecessor, Dean Lukin, who is reported to have made the bull-baiting a festal occasion at the Deanery, even inviting guests to be present at it, the Dean demurred a little at the bull passing under the Chain Gate at all, thus entering the precincts of the cathedral. [Illustration: The Deanery Wells.] "How do, Dacres, how do?" the Dean said; "the crowd is very orderly at present." "Yes, Mr. Dean, so far; the great proportion of people are in East Wells. This young lady is a guest at the palace, and would like to see the bull pass. Might I escort her and Lord--Lord Hawthorne to the terrace?" The Dean bowed rather stiffly. He would have thought better both of the young lady and her companion, if they had come to the service and joined in the thanksgiving for the happy deliverance of King James I. and the three estates of England from the most traitorous and bloody-intended massacre by gunpowder; and--looking on some years--as the inscription at the head of the Form of Prayer also went on to say-- "For the happy arrival of His Majesty King William on this day, for the deliverance of our church and nation." "By all means, Mr. Dacres. I think in future I shall prohibit the procession passing this way. It is scarcely seemly while service is going on within the cathedral walls." With this the Dean passed on, and Gratian, laughing, said: "The Dean is hardly as gracious as the Bishop. Let us stand here, because we shall get away sooner to the market-place after the bull has passed." Mr. Dacres was rather glad to retrieve his character with the Dean, by hastening to the cathedral, after having placed Lord Maythorne and Gratian, in a good place by the wall; and then, after some trial of patience, the sound of shouts and a brass band heralded the approach of the bull. Decked with ribbons, and with his head well set forward, led by his keepers by a ring passed through the nose, the bull stepped proudly on, followed by the dogs, all in charge of their respective owners. There was always something pathetic in the sight of a huge animal brought out, not to fight in a fair field, but to be worried almost to death by the onslaught of persistent dogs, all goaded on to make their attack, all backed by betting men, who had an interest in their success or failure. In Pepys' celebrated 'Diary' there is a description of a bull-baiting to which he seems to have gone to divert his mind from the furious letter which a friend told him was on his way to him from Lord Peterborough, which letter seems to have preyed upon him more than the news recorded on a previous page of three people in one house "dead of the plague." The bull-baiting, however, was pronounced, even by the sight-loving Samuel Pepys, as a "very rude and very nasty pleasure." Yet, more than a century and a half later, we find the usually quiet and peaceful city of Wells all agog to witness the bull-baiting in the market square. It was as Lord Maythorne said; every window was engaged, and the tradespeople commanded high prices for the day. Ladies in smart dresses, with gentlemen in attendance, were to be seen sitting at the old lattice bay windows, all along the line of houses in the square. Lord Maythorne had engaged places over the principal draper's shop, where Joyce and Charlotte had made their purchases, on the day of Gilbert Arundel's arrival at Fair Acres. It was with some difficulty that Lord Maythorne and Gratian made their way through the turnstile by Penniless Porch, and gained the door of the shop to the left, which was kept guarded by a stalwart son of the owner. It was a good position, and if a bull-baiting were worth seeing, perhaps on the principle of comparative value, the place was worth the five guineas which Lord Maythorne had paid for it. His style and title being known, great respect was shown him and Gratian, and the circular bay window was appropriated to them, while less distinguished people thought themselves honoured to take their position behind them, further back in the room. The space where the bull was baited was railed off, and the kennels for the dogs prepared behind it. It was some time before the bull could be got into position, and he showed at first no signs of fight. Presently Gratian exclaimed: "There is little Mr. Dacres elbowing through the crowd; I knew he was dying to come. Now he has said his prayers, I suppose he thinks he is free to do so. And do look at that little woman in the yellow hood, pushing and fighting to get a place on the window-sill of the house by Penniless Porch. What a crowd! Who could have believed so many people lived in Wells? There is seldom a creature to be seen. When we drove through the market-place the other day there was only an old woman by the 'Cross,' selling potatoes." "Ah! madam," exclaimed an old gentleman, who was standing behind Gratian's chair, and heard her remark, "the best days of the spectacle are over--quite over. Now, in Dean Lukin's time, I have known lords and ladies and their suite present, and a really genteel crowd assembled, instead of the riff-raff of to-day." The old man sighed, and taking a pinch of snuff from his tortoiseshell snuff-box, handed it to Lord Maythorne. "The bull-baiting at Wells, sir, was sought after by the _élite_ of the county and neighbourhood. Why, sir, I have seen coaches with four horses come in from Bath full of lords and ladies and great folks. But the times are changing--the times are changing! And, sir, when a Bishop and a Dean are 'loo warm' about a great spectacle, we can't expect others to be hot!--eh?" Lord Maythorne laughed cynically; and the old man, a veteran of Wells, whose memory went back to at least sixty fifths of Novembers, felt his sleeve sharply pulled by the master of the shop. "Have a care--have a care what you say, Mr. Harte. Don't be so free; you are talking to a real lord, who is visiting at the palace." The poor old man was fairly silenced by the news; he retired to a remote corner, trembling and abashed, and the glory of the bull-baiting was over for him. "A real lord!" he murmured, "and I've been talking to him as if he were just nobody. Dear, _dear_--_dear me_!" The sport began in good earnest about one o'clock. The backers pricked up the dogs to the onslaught, and cries and shouts resounded. The bull, at first strangely stoical and unmoved, with its large brown eyes staring calmly at the yelping, bounding dogs, was at length lashed to fury. With a loud and angry bellow he tossed his assailants hither and thither, and again and again the mangled bodies of the dogs were hurled by the horns of the bull outside the barriers amongst the shrieking crowd. At last, after a pause, while the bull stood, covered with blood and foam, watching for the attack of the next adversary, a brindled terrier, after receiving some cruel thrusts from the tortured animal, sprang with unerring aim at its throat, and clung there with such a desperate grip, that its giant strength, exhausted by the long conflict, gave way. The bull rolled over on his side with a roar of agony, and the victorious dog, with his eyes starting out of his head, and his tongue lolling out of his mouth, was borne off by his backer, amidst the cheers and acclamations of the excited crowd. "Ah!" Lord Maythorne said, "I had a heavy bet on that dog, so I am in luck's way for once. Now, Gratian, as the play is played out, for the bull will show no more fight to-day, if ever again, shall we make our way back to the palace?" Even Gratian felt a little sickened and disgusted. She clung to Lord Maythorne's arm, and was thankful when she found herself once more within the palace grounds. The noise and uproar in the market-place after the bull-baiting had scarcely ceased when the space was cleared for the bonfire, and preparations began for the great _finale_ of the day. As soon as it was dark, squibs and crackers were flying in every direction, while those who ventured forth were in some danger of having their clothes set on fire by the scattered sparks. A party from the palace went forth about eight o'clock to see the illumination of the bonfire, gaining easy access to the offices of the Bishop's secretary, which were situated between the two gateways, one called Penniless Porch, the other the Palace Eye, both at the top of the market square. Those who had turned away with disgust from the bull-fight, yet felt it almost their duty to be present at the great Protestant demonstration of fire and burning. So that the windows of the office were filled by the palace party, amongst whom were members of the Bishop's family. [Illustration: Penniless Porch, Wells.] It was indeed a sight never to be forgotten when the huge bonfire was lighted, and the flames leaped up to the sky. The quaint old houses in the market square were illuminated with a ruddy glow, and the cathedral towers caught the fitful radiance, and stood up against the murky November sky with a flush of crimson on their hoary heads. The shouting and the tumult reached its height when Guy Fawkes' great effigy fell into the burning mass, and cries of "No Popery!" "Down with the Catholics!" were taken up, by every little screaming urchin, who, with burned fingers and scorched cheeks, thought he was doing good service to some cause, though, if he and half that seething crowd had been questioned as to why they came together, the "more part," as in times of old, could not have given an answer. A great wrong once done, which fastens on the mind of a nation, and is handed down as a subject of everlasting indignation from generation to generation, must be expected to demand outward demonstration. Thus the fires of Smithfield, and the secret plot of the conspirators beneath the hall at Westminster, have never been forgotten. The people still hunger for some expression of their wrath, and do not wait to ask if that expression takes a wholesome form. Although like demonstrations have been very much moderated of late years, and nearly stopped altogether by the authorities in Wells, still there is yet a city of the West whose motto is "Ever faithful," where the same scene is acted even on a larger scale; and woe to the unhappy man who may have incurred the displeasure of the good people of Exeter during the current year. His effigy is still paraded through the streets, followed by mummers in gay attire, and, amidst general execrations, his image tumbles down into the fiery furnace, as a meet companion for that, of the never-to-be-forgotten Guy Fawkes. Two days later, and Wells had resumed its wonted aspect. The November day was one of exceptional beauty. The sky was blue, the air soft and balmy, and the sunshine lay upon the peaceful city, once more the City of Rest, which the good Bishop had called it when he first viewed the scene of his future labours as chief pastor of the diocese of Bath and Wells. The noise and tumult of the fifth of November seemed now like a troubled dream. Once more the only sounds which broke the silence were the chime of bells for service, the trickling of streams of water, the cawing of rooks in the elm trees by the moat, the chatter of the Jackdaws as they swung in and out of their nests on the cathedral towers. All within and around the Palace was calm and quiet. And in the market square every sign of the late uproar was removed, the _débris_ cleared away; the cry of a child, the foot-fall of a pedestrian, or the low rumble of a distant cart, was heard with that wonderful distinctness which is born of surrounding stillness. Here and there a word was exchanged with a customer by the master of a shop, who, standing at the door, looked out upon the world with that quiet patient expectation of custom, unknown in busy, populous towns. As the Bishop's carriage drove through the market-place, several figures appeared at the doors of the shops. The carriage was watched out of sight, the heads of the watchers were turned right and left, and then the figures disappeared again, like those weather-wise men and women in the old-fashioned barometers now, like many other quaint devices almost unknown. If the day were fair and beautiful in Wells, it was doubly beautiful in the country. Joyce felt its influence, and, for the first time since her father's death, she sang gently to herself as she went about her household duties. Since she had received Gilbert Arundel's letter, a ray of brightness had pierced the cloud. She had not answered it, for he had asked for no answer. And Joyce, in the sweet simplicity of her faith in him told herself, that she had given her promise not to forget him, and that in that promise he was resting till the time came for him to ask her that question, which he said he must ask, and to present the petition which he hoped she would grant. Of course she was ready to give him what he asked for, but there was to her nature, always trusting and transparent, no hardship in waiting. "If I doubted him I could not wait so patiently," she thought, "but I _trust_ him." As these thoughts were passing through her mind, she was tying up some branches of a pink China rose which grew against the porch. "Give me another bit of cloth and a nail, Piers," she called to her brother. The tap of Piers' crutches was heard in the hall as he went to do her bidding. As she stood in the sunshine, with her arm raised to secure the truant branch of the trailing rose, waiting for her brother to bring the nail, a figure cast a shadow against the porch, and, turning her head, she saw a gentleman standing near her. Instantly she dropped the branch, and, with a bright colour in her cheek, waited till the stranger spoke. "Miss Falconer, I think?" he said, his eyes fastening upon her fair young face. "Yes," she said, simply. "Do you want to see my mother?" "Nay," he said, "I came to see _you_. I have heard much of you; I am your brother's friend." Joyce looked inquiringly at her visitor, and said, with a little quiver in her voice: "I hope, sir, you have brought no ill news. We have had so much sorrow of late." "I know it, indeed," the gentleman said. "I bring no bad news of your brother's health; he is abroad, I think." "Yes, at Genoa; he was at Genoa when we heard last; we have not heard from him since our father's death." "Ah! that was a sad loss for him and for you all. What a lovely place you have here, but very far removed from 'the world'--the world where you would shine as a bright star of beauty." This broad flattery was received very differently from what the speaker expected. Joyce's face underwent an instant change, as she said: "I think, sir, if you please, I must ask you to excuse me, for I have some things which are needing my attention this morning; perhaps," fearing she might seem deficient in courtesy, "you would like to rest a little while." "You are very kind, fair lady; I will accept your offer, I shall be glad to rest. What a noble hall!" he exclaimed, as he stepped across the threshold, where Piers was leaning against the old oak table, his crutches under his arm. "Piers," Joyce said, "this gentleman wishes to rest; will you ask Sarah to fetch him some refreshment?" She was thus dismissing the guest to the care of her brother, glad to escape from his prolonged and embarrassing scrutiny of her face, when Lord Maythorne said: "Pardon me, I want to speak to you on a serious matter. I ought to have introduced myself earlier. I am Lord Maythorne; you will have heard of me?" "Yes," Joyce said, calmly; "yes, I have heard of you." "No good report, I will venture to affirm, guessing, as I do with some certainty, from whom the report came. If you tell that little boy--lame, I see, poor fellow!--to leave us, I will briefly relate the circumstances of my friendship with your brother. Come, Miss Falconer, do not be unjust to me, but hear what I have to say. I prefer that our conversation should be private; it is of great importance that you should hear what I have to say, _alone_." Joyce hesitated; that instinctive dread of men who are neither honourable nor good, which all pure-minded maidens feel, made Joyce shrink back from the very touch of Lord Maythorne's hand, as he tried to take hers, with a gesture of profound reverence and raise it to his lips. "I little thought," he murmured, "that I should find in Melville's sister any one so charming, and I confess that I am _bouleversé_ at once. Nay, do not look so sternly at me." "I do not know what right you have, my lord, to come here to alarm and annoy me. If the matter you have to tell me is important about Melville, I would refer you to my brother Ralph, and Mr. Paget, who is my dear father's executor." Piers, who had been watching the whole scene, now came hastily forward. "Ralph has gone into the Wells market, and Joyce has no one at home but me to take care of her. She does not wish you to stay, and you ought to see that, and go away." "You had better try the effect of one of your crutches on me, my boy! I am not going away, at present." Piers reddened, and was beginning an angry rejoinder, when Joyce said, in a low tone: "Go and stand at the further end of the hall, Piers, and I will go into the porch. If I want you I will call, but do not let mother know anyone is here. Now," she said, turning to Lord Maythorne, "we will go into the porch, if you please, and you can tell me about Melville." "Well," Lord Maythorne said. "I had an interest in your brother, and I should have pulled him through his troubles, if it had not been for the meddling interference of a kinsman of mine, a young fellow--great in his own eyes--who cants like any old woman, and can turn up the whites of his eyes with any Methodist in the land. He made a nice mess of it for your brother owes me the money, and if he had left us alone we should have arranged matters. As it was the whole story came out, your brother was 'sent down' and those sharks the tradespeople, poured bills upon your father's head." "Yes," Joyce said, "which my father, my dear father, paid. What does Melville owe you?" "A pretty round sum, but I would let it rest at five hundred pounds." "Five hundred! Oh! it is impossible we could pay that. I will ask Mr. Watson and Mr. Paget----" "Pray do nothing of the sort," said Lord Maythorne, with lofty superiority; "it is a mere trifle, but just now it happens to be a little inconvenient. The debts are such, as no _honourable_ man would leave unpaid. I promised Melville to keep them secret, and I have no wish to let the town crier go about with the news, but I naturally judged that on the death of his father, your brother would come into his fortune, and repay me." "I do not think it is possible," Joyce said. "My dear father had so many sons, and it was hard to provide for them. Please let me think about it, and give you an answer. I must consult Ralph, who is in charge here now, till Melville comes home." "Nay, I would ask as a great favour that you consult no one. If, when your brother returns, you can come to any arrangement, let me know. I would not wish to _press_ my claim unduly. I think you have seen my young nephew, Gilbert Arundel; he got a pitiable hold over your brother. It is not the best taste to abuse one's own relations, so I will forbear giving you Arundel's character _in extenso_; suffice it to say, he is a hypocrite. He has been playing fast and loose ever since he was a boy, with a fair lady much older than himself; he fancies himself in love with her, and she is so foolish as to believe it. The ten years which separate them in age is a trifle in his eyes. She is handsome enough, and fascinating; knows the world and its ways, and, resents my good sister's pious exhortations, rather laughs at them, in fact. Am I speaking in riddles? Arundel's mother is my step-sister; my father taking it into his head to marry for the second time, when no one expected him to do so. But it was a lucky thing for the world at large that he did marry, for I am the result!" The low satirical laugh had a ring of bitterness in it, and the face that was really handsome, was clouded by a most disagreeable expression. It was a hard ordeal for Joyce to be thus, as it were, in the hands of a keen-witted man of the world, who, when he had finished his own story, began to pour out the most fulsome flattery, and to appear to take it for granted that Joyce would be won by it. He little knew the strength and courage which the "rustic beauty," as he inwardly called her, could show. As soon as she could get a word in, she rallied herself, and said, in a low, determined voice: "I do not wish to hear any more, my lord. I do not think you have any right to come here and offend me by saying what you cannot mean. I will take advice about my brother's debts to you, and, if you please, I will let you know the result." "What a charming woman of business!" exclaimed Lord Maythorne. "A veritable Portia. A little indignant protest is so becoming. Well, well, we will leave the matter for the present." And now a figure, clothed in deepest mourning, appeared from the hall behind, and Mrs. Falconer with a curtsey which was profoundly respectful, said: "May I ask, sir, what brings you to the house of a poor widow? My daughter is very young and very inexperienced; I cannot allow you to remain to annoy her." "My good lady, I am your daughter's slave. I am ready to lie at her feet. Annoy her, forsooth!" Joyce, who had endured bravely up to this moment, sprang towards her mother as if instinctively for protection, and Mrs. Falconer took her hand in hers. "What is it, my dear, what is it? Piers came to call me; I thought you were distressed." This was really the first time since her sorrow that Mrs. Falconer had roused herself to take an interest in anything; but Piers' summons, with the announcement that there was a man in the porch talking to Joyce, and that he knew by the sound of her voice she was frightened, had not been in vain. The maternal love, deep in Mrs. Falconer's heart, asserted itself, and put to flight for the time the selfish brooding over her sorrow, in which for so many weeks she had indulged. "Joyce is very young," she said, tenderly, "and she has been left to bear a burden too heavy for her years. I beg you, sir, to say no more to hurt her and annoy her, but to leave the premises." "My dear madam," Lord Maythorne said, "I came in a friendly spirit to discuss a little business about your elder and very hopeful son. He owes me some eight hundred pounds--a debt of honour, but at the same time a debt;" and, setting his teeth, "_One I mean to have paid!_ It may seem a trifle to the owner of these broad acres, and to the inhabitants of this grand ancestral home, but to me it happens to be no trifle. Good morning." Lord Maythorne turned away, raising his hat to Joyce, and saying: "_Adieu, mia bella! adieu!_ but _au revoir! au revoir!_" Mrs. Falconer pressed Joyce, trembling and frightened to her side, saying, in a low voice: "What does he mean? Who is he?" "He means that Melville has lost money to him by gambling; I think he is Lord Maythorne." "What is to be done? What is to be done, Joyce?" Mrs. Falconer said. "We must consult Mr. Paget, dear mother. Oh! how glad I was when you came; he is such a bold, bad man." "Poor child! Poor Sunshine!" Mrs. Falconer said; "I have been very much to blame to leave you all the burden; I will _try_ to do differently now. Kiss me, Joyce." "And here is a carriage coming up the road," was Piers' next exclamation; "a carriage full of people." "Oh! there is an old gentleman in a wig and shovel hat, and--" "It must be the Bishop," exclaimed Mrs. Falconer; "what shall we do?" It was too late for Mrs. Falconer to retreat, for the carriage had driven up before the door, and the footman had the handle of the bell in his hand. "The Lord Bishop," he said, addressing Piers, "Mrs. Arundel, and Miss Anson. Is Mrs. Falconer at home?" And now Joyce advanced out of the shadow, and stood under the roses by the porch. The late encounter with Lord Maythorne had heightened her colour, and tears were still upon her long lashes--the tears of vexation she had tried so hard to keep back. One glance, and Mrs. Arundel felt sure she saw before her her son's "Joyce, Sunshine, Birdie! for they call her all those names," he had said. She looked just now, with her head drooping, and the traces of tears on her cheeks, very like one of the China roses above her, hanging its head after a shower. Gratian also examined her critically. She is _beautiful_, she thought, but she has no style; while the Bishop leaned forward, and asked: "May we alight?" "Yes, my lord," Joyce said, in a low, gentle voice. "My mother has seen no visitors for a long time; but she will be pleased to see you, and--" "Mrs. Arundel, I hope, also, and Miss Gratian Anson," the Bishop said, by way of introduction, "Madam," he continued, as he went into the hall, "Madam, I have heard of your good husband; I had once the pleasure--I may say the honour--of seeing him at the palace, and I desire to express to you my condolences. My son," he added, addressing a young gentleman in clerical dress, who was as much like his father as youth can resemble age, "my son is also anxious to pay his respects. My wife, Mrs. Law, is yet absent on account of her health, but returns to the palace next week." Both the Bishop and his son were courtly gentlemen of what we call now "the old school," and they had peculiarly clear and sonorous voices; the old man's set in rather a lower key than his son's. "Pray, my lord," Mrs. Falconer said, "walk in, and I beg you to excuse a desolate sitting room," opening a door to the right of the hall; "I have never had courage to sit here since--since our trouble. Joyce draw up the blinds and set the chairs." Mrs. Falconer said this, with something of her old quickness. "Our little parlour would be warmer, mother; this room feels cold," Joyce said, in a low tone, as she obeyed her mother, and noticed the cold, damp, unused atmosphere, which always clings to a room that has been closed for some time. That room, with its three windows set in thick frames, with deep window-seats beneath, had been Mrs. Falconer's pride. As she looked round now, the furniture seemed dull, and the whole aspect of things changed. "Yes," she said, sadly, "yes, you are right, Joyce; this room is not fit to sit down in; we will go to our own sitting room, if his lordship will follow me." The whole party adjourned there, and Piers, with unusual forethought, had already ordered a tray to be brought in; for it was always _en règle_ in country houses in those days to offer refreshment of wine and cake, as calls were paid early, just as afternoon tea is brought in now for visitors later in the day. Mrs. Arundel left the Bishop to talk to Mrs. Falconer, and Gratian won Piers' heart by professing the deepest interest in his drawer full of birds' eggs, which happened to be opened. That was one of Gratian's strongest weapons; she took, or appeared to take, an interest in everybody's particular hobby, and yet she was listening with one ear to every word that passed between Mrs. Arundel and Joyce. Poor Piers was quite unconscious that he had not her whole attention. When Mr. Law joined the discussion she withdrew and said to Joyce, "I should like to see the grounds, would you show me round." Piers wondered at her abrupt departure from the contemplation of the wren's eggs, and his animated story of the way the little wrens huddle together in a nest in the winter, under ground, in a hedge facing south, and come out to try the air in the first warm days in February, retiring again if it is too cold for them. Joyce led the way, thankful to see how much more her mother looked like herself, as she told to the sympathetic ear of the Bishop the story of her grief. Gratian took pains to suit herself to her company; she always did. She linked her arm through Joyce's, and talked in a low voice, instead of her wonted high pitched rattle. She told her how grieved she felt for her; she could easily imagine what such a sorrow must be; for she, a "poor orphan" herself, could indeed sympathise with her. So she talked, as they paced the gravel walk under the sunny south wall of the old-fashioned garden, where the arms of a huge pear-tree were still heavily laden with brown fruit, and where bushes of pale lilac, Michaelmas daisies, and lavender, still attracted a number of late bees and errant wasps, who, like all the rest of the world, found it hard to believe that this was the November sunshine of a short winter's day, and not the long drawn out heat of July. "I should like to know more of you; to see more," Gratian was saying. "Of course, I expected you were charming from what Gilbert told me. Gilbert and I are _great_ friends; he tells me everything." A scarcely perceptible recoil, in the little figure by her side, was not lost on Gratian. "Yes," she said, "he is a dear boy--a little spoiled by the notions he has taken up lately; but they are spreading everywhere. The Cambridge men are even worse than the Oxford men. However, I won't quarrel with Gilbert about that, and I can take a little preachment from him. Aunt Bella is pleased with anything Gilbert says or does; and as to Maythorne----" Joyce started, very visibly this time, at that name, and said, withdrawing her hand from her companion's arm, and stooping to gather some sprigs of lavender: "I suppose Lord Maythorne is a relation of yours?" "Distant; very distant," was the reply. "A connection is nearer the truth." "Because," Joyce said, "I think he is a very bad and wicked man, and I wish you could tell him never to come here again." "Come here! Has he been here," Gratian exclaimed. "What on earth did he come here for?" "He had not been gone half-an-hour before the Bishop's carriage drove up. He has, as you know, done my eldest brother a great deal of mischief; and, though my dear father thought he had cleared all his debts, this Lord Maythorne says that he still owes him a great deal, and we cannot pay it." "And is that what he came to say; very kind and pleasant of him, I must confess. I expect he said a great deal more." Joyce blushed scarlet. "He was very impertinent," she said, "and talked in a very free way to me, but it is over now, and I wish to forget it. Only, if you can, will you prevent him from coming again; or as he is Mrs. Arundel's brother, could you ask _her_ to prevent him. When I have consulted Mr. Paget, dear father's executor and our trustee, I will try if any of the money can be paid." "Don't think of paying a farthing," Gratian said, "pray; I will see what I can do in the matter. I will talk to Gilbert. Gilbert is certain to do what I ask him, and I know how much he cared about your brother. Yes, you may depend upon my doing my best, you darling!" Gratian said, stooping down and kissing Joyce's rounded cheek. Joyce made no response, as Gratian expected, and then they walked silently to the house. As they drove towards Wells, Gratian, after a pause suddenly said: "Aunt Bella, Maythorne is still in this neighbourhood. He has been at Fair Acres to-day." "Maythorne!" Mrs. Arundel exclaimed. Then to herself, but not aloud, she said: "I must let Gilbert know at once." [Illustration] CHAPTER XI. MEETING. From the time of the Bishop's visit, Mrs. Falconer began to resume her usual employments. She covered her crape with a large apron, and pinned back the long "weepers" of her large widow's cap, and went about the house again, with none of her old sprightly manner, but still going through her duties in regular order. It was a time which needed much patience, for, as was natural, Mrs. Falconer saw many things which she considered neglected, and Joyce felt herself held responsible for the misdemeanours of the maids, especially of Susan Priday. The schoolmistress at Mendip had given Susan an excellent character, and Mrs. More had dictated a note to Joyce from her sick bed, telling her that she believed Susan might really prove a friend as well as a servant, for gratitude would be the spring of all her work, gratitude to Joyce for taking her, and holding her free from all blame in her father's ill-doings and bad life, which had apparently been the cause of the great sorrow which had fallen upon Fair Acres. Mrs. Falconer had consented with the cold apathetic consent which was discouraging enough. She had taken little or no notice of Susan's presence in the kitchen and dairy till she began to come forth from her seclusion. Then, indeed, poor Susan had a hard time of it; but love, and gratitude to Joyce, were too strong for her to show any resentment for the many unjust suspicions and sharp reproofs which she had to bear. "It's only what I must look for, Miss Joyce," she said one day, when the breaking of a plate, which she had never touched, was at once laid to her charge. "It's only what I must look for. My dear mother always used to say, when poor father beat and ill-used her, that she remembered some words of St. Peter, that if you were buffeted for doing _well_, that is, doing your best, and took it patiently, it was acceptable in God's sight. Besides, Miss Joyce, I have been used to hard words, and I know how brokenhearted the poor mistress is; why, she is even a bit cross to Master Piers and you, which is more than I can understand, for you are next door to an angel, Miss Joyce." "No, Susan I don't feel at all angelic. That is a mistake. I feel angry and discontented sometimes, if I don't show it. There are so many troubles which can't be talked of." "Yes, miss, I know that well enough; but you can tell them to God, and that's a rare comfort. Dozens of times in the day I tell Him of my biggest trouble, that I have a father who----" Susan stopped, threw her coarse apron over her head, and ran away to scour the pans in the dairy till they shone like silver. The bright November weather soon vanished, and the winter closed in rapidly. Except for a visit of a few days from Miss Falconer and Charlotte, nothing occurred to break the monotony of this dead time of the year. Farming and gardening operations were suspended, and Ralph got out his beloved books again, and Piers arranged and re-arranged his large collection of curiosities, and Christmas drew near. Joyce had given up listening for a footstep on the road, or looking anxiously for the old postman, who trudged from Wells, on fine days, with the letters, but in bad weather pleased himself as to the length of his rounds. Mrs. Falconer worked, and knitted, and darned, and, when the wind blew fiercely round the house on the dark winter nights, thought of her little Middies tossing about on the wide sea; and of Melville in that far-off land, which she knew more by its shape of a boot on the map Piers had hung up in his room, than by any distinct notion of what was to be seen there. Rome, Florence, Naples, were but names to her, and as dim and distant as Haiphong or Hong Kong are to many in the present day. 'Melville was in Italy,' and her interest in the country was expressed in these words. Melville's letter, written on hearing of his father's death, was sad enough. Weak natures like his, always find relief in trouble by many words, and give vent to grief by vain protestations of affection and of remorse. Mrs. Falconer treasured the letter, and read it many times, and thought Joyce unfeeling in expressing so little sympathy with her brother. There could be no doubt that all his wilful disregard of his father's wishes started up before Melville, now that it was too late to atone for them, and for the time, as he said, "he was distracted with grief." But there was no word of a desire to redeem the past by coming to Fair Acres and doing his best to perform his duties there. Selfish people are not cured by trouble of their selfishness. It commonly happens that they are more selfish in their grief than in their joy, more self-absorbed by pain than pleasure. While Melville could write of his distracted condition, of his love for his father, of his burning indignation against the wretch who had caused his death, and of his determination to have him brought to justice, Joyce was silent; only sometimes, when kneeling by Piers' bed, would she allow her grief full vent; only when alone in the seat under the fir trees would she cry out in the bitterness of her heart for the lost father who had been so dear to her. And there were other causes of trouble, which she could scarcely confess to herself. Not another word had Gilbert Arundel written, not another sign had he made of remembrance. She knew now, as the time went on, that she loved him, and that, after all, she was nothing to him. How could she have been so foolish? How often she had laughed at Charlotte's fancied admirers, at her continual discovery that some one was in love with her, but was kept back by circumstances from declaring his devotion! For the minor canon was one of a long list of visionary admirers, and he had been followed by the pale-faced clergyman she had met at Barley Wood, about whom, during the few days Charlotte had spent at Fair Acres, she had talked, till Joyce grew weary of the theme. "Such nonsense!" she had said. "Besides, no girl ought to acknowledge herself to be in love till she has had good reason given her. It is not nice; it is not womanly." And as day by day passed, and night after night, when she leaned against the casement of her window, when the stars were throbbing and shining in the deep-blue of the winter's sky, she had to confess, with deep abasement of spirit, that she had been as weak as poor Charlotte, nay, weaker; for as Charlotte's heroes fell from their pedestals, or vanished into thin air like the mirage in the desert, she could always replace them, and pour forth her romantic soul in verses addressed to new objects, as if the old had never existed. But Joyce told herself she must suffer the consequences of her weakness for ever and a day. No one could ever again be to her what Gilbert had been, in that first happy time of awakening love. Joyce's pale cheeks and wistful eyes at last attracted her mother's notice. In these days she would have been taken to see a doctor, ordered change of air and scene, and put upon some _régime_ as to food. But, except in cases of severe illness, people did not resort to doctors as they do now-a-days, and the nervous patients and chronic invalids, resigned themselves to unlimited home physic, and took their poor health as a matter of course. "Joyce," Mrs. Falconer said, one day, early in February, when the season of Christmas they had all dreaded so much was past; "Joyce, I think it would do you good to spend a few days with Aunt Letitia at Wells." Joyce tried to smile. "I don't want to be done good to, mother; besides, I can't leave you." "Yes, you can. Mr. Paget said yesterday you looked as if you wanted a change. It's a wonder Mrs. More has not asked you to Barley Wood again." "She has been so ill," Joyce said; "it is not likely she could invite me." "And then there is Mrs. Arundel and her niece that came here last fall; not a word have we heard of them." "Yes, mother; you forget. I have heard twice, about--about Lord Maythorne. Mrs. Arundel has kept him from coming here again. Besides, she is busy settling into a home, and besides----" "I think it is very odd, Mr. Arundel has never written, or come here again." "He wrote to me once," Joyce said, in a low voice. "Did you answer the letter?" "No, mother," Joyce said, springing up quickly, and, with a great effort, throwing off her sadness. "No; there was nothing to answer. But I _will_ go and stay a day or two with Aunt Letitia, if you want to get rid of me. Ralph can take a note in to Wells to-morrow, when he goes in to the market. I shall only stay two days, but we must find out whether Aunt Letitia wants me first." Miss Falconer was really pleased that Joyce should propose a visit, and the little guest-chamber in the Vicar's Close was made ready with willing hands, and Charlotte hailed Joyce's appearance, that she might tell her of all her hopes and fears. Charlotte had been twice at the Palace during the winter. Mrs. Law, gentle and kindly, had taken an interest in the young people in Wells, and had invited Charlotte, amongst others, to tea. Tea at six o'clock, on some day when the bishop and his chaplain and Mr. Henry Law, were absent on some business in the diocese. If it had been a great thing to visit Mrs. Hannah More at Barley Wood, it was a greater to take tea at the palace. With the wigs of the last and preceding century, the bishops have thrown off a great deal of the episcopal state, which was once considered a part of the duty of the peer spiritual. And a certain air of solemnity pervaded the Wells palace, even when presided over by such true "gentlefolks" as the bishop and Mrs. Law. That old-fashioned word seems to suit the host and hostess at the Wells palace far better than any other term I could use. That innate grace and refinement of feeling is sometimes, it is true, acquired, but it is a plant of slow growth, especially amongst those, who suddenly raised to a position of importance in the Church, feel the elevation makes them a little dizzy. The Bishop's wife, then presiding over the palace, had always moved in the higher circles of society, and, therefore, neither at Carlisle nor Wells did she find it necessary to impress upon humbler people that she stood on a vantage ground to which few could approach. She was dignified, though she was gentle, and no one would ever pass the barrier which divides familiarity, from free and pleasant intercourse. Mrs. Law, like everyone else, was greatly taken with Joyce Falconer; and again poor Charlotte began to feel that with no effort at all her cousin was winning her way, and making an impression which, with all her efforts, she felt she did not succeed in doing. Miss Falconer was surprised when, the day after the girls had spent an evening at the palace, Mrs. Law sent a little three-cornered note of invitation to Joyce to spend Sunday at the palace before she returned to Fair Acres. The footman waited for a reply, and the discussion of Mrs. Law's note caused no little excitement in the parlour, of which the servant, if he had been so minded, could have heard every word. "My dear Joyce, what will you do? You have no suitable dress for such a visit; and yet it is a pity to miss it. I really do not know what to advise." "I think I should like to go to the palace, Aunt Letitia," Joyce said. "Like! yes; but are you prepared for such a visit?" "Oh! yes; I have my best frock, the black bombazine, and my crape bonnet. That need not hinder me." "But, my dear, people in Mrs. Law's position wear evening gowns, with low necks and short sleeves. _I_ have moved in these circles, and of course----" "We must not keep the servant waiting, Aunt Letitia; if you give me leave, I should like to accept the invitation." "Very well," said Miss Falconer; "there is my writing-case; take care how you write; begin, 'Miss Joyce Falconer presents her respects.'" "But Mrs. Law addresses me as, 'Dear Miss Falconer'; had I not better begin, 'Dear Madam, or dear Mrs. Law'?" "Oh! _not_ 'Dear Mrs. Law.' My dear child, how ignorant you are of etiquette." Joyce seated herself, and wrote a few words accepting the invitation from Saturday to the Monday following, and took it herself to the footman. "You should have rung for Phoebe, really Joyce, my _dear_!" But it was too late. Charlotte, who had been "composing" in the sitting-room upstairs, had heard voices, and now came down just as Joyce had closed the door on the footman from the palace. "An invitation to _stay_ at the palace! Oh! Joyce, how fortunate you are. Mrs. Law might have asked me!" "She knows you live in the place, my love," said Miss Falconer. Charlotte sighed. "If I did _not_ live here it would be all the same." But Charlotte was really an amiable girl, and her devotion to Joyce was sincere and true. "Well," she said, "what will you wear, dear? Can I lend you any pretty things? My amber beads--or--my filigree comb. Oh! I forgot! Of course, you are still in deep black." "It is very kind of you, Charlotte," Joyce said; "you always are kind; but I don't want anything." The whole of that day Joyce's visit to the palace engrossed the little party in the Vicar's Close. Some cronies of Miss Falconer came in for a gossip by the fireside, and were duly informed of the invitation, and were duly congratulatory and a little jealous, although there was a certain amount of satisfaction, that it was not Charlotte whom Mrs. Law had delighted to honour. It was a memorable visit to Joyce, and in a way she little expected. The first evening passed pleasantly; and with a white muslin fichu, which Miss Falconer insisted upon making for her, crossed over her black gown, Joyce looked her best. The sleeves of best gowns in those days were cut rather short, and Joyce wore on her round, white arms a pair of black lace mittens, which Charlotte had lent her. Her beautiful hair needed no adornment; it fell round her forehead in natural curls, and was piled up without the help of cushions or frizzettes, a natural crown of chesnut and gold. As at Barley Wood, so at the palace; Joyce was too simple-minded to be stiff or constrained in manner, and she conversed so pleasantly with a young son of the bishop, who gave her his arm when they went to dinner, that he, in his turn, did his best to be agreeable, and she was soon telling him of her little sailor brothers, of Piers and his collection of butterflies, of Ralph and his love of study, and the brave way in which he had come to live at Fair Acres and do his best to turn into a farmer. If the Saturday evenings were pleasant, how delightful was the Sunday, when, in the sunshine of the early February day, the party from the palace crossed to the cloister door, and went to the morning service in the cathedral. It has been said of Wells that it is always Sunday there; no sounds but the ringing of bells for service; no business, and no traffic in the streets. But certain it is, that nowhere is the real Sabbath stillness more profound, nor more refreshing to the tired in spirit, on a day like that February day, when Joyce was seated in the high pew belonging to the Bishop. The cathedral is always a vision of beauty, and when the swelling of the organ and the voices of the choristers are hushed, and a pause occurs after the benediction has been pronounced, the sounds without the building seem in direct harmony with those within; for the Lady Chapel abuts on the lawn of the Sub-Dean's residence, where the waters of St. Joseph's Well lie deep; and there is the murmur of the streams, the chirp of birds, the soft coo of pigeons, and the distinct chatter of the jackdaw from the West front. Joyce went out of the cathedral filled with peaceful thoughts of the temple, of which this was but the faint shadow, the temple which has no need of the sun to lighten it, for the Lamb is the light thereof. Quite forgetting that she ought to turn towards the cloisters, Joyce walked on down the nave before the Bishop's party had missed her. The sweet seriousness of her face as she went out into the sunshine almost held back the welcome, which was trembling on the lips of someone who was standing near the porch, and had watched her coming down the wide nave. She was passing out, wrapt in her own meditations when Gilbert Arundel put out his hand: "Joyce!" She started, and blushed rosy red. "You did forget me, then!" he exclaimed, reproachfully. "Forget you, no." "You did not reply to my letter?" "You did not ask me to write." They now found themselves by the turnstile under the old clock, that quaint clock which, it is said, was made to strike many times in succession for the amusement of that gracious and sagacious King James, who laughed till his sides ached, as the old knights, in their black armour, hit the bell with their battle-axes, beneath the suggestive motto, "Ne quid pereat." They hit it now with, all their wonted vigour four times, and then the clock struck _one_. [Illustration: Clock at Wells] "We have come the wrong way. I am staying at the palace till to-morrow," Joyce said. "At the palace! I am glad to hear it; but your mother, whom I saw yesterday, did not know it." "No; it was a sudden thought. I mean Mrs. Law only asked me on Friday." "I am glad you are at the palace," Gilbert said. "I know I shall have a friend in the Bishop." Joyce made no remark to this, and they retraced their steps in silence till they had crossed the drawbridge and were in the palace grounds. "I have thought so much of you," he said, earnestly. "I am now come, as I said I should, to present my petition. Is there any hope?" Joyce turned away her head, and did not answer. When they reached the palace, a footman threw open the door: "Dinner is served," he said, in a voice which was intended to be a mild reproof. "Can I see his lordship?" Gilbert asked; while Joyce ran upstairs to her room on the upper floor. "His lordship is just sitting down to dinner, sir. What name----" Gilbert took out a card and handed it to the man, leaving him in the hall till he knew the Bishop's will. Presently he reappeared. "I am requested to beg you, sir, to go into the dining-room at once: this way." The Bishop rose, and gave Gilbert Arundel a very different greeting from that which he had granted Lord Maythorne. "My dear young friend, welcome for your _mother's_ sake, always welcome, and for your own. How could you doubt it? Why stand on ceremony? But we are in some distress," he said, with a sly twinkle in his eye; "we have lost a young lady: she vanished into thin air as we left the cathedral. Perhaps some knight-errant has carried her off. Ah! I see you know something about her. Well, sit down; and, Barker," to one of the servants, "Miss Falconer's place next Mr. Arundel's." The Bishop dearly loved a little love affair, and he fancied he descried one in "the air." It was a great trial of Joyce's self-possession when the door of the dining-room was opened for her by a servant, and she had to pass to her place at the long dining-table. The Bishop's son came to the rescue, making room for her by standing up and showing her the vacant place. "I am sorry I was late," she said. "It is a lovely day," was the rejoinder. "I do not wonder that you took a turn after service." "Yes," said Mrs. Law, kindly. "I saw your cousin in the cathedral, and I thought it probable that you would walk home with her." "No," Joyce said, in a low voice, "I did not go home with Charlotte." One person at least appreciated the honesty of this confession, and Gilbert told himself that it was a part of Joyce's crystal transparency of character, that she would not even allow an assertion about herself to pass if it were not absolutely true. When Joyce was sitting after dinner, with Mrs. Law and several ladies, in the long gallery, the Bishop's son brought her a message. "My father would like to see you in his study for a few minutes. Will you kindly follow me?" Joyce obeyed, but her heart beat fast, and she dreaded what the Bishop might have to say to her. Something about Melville; some bad news of the little Middies: her thoughts flew in all directions. The Bishop had already seated himself in his crimson leather chair, and, when Mr. Law closed the door, she found herself alone with his lordship. "My dear young lady," he said, in his slow, sonorous tones, "as I know you are, alas! fatherless, will you allow me to stand, for the moment, in the place of a father? A young gentleman, the son of an old friend, has told me to-day that he seeks the honour of paying his addresses to you. He went to Fair Acres last night and received your mother's sanction, tempered, no doubt, with the natural pain of losing you. But she gives her consent, and I venture to endorse it. As chief pastor and father of the diocese, over which I have so recently come to preside, I do earnestly commend to you the son of my old friend, Gilbert Arundel. I propose that you should take a ramble together after service, in the spring twilight, and when we meet at the evening meal, I hope I may find you have made my young friend happy." The Bishop's speech may sound to us unnecessarily long and formal, but, sixty years ago, the old spirit of chivalrous respect towards maidens, in approaching the subject of marriage, had not then died out. Perhaps, also, in the time of the good Bishop, when the first gentleman in Europe was setting so wretched an example in his behaviour, good and honourable men felt it the more incumbent on them to give the woman the full privileges of her position. Love was to be sought as a favour granted, not claimed in a careless fashion as a right; while the whole aspect of courtship and marriage was dealt with more seriously than it is in our day. Barriers are more easily broken down than set up again, and, perhaps, there is too great a tendency now-a-days to treat what is grave as a jest, and to show but little inclination to tread in the paths which our mothers and grandmothers found safe. Thus the Bishop, when he had heard from Gilbert's lips the object of his visit to Wells, thought it his duty to speak to Joyce in the grave manner I have described. The Bishop rose from his chair, and, laying his hand on Joyce's head, solemnly pronounced a blessing, and, with crimson cheek and bowed head, she left him, to prepare to go to the afternoon service. Later in the day, the supreme moment in her young life came, when she walked with Gilbert in the fields towards Dinder, turning to the left, where, in a tangled copse, the first budding flowers of the starry celandines were peeping amidst fallen leaves and mosses. The clustering primrose buds were hardly yet showing themselves amongst their crinkled leaves, and only the upright stems of the alders, and the lowest boughs of the maples and hazel bushes displayed the first emerald green of spring. It was a time and place for the exchange of first young love, and confidences never to be forgotten. And in all the changes and chances of her future life, Joyce could look back to that first spring afternoon, and say from her heart that it was the opening for her of a new and beautiful chapter. If the hopes of the earlier days of their acquaintance had lain dormant during the winter, they now sprang up with the coming life of the spring time, and were sweet with the promise of the future. When once Gilbert had found voice to tell his story he was eloquent, and when once Joyce had given her response there was no further need for reticence. "And why did you not write to me?" he asked. "As I said, because you did not ask me; and then when your uncle came, he told me that you cared for Miss Anson; and I thought, _half_ thought, it might be true." Gilbert made an impatient gesture. "You only _half_ thought so; you knew, Joyce, you knew better. So," he went on under his breath, "that is the mischief he went to Fair Acres to work. My mother soon stopped him from daring to persecute you." "Mr. Paget and Mr. Gill said there was no lawful claim on poor Melville, for the money had been lent him to gamble with, and that Lord Maythorne knew he had no just claim to it." "Of course he knew it; he thought he would frighten you, and your poor mother. But let us not speak more of him." "I wonder what will be done when Melville comes home, for I suppose he will come home in the summer." "Yes; perhaps he may have turned over a new leaf, as the children say; anyhow, I can't help being grateful to Melville." "To Melville?" she said. "Yes; for was it not he who invited me to Fair Acres, to find _you_, my darling." Then he drew her closer, and with her hand in his arm, they walked through the quiet fields back to the little city. The cathedral stood up in a dark mysterious mass against the clear sky. The last purple gleam was dying from the distant hills which encircle Wells; Venus hung her silver lamp over the central tower of the cathedral, and the whole scene was one of infinite peace. They did not speak of the future, the present was sufficient for them; but the cry of Joyce's heart, even in its happiness, found words: "Oh! that my father knew." "He may know, my darling," Gilbert said; "and I think we may rest in the certainty that if he were here he would give me a welcome." "Yes," Joyce said, softly; "yes, I know he would. Oh! dear father." PART II. AFTER MANY DAYS. 'Tis Nature's plan The child should grow into the man; The man grow wrinkled, old, and grey. In youth the heart exults and sings, The pulses leap, the feet have wings; In age the cricket chirps and brings The harvest home of day. [Illustration] CHAPTER XII. ON THE ROAD TO BRISTOL. A carriage stood before the door of Fair Acres one bright morning in April, an old-fashioned travelling carriage, with a "dickey," or back seat piled with luggage, and more packages waiting to be pushed under the seat inside, which a lady was superintending and remonstrating with a young sailor for his rough and ready help. "Take care, take care, Harry; there is glass in that hamper. Oh! we must have the carriage closed after all." "Nonsense, Joyce; I'll manage it. There, let that bag go into the hold, and heave over the box. I'll cram them all in." "The captain is right, miss--beg your pardon, missus, I should say"--said old Thomas, wiping his head vigorously with his pocket handkerchief. "Very well; now we are all ready. I hope mother is coming. Gently, Falcon, gently; don't pull dear old Duke so roughly." "I want to take Duke to Bristol, mother; Grannie has left Fair Acres, and she is old; why shouldn't Duke?" "Duke would not be happy in Great George Street; would you, dear Duke?" Joyce bent down to the grizzled head of the friend of so many years, and said: "Ah! Duke, we are all getting old." Presently more voices were heard in the hall, and Mrs. Falconer appeared with a little grand-daughter on either side, while Susan Priday brought up the procession with the baby in her arms. "Now, dear mother, I think we are all ready. Have you enough wraps? Where are Melville and Gratian and Piers?" "Melville is not dressed," said Piers, coming forward, "and Gratian has just had her cup of chocolate taken her in bed." "I must run and say Good-bye to her," exclaimed Joyce. "What a pity to lie in bed on this lovely morning!" Joyce tripped upstairs and tapped at the door of the room which had been her mother's in years past. To the amazement of all the world, Gratian Anson had signified to Melville Falconer that she was ready to be mistress of Fair Acres, and include him in the bargain. On the whole the plan had answered fairly well; but Mrs. Falconer had found the new _régime_ a perpetual vexation, and three years before this time had, by her son-in-law's advice, retired to a little cottage on Clifton Down with Piers, within reach of the great joy and comfort of her declining years--Joyce and her husband and children. Gratian kept Melville in good order. There were rumours in the neighbourhood that she took charge of the purse, and that an allowance was doled out to her lord and master, which she never permitted him to exceed. However that might be, Gratian certainly managed to get through without heavy debts, and the squire's will had provided for the maintenance of his widow, and the boys had each their portion paid from the estate. Mr. Watson and Ralph virtually managed the farm, and Ralph held a good position and was greatly respected. Only one of the twins was left. The sea rolled over the bright hair of Bunny, on his second voyage. He was washed from the mast by a huge wave, off the coast of Africa, and engulfed in the stormy waters, never to rise again. This sorrow had told greatly on Mrs. Falconer, and she had aged very much since we saw her last. But she was touchingly gentle and tender to Joyce, and her children were the delight of her heart. Joyce's tap was answered by a sleepy "Come in." "We are just starting, Gratian," Joyce said; "I could not go without bidding you good-bye, and thanking you for a very pleasant visit." "What makes you start so early?" "Gilbert wished us to be off by ten o'clock. He says Bristol is likely to be in a ferment to-day, and he did not wish us to be late." "Late! Well I should think twelve would have been time enough to start. Bid mother and Piers good-bye for me. Is Melville down stairs?" "I have not seen him," Joyce said; "but perhaps he is in the study." "Good-bye again," Joyce said, stooping to kiss Gratian; "we have had a very happy fortnight. I do like my children to know the dear old place." "We are very glad to have you," Gratian replied; "and, Joyce, if you pay a visit at any of the best houses at Clifton, or near Bristol, notice if the curtains are flowered damask or watered, for new curtains we _must_ have in the dining room." Another yawn, and "Good-bye, love to Aunt Annabella," and Gratian's head, in the many-frilled night-cap, which scarcely hid a row of curl-papers, fell back upon the pillow. And now Falcon's voice was heard. "Mother, _do_ come; why doesn't Aunt Gratian get up? mother! How lazy she is!" "Hush! Falcon," for Joyce saw her brother issuing forth from his dressing-room in a magnificent loose dressing-gown, and a scarlet fez with a tassel on his head. "Why! Joyce, off already?" he said; "I must come down and see the last of the infants. Thank goodness they are not mine!" "I have been to bid Gratian good-bye, and thanked her for her kindness; we are a large party." "Oh! so much the better," said Melville, good-temperedly; "we are very glad to have you. What a regular family coach! Where did that come from?" "From the 'Swan.' Ralph ordered it yesterday." At last they were all packed in. Joyce was the last, and she was just about to step into the carriage when Mr. Paget came riding up. "Oh! you are off, Mrs. Arundel. I just called to tell you that there is news of disturbances in Bristol. A great mob collected in Queen's Square last night, and political feeling is exciting the people to madness. I suppose Arundel will ride out to meet you?" "He told me to start early, that we might get through Bristol before the afternoon." "Ah! Well, I daresay it will be all right. Upon my word, what a pretty party you are! A rose and her rosebuds--eh! Mrs. Falconer? Where is Ralph?" "Gone early to Bridgwater; there is a cattle sale to-day, and he and Mr. Watson went off at six o'clock." "Ralph does not let the grass grow under his feet,--eh! Falconer? It is the early bird that finds the worm." Melville smiled. The gorgeous colours of his dressing gown and fez came out in grand relief against the old porch, and Mr. Paget thought to himself, how odd it was that Mr. Falconer's son should be so entirely unlike either father or mother. He had dismounted; while old Thomas held the horse, he had helped Joyce into the carriage, and patted the rounded cheeks of the baby, whom her mother now took from her grandmother, and settled comfortably on her knee, while he called out to Falcon, who was in the dickey with Susan and the luggage, not to put out his eyes with a long cane he was brandishing, kicking his feet vigorously all the time, and shouting "Gee up!" at the pitch of his young lungs. The two little rosebuds of girls sat demure and quiet on the back seat with their uncle Piers; and then, with a final "Good-bye" and waving his hands, the scarlet-coated post-boy cracked his whip, and Joyce and her children were fairly off for home; for, sweet as the old home was, and full of tender memories, the large city house in Great George Street was dearer still. [Illustration: Queen's Square, Bristol.] Never had a cloud of mistrust or doubt come between Gilbert and his wife. They were subject, as we all are, to the little trials and annoyances of life, but these were all, outside that inner temple where, secure in each other's love, and bound by the golden chain of faith and trust in God, who had given them so many beautiful gifts and tokens of His loving care, they could always retire and feel that they were happy. This fair and gracious temple of married love is one of the most beautiful possessions that any one can rejoice in. But it needs to be carefully watched, lest any moth should enter, or rust mar its brightness, or serpent creep into the paradise. As the Vestals of ancient days kept their altar light pure and clear, so should the true wife pray to keep the light of this, her sacred temple, pure, and replenish it from time to time with the heavenly graces of Hope, Faith, and Charity, those three, the greatest of which is Charity; for it is one of the laws of our being, that in whatever position we find ourselves we cannot be secure without watching and prayer Sometimes the wreckage of a fair ship, or the first falling of the stone which is to end in the ruin of that house, may be traced to some small failure in duty, some slight wrong or omission unrepaired, or some angry word unrepented of. The woman who hopes to get through life loved and honoured to the end, and who would guard the first enthusiasm of her husband's love in all its freshness, must not expect to do so without continual care, forbearance in small matters, and bright, cheerful taking up of little crosses, which turns many a thorn into a flower, many a rough stone into a radiant jewel. Mr. Paget turned away from watching the carriage roll off, and said to Melville and Harry: "I hope they will have a safe journey; there is much ill-feeling abroad; and they are making a desperate effort in Bristol to secure the return of two Reform candidates. It is an unhappy business," said peace-loving Mr. Paget. "It is far better to let well alone." "Yes," said Melville, who was far too indolent by nature to have any very keen political feeling, "it was great nonsense of old Wetherall to split with his party about the Papists, and now to be against Reform." "As an old Tory, I am with him there," said Mr. Paget; "and there is something brave in the way he has put his own interests aside for what he believes to be right. But a judge ought not to be so violent a partisan. I hope Mrs. Arundel and those pretty babies of hers won't come in for any stone throwing and smashing of windows. There is to be a great meeting in Queen's Square to-day." "Turn in to breakfast, Mr. Paget," Melville said. "My wife has a headache, and is not come down yet. But Harry and I will do the honours." "Thank you kindly, no. I must ride into Wells. Why," he said, pulling the sleeve of Melville's dressing-gown, "you look like an Eastern Rajah! Your brother's blue jacket shows it off grandly. Upon my word, we are all very plain folks when compared with the master of Fair Acres." Then, slipping a shilling into old Thomas's hand, Mr. Paget mounted his horse and rode away. "A regular old country bumpkin!" Melville exclaimed. "He looks as if he had come out of the Ark, and taken the pattern of Noah's coat!" "He is a splendid old fellow," Harry said. "I wish we had more county gentlemen like him. But I am rather sorry I did not offer to go on the box of the carriage. I hope Joyce won't get into any crowd, or come in for stone throwing and uproar." "Oh, bother it! She will be all right. No one would want to steal her children; there is enough of that article in the world and to spare, without taking other people's." Harry was nevertheless uneasy. The unsettled condition of the whole district was becoming daily more serious. The popular cry in Bristol only the year before had been for Sir Charles Wetherall, and no Popery! The people who went out to meet him when he came to open the assize, had cheered and applauded him, trying to take the horses out of the carriage and drag him into the city in triumph. But now a change had come over the mind of the people, and the Reform Bill was exciting them to frenzy and hatred of every man who opposed it, of whom their once idolized Recorder was one of the most prominent. As we look back over the half century which lies between our own days and those of the great riots in the ancient city of Bristol, it is strange to mark how the questions, then so furiously contested, are now settled; how the pendulum, then swinging so violently, has subsided into a more regular beat; how even the second Reform Bill, carried by a large majority, is now a thing of the past; how the exclusion of any one from holding office, parliamentary or social, on the ground of religion, is now considered an act of tyrannical, and ill-judged interference, between the conscience of a man, and his duty to God. These fifty years, full of the great events so strongly marked by the discoveries of science, are full also of lessons, which we do well to ponder. They seem to take the text and preach patience to those who are hot-headed, and eager to press on any reform, or to advocate, with intemperate zeal, any scheme, even though they honestly believe it is for the good of the people. The wise advice of the Poet Laureate seems worthy to be followed at this very moment, when the kingdom is, from one end to the other, vibrating with the burning questions which shall decide the success, or non-success, of the two great parties which divide the nation: "Have patience--ourselves are full Of social wrong; and maybe wildest dreams Are but the needful preludes of the truth. This fine old world of ours is but a child Yet in the go-cart. _Patience!_ Give it time To learn its limbs--there is _a Hand that guides_." The carriage containing the happy mother and her children went merrily on its way to Bristol. The first glory of the spring was reigning everywhere. The hedgerows were full of starry primroses, and the copses carpeted with bluebells. Fair companies of wind flowers quivered in the gentle breeze, and the variety of foliage in the woods was almost as great as in autumn. Every shade of green shone in the sunlight, from silvery birch to emerald lime, sober elm, and russet oak, with the young tassels hanging on the birch, and the contrasting sombre dark hue of the pines, clothing the woods with surpassing beauty. The baby, lulled by the motion of the carriage and the regular sound of the horses' hoofs, was soon in profound slumber. Little Lota and Lettice, who bore the names of the aunt and niece in the Vicar's Close, after taking some buns from their grandmother's well-filled basket, also subsided into sleep. Lota was taken by her grandmother, and Lettice, with the support of Piers' arm, had a comfortable nap. Only Falcon, in the "dickey" behind, was wide awake. He was a noble-looking boy of five years old, with fresh, blue eyes and a fair complexion. He was like his mother in features, and his grandfather in his stout, athletic build. He had a loud, childish voice, and, as he whipped the back of the carriage, he sang lustily, in a sort of monotone, which kept time with the horses' feet: "Home--home--home to father." His mother heard the words, and they found an echo in her heart of "Home--home to Gilbert." Joyce's girlish loveliness had developed into the matured beauty of the mother, which is always so attractive. Her face shone with that soft light of motherhood and happy wifehood which we look for in vain on many faces which are beautiful, but _lack_ something. Her own mother acknowledged the charm, and often thought how much dearer and more beautiful Joyce had become in her eyes since her marriage, and how the father who had loved her so dearly would have rejoiced to see her now. This thought was in her mind when Joyce said: "Is not Lota too heavy for you, mother? Shall we change? Let me give you baby." "No, dear, no; it would be a pity to wake the baby; how sweet she looks. There will never be any children in the old home now, I am afraid." And Mrs. Falconer sighed. "I don't think they are wanted," Joyce said; "but perhaps till people have babies they don't know how delightful they are. Piers is laughing at me." "Not at you. I was only thinking how Gratian and Melville would hate the bother of children about the house." "They were very kind to us," Joyce said. "It seems to me that we may be very thankful Melville married Gratian." "Yes, she keeps him in good order." Mrs. Falconer had still a weak, very weak, place in her heart for Melville, and she said, sharply: "That's not a becoming way to speak of your eldest brother." Piers shrugged his shoulders. He took in, more fully than his mother could, the trouble that Melville's conduct had brought upon them all, especially on Ralph--Ralph, who might have done so well in scholarship, now acting as steward to his brother, with less thanks and less pay than he deserved. It irritated Piers to see Melville's self-satisfaction, and to know that from sheer indolence, if Ralph had not come to the rescue, he would have brought the inheritance of his fathers to hopeless ruin. Melville had his wish now. Gratian took care that their position should be recognised, and they visited at the houses of the neighbouring gentry, where Gratian's ready tact, and powers of fascination, were acknowledged. It became the fashion to enliven a dull, heavy dinner by inviting Mrs. Melville Falconer, who could tell amusing stories, seasoned with French phrases, and listen with apparently deep interest to the stories other people told, whether they related to the weather, the crops, or the fashions. Joyce saw the cloud on Piers' face, and hastened to say that Ralph had written a very clever treatise on draining land, and that Gilbert thought it would draw people's attention to the subject, from the masterly way in which it was treated. "So Ralph's brains are of great use, after all;" she said. "He is thrown away at Fair Acres. Harry says so, and I don't think it is fair or just. I never could get over Melville's horrid selfishness, and I don't wish to get over it." "Piers!" Joyce said, reproachfully; "remember he is your brother." "We have all good cause to remember it," was the muttered rejoinder. And now, as they passed through the villages nearer Bristol, large knots of people were congregated here and there. Some stared at the carriage as they passed, some hissed, and angry voices cried: "No Popery!" and "Reform!" When within some four miles of the city, Susan Priday leaned over and said: "There is a great crowd coming on behind us, ma'am; they look a very rough lot." The carriage was going up a steep hill, and just as it had slowly reached the top, some fifty or sixty men came out from a lane, which turned off towards Bath, and called out to the post-boy to stop. They were fierce, wild-looking men, and, as the post-boy tried to take no notice and whip on his horses, the bridles were seized and the carriage was surrounded. Then a number of voices shouted-- "Reform! Reform! Are ye for Reform? you grand folks; if ye are, speak out!" "Let go the horses' heads!" said Piers. "Let go! How dare you obstruct the high road?" "Aye! aye! you young fool; we'll teach you manners!" and one of the men clenched his fist and shook it at Piers. In another moment the crowd from behind, which Susan Priday had seen, came breathlessly up the hill, women with children in their arms, all screaming, at the top of their voices, "Reform! Reform!" One woman held up a child with a pinched, wan face, and said-- "You rich folks, you'd trample on us if you could, and we are starving! Look here!" and she bared the legs of the poor emaciated baby. "Look here! Look at your fat, stuffed-out childer, and look at _this_!" "Look 'ee here, missus; we are a-going to Bristol to cry for Reform. If you say you will have nothing to do with the tyrant, Wetherall, and his cursed lot, you may go on. If not, we'll seize the carriage, we'll turn ye all out into the road, and we'll drive in state to the big meeting in Queen's Square! My! what a lark that will be!" "Listen," Joyce said, standing up in the carriage with her child in her arms; "I am on my way home with these little children. Surely you will not stop me and endanger their lives?" "We will! we will! if you don't give us your word you are for Reform and dead against Wetherall." "Why," Joyce said fearlessly, "only a year ago, and near this very place, the men and women of Bristol shouted, 'Long live Wetherall!' And now!" "Now we say, _curse_ him!" growled a big, brawny man. The little girls, awakened by the uproar, began to cry with fear, and Falcon called out, "Let mother go on, you bad men! I say, let her go on! Father will be so angry with you!" "Hush! hush! dear Master Falcon," Susan said; "you will only make them worse. Hush!" And now, as Joyce looked over the faces crowding round her, she beckoned to the woman, who had been thrust back by the pressure of others who wanted to see the inhabitants of the carriage. "Come here," she said, holding out some of the buns; "I am so sorry for your hungry baby. Give her one of these buns, and do believe me when I say I am sorry for all your troubles." The sweet, ringing voice began to have effect, and the clamour ceased. "I am no enemy of the poor. My husband and I wish to do what we can for you, and I believe, nay, I know, he is an advocate of Reform, but not for rebellion against authority, and violence." The execrations were changed now to cheers. "Let 'em pass, she is a good 'un; let 'em pass, she has a kind heart; she has a pretty face, too. Here," said a man, "I am the father of that poor babby; shake hands, missus." Joyce stretched out her hand at once, and it was taken in a strong grip. "Thank you," she said; "I knew you would not be cruel to my little children. Will you all remember that I ask you to be peaceable, and to pray to God to help you and give you bread for your children. He is a kind and loving Father; don't forget that." As Joyce stood before that seething crowd of strange, wan faces, for many of them bore too plainly the marks of fasting and hunger, the baby in her arms raised a pitiful cry, and she pressed it closer and soothed it, while the baby lifted its little hand and stroked its mother's face. "Aye, she is of the right sort," they cried; "she is a mother who loves her child. She ain't too grand to cosset her babby. Let her go on!" The post-boy cracked his whip, and the carriage was just starting, when Joyce suddenly turned ashen white, and sinking back in the carriage, the baby would have fallen had not Piers caught it by its cloak. "What is it?--what is it, Joyce, my dear?" Mrs. Falconer asked. "You put too much strain on yourself; you are feeling the effects. Joyce!" But Joyce did not speak. Her mother opened the basket, and taking out a bottle, held it to Joyce's lips. "Take some wine; do try to sip it, Joyce." But Joyce sat up and put it from her. "No, thank you, dear mother. I was faint, rather faint. Perhaps it _was_ too much for me speaking to that angry crowd. Oh!" and she put her hand to her eyes, "their faces, their dreadful faces! I am better now." And, with wonderful self-restraint, Joyce did not tell her mother or Piers that, amidst that throng of ragged, wild people, she had seen the face of the man whom she believed had caused her father's death. Falcon's voice from the "dickey" was now heard. "Here's father! here's father!" And presently Gilbert trotted up on horseback, and was received with shouts from his little boy and deep thankfulness from those inside the carriage. "The crowd is getting very thick in the city," he said, "and I thought I would ride out and be your escort. Why, my darling, you don't look much better for country air," he said, anxiously scanning her face. "We have been surrounded by a mob," Piers said, "and Joyce asked them to let us pass, and that was rather too much even for her nerves. There are some two hundred men and women coming on behind us." "Then push on," Gilbert said to the post boy, "and I will be your _avant courier_. The crowd in Bristol is fairly orderly so far, and I think we shall get through pretty well. Why, Susan!" he said, "you look almost as white as your mistress. I shall be glad to get you all safe home." Joyce rose in the carriage again, and, turning, looked back at Susan. Her face told that she also had recognised her father; and, with a sudden gesture of sympathy, Joyce put her hand on her faithful and trusted servant's arm, and gave it a pressure which she understood. "Oh! dear madam," she said, "it was very dreadful." "Yes," Joyce said, "but the danger is past now that we have Mr. Arundel with us. Hold Falcon firmly when we get into the streets." "I shall be glad to get home now," said little Falcon. "I am as tired as mother is." That surging crowd, increasing hourly in numbers and in vehemence, thronged the narrow streets, and made the progress of the carriage very slow. The young man who rode before it attracted attention, and he was called upon several times to declare whether he would vote for Protheroe and Baillie, and whether he was an anti-reformer or a reformer. These questions were generally shouted at him and followed by cries and cheers, so that the reply could not be heard. Erect and fearless, Gilbert rode on, clearing the way for the carriage, which contained all that was most precious to him in the world. Had he turned a hair, or shown the slightest sign of fear, it is probable he would have had stones hurled at him, or insulting missives, such as rotten eggs or dead rats, thrown into the carriage. But there was something in the way Gilbert guided his horse through the throng, and in the steadfast outlook of his eyes, that won the mob, and not a finger was raised against him. He even heard cries of "pretty dears!" from behind. "It's their father, I daresay. Pretty dears! And that's their mother, with the youngest. She is as white as a ghostie." So on they passed safely over Bristol Bridge, through Wine Street, and Corn Street, narrow thoroughfares, which necessitated at the best of times, but slow progress. As they passed along Saint Augustine's Back they left the great proportion of the crowd on the other side of the river. It was making, by way of King Street, for Queen's Square, where the great meeting was to assemble before the Mansion House, and the two whig candidates were to harangue the people. The heat of controversy was fanned continually into a fiercer flame; and moderate men, like Gilbert Arundel, were rare. While desiring any change which might give the people their just rights, and conscious of many abuses which needed reform, Gilbert took up no party cry, nor did he try to exalt his own side by heaping abuse on the other. When the need came, he would be ready to act for the defence of right and order, but he stood aloof, with singular discretion, from the hot-headed politicians of the Union, and thus he was, with many others, innocent of the great outbreak of lawlessness and riot, which, in a few short months, was to disgrace the annals of the city of Bristol. The great thoroughfare of Park Street was comparatively empty, and Gilbert reined in his horse and rode by the side of the carriage. "We are nearly home now," he said; "and there you will be safe. Is anything the matter?" he asked, leaning forward to Joyce. "I will tell you," she said, in a low voice, "but not now." And then the carriage turned into Great George Street, and the children and Joyce and the luggage were deposited there, while Mrs. Falconer and Piers were taken on to Clifton. Mrs. Arundel shared the large town house with her son, but she was away on a visit, and only two servants were in the wide old-fashioned hall to receive the travellers. The children's spacious nursery was bright and cheerful, commanding a view of the cathedral just below, the tower of St. Mary Redclyffe Church, of the tall masts of the ships, and of the hills beyond. A blazing fire in the old grate, and the rocking chair by the high guard, looked inviting, and Joyce sat down there with little Joy in her arms, while Susan put Lota and Lettice to rest in their cots in the next room, to sleep after the excitement of the morning; and Falcon rushed to the garden to inquire into the condition of the white rabbit, which he had left in its hutch when they went to Fair Acres some three weeks before. Gilbert, who had been looking after the luggage, and settling the postboy's fee, soon came up, and, kneeling down by the chair, took both mother and baby in a loving embrace. "My two Joys," he said; "my two best Joys. I am afraid you have been a good deal frightened, my darling; but cheer up now; the danger, if there was any, is over, thank God!" "Gilbert, it was not the crowd, it was not the fear about the poor people who stopped the carriage, it was that amongst those dreadful faces I saw Bob Priday's, the man who stopped us on Mendip years ago, and who, as we think, killed dear father. Oh, it was the sight of his face which was too much for me! And poor Susan saw him also. It brought it all back. Father! father!" Gilbert stroked his wife's head tenderly as it lay upon his shoulder, and said: "Are you sure it was Bob Priday? So many years have passed." "Quite, quite sure. And, though I have not spoken to Susan yet, I _know_ she is sure also." "You did not tell your mother, then, or Piers?" "No, no; I would not have given mother the pain I felt, for anything. Dear mother! I let her drive off with scarcely a good-bye, and she has been so kind at Fair Acres, and has enjoyed the children in the old house. But, oh! Gilbert," she said, rallying, "it is so delightful to be at home with you again. While we have each other nothing can be _very_ bad, can it?" "Nothing," he said, fervently. "And now, while you are resting, I must go down to the office, for my partner is at the meeting at the "White Lion," helping to bolster up poor Hart-Davies to fight the Tories' battle. He is a good fellow, and everybody respects him; but the truth is, the tide is too strong in Bristol now for any but some very exceptional man to battle against it." "You think the Whigs will carry the election?" "Without a doubt." "Are you going to the meeting in Queen's Square?" "I think not. We cannot both leave the office at once, and I do not greatly care about it. I do increasingly feel that these men who clamour for their cause injure it. They are exciting the mob in Bristol--always inflammable material--and this fury of rage against old Wetherall is most dangerous. Everyone expects that if he attempts to open the next assize there will be a riot it will be difficult to quell. Happy little Joy," he said, kissing the baby's cheek; "to sleep on in peace while your fellow-citizens of Bristol are shouting themselves hoarse." Susan now came in from the next room, and took the baby from Joyce, while Gilbert left the nursery, saying: "We must dine at a fashionable hour to-day. I shall not be back till five;"--and Susan and her mistress were left alone. "Did he see us, Susan? Your father; do you think he saw us?" "I think he did, ma'am--at least, I think he saw me." "You feel no doubt at all that it was your father, Susan?" "No, oh no!" said poor Susan, struggling to restrain her convulsive sobs; "and I don't know what is to be done. Oh, dear, dear, madam!" "We must leave it in God's hands, Susan." "If he finds me out it will be so dreadful; but I don't think he will dare to do so." "No," Joyce said; "he will hide away from us knowing that suspicion, at least, must have fastened on him." "Dear madam, I wonder you have ever been able to bear to have me near you. His daughter!--_his_ daughter!" "I thought we had settled long ago, Susan, that your services to me and mine, and your love for the children, must always win my gratitude and----" "Dear madam, I know how good you are. I know how you took me out of the lowest depths of misery, just as no one else would have done. But if I am to bring trouble on you by staying here, if he, my father, is to bring more trouble on you, I would rather run away and hide myself, and never look upon your face again." "Do not say so, Susan; let us trust in God, and He will protect us. Your father, if he recognised me, which I doubt, is very unlikely to come forward when a serious charge might be brought against him. It was a great shock at first for me to see him; but let us dismiss it from our minds now, and do not let us speak of it to anyone but Mr. Arundel. Certainly not to Mrs. Falconer." "Very well, dear madam, I will do all you desire me," Susan said, and clasping little Joy in her arms, she turned away. [Illustration] CHAPTER XIII. A LULL IN THE STORM. There was a lull in the storm as soon as the two Whig candidates were elected to represent the city of Bristol, and Mr. Hart-Davis withdrew quietly from the contest. The undercurrent, it is true, was still muttering and murmuring of evil times to come, and all thinking men who looked below the surface knew that it would but need a spark to kindle a great fire in Bristol, and that much wisdom, firmness, and decision, would be needed amongst the rulers. Joyce Arundel, in her happy home life, soon lost the sense of insecurity, which after that memorable drive from Fair Acres, had at first haunted her. Falcon's lessons, and the interest she felt in his rapid advancement, engrossed her every morning when her household duties were over; and then she would pace up and down the garden overlooking the city, with her baby in her arms, while Lota and Lettice played on the wide expanse of even, if rather smoke-dried, turf, which sloped down from the terrace walk at the back of the house, and tell herself a hundred times that no wife or mother in England was happier than she was. The early married life of a mother whose chief interests centre in her own home, and who knows no craving for anything that lies beyond, is happy indeed. As years pass and her children vanish, and the sweetness of entire dependence on her ceases of necessity with infancy and childhood, the mother, weary with the battle of life, encompassed with difficulties, and overburdened with requirements which the failing strength of advancing years makes it hard to fulfil, can turn back to that fair oasis in her pilgrimage, when the children were with her day and night, when her hand had power to soothe a childish trouble, and her voice charm away a little pain or disappointment, or add, by her sympathy in joys as well as in sorrows, zest to all those simple pleasures in which children delight. Sometimes, even to the best mothers, I know, there comes a sudden, sharp awakening. The son of much love and many prayers goes far astray; the daughter, her pride and joy in her early childhood, is apparently cold and heartless. But as a rule, I think, in the retrospect the cry is forced from many a mother's sad heart: "If only I had been more to him in early boyhood; cared for his games, and interested myself in all his play as well as work, it _might_ have been different"; or, "If I had dealt more tenderly and patiently with her when she was standing on the threshold of womanhood, it might have been different!" Vain regrets, vain laments for some of us; but the young mother, like Joyce Falconer, has the children and the father of the children still with her, and may, as Joyce did, sing to herself a sweet, low song of thanksgiving, which made Lettice stop in her play, and, running up to her side, say: "What a pretty song mother is singing to baby!" And now another voice was heard, rather a sad, querulous voice, which did not chime in well with the mother's song, or the baby's gentle coo of gladness, or the laughter of the two little sisters, as Falcon dashed out upon them from the open door of the hall with a big ball in his hand, which he threw down the grass with a merry "Halloo!" Falcon's lessons, which his mother had left him to learn, were over, and he was free to run and jump to his heart's content. "Joyce, are you not coming to get ready? Aunt Falconer never likes to be kept waiting." "Oh! I beg your pardon, Charlotte; I had forgotten you and I were to spend the day with mother; I will be ready in a few minutes. I must just wait till Susan can take baby." Susan appeared at this moment, and Joyce went quickly into the hall. Poor Charlotte's visions and dreams had never come to be anything but dreams. She was older than Joyce, and still had never found the language of the eyes come to a good honest declaration of love, still less to an offer of marriage. She was just now on a visit to her cousin, Miss Falconer being very ready to spare her, hoping that in Clifton or Bristol she might find a cure for her low spirits, and generally dejected air, which her aunt did not like to have remarked upon by the gossips of Wells, and which had certainly very much increased of late. * * * * * Joyce ran upstairs to prepare for her visit, and on the first floor found Mrs. Arundel. "Mr. Bengough has been here, Joyce, with great news; the Bill was carried with a large majority in the Commons, and now there is only the Lords, and surely they will not turn it out." Falcon, who had rushed up to the nursery to find his reins and whip, that he might make a pair of ponies of his little sisters, stopped as he heard his grandmother say: "It is great news, and a great victory." "What battle is it? Tell me, mother, who has been fighting?" "It was not a battle with swords or guns, Falcon; but when you are a man you may remember that you heard, when you were a little boy, that on the nineteenth of September, eighteen hundred and thirty-one, the great Reform Bill was carried by a number of votes." "Then will all those angry people we saw when we came home from Fair Acres be happy and good now. Susan says they shouted 'Reform, Reform,' because they wanted bread; but I don't know what it means," said Falcon, thoughtfully. "If it's a good thing, it ought to make people better, oughn't it, Grannie?" It was profound philosophy for six years old! The necessary consequence of good must be something _better_. Joyce, thinking of those angry faces crowding round her and her babies, and of the one terrible face which conjured up such a host of dreadful memories, sighed. "Ah! Falcon," she said, "good things cannot come all at once--good results, I mean; but give me a kiss and run away, and mind you give Grannie no trouble while I am gone." Then Joyce turned for a moment into the pretty sitting room which Mrs. Arundel occupied. Since Gratian's marriage she had lived with her son and his wife. She had separate rooms on the upper floor of the large house, and her own maid. The arrangement was perfectly harmonious, and the little household was very happy. "You will not mind letting the children dine with you, dear Grannie?" Joyce said. "Mind! it will be a great treat; do not hasten back." "I thought after dinner, if Piers liked, we would go and see Mrs. More; he does not get out enough." "Take a carriage at my expense, dear, and drive to Windsor terrace, and then over the Downs. It will be a lovely afternoon, and your mother will enjoy it." Joyce shook her head. "I doubt if mother will come; but I will do my best, thank you. Gilbert will not come home till quite a late dinner--supper, as my mother calls all meals after six o'clock." Joyce and Charlotte were soon walking quickly up Park Street, for their lungs were good and their limbs strong, and Charlotte forgot her complaints for the time, in the delight of looking in at several shop windows lately opened in Park Street. There was no Triangle then. The Victoria Rooms were only a dream of some enterprising builder, and it was across a field that Joyce made her way, till she came to the sombre houses with dark, sunless frontage called Rodney Place, and, passing them and the stately mansion, Manilla Hall, she turned towards some low grey-coloured houses, which rejoiced in the name of "Down Cottages." It was impossible for Mrs. Falconer to live in any house without leaving her mark upon it, and the little dining and drawing rooms were as bright and fresh as she could make them, while Piers had the third sitting room for his "rubbish." Piers had now a collection of birds and beasts which had grown into large proportions since the little sparrow-hawk had been "set up" by Mr. Plume. He had studied natural history in all its branches, and since he had lived in Clifton he had begun to be an earnest student of the great subject of geology, and his light figure, leaning on his crutches, and his pale, earnest face, were familiar to those who took their daily airing on the Observatory Hill. Piers had made friends with the stone cutters who spread out their stalls on Sion Hill and at the foot of the Observatory, and there was a continual interest in getting specimens from them. Piers was helped in his studies by a young physician, who was then putting his foot on the first rung of the ladder which he soon scaled to the very top, and stood in later years pre-eminently as the first consulting physician of the West of England. His patients at this time, above the level of Park Street were not very numerous, and he would laughingly assure Piers that he was very proud to attend any one in so aristocratic a locality as Down Cottage! He lent Piers books and instruments, and gave him a microscope, of which, as a physician, he had several, and, indeed, was the bright element in the lame boy's life. He was coming out of the house now as Joyce opened the little iron gate, his horse waiting for him at the corner. The greeting between the doctor and Joyce was unusually warm; he admired her beautiful, beaming face, and always liked to exchange a word with her. "It is great news," he said; "though the crucial test is yet to come." "Yes," Joyce said; "but surely the dear old Lords will not obstruct the bill." "The dear old Bishops will do so," the doctor said, "your friend at Wells amongst them." "Well," Joyce said, "he is sure to do what he does because he thinks it is right, not because other people do it." The doctor laughed again; evidently he was not so sure of the Bishop. Then, with a pleasant smile to Charlotte, the doctor went away, just turning back for a moment to say, "I saw your old friend, Mrs. Hannah More's doctor, in consultation this morning, and he incidentally mentioned that she was failing rather visibly. Have you seen her of late?" "I am going there this afternoon," Joyce said. "I want so much to see her." "I would not delay," the doctor said, significantly, and then he was gone. After the first greeting. Piers dragged Joyce off to his den, to show her a beautiful specimen of quartz, of which he had possessed himself the day before for a mere trifle. And then he had diagrams to show her, which he had drawn, of several crystals, as seen through the microscope; and then he divulged the doctor's plan, that he should prepare a good many of such diagrams for him to use at a lecture he was to give in the Bristol Museum, some evening in the course of the coming winter. I do not think there is any quality more attractive than that, which Joyce possessed in a remarkable degree, of throwing herself--not superficially, as Gratian did, but really and heartily--into the interests of other people. [Illustration: Clifton and the Avon.] Any one watching her face as she bent over Piers' treasures, and examined his drawings, would have scarcely believed that she was the mother of four children, to whom she was devoted. Piers was seated at his table, and she was standing over him, with one hand upon his shoulder, while, with the other, she now and then stroked back his hair, as in old days. It is strange to think how the quiet, happy life of home, and home interests may go on, while the storm of political strife, and religious controversy rages without. It was thus with Sir Thomas Browne, the philosopher and physician, of Norwich, who produced his great work, the "Religio Medici," when England stood on the eve of the greatest storm, which ever burst over her. It was thus with many less distinguished and simple souls, who went about their accustomed duties and pleasures, and took up their daily burden of cares and toil, and gave but little heed to the jarring elements without. Presently Joyce said: "I must go to mother now and get ready for dinner. How has mother been lately?" "Oh! very well," Piers said. "She does not _care_ very much for anything, that is the worst of it. She always talks of her day being over, and that she has nothing now to live for; but she has, all the same," Piers continued, laughing. "She bustles about every morning, rubbing and dusting, and then she is knitting socks enough to last Falcon till he is twenty, and all kinds of things for your baby." "Does she get on with the servants now?" "Oh! pretty well. Of course, there is a good scold every day of one or the other of them, but both the maids know by this time, as we all do, that mother's bark may be sharp, but her bite is nothing." "I hope you are not very dull, darling Piers?" Joyce asked. "Dull! No, thank goodness! I don't know what dullness means. I see you have brought Charlotte with you; she is as languishing as ever." "Poor Charlotte!" Joyce said; "she, at any rate, knows very well what dullness means. But I must not stay; remember you and mother are to spend Christmas with us in Great George Street." The Clifton of fifty-five year's ago might not present such an appearance of gaiety on a fine afternoon as it does now; but, nevertheless, the Downs and Observatory were sprinkled with people, well dressed, in carriages, or Bath chairs, or on foot. It was decided that the carriage should be ordered by Joyce from the stables at the back of Sion Hill, as she went to Windsor Terrace; that Mrs. Falconer, Piers, and Charlotte should drive to the turnpike on the Down, and then come to the top of Granby Hill, and wait there for Joyce. Charlotte was quite content with this arrangement, and watched Joyce's departure after dinner with some satisfaction. She rather liked to be alone with Mrs. Falconer, who, as she knitted, listened to her little complaints with patience, if not with expressed sympathy. Mrs. Arundel, on the contrary, thought Charlotte needed rousing, and was intolerant of perpetual headaches and low spirits. There were many unoccupied young women like Charlotte, fifty years ago, without any particular aim in life, except a vague idea that they ought to be married. The years as they passed, often went by on leaden wings. Charlotte was amiable and gentle; and Miss Falconer, disappointed with the result of her training, would say: "Poor dear Charlotte has not strong health; so different from Joyce, who was a perfect rustic in that, as in other things." But Joyce was married, and Charlotte remained single, and had not even the satisfaction of recounting her many conquests, as her aunt so frequently did. There is no more honourable and noble life than that of the single woman who bravely takes up her lot, and works her way to independence, by industry and the cultivation of the gifts God has given her, for which the opportunities in these days are so many. But there is--I had almost said _was_--no life more pitiable, than that of the woman whose youth is passing, and who, having to accept her position as unmarried, does so with a bad grace, and pines for what, by her very melancholy views of life, she puts more and more beyond her reach, and who is perpetually thinking of her own little pains and troubles, and forgets to be at leisure from herself, to sympathise with those of others. "Joyce did not ask _me_ to go and see Mrs. More; though we stayed at Barley Wood together," Charlotte was saying. "However, I dare say Mrs. More would not remember me." "Her memory is getting short now," said Mrs. Falconer; "she reaped a pretty harvest for her over-indulgence of her servants; teaching them things that were above their station in life was the beginning of it. They cheated her through thick and thin, and some gentlemen had to interfere, and break up the household for her, poor old lady!" "It must be a change for her to live in Windsor Terrace, after that lovely place," Charlotte said. "Not greater than for me to change Fair Acres for Down Cottage; but my day is over, and it suits me very well, and Piers is happy, while Harry and Ralph like to come here sometimes, and I like to be near Joyce and the dear children." "I think Falcon is rather tiresome and noisy," Charlotte said. "Joyce does not reprove him as she ought." Mrs. Falconer was touchy about her grand-children; in her eyes Falcon was perfect, and the love that had been so unsparingly poured forth on Melville, was now given to Falcon. "He's a noble boy," she said, in a tone that implied it was certainly not Charlotte's business to suggest that he had any imperfections. And now the knitting-needles were laid aside, for the carriage stopped at the little iron gate, and Mrs. Falconer went to call Piers, and to prepare for her drive. Meantime Joyce had gone down the steep hill to Windsor Terrace, and, after some hesitation on the part of Miss Frowde, she was allowed to see Mrs. More. She was seated in an easy chair, propped up with cushions, enjoying the view which lay before her. For a moment she sought Joyce's face with an inquiring glance, as if not quite sure of her identity; but almost immediately the recognition came, and she greeted her, with one of her brightest smiles. "Why, my dear Mrs. Arundel, you are quite a stranger. How are the dear babies, and poor Susan?" "They are all well, dear madam, and Susan is an increasingly valuable servant." "I am glad to hear it. I love to know that the seed sown is springing up. We are sadly impatient, my dear; we are like children pulling up the plant to see if the roots are grown. How are things going on at Fair Acres?" "Very much as usual. My brother Ralph manages the estate." "And the others look on! Well, well, patience is the great lesson for us all to learn, the patience that God has with us. Prayer and patient waiting will move mountains at last." Then, after a few more inquiries, Mrs. More came to public matters. "I thought," she said, "I was too old to take such a deep interest in the affairs of this kingdom and this city; but, my dear, we stand on the edge of a volcano, and, from all I hear, Bristol is ill-prepared. There is a growing feeling of hatred against the magistrates, and the zeal of Sir Charles Wetherall has carried him beyond the bounds of discretion. Would you like to borrow any books? They are at your service. In that book-case there are many volumes written by me. I often sit here, and think over the writing of those books, and how little I ever expected that they would have a large sale, and bring me in, as they did, thirty thousand pounds. It often fills me with self-abasement, not self-glorification." "I will not take a book to-day, dear madam; and here is Miss Frowde come to warn me that I have stayed long enough." "See!" Mrs. More said, "there is the little steam-packet puffing busily up the river. I am blessed in my old age, to see before my windows the two great discoveries of the age, steam-power made useful for locomotion, and coal-gas for light. I am very happy here, my dear, but remember an old woman's advice, and do not spoil Susan Priday, or any servant, by over indulgence. Very often, as in my own case, carelessness, and dislike of trouble is the real root of the evil. God bless you and keep you, my dear," she said, as Joyce bent to kiss her. "Is there much excitement abroad about the passing of the Reform Bill?" "Not that I have seen," Joyce answered; "but I daresay there may be in the city." "Well, the result is in God's hands; we must pray and labour for peace, that blessed gift of God's love--peace." It was a sweet parting word, and one to which Joyce often recurred in later years, almost as Hannah More's legacy to her--Peace. [Illustration] CHAPTER XIV. THE STORM BURSTS. It was the evening of the eighteenth of October when Joyce was seated in her nursery, awaiting her husband's return. The Bristol clocks had struck eleven; and from time to time the noise of the voices of many people reached her, borne upon the still night air. She had sent the servants to bed; and Mrs. Arundel and Charlotte were also gone to their rooms; but Joyce sat up watching for Gilbert's return. The baby Joy, was sleeping in her cradle, and Lettice and Lota in their cribs, while Falcon lay in profound repose, a fife, upon which he had been playing hard all day, as he marched round and round the garden, was clasped in his strong, round little fingers. Joyce bent over the children, shading the candle with her hand, to assure herself they slept, and then, leaving the nursery door open, that she might hear if they stirred or cried, she went gently down the wide staircase to the hall. The fire in the dining-room was burning low, and she put on some more coal, and saw that the kettle just simmered on the hob, ready to be put on to the fire when Gilbert came. She moved with that quiet, almost stealthy tread, which is common with those who feel themselves the only persons awake in a house. The stillness was broken by the ticking of the clock in the hall, and how loud that tick sounded! Joyce went to the window, and, unfastening the shutter, looked out into the night, a dark, murky night; and from below came the low murmur of the crowds, which had not yet dispersed. Public feeling throughout the country had reached almost to fever heat, but in Bristol the animosity against Bishops and Lords, for the rejection of the Reform Bill which the Commons had passed, was quickened by the personal hatred, which the recorder, Sir Charles Wetherall had excited amongst the people. Bristol reformers were enraged that he should have made a bitter attack upon Lord John Russell in the House of Commons, charging him most unfairly with encouraging illegal means for carrying the Reform Bill. Though the whole country was in a ferment, and riots had broken out in Derby, Nottingham, and other towns, in no place was there such a personal feeling excited as against the Recorder of Bristol. The assizes would soon open, and vengeance was vowed against him, if he attempted to enter the city to perform his duties as a judge. Both parties vied with each other in exciting bitterness and ill feeling; and all good, moderate men felt, in their own minds, that a crisis was at hand, and that, unless some wise and able pilot could be found to guide the helm, a most disastrous shipwreck must follow. Gilbert Arundel had, with some other gentlemen, done what they could to cast oil on the troubled waters. Gilbert had spoken several times at some of the smaller meetings, and had advised temperance and patience. He was one of the very few, in those days, who appealed to the working men to help to maintain order among themselves; who showed the ruin and distress the rioters had brought upon their families in other places, and who spoke to them as having common cause with himself to do all they could to protect their wives and children. Gilbert was, in his heart, what was called a whig, but he was far, indeed, from being a hot-headed radical. That he was known to be the grandson of a peer, and that his mother had a title, did not win him favour with the extreme section of his own party, while the others, perhaps, were a little triumphant that the son of a noble house might yet question the wisdom of the Lords in rejecting a Bill which was so dear to the heart of the people. Joyce gently closed the shutters and returned to her place by the fire. Then she went out into the hall, where an oil lamp was dimly burning, and looked out from a small window by the side of the door. A sense of fear began to creep over her, not for herself, but for Gilbert. She listened for his step with that nervous tension which is so painful, and of which we all know something. Presently the door of the cellar, which opened into the hall, creaked; Joyce watched it breathlessly; it opened wider and wider, and a man's head appeared. In the dim light she could scarcely discern the features, but something in that face was surely familiar. She was not left long in doubt; once more Bob Friday stood before her. At first Joyce was literally paralysed with terror, and she could neither speak, nor call for help. She made a movement towards the door, but the man raised a hand to prevent her. "Don't you scream or move. I want to speak to you." "How can you--how dare you, come here?" "I came to tell ye that I'll see your young gent comes to no harm." "I don't know what you mean," said Joyce, burying her face for a moment in her hands. "I know--I know what terrible grief you once brought on me and all I loved." The accents of her voice, with the sorrowful ring in them, the quiet self-possession, for which, with a sinking heart she struggled, touched that rough, bad man, as no protestations or entreaties could have done. "I cannot believe," she went on, "you are come to do me more harm. My four little children are asleep upstairs. There is no one in the house but women, helpless women, one of whom is your own daughter--your _own daughter_." "I wouldn't hurt a hair of her head, nor yours, nor your childer's. I came to warn you--the folks down below will stop at nothing once they are let loose; they'd as soon tear your young gent to pieces as look at 'im. They'd fire this 'ouse for a trifle. I belong to a party of 'em, and if I know it, _he_ shan't come to no harm. Look ye, missus, I wanted to see you, to tell you the squire was riding peaceable enough----" "Oh! don't! don't! I cannot bear it," Joyce said. "He was riding peaceable enough, and I laid in wait for 'im. I got hold of the bridle, and the horse, she backed and reared, and the squire he fell on a sharp stone, which cut his forehead--a three corner cut--I see it now. He lay like a dog, dead, and the horse galloped off, and I--well, I made off too, and got aboard a ship in Bristol Docks, and only came back last Christmas. I meant to threaten the squire; but I didn't kill 'im; I didn't _want_ to kill 'im." "Your act killed him as much as if you had thrown the stone, as we all believed you did. Oh! I pray God may forgive you." "Say you forgive me," the man muttered; "I wouldn't hurt a hair of your head." "I pray God to forgive you, and I try to do as the Lord Jesus would have me, and forgive you. But, oh! leave your evil ways, and turn to Him." "It's too late," he said. "Oh! no! no!--never! never too late!" The man was silent for a few minutes; then he spoke in a low harsh voice: "Give my love to poor Sue. I broke her mother's heart, and I nearly broke her's. I saw her riding in the carriage with you, like a lady, in the spring. Her mother used to pray God to take care of her, and sure enough, He has. It must be pretty nigh like heaven to live along with you. I'm a-going out by the way I came. Now you just see that the cellar winder bars is mended; that's how I got in, and others may get in too. I suppose you couldn't say, God bless you?" The restraint Joyce had put upon herself was very great, and now that the danger seemed passing, she began to give way. "Yes," she said faintly; "I think you are sorry, and I say, may God pardon you and bless you." "Thank'ee," was the rejoinder; but still, though he moved back towards the cellar door, he lingered. "Suppose you wouldn't touch the likes of me with your little white hand? I'd like to feel it once, just once." With a great effort she held out her hand, cold and trembling with fear. The man took it up, as he would some curious and precious thing, and then, bowing over it, he waited no longer, and the cellar-door closed behind him. Joyce sank upon one of the straight-backed chairs, and was just becoming unconscious of all outward things, when the latch-key was fitted into the lock, and Gilbert came in. With a cry of dismay, he closed the door, and hastened to take her in his arms. "My darling, what is it? What can have happened?" He carried her, half fainting, into the dining room, and chafed her cold hands, and held some water to her lips. A great flood of tears relieved her at last, and then clinging to her husband's neck, and still shuddering in every limb, she managed to tell him the story of Bob Priday's visit. "It is a very grave matter," Gilbert said; "if the man who is guilty of your father's death is in Bristol, he ought to be apprehended and put on his trial." "He seems to bear us no ill-will now, Gilbert. He is penitent, I think; and he said dear father fell from the horse, and that he did not actually throw the stone at him. Oh! Gilbert, it seems to bring it all back again." "Dismiss it from your thoughts to-night, my darling, we shall need all our strength and courage. I am sworn in as a special constable. The people show increasingly signs of ill-will against those in authority. If Wetherall persists in making a public entry into Bristol next week, God only knows what will be the consequences. No one seems to be able to take active measures. The mayor is kindly and well-intentioned, but he has no strength of purpose, and if once the mob gets the upper hand, and those in authority are frightened, there will be a riot such as Bristol has never known. I think, if things do not look more promising, I must send you to Abbot's Leigh with my mother and the babies, and Charlotte Benson had better go home. There is a house at Abbots Leigh, Benson, my partner, will let me have, and you would be out of harm's way there." "Oh! Gilbert, surely you do not mean that I am to leave you? I could not--I will not leave you!" "You will do what I think is best and right, like a brave, good wife. You would not add to my anxiety, I am sure. I have seen enough in Bristol to-day to feel certain there will be a desperate struggle before the city quiets down. Only imagine that man, Captain Claxton, being so mad as to call a meeting of sailors on board the two ships now in the harbour, the 'Charles' and the 'Earl of Liverpool,' under pretence of voting a loyal address to the king, but really to get the sailors to form a guard to protect Wetherall when he enters Bristol. Could anything be more likely to enrage the other party? The meeting was broken up and adjourned to the quay, where the anti-reformers passed the resolution in a great uproar, protesting loyalty to the king, but declaring they will not be made a cat's paw of by the corporation and paid agents. The notion of protesting this publicly in the face of all the orders of the mayor! They are going to send a deputation to Wetherall to beg him not to persist in coming in next Saturday; but I am afraid it will be useless. If anything could have added to my own share in the troubles of the city, it is that Maythorne has chosen this time to come to the hotel in Clifton. He is a mere wreck, and so broken down that he looks like an old man instead of in his prime, but he is as bumptious as ever." Joyce had roused herself now. The idea of Gilbert's danger was enough to drive away every other anxiety. She made him take the refreshment which he so greatly needed, and, though pale and exhausted, she felt it almost a relief to busy herself in any way which diverted her mind from the terrible half-hour she had gone through in the hall face to face with Bob Priday. "Why is Maythorne's coming so vexatious to you?" she asked; "I mean, more vexatious than usual." "My dear child," Gilbert said, "the very fact of his title, and my connection with it, would be enough to ensure brickbats and stones to be hurled at my head if he is seen with me. Let us hope he will keep to the more aristocratic quarters of Clifton, and not come near us." "I think," Joyce said, when at last they prepared to go upstairs to bed; "I think I should like to hear you give God thanks for my safety, and that strength was given me not to cry out or scream; but oh! Gilbert, Gilbert, I _was_ so frightened!" Again he soothed her and comforted her, and then he raised his voice, the manly tones touched with pathos, and thanked God for His mercy, committing his wife and her little children to His care. * * * * * All that week passed in dread and apprehension. The popular feeling grew stronger and stronger against the Recorder, as the head and chief, as far as Bristol was concerned, of the anti-reformers. Efforts were made to postpone the assizes, or, in the phrase of the day, "Deliver the gaol"; but all their efforts were vain, and the authorities actually despatched a deputation to Lord Melbourne at the Home Office, to beg he would send down a body of soldiers to keep the peace during the Recorder's visit. Lord Melbourne, doubting the expediency of such a movement, tried to get at the opinions of the two members for Bristol. Mr. Baillie was from home, but Mr. Protheroe said he would be answerable for order, and himself accompany Sir Charles Wetherall, if the military were dispensed with. The idea of an armed force to protect a judge he considered preposterous, and more likely to inflame the people than anything else. It was a memorable week to all those who lived in Bristol. And when the morning of Saturday, October the twenty-ninth dawned, and the tramp of the civic force was heard on their way to Totterdown to meet the Recorder, many hearts sank within them. Lord Maythorne had found his way to Great George Street much oftener than his sister, Mrs. Arundel, wished, or Gilbert expected. He took a very lofty standpoint, and vowed that the Recorder was a fine fellow and did what was right, and that he should like to see sacks full of the malcontents thrown into the Float as an easy way of getting rid of them. Gilbert found silence his safest course with his uncle, and tried to put a restraint on himself when in his presence. He came up from Bristol about four o'clock in the afternoon of this memorable Saturday, weary and dispirited, and found, to his dismay, that his uncle was in the drawing-room. He was lounging on a sofa, holding a skein of silk for Charlotte Benson's embroidery, affecting, at forty, the airs and manners of a young beau, and talking an immense deal of nonsense to poor Charlotte, which she was only too ready to drink in. Charlotte had begged to remain in Bristol at the early part of the week; and, as the days passed on, it became more and more difficult to think of leaving it. The mail coaches and passenger vans, as well as private carriages, were continually stopped, and the travellers were roughly asked whether they were for Reform, or against it; for the Lords, or ready to cry "_Down with the Lords!_" In many instances quiet people, who cared very little about politics, and understood less, were seriously frightened, and even injured by the swift hurling of a stone or a brickbat. As soon as Joyce heard her husband's step, she ran out to the hall. Susan Priday was also on the look-out, with Joy in her arms. Gilbert looked worn out, and threw himself into a chair, saying: "I believe it is all but impossible to avoid a riot now. I wish you and the children and my mother were safe at Abbot's Leigh. Indeed, it is not too late now to get you up to Down Cottage, and----" [Illustration: High Street, Bristol.] "I cannot leave you, Gilbert; do not ask me," Joyce said. "Tell us what has happened in Bristol. We hear the uproar from these windows," his mother said. "Oh! let them fight it out," said Lord Maythorne, "let them fight it out. They won't touch us." "I am not so sure of that," said Gilbert, sharply. "I have a suspicion that you, for one, would get rough handling if some of the malcontents caught you." Lord Maythorne laughed. "I should like to see them try. But tell us the news, pray." "The news is," said Gilbert, "that the plan of bringing in the Recorder early in the day failed. We marched out about ten o'clock to Totterdown, in the hope of cheating the mob, who did not expect the procession till four o'clock. The yells and hisses of two thousand people were a sufficient proof of this. The sheriff's carriage could scarcely make its way through the masses of people, and several stones were hurled at it. Sir Charles Wetherall reached the Guildhall about twelve o'clock, and the commission was read. It might have passed off fairly, had not that stupid though well meaning fellow, Ludlow, began to allude to Reform. It was like a spark to tinder, and there was an instant uproar; amidst it the court adjourned to eight o'clock on Monday morning. Every one means well; but there is no leader for our body of special constables, and some of the paid fellows are worse than useless. The Recorder is now at the Mansion House in Queen's Square, and we were ordered to rest, but not before several of our number were a good deal hurt, and in every encounter the mob had the best of it. They have armed themselves with sticks, and one poor fellow was chased into the Float, and many more must have been hurt." "Are you hurt, Gilbert?" "A few bruises, nothing worse; but it is imperative that the children and Susan should go up to Clifton Down. We are too near the city; if the Mansion House is fired, as we hear is likely, the uproar and confusion will reach this house. Charlotte and you, mother, the children and Joyce, must prepare to start at once. Make haste and pack up a few things, and I will see you to a place of safety." And now swift steps were heard on the stairs, and Falcon came in. "Father," he said, "I've been watching from the windows, and I can see the crowd, and the shouts get louder." "You are to go with Susan, Grannie, and cousin Charlotte, at once, to Down Cottage. You will take care of mother, won't you, Falcon?" "Of course I will," the boy said, "and of the baby, and Susan. Susan does nothing but cry. I wish she would not." "It is not the time to cry, Falcon. We must all be as brave as we can. Now, Joyce," he said, "and Charlotte, make haste." "You are in a desperate hurry," Lord Maythorne exclaimed. "I will look after the ladies with pleasure, and I confess I see no great cause of alarm. You forget, Gilbert, that people have nerves." For Charlotte began to sob hysterically, and ask 'if they would all be burned up, and if the dreadful people would rush up the hill.' Lord Maythorne soothed her with honeyed words, and declared he would not leave her till she was in a place of safety. "Gilbert," Joyce said, beseechingly, as she followed him to the dining room, where he partook hastily of refreshment, "do not force me to go away from you; let me and Falcon stay here. We have the gardener to protect us, and the cook is a sensible woman. Pray please, let your mother take her maid and Susan, and, _do_ leave me here. Think how dreadful it would be to me to be beyond reach if--if anything happened to you, if you were hurt. Nay, Gilbert, do not refuse me." "Well, I will yield for this one night, and to-morrow, being Sunday, there may be peace; but I doubt it. Get the others under marching orders; and, Joyce;" as she was leaving the room, "I am not very well pleased to see my uncle hanging about here, and filling that poor girl's head with nonsense. She is just as likely to fancy he is making love to her as not. Warn her, can't you?" Joyce shook her head. "It is not easy to persuade Charlotte that everyone is not ready to fall at her feet, and I am afraid she will resent any interference; but, oh!" she continued gaily, "I will do anything now I am not to be sent away from _you_." Then she hastened upstairs and found Susan and Mary bustling about for departure. Joyce told Falcon he was to stay to take care of her, and he shouted for joy. He had again taken up his post at the open nursery windows, leaning over the bars, and listening to the ever increasing tumult which reigned in the city below. "Oh! dear madam," Susan said; "I don't like to leave you." "You like to please me, Susan, and there is no danger for me." "The cellar window is made fast, I know," Susan said, "and he--he can never come near you again; but suppose the mob should come up here, and master not be able to reach you." "That is not likely; by to-morrow all may be quiet, and I shall come to Down Cottage to see how you have got on. You must give mother my love, and tell her I know she will like to have Baby Joy to-night, and that you can sleep with Lettice and Lota." "Don't be afraid, my darlings," she said, as two little serious faces were turned up to her, and two little plaintive voices said: "We want to stay with mother. Falcon is going to stay." "Falcon is a boy, and he likes to watch the crowds, and does not mind the noise, and he is going to take care of me. Now then, darlings, run down and tell father you are ready, while I go and see if grandmother and Mary, and cousin Charlotte are ready also." But Mrs. Arundel had determined to remain with Joyce, and said nothing should tempt her to leave her; her maid Mary should go, and she would stay behind. Joyce thought of the rather small accommodation at Down Cottage, and did not raise any further objection. There was only Charlotte now to hasten. Joyce found her tying her bonnet and arranging her curls under it, and turning her head first to one side, then to the other, to catch a glimpse of her profile in the glass. "Come, Charlotte, make haste," Joyce said; "they are all ready." "Is Lord Maythorne coming with us?" "Yes, as far as the Hotel. If I were you I should not desire his company." "Oh! Joyce, he is very nice, quite delightful, and he is--" "He is given to flatter everybody," Joyce said, "as years ago poor Melville found to his cost. So take care, Charlotte." "Take care, indeed! I don't know what you mean," said Charlotte, pouting. "You always think no one can possibly admire _me_." "My dear Charlotte, this is not a time for such nonsense, it is time to commend ourselves and all we love to God's care, and not to be filled with thoughts of who admires us and who does not. Lord Maythorne is Gilbert's uncle; but he has caused a great deal of sorrow in the family, and we were all very sorry when he came to live in England again. Mrs. Arundel cannot be uncivil to him, but she has not the slightest respect for him; neither have I." "Well, dear," said Charlotte, "now you have finished your lecture, I will go downstairs. I suppose you think, as you are--are married, you may----" Charlotte's ready tears began to flow, and Joyce, losing her patience, passed by her quickly, and ran down into the hall. It was hard to bid them all "good-bye," her baby smiling at her from under her warm hood, Lettice and Lota clinging to her, and Susan looking back to the last moment, as she led the way down Great George Street with Joy in her arms. "You must give Uncle Piers my love, you know," Joyce said, "and say I am coming to-morrow. Good-bye; good-bye." She stood at the door watching her husband and children down the street, which opens into Park Street, kissing her hand to them as the little girls' figures disappeared round the corner. Lord Maythorne and Charlotte were rather longer in setting out, and a great deal of hesitation on Charlotte's part, and coaxing on Lord Maythorne's, was necessary, before they too at last departed. Charlotte leaning on Lord Maythorne's arm, and walking as if at every step she expected to meet a rioter, or have a stone thrown at her! But Great George Street was as quiet as any deserted city, and the large, respectable houses looked as if they, at least, and their inhabitants, stood aloof from all questions of dispute, and all stormy expressions of opinion. Joyce was an object of some interest to an old lady who lived opposite, and she craned her neck over the blind in the dining-room to see if it were actually true that only Joyce and Falcon were left in the house with Mrs. Arundel. Joyce, always sensible, and with "her wits about her," as her mother often said, now closed and bolted the front door, and closed the shutters in the hall and the dining-room. Then she went to the door leading to the garden, called the gardener, who, in spite of the tumult below, went on sweeping the fallen leaves together in a heap, as if it were the one great business of life. "Henry," Joyce called; and, shouldering his broom, the man came with slow but sure steps up to the level gravel path under the windows. "Will you come round with me and see that all the doors and windows on the ground-floor are safely closed and barred, and the gate locked at the bottom of the garden?" She turned back a moment, and taking a shawl from the hall, threw it over her head. "Bars and doors won't keep 'em out if they've a mind to get in," said Henry; "the din is getting louder and louder. When will the master be back, ma'am?" "I don't know quite. Yes," she said, "this door is safe; and I wonder how anyone could have climbed that wall?" Henry looked curiously at her. "Somebody _did_ climb it," he said, "for I found great footmarks here a week ago, and showed 'em to the master." Joyce knew well enough whose footprints they were, but she said nothing. "I should like you to come into the cellar with me, Henry," she said, turning to retrace her steps; and Falcon shouted from his watch-tower: "They are making a greater noise than ever, mother, and I see such lots and lots of people on the quay. Come up, mother." "I am coming very soon, dear," she said. Then Joyce finished her inspection of the cellar, not without a thrill of remembered fear as she heard the creaking of the door, as it closed behind her. "You had better stay in the kitchen with cook, Henry, and be on the watch till your master's return. He may not be home till very late, for the special constables are on duty; but what an increasing noise! What can be going on now?" "They'll tear the Recorder limb from limb if they catch him; they are just like wild beasts in their rage against him. Lor! what a pity it is to meddle; let 'em have reform if they like, or leave it alone, it's no odds to me, nor thousands of other folk. It is a great ado about nothing; what will be, will be, and there's an end of it." These opinions of Gilbert Arundel's gardener were decidedly safe, and had they been held by the mass of the Bristol people, the ensuing scenes of strife, fire, and bloodshed, would have been spared. But all men are not of the same easy, philosophical temperament! And, doubtless, the stirring of the waters has a salutary effect, though the storm that smote them may be fearful. We who have lived to see a second Reform Bill carried, and religious tolerance everywhere a recognised principle, are perhaps scarcely as thankful as we ought to be for all the struggles, which have, by God's help and guidance, ended well for this people and nation. He maketh the storm to cease; "He sitteth above the water-floods; yea, the Lord remaineth a King for ever." [Illustration] CHAPTER XV. TUMULT. When Gilbert Arundel had placed his little children in safety with their grandmother, he hastened back to Bristol, and found the uproar increasing. Queen Square was filled with the rioters, who were now letting loose the most furious rage against the Mayor and Recorder. They tore up the iron railings in front of the Mansion House, and hooted and scoffed at the Riot Act, which was read by the Mayor's order, and the force of special constables was quite insufficient. Gilbert saw this at once, and now, when the cry arose: "Fire the Mansion House!" it was a relief to see some action taken, by a troop of the 14th Light Dragoons, and Dragoon Guards trotting into the Square. There was to all noble-hearted men, something terribly humiliating in the aspect of affairs. Here was a seething, ignorant crowd of men, women, and boys, intimidating the magistrates, frightening the Mayor till he actually barricaded his windows in the Mansion House with his bed; and Sir Charles Wetherall beating an undignified retreat from the flat roof of the dining-room. There, helped by a woman's hand, who set up a ladder for him, he dropped in pitiable terror into the stables behind, and hid in a loft. Gilbert, standing on guard by the corner of the Square with four friends bravely holding their ground, and warding off with their staves the excited crowd, recognised in the dim light the Recorder slipping by, in a post-boy's dress, which actually passed him through the crowd, till he found himself safe at Kingsdown. And if the cowardice of the Recorder, in escaping for dear life from the storm he had himself roused was unprecedented, the wavering uncertainty of the Colonel in command of the troops was scarcely less reprehensible! How Gilbert longed to take a prominent part, and how his heart burned with righteous indignation against the weakness and incapacity of those in command. Everything seemed to go from bad to worse, till Captain Gage received orders to protect the Council-house. He then charged through High Street and Wine Street, and drove the rioters, who assailed the soldiers with stones, into the narrow lanes and alleys. [Illustration: Wine Street, Bristol.] Many were wounded with sabre cuts, and Gilbert, in his efforts to save a woman and child from being trampled down, just by the old timber house at the corner of Wine Street, was overpowered by the press behind him, and, just as he had succeeded in placing the woman and her infant in safety on the high stone sill of a window, he was stunned by a blow, given at a venture from a stout stick, and would have fallen and been trampled to death, had not a pair of strong arms seized him and borne him to a comparatively quiet place on the quay. Gilbert was stunned and hardly conscious, and when he found himself on his feet, he staggered and fell against a wall. Some soldiers riding up, chased a band of rioters out of Clare Street, and Gilbert saw the great giant who had delivered him felled by a sabre cut. The crowd passed over him, and when it had cleared, Gilbert, himself feeble and exhausted, bent over the man, and tried to drag him nearer the houses. He was bleeding profusely, and hailing a cart passing to the Infirmary with two wounded men, Gilbert begged the driver in charge, to raise the prostrate man, and take him also to the Infirmary. It was no easy matter, but at last it was accomplished, and a pair of dark, blood-shot eyes were turned on Gilbert. The man tried to articulate, but no sound came. As the cart was moving off, Gilbert saw he made a desperate effort. He raised his hand, and cried out with all his remaining strength, "Tell your good lady I kept my word, and I saved you from harm!" "Stop!" Gilbert said to the driver, "stop; this man has saved my life. I must come to the Infirmary to see he has proper care and attention." "You look fit for a 'ospital bed yourself, sir," said the man. "Jump up, and I'll take you for a consideration," he added, with a knowing twinkle of his eye. Faint and exhausted himself, Gilbert saw the wounded man placed in one of the wards with the others, whose condition was less serious, and, bending over the man, he said: "I recognise you now. You are Bob Priday?" The man nodded assent. "I've been a bad 'un," he said. "I went in for these riots, 'cause I was sick of my life; but I'd like to see your good lady once more, and poor little Sue. Her mother used to reckon her next to a saint, as she sat learning her hymns. I've scoffed and jeered at 'em, and sent the boys to the bad, and threatened the squire. I did not kill him, though; and yet, what do you think, she, the squire's daughter, your good lady, bid _God bless me_, and let me touch her hand; why, ever since I've kinder felt that if _she_ could pardon, God might." "He _will_ pardon the chief of sinners, for Christ's sake," said Gilbert. The man's wound was bleeding profusely, and he soon became confused and wandering; and his face assumed a livid hue as Gilbert bent over him. "My wife will not forget that you saved my life," he said; "and I know if it is possible she will come and see you, and bring your daughter with her." "He is nearly unconscious," said the surgeon. "Dear me! sir, what a time this is for Bristol. This is the sixth case brought in since noon. God knows where the riots will end! You were sworn in as a special constable, I suppose?" "Yes, but to little purpose. Resistance is useless, unless well organised." "That's true enough; but there is no head, that's the mischief of it; no head anywhere. Do you live in Bristol, sir?" "In Great George Street; I am returning there now. You will look after this man?" "Yes; but he won't get over it. A bad subject--a very bad subject. He is very prostrate," the surgeon continued, laying a professional finger on the great muscular wrist; "his hours are numbered. That's a bad blow on your forehead, sir; let me put a bandage on; and how are you getting home?" "As I came, I suppose. There seems a lull in the uproar now, and I shall be able to get back by Trinity Street and up by Brandon Hill." Gilbert submitted to the bandage, and thankfully drank a reviving draught, which the surgeon gave him, and then he turned his face homewards. He was dizzy and bewildered, and did not feel as if he could again face the crowd, so he reached home by a circuitous road, entering Great George Street from the upper end. It was nearly one o'clock before he stood by his own door, and he found two of his friends, who had served with him as special constables, coming out. They had left Queen's Square empty, they said, and not a rioter was to be seen there, and the troops had returned to their quarters. Joyce, hearing her husband's voice, came downstairs, and not a moment too soon. Thoroughly exhausted, and suffering from the blow on his head, he would have fallen, had not his two friends caught him and carried him, at Joyce's request, to his own room. Gilbert tried to make light of his condition, and said it was only the noise and shouting which had bewildered him. "We lost sight of you after the troops cleared Queen's Square, Arundel. What became of you?" "I got separated in the rush just by Wine Street, and there a woman and a baby were in some danger; and as I made a plunge to get them to a place of safety, someone gave me a chance thump on the head, and I might have been trampled to death had not a man saved me, in his turn to be cut down by the sabre of one of the soldiers; he now lies dying in the Infirmary; and the man, Joyce, is Bob Priday." "He kept his promise, then." Joyce said, clasping her hands; "he kept his promise to me." "Yes, darling, it was the touch of your little, white hand, he said, which brought to his heart the hope that God would forgive him." Joyce, kneeling by the sofa where her husband lay, hid her face in the pillow, while Mr. Bengough and Mr. Cooper, his two friends, left the room with Mrs. Arundel, and promised to send a surgeon who lived near them in Berkley Square. "He is as brave as a lion," Mr. Bengough said; "you may well be proud of your son." The doctor came, and advised entire rest and quiet, and told Joyce that she might console herself with the certainty that her husband would be unfit for any action, as special constable for many a day to come. How thankful Joyce felt that she had not left the house with her children, and that she was there to nurse and tend her husband with the thousand sweet observances which are the consolation of every true wife to render, in the hour of need. The Sunday morning broke over an apparently quiet city, and as Joyce looked from the window of her room, after two hours of refreshing sleep, she could see no one moving in the distant streets, and heard no sound. It seemed a true sabbath stillness, which was in itself a healing power. As the mist of the October morning lifted, the Cathedral Tower, and that of St. Mary Redclyffe, stood out in solemn majesty, steadfast and unmoved for all the riot and confusion which had so lately reigned beneath them. St. Stephen's stately tower, further to the left, raised its head above the street where Joyce knew her husband had been in such peril; and her heart swelled with thankfulness to God, who had preserved his life. Then her thoughts flew to the Infirmary ward, where Bob Priday lay dying, and she felt determined that, if possible, Susan should see him, and she laid her plans to effect this meeting. As soon as Falcon woke, she lifted him from his bed and took him to the nursery, washing him and dressing him, and kneeling with him to say his morning prayers; then she said to the boy: "Falcon, grandmamma is asleep, and so is dear father. Dear father has been hurt by the rioters, and is to lie in bed very quiet all day. I want to go up to Clifton to see the baby Joy, and Lettice and Lota. I shall leave you to watch by father, and if he stirs or wakes, call grandmamma. Will you do this?" "Yes, mother," the boy said. Then with a sigh, "I hope the riots are over now. At first I liked to hear the noise, and watch the crowd, but I got tired of it. Are we to go to church, mother?" "If I can get back in time, darling, you shall go to church with Mary, but I don't think I shall go to-day." Then she gave Falcon his basin of bread and milk, moving so gently that no one heard her lighting the nursery fire, and performing with her accustomed nicety all the little household duties which had been familiar to her from early childhood. Then she shared Falcon's breakfast with him, gave him a volume of the old "Children's Friend," with the funny little woodcuts, which were the delight of the children of fifty years ago; and, establishing him in the window-seat in his father's room, left him on guard. It was beautiful to see how the noisy, high-spirited child, responded to his mother's hand, and felt a proud sense of serving her, as he was left in the room to take care of his father. The clocks were chiming a quarter to eight as Joyce reached Park Street, where all was quiet, but she heard several passers by, say that Queen's Square was again thronged, and that the "roughs" were forcing their way back to the scene of the previous day's disturbances. By the turn to Berkley Square, Joyce met Mr. Bengough, who was hurrying down to the Guildhall, where, he said, Major Mackworth was attempting to organise the special constables; but that Colonel Brereton's folly in removing his troops to the Leigh stables, had given the mob every encouragement. "You may be glad, Mrs. Arundel, that your husband is out of the fray; there will be more broken heads before midnight, I expect." "I trust and pray, you may be kept safely. Come in, later in the day, and let us hear," Joyce said, as she parted from Mr. Bengough and walked quickly towards Clifton. All was quiet there, and when Joyce arrived at Down Cottage, her two little girls came flying to meet her, looking like two daisies, fresh from their morning bath. Joyce was struck with her mother's admirable management. She was always up with the lark in her old home at Fair Acres, and she kept up her country habits. The breakfast was ready in the little dining-room, and everyone was there but Charlotte. Piers had the baby Joy, upon his knee, and Mrs. Falcon declared she had been as "good as gold" all night. It was hard to believe that Clifton Down Cottage could be so near to the tumultuous city; everything seemed going on as it did every day, and no one appeared excited or troubled. When Joyce had told her story of the previous night, however, the real state of affairs seemed brought home to the little party, and Lota said: "I want to go home to kiss father, and make his head well." Presently Joyce said she must see Susan, and she asked Piers to come with her for a moment into his own room. Piers delivered the baby to her grandmother, and, taking up his crutches, followed Joyce. In the passage they met Charlotte. "How early you have come," she said. "I was called so early, as Mrs. Falconer wanted the rooms to be made tidy; but really I was not fit to get up at all. I am so dreadfully upset by yesterday's events." "Joyce has more reason to be upset, as you call it," Piers said, "than you have, with Gilbert laid up with a blow on his head." "Oh! how _dreadful_! how shocking! dearest Joyce; what _can_ I do?" "Nothing; but go and have your breakfast; mother hates having the things kept on the table." "I have no patience with her," Piers said, wrathfully, as he closed the door of his den behind him and his sister; "I do verily believe she thinks she is going to be Lady Maythorne, I do indeed." "Oh! Piers, impossible! she cannot be so foolish." "My dear, it would be a long plumb-line to sound her folly, or his either." "But he is in difficulties as to money; he came here because he wanted to get some out of his sister." "Has Aunt Letitia any money?" Piers asked. "Of course, she has her own income, and----" "Will leave it all to Charlotte. Now do you see?" "I see what you mean, but it must be prevented, it is too preposterous." "But now, Piers, dear Piers, I want to ask your advice. I could not trouble Gilbert, he is very much hurt," and Joyce's voice faltered. "The man who saved Gilbert's life is Susan's father, Bob Priday." Piers made a gesture of astonishment. "The man who took our father's life," he murmured. "Indirectly, not intentionally quite, as we always thought. Piers, I should like to go to the Infirmary, and take Susan with me. Will you help us, and come with us?" "You may get into another scrimmage, Joyce; is it right?" "I think it is right," Joyce said, gently; "I asked God about it, you know." Here was Joyce's sense of strength in weakness; she had always a refuge and a Councillor at hand. Her religion was not one of many words; it was emphatically the religion of Peace--and in quietness and confidence she could rest. "It seems to me, Piers, as if it would be cruel to deny a dying man this last act of grace." "He does not deserve it." "Ah! Piers, what do we deserve of God?" "Well," he said, "I will go with you if I can get a hackney-coach; a lame fellow like me can't very well trudge down there on foot. But as you do everything to please other people, it is only fair I should try to please you." "I don't wish to tell mother yet, but I will go and call Susan, dear, good Susan, and tell her to get ready." "I hope she won't make a scene," Piers said, "I hate scenes, and I don't see what good you will do, but here goes;" and Piers took his hat and went to do his sister's bidding. [Illustration] CHAPTER XVI. "FIRE SEVEN TIMES HEATED." Taking a circuitous route by Granby Hill, where two little urchins were waiting to scotch the wheels, the lumbering coach, of much larger proportions than the modern fly, reached the gate of the Infirmary before ten o'clock. The coachman was very much excited by the events of the previous day, and was rather glad to have the opportunity of taking back to Clifton reliable information as to the state of the city. He skirted the suburbs of Bedminster, and was somewhat proud of his achievement. Joyce left Piers in the coach, and, taking Susan's arm she went into the large, gloomy entrance of the building. Here people were standing in groups; some crying, some talking in angry tones, and the surgeons and attendants all passing to and fro, as news of those who had been wounded was hastily given to their friends. As Joyce stood waiting to see the surgeon of the ward where Bob Priday lay, a man came rushing in. "The mob are in the Mansion House," he said; "they are throwing out the furniture; it is worse than ever." "Where are the authorities?" asked one of the surgeons, who had a roll of bandages in his hand. "Rushing away, for their lives, like cats on the roofs of the houses. They are hunting for Colonel Brereton, and calling upon all the people in College Green to come to the aid of the magistrates in the King's name." "And the magistrates climbing over the roofs of the houses; dear, dear!" said the old surgeon. "Pray, madam," he said, turning to Joyce, "is there anything I can do for you?" "Yes," Joyce said; "this young woman's father is dying in one of the wards." "What ward? what ward? We are all so busy." "He was brought in yesterday by a gentleman whose head had been hurt; Mr. Arundel, one of the special constables." "All right--yes--this way, madam; but let me advise you to make short work of your visit, and get back to your own house! this way." "Is the man conscious?" "Yes, there is a flicker up before the end; but he is dying." Poor Susan pressed her hand upon her side, and clung to her mistress's arm. "Oh, dear lady, pray for me," she said. "I have come because I knew mother would have wished it." "Take courage, Susan, and God will help you." Many wistful eyes were turned upon the mistress and her maid, as they entered the ward. Some of the wounded people were groaning, others crying aloud for help; but Bob Priday, lying against pillows propped behind him, was still and silent. Joyce led Susan to the bed, and said: "I have brought your daughter, and I come to thank you for keeping your promise; for you saved my husband's life." A strange, half-conscious smile flitted over the man's face. "I'm sorry I've been such a bad husband to thee, Susan, for thou wert a tidy lass when I married thee. What are thee come to fetch me for? Susan, don't'ee cry." "Father, father! my dear mistress has brought me to say 'Good-bye.'" "Aye, I remember now; tell her 'twas the touch of her little, white hand that did it. Says I to myself, if she can touch the likes of me, perhaps God may forgive me, do you see, Sue? I thought 'twas your mother at first; I see now; 'tis little Sue--a woman grown. Tell your mistress 'twas her little, white hand that did it. Lor! she is like an angel." Then Joyce took the hand lying nearest once more in hers, and, kneeling down, raised her clear, sweet voice and repeated: "The Son of Man came to seek and to save that which was lost. "There is joy in the presence of the Angels of God over one sinner that repenteth." "I do repent," he said; and great tears--the first tears Bob Priday had shed for many a long year--ran down his cheeks. "It's all along of _you_," he said; "as _you_ forgive me, He may." Then Joyce asked for pardon of Him in whose steps she was following, for this poor, dying man, whose life had been so darkened by sin, and who had brought so much sorrow upon others. "O Lamb of God, that taketh away the sins of the world, have mercy upon us;" and the last conscious words which Bob Priday spoke were, "Amen," and then, "Kiss me, little Sue." Joyce left Susan kneeling by the bed, while she turned to others in the ward, passing through the long line of beds like a messenger of peace. A word here and a word there; a gentle touch of the same white hand which had been stretched out to poor Bob Priday, and had brought home to his soul the power of God's love, and Joyce, in all the first flush of her young beauty, in all the bright gladness of the summer morning at Fair Acres, had never looked so lovely as when she drew Susan gently away, and, putting her arm in hers, left the ward, followed by the wondering and wistful glances of the patients and the nurses. There was no time to lose, for the sound of distant tumult grew louder. The old surgeon urged the coachman to take as wide a sweep as possible, to avoid the Bristol streets, and just as they were starting a man rushed in with more news. The mob were on their way to Bridewell to set the prisoners free who had been committed on Saturday, and Colonel Brereton had declared his intention of withdrawing the 14th Light Dragoons from the city. This last act in the drama of irresolution and incompetence was followed, before sun-down, with the flames of a burning city, and the ever increasing fury of a mob, whose blood was inflamed with the wine from the Mansion House cellars, which had been drunk with eager recklessness, and had excited the brains of the poor, ignorant people till they were literally madmen, ah! and mad women too, as well as rioters. When Joyce reached her own door, little Falcon met her. "Mother," he said, "when the church bells were ringing, the soldiers were coming down Park Street, and grandmother said we must not go to church." "It is better not to go, dear boy," his mother said. "It's not a bit like Sunday," Falcon exclaimed, "for the people are beginning to shout again, and roar louder than ever down below." Mrs. Arundel was sitting with Gilbert, who was drowsy and heavy, and asked but few questions as to where Joyce had been. "It was a great risk," Mrs. Arundel said; "and did it effect any good?" "I think so," said Joyce, simply. "I took hope to the death-bed of a poor man, the hope which was not denied to the thief on the cross; and I took a daughter to bear witness to her father that love could triumph even over the memory of wrong-doing like his." Mrs. Arundel shook her head. "We must leave the result with God," she said; "a God of love; but He will by no means spare the guilty. Where are Piers and Susan?" "They are gone back to Down Cottage. I got out of the coach at the turn to Brandon Hill. The children looked so well and happy, and my mother has made them so cosy and comfortable." Then Joyce took up her post by her husband's bed. The doctor, who came in later, said that he was to be kept very quiet and free from excitement; and, he added, "I wish, indeed, he were further from the town, for I greatly fear worse things are at hand." The story of that fearful Sunday is too well known to need any minute description here. Hour by hour the tumult increased; forked flames shot up into the gray, autumnal sky, as the governor's house at the gaol and the chapel were set on fire by the rioters; and, as the benches in the interior of the chapel had been rubbed with pitch, the whole was soon devoured. The county prison followed, and, at half-past eight on Sunday evening, the lurid glare in the heavens was awful to witness. Poor little Falcon, clasped in his mother's arms as she sat in the window-seat, hid his face in her breast and at last, worn out with terror and excitement, fell asleep. Then she carried him to a room at the back of the house, where Mrs. Arundel and the maids had taken refuge, and returned to watch by Gilbert's side. In her secret heart she was thankful that the "blow at a venture" had prevented her husband from being in the seething crowd below. How terrible would have been her watch had she known that he was there, in the very thick of the fray. Gilbert lay very still, and often slept, though, in spite of the thick curtains drawn round the large four-post bed, the red glare from without was distinctly visible. "Joyce," he said, when this glare had become fiercer and more fierce every moment; "Joyce, what are they burning?" "I cannot tell," she said. "I think it must be the Palace; but it looks like the whole city. It is very terrible." "Draw back the curtain for a moment, and let me look." She obeyed him, and lifted also the curtain which shaded the window nearest the bed. Gilbert raised himself for a moment, and then fell back. "I ought to be there," he said, "not here. Those poor people! those poor people! Is there none to help?" "It seems as if God had forgotten to be gracious," Joyce said, faintly. "We must not say that, darling, for we know that there is a cause. This may arouse many to think, who have never thought before, of the great needs of the ignorant and uncared-for masses in great cities like Bristol. They know not what they do. Close the curtains again, I cannot look any longer." He lay back on his pillow, and Joyce, drawing the curtain, resumed her post by the window. About ten o'clock, the gardener, who kept guard in the hall, came upstairs. "Mistress," he said, "Mr. Bengough is here, and would like to know how the master is." Joyce raised her hand to enjoin silence, hoping that Gilbert slept, and went down into the hall. Mr. Bengough's face was blackened, and his clothes smelt of smoke and fire. "It is an awful scene," he said, supporting himself against the wall, while Joyce went to fetch him a glass of wine; "the palace is burnt to the ground, and the lead on the cathedral is positively melting with the heat. The deanery escaped by the pluck of the old Dean. He came out and harangued the rioters, saying, 'Wait a bit, let's have three cheers first--one cheer for the king, one cheer for the people, and one for the old Dean!' The mob cheered lustily, and turned off to find other prey. They say Park Street is to follow, and those houses which are doomed are to have a white mark for a sign; but there is no order amongst them, and every one of the chief rioters is drunk with the Bishop's wine, taken from the cellars, which they have sold for a penny a bottle! Now they have set fire to Queen's Square, and the Mansion House is one blazing pile. The Mayor has come up to Berkley Square, where I must follow him. The special constables were separated from him in the crowd, and, can you believe it, Brereton's troops, after parading round Queen's Square, have retired to their quarters. Confusion everywhere, and no one knows what may come next. I must not stay; but, Mrs. Arundel, you may be thankful for the blow on your husband's head, yesterday, which has, perhaps, saved his life. Upon my honour, I don't believe any man outside his own doors to-night can depend upon living to see the morning break." When Mr. Bengough was gone, Joyce heard the frightened servants crying out, that the fire was bigger than ever, and that they were sure the house would catch fire, and they would all be burned alive. Mrs. Arundel could not calm their fears, and scarcely control her own, and Joyce alone preserved any self-possession. "The panes of glass are hot in the nursery!" they said; "come up there, ma'am, and see if it is not true." "Do not wake Master Falcon or disturb your master. Remember you are--we all are--in God's hands." But, as Joyce looked out from the vantage ground of the nursery windows, the terrified servants clinging to her, with cries and exclamations, the sight was one too awful for any words to paint. The panes of glass were actually heated, and the lurid, fierce glare seemed to be ever increasing. The scene upon which Joyce gazed, with that strange fascination, which, acting like a spell, seemed to compel her to look at what yet she shrank from as too awful, has been left on record by one who, then a boy at school, has described it in a vivid word picture, which was the outcome of the actual experience of an eye-witness. This boy, who was one day, to be foremost in the ranks of those who carried the standard of truth, and justice, and charity into the very thick of the conflict with the powers of darkness, thus spoke--long, long after most of those who had taken any part in those three awful days were dead--to an audience who were inhabitants of the city of Bristol, and to whom, therefore, the subject was of especial interest. He said: "I was a schoolboy in Clifton, up above Bristol. I had been hearing of political disturbances, even of riots, of which I understood nothing, and for which I cared nothing. "But on one memorable Sunday afternoon I saw an object which was distinctly not political. It was an afternoon of sullen, autumn rain. The fog hung thick over the docks and lowlands. Glaring through the fog I saw a bright mass of flame, almost like a half-risen sun. That, I was told, was the gate of the new gaol on fire; that the prisoners had been set free. The fog rolled slowly upwards. Dark figures, even at that great distance, were flitting to and fro across what seemed the mouth of the fire. "The flames increased, multiplied at one point after another, till by ten o'clock that night one seemed to be looking down upon Dante's Inferno, and to hear the multitudinous moan and wail of the lost spirits, surging to and fro amid the sea of fire. "Right behind Brandon Hill rose the central mass of fire, till the little mound seemed converted into a volcano, from the peak of which the flame streamed up, not red above, but delicately green and blue, pale rose, and pearly white, while crimson sparks leapt and fell again in the midst of that rainbow, not of hope, but of despair; and dull explosions down below mingled with the roar of the mob, and the infernal hiss and crackle of the flames. "Higher and higher the fog was scorched upward by the fierce heat below, glowing through and through with red, reflected glare, till it arched itself into one vast dome of red-hot iron, fit roof for all the madness below; and beneath it, miles away, I could see the lonely tower of Dundry Church shining red--the symbol of the old Faith--looking down in stately wonder and sorrow upon the fearful birth-throes of a new age." * * * * * When morning dawned on Monday, help really seemed at hand, and five thousand men obeyed the call for the _posse comitatûs_, and, furnished with a short staff and a strip of white linen round their arm as a badge, did good service for the restoration of order. Shops were all closed, business suspended, and the soldiers, and the naval and military pensioners, under Captain Cook, cleared the streets, and peace seemed in a fair way of being restored. Peace, and at what a price! Wreck and ruin everywhere; Queen's Square, a mass of burning rubbish, strewn, too, with the charred bodies of those who had fallen in the fray. At night, by order of the Mayor, the churches and houses were lighted up, and the soldiers guarded the streets. Transcriber's note: The footnote was placed, without an anchor, at this point in the original. [Footnote: _Vide_ "Charles Kingsley's Life," vol. i., p. 21.] But it was not till after the fifth of November, when an outburst of Protestant and Anti-Reform zeal was expected, that the law-abiding people of Bristol and its surrounding neighbourhood felt safe. During the whole of that week watch and ward was kept, and all demonstrations were repressed. The Bristol Riots were over, but the day of reckoning came; and for many weeks there was nothing thought of but the restoration of lost property, the finding of dead bodies hid in the ruins of Queen's Square, and the apprehension of the ringleaders in the rebellion. Colonel Brereton was charged by the Mayor with not acting up to his orders, and a military inquiry was appointed to try the truth of the Mayor's statement, and held at the Hall of the Merchant Venturers, and it ended in Colonel Brereton's being put under arrest, previous to his trial by court martial. It was some time before Gilbert was fit for any exertion, and the doctor insisted on quiet and complete rest. His whole system had received a shock, and the effects of the blow were seen by constant headache, and an irritability and depression very unlike himself. All Joyce's cheerfulness and patience were needed; and as Falcon's boyish mirth was more than his father could bear, Joyce determined to take him to Down Cottage, and bring back with her "Baby Joy," who was one of those loving doves of babies who seem born to be happy themselves and make other people happier! Joyce, therefore, packed up a few small garments in a bag for Falcon, and set off with him one bright November day to Down Cottage. Her appearance was always the signal for a great outburst of joy, and Lota and Lettice were delighted to find that Falcon was to stay with them. "You don't mind, mother, making the exchange," Joyce said; "I should feel so desolate with no child, and Gilbert cannot yet bear any noise. I suppose Charlotte Benson is gone home? The Wells coach is running again." In all the excitement of the past ten days, Joyce had really thought but little of Charlotte, and when her mother did not reply to the question at once, she said: "What day did Charlotte go home?" "She is not gone home at all; you had better ask Piers about her." "Is anything wrong?" Joyce asked. "Well," said Mrs. Falconer, in her old blunt fashion, "I believe Charlotte thinks everything is right, not wrong, but Piers is of a different opinion. As for myself, I am no judge of lords and grand folks, nor their ways neither. But Charlotte thinks she is going to be 'my lady,' and that's about the truth." "Mother!" Joyce exclaimed; "mother, it must be prevented; it is impossible. How wrong we have all been to be so engrossed with our own concerns and forget Charlotte's. I had really forgotten Lord Maythorne was here. What will Mrs. Arundel say? Where is Piers?" The tap of Piers' crutches was now heard on the flag-stones before Down Cottage, and he came in. "I am glad you are come Joyce; it is time some one interfered. I have just been acting the spy on the Observatory Hill, and there are Charlotte and her elderly beau disporting themselves." "Oh! Piers, it is really dreadful. I must tell Gilbert at once, and Mrs. Arundel. It will worry Gilbert dreadfully, and he is still so weak." "You need not look so doleful, Joyce; after all, if people will make their own bed of thorns, they must bear the prick when they lie down on it. It all comes of Aunt Letitia's silly bringing up. Charlotte has been made a foolish, sentimental woman, and this is the end of it." "It must not be the end; I must do all I can to prevent it. Call Susan to bring Joy, and we will go home at once. I must consult Mrs. Arundel, and ask her what it is best to do." "You won't have time, for here they come," Piers said. Yes; there was Charlotte, with her head on one side, and evidently simpering at some compliment, which her companion was administering. When they came into the sitting-room, and stood face to face with Joyce, one betrayed some annoyance, and the other some triumph. "I thought you would have gone home yesterday, Charlotte," Joyce said, after the first greeting. "Is not Aunt Letitia anxious to see you? This house is very full," she added, "and Gilbert is not well enough for me to ask you to return to Great George Street." "I am going to Wells to-morrow, dear," Charlotte said, "and--and--" "I am to have the honour of escorting Miss Benson to Wells," Lord Maythorne said, in his honeyed accents. "Indeed; I am sorry to hear it," Joyce said, sharply. "I want to see my very old friend, now he is turned into a Benedict, at Fair Acres, and who knows if I may not follow his example. I have known Gratian, I may almost say, from childhood; I cannot profess to have that honour with regard to you, fair niece." Joyce felt too angry to trust herself to reply, but she turned to Charlotte, and said: "I want to speak to you, Charlotte, in Piers' room." Joyce's tone was one of command rather than of entreaty, and Charlotte followed meekly. As soon as the door was shut, she said: "Surely Charlotte, you are not going to travel to Wells alone with Lord Maythorne?" Charlotte drew herself erect. "Yes, I am. Why not? I am engaged to be married to him." "Oh, Charlotte! it must not be thought of. Aunt Letitia will not allow it." "Auntie not only allows it, but is quite pleased," Charlotte said. "Some one must interfere. I cannot see you wilfully ruin the happiness of your whole life by such an act." "That's just what he said," Charlotte exclaimed. "He said he knew you would make objections, because Gilbert has often meddled in his concerns before; but that will not change me. If you--if you"--Charlotte broke down, and became tearful--"had been so hungry for somebody to care for you as I have been, and had known what it was to be slighted and looked down upon, you would not be so cruel. It is all very well for _you_. But you never did care what became of poor me, and I--I used to love you so much, Joyce." Charlotte began to sob piteously, and Joyce felt she must appear hard-hearted, and take the consequences. Just as she had dispelled the vision of the raindrop which was to revive the drooping rose many years ago, so now she must do her best to dispel a far more dangerous illusion. "Lord Maythorne is not a good man," she said; "he is continually in debt; he often plays high, and he has been living abroad all these years in what manner we hardly know. We believe that he came to Bristol now, simply to get some money out of his sister, my mother-in-law. Surely, Charlotte, you must see that if you marry him you will be miserable." "Gratian married Melville, and you prophesied the same then; and they are very happy." "That is a very different case. Gratian is older, wiser, and stronger than Melville, and keeps him right by the force of her own will. Besides, Melville was weak, and easily yielded to temptation; but he was not like Lord Maythorne, who did his best to ruin him in his Oxford days." "He says--he says that is all a lie of Gilbert's." "How dare you speak like that of my husband! A lie! As if he ever stooped to tell a lie." Joyce flushed angrily, and continued: "You are a poor, weak, sentimental girl, not a girl, for you are nearly thirty, and if you do not know what is good for you, you must be taken care of. If my little Lettice wished to eat anything that was poisonous I should take it from her, and by the same rule I shall treat you." "You have no right over me. Aunt Letitia knows, and _she_ approves, and expects us to-morrow." But Joyce did not give in one whit. "Aunt Letitia must be enlightened then," she said, "without loss of time, and I shall take care that she knows the true character of the man to whom she thinks of entrusting you." Charlotte tried to rally herself, and began to laugh hysterically. "You think so much of yourself, and that you are so wise, and that Gilbert has made you just like himself, you both think yourselves so good and perfect." Joyce told herself it was foolish as well as wrong to be angry with Charlotte, who was so unreasoning and feeble-minded. She left her abruptly, called Susan and the baby, had many rapturous hugs from her little girls and Falcon and then kissing her mother, she bowed to Lord Maythorne, and departed. Mrs. Arundel was greatly distressed when she heard Joyce's news, and they consulted together what it was best to do. "After all," Mrs. Arundel said, "neither you nor I have any right over Charlotte. If she is warned, that is all we can do. If Miss Falconer consents, she is her lawful guardian, and stands in the place of her mother." "Shall we tell Gilbert?" "I think not, he cannot take any active part in the matter; Dr. Smith has been here, and told me he did not think Gilbert would be able to return to the office for some time, that he had sustained a slight concussion of the brain, and that we were to be careful not to worry him with anything. He advises our making a move to Abbot's Leigh, to that house of Mr. Bayley's, as soon as we can arrange it, and Gilbert is able to bear the drive. He is very kind, and offered his carriage." "That will be delightful," Joyce said; "the trees are still beautiful in colour, and oh! to be in the real country again with the children. If only Charlotte were not so utterly foolish! I think I shall tell Gilbert quietly, when we are alone together; for he ought to know. Come, baby Joy, let us go and see dear father." Gilbert turned his head towards the door as Joyce came in. "Here is baby Joy come to kiss father," she said, dropping the baby down gently into her father's arms. "Little Joy; well, she looks as sweet as ever--like her mother, well-named. You have been away an age," he said; "it's always like the sun going behind a cloud when you are gone." "The sun is very grateful for the compliment," Joyce said, seating herself on a low stool by the sofa; "and so is the little sun, isn't she, baby?" The baby had possessed herself of her father's watch-chain, and was sucking it vigorously. "I took Falcon to Grannie, because he made your head ache, and I brought back Joy, because she never could make anyone's head ache." "Poor little Falcon! I am afraid I was very cantankerous this morning, but that dreadful trumpet was rather too much. It is excessively stupid of me to be so long getting well; but, do you know, I am haunted with those terrible scenes of last week, and, with the best intentions of amusing me, Bayley came here and described the condition of Queen's Square, and the charred bodies they found, one, the corpse of an old woman, with a bit of red petticoat clinging to it. Ah! it is awful to think of; and the cure for all this seems so far off." "It will come at last," Joyce said, with quiet decision. "Yes, when the whole nation wakes up to see the needs of the poor. We don't help them, nor try to raise them out of their ignorance of the commonest laws of humanity. We have been wholly neglectful of their souls and bodies, and then when they are heated by drink, and let loose their fury against some grievance, like the entrance of the Anti-Reform Recorder into Bristol, we hunt them down, trample them under foot, and never look below the surface to find out what is the bitter root, from which all this springs." "_You_ look below the surface, dearest; but don't go over it all now; I have a piece of news to tell you, which has made me very angry. Charlotte Benson says she is engaged to marry your uncle. Can anything be done?" "Write at once to aunt Letitia to stop it." "That is the most extraordinary part of the whole affair; she does not disapprove it." "She must be mad!" said Gilbert, shortly; "what does my mother say?" "She is afraid of exciting you about it; but she is very much disturbed." "She may well be. He must be looking after your aunt's money." "Shall I write to Aunt Letitia?" "Yes; I only wish I were well, and not laid on the shelf like this, and I would go to Wells to-morrow." "I thought of writing to Gratian and Ralph, and Harry is still at Fair Acres. Aunt Letitia thinks a great deal of what Gratian says." "Better write to Aunt Letitia, and I will tell you what to say. Get my mother to write also, and surely you have been honest with the girl?" "Very honest indeed," Joyce said, laughing; "a little too honest!" The letter was dictated and posted, with one from Mrs. Arundel. Postage was an object in those days, so that the two letters went under one cover, carefully sealed by Gilbert's hand. For some days there was silence, and no one knew what turn events had taken, and there was no answer to the letters. A week passed, and then came a letter from Charlotte herself. "MY DEAR JOYCE,--You will see by the date of this letter I am at Bath. I was married to dear Lord Maythorne yesterday. He wished for a very quiet wedding, and he had a special license, and the ceremony was performed at St. Cuthbert's. Dear auntie was present, and dear Gratian and Melville came in from Fair Acres. We went to the 'Swan,' and had an elegant breakfast, and then we posted here. It is very strange to me to feel I am Lady Maythorne; but with such a _dear_, _kind_, delightful husband, I ought to be happy. Pray accept kind love from us both. "Your truly affectionate cousin, "CHARLOTTE MAYTHORNE. "Pulteney Street, Bath, "_November 14th, 1831._" This, then, was the end of Miss Falconer's training, this the reward for all her care; and the strange part of it was that, though Lord Maythorne's own relations were distressed and sad, at the thought of Charlotte's folly in committing herself to the tender mercies of such a man, Miss Falconer was _not_ distressed. Gratian, who came in to spend a day or two in Clifton with her husband soon after, gave a graphic description of the whole affair. [Illustration: Wells Cathedral from Bishop's Fields] Miss Falconer, she declared, was tearful, but in her secret heart elated. Charlotte would grace any position, Lord Maythorne said. She was strikingly like in manner and voice and bearing to a reigning beauty at one of the German baths. "We are none of us likely to go there, you know," Gratian said, "so we can't vouch for the truth of this." Then he told Miss Falconer that Charlotte should be placed in the "book of Beauty" next season, and that a friend of his had promised to write a little sketch of her. Aunt Letitia said she was _glad_ to be able to assure Lord Maythorne that the Falconers were an ancient race, and had been landed gentry for generations. "Poor dear old lady," Gratian continued, "the only note of lament was, 'What will Mrs. Hannah More say?' She took such a deep interest in dear Charlotte and, perhaps, I may wish, as _she_ will, that Lord Maythorne was more strictly a religious man. But we cannot hope for everything, and dear Charlotte's training has been so careful, that I am not anxious on that score." "Poor dear old auntie!" Melville exclaimed, when, after listening to his wife's rapid chatter, he succeeded in getting in a word. "She'll soon find cause to be anxious when Maythorne comes to her for a bit of thin paper with a good round sum in the corner." Joyce could not speak so lightly of this as Gratian did. She almost reproached herself for not being more honest with Charlotte in days long past, rousing her from dreams of fancied bliss to the great "realities" of life. As she clasped her Baby Joy in her arms that night, she murmured over her tender words, and prayed that she might lead her three little daughters in the right way, and teach them that the woman who fears the Lord is to be praised, and that anchored to those words, they might escape the rocks and quicksands in which so many like poor Charlotte had foundered. For the present, indeed, Charlotte was satisfied. Lord Maythorne bought her, or rather procured for her, many of the fine things she had often longed for. He felt a certain pride in her graceful manners, and perhaps, a little grateful affection for her intense admiration of himself--that romantic admiration which had not yet had time to grow faint! He bought her the last complete edition of Lord Byron's poetry, and Charlotte bathed in that not very wholesome stream, and produced some imitative stanzas, which were printed in the _Bath Chronicle_, with a little paragraph by the editor, that they were from the pen of "a charming lady of title." A copy of the paper, delivered in the Close at Wells, went the round of the little community, and, fluttered with delight, Miss Falconer told admiring friends that dear Charlotte's husband was a man of cultivated taste and encouraged her muse. The days of dearth and barrenness will come, _must_ come, to those who sow their seed upon the stony ground. The bright sky must cloud over, the winds and waves roar and swell, and the house that is builded on the sand must fall, and great shall be the ruin of it. Secure in the present calm, poor little frail barks skim the surface and are content. Thus we leave Charlotte, and will not look at her again, lest we see that saddest of all sad sights, the falling of the prop on which she leaned in her blindness and foolishness, the breaking of the staff which shall surely pierce her hand with a wound which no earthly power can avail to heal. PART III. CONCLUSION. "As a fond mother, when the day is o'er, Leads, by the hand, her little child to bed, Half willing, half reluctant, to be led, And leave his broken playthings on the floor, Still gazing at them through the open door; Nor wholly reassured and comforted By promises of others in their stead, Which, though more splendid, may not please him more; So Nature deals with us, and takes away Our playthings one by one, and, by the hand, Leads us to rest so gently, that we go Scarce knowing if we wished to go or stay, Being too full of sleep to understand How far the _unknown transcends the 'what we know._'" "For now we see through a glass, darkly; but then face to face: now I know in part; but then shall I know even as also I am known."--1 Cor. xiii. 12. [Illustration] CHAPTER THE LAST. AT ABBOT'S LEIGH. The old year, which had been so full of trouble and sorrow, was passing gently away in calm and unusual brightness. The air was soft and balmy, and the sunshine lay upon the picturesque village of Abbot's Leigh, and threw out every yellow lichen on the red roofs of the houses, and every leafless branch of the trees in full brightness and defined outline. The year was full of grace and beauty on this its last day; and Gilbert Arundel, walking up and down the sunny terrace path before his house, on the left of the road leading to the church, felt the pleasant sense of returning strength and health, which is always so sweet. The garden was at the back of the house, and before him lay a goodly prospect. The lowlands, sloping down to the mouth of the Severn, were bathed in the sunshine, and beyond, in clear outline, was the great encircling range of blue mountains on the opposite coast of Wales. In the clear atmosphere of the winter morning, everything was distinctly seen. The wooded headland of Portishead shot out to the left, and was rounded at full tide by many ships, outward bound for the rolling waters of the Atlantic. Snowy gulls dipped and whirled on airy flight near the shore, and small crafts, with all sails set, danced and curtseyed beneath them as they made for the harbour. "It is a place to rest and get well in," Gilbert thought; and then he turned at the sound of footsteps. His wife was coming through the maze of deep-set, box-bordered flower-beds to speak to him. "Mother and Piers will be here early," she said, putting her hand through her husband's arm; "and Gratian, and Melville, and Ralph will be later." "Where are you going to put them all? You forget your country seat is not as accommodating as our Great George Street house." "Oh! I will make room," she said; "it is so restful and lovely here. I wish----" "What do you wish?" "That we lived here. I know it is impossible while you are in the office every day. I only meant it is so delightful to be in the country; winter or summer, it is the best place." [Illustration: Abbot's Leigh] "Few winter days are like this," Gilbert said; "but, darling, one day I may be able to give you a country home." "A dear old-fashioned one like _this_?" she said, "Oh! then we will call it 'The Haven!'" "It is not built yet," Gilbert said; "we must remember all that the children will want, education--" "And accomplishments," she added, laughing. "Lettice, Lota, and little baby Joy must not grow up 'little rustics.'" Joyce laughed, just her old, sweet, silvery laugh. "It answered my purpose to be a little rustic, after all, as I took your fancy in my lilac cotton gown and white apron." He put his arm round her as they walked, and pressed her close. "They might be lovers of yesterday," Susan Priday thought, as she watched them from the nursery windows, "instead of having been married seven years. Such love must make a poor man rich and a rich man happy, and may God bless them both. The mistress grows prettier every day." No one ever sounded Susan Priday's depth of gratitude; she was not a demonstrative person, and the other servants, as might be expected, were a little jealous of her, and sometimes she had dark hints to bear "of the daughter of bad folks being lucky," and muttered words of self-congratulation that _their_ fathers had not been rioters and died in "'ospital beds." But all these shafts were powerless to disturb Susan's peace, and baby Joy heard many a soliloquy which reached no other ears than hers. "Yes," she was saying, as she swayed Joy gently to and fro; "they look like lovers of yesterday. The master is aged since his illness, and stoops a bit, but the mistress is younger than ever." The husband and wife had turned now, and faced the house. Joyce looked up, and waved her hand and smiled, that "little pure, white hand," Susan thought, "which poor father said had saved him from despair." Then the two little girls, in scarlet cloaks and hoods, came with Falcon to announce that they were ready for a walk with mother, and Gilbert asked if he might be permitted to come also. "Of course," Falcon said; "only we thought you might be tired. Mother told us never to plague you to take us for a walk." "I am getting quite well, my boy, and it will not be so easy, I hope, to plague me now as it has been lately." "I've put away the trumpet, father, where I can't possibly see it, for I was afraid if I saw it I should be forced to give a big '_too-te-too_.' So mother said, put it away till father is quite well, and then you can blow it in the garden. She wanted to _keep_ it for me, but that was like a baby; now I could get it any minute I wished, only I _won't_." Gilbert was half amused, half touched, by this lesson of self-restraint that Joyce had taught her little son, by means of the discordant trumpet, and he patted his head fondly, saying: "You'll always be right if you follow mother's advice, my boy." "I know it," Falcon said; "Susan says mother can make every one _better_." Joyce and her little daughters were on in front, walking up the village to the churchyard. Presently they retraced their steps to the village, where an old tree, with a gnarled trunk, stands at the junction of four roads, and was a favourite post of observation to the children. A smart post-chaise, seen from afar, coming swiftly onwards, contained Melville and Gratian. They had slept at an hotel in Clifton on the previous night, and came in the style which befitted them. Joyce was a little alarmed at the large amount of boxes on the roof, and wondered if they could by any means be carried upstairs. Gratian, handsome and gay as ever, gave all the orders and settled with the post-boy, while Melville looked on. It was one of those cases when it is expedient, perhaps, that the wife should take the lead, from the incapacity of the husband to manage himself or his affairs, but it has never a pleasing effect on those who look on, and Gilbert thought how well it was there were no children to hear Gratian's ringing tones ordering Melville to 'wake up' and carry two small packages into the hall. "Where is Ralph?" Joyce asked. "He took some qualm about leaving Fair Acres. Mr. Watson is ill--dying, they say--so Ralph said he did not want to leave the place; there are still many bad characters about." "I am sorry to miss Ralph, and mother will be disappointed, especially as Harry has joined his ship." "What a nice room," Gratian said, as they went upstairs; "but I hope you have a hanging-closet." "I am afraid only pegs," Joyce said; "but there is a tiny dressing-room." "Is Mrs. Arundel coming to this family gathering?" "No; mother is in Oxfordshire." "Staying at Maythorne's; how like Aunt Annabella." "She is not at Maythorne's you know, it is shut up, for the owners are gone abroad." "But I hear another carriage. Yes! that is mother and Piers." Joyce flew downstairs to greet her mother, and to give Piers a rapturous embrace. Everything in the house was well arranged, and especial care had been bestowed on "mother's room." Mrs. Falconer had no fine dresses, so she did not enquire for a hanging cupboard. She speedily found her way to the nursery, and baby Joy delighted her by holding out her arms to her grannie, with a bewitching smile. "It's all beautifully neat, Joyce," she said, looking round her with a critical air. "Well, you don't regret now I taught you useful things, though you have no accomplishments like that poor, foolish Charlotte?" They were a very happy party at an early dinner, and the good arrangement of everything, and the excellence of the bill of fare, brought many compliments to Joyce, especially from her mother. "Except at Fair Acres," she said, "she had never tasted such light pastry, or such good plum-puddings and mincemeat. The turkey, too----" "Ah!" Joyce said, "the turkey came with a hamper of good things from Fair Acres. Dear Ralph is continually despatching home produce." The real master of Fair Acres did not seem at all discomforted at this proof of his ignorance of his own estate. Melville had resigned himself to an easy-going life, and, being well kept in check by his wife as to unlimited wine and spirits, he managed to pass muster, and was looked upon by his neighbours as a "good-natured fellow, a little given to airs, and not worthy to tread in his father's shoes; but it might have been worse." Poor praise this; and of how many besides Melville do we say, sometimes with an aching heart, "It might have been worse; but it might have been oh! so much better." Wasted lives, neglected opportunities, withered hopes, how thick they lie strewn upon our paths as the autumn of life is sinking into the days of winter barrenness and dearth. But there is a bright "beyond" for faithful hearts, where the things we know not now we shall know then, and this bewildering maze of doubts and fears shall be made plain in the light of God's love. A certain wistful look in Piers' eyes made Joyce think he would like to talk to her alone. So, when the evening shadows were closing over the waters of the Severn, and the blue mountains fading into obscurity, and the white-winged seagulls sought their nests, Joyce asked her brother to come out with her, for it was more like midsummer than Christmas. Joyce put her arm on her brother's shoulder as of old, and they went together to the churchyard, where the old grey tower of the church stood out solemnly against the after-glow in the west, where a planet shimmered in the opal depths. "The old year is dying with a smile upon its face," Piers said. "It is hard to believe we are in midwinter." "Very hard," Joyce replied; "and it is a time when, though my present is so happy and so brimful of thanksgiving, the past comes back, and will not be forgotten." "I am glad you don't forget the dear old days," Piers said. "Forget! oh! no; the sadness of the past does not shadow my happy present, but it chastens it. I always think of dear father when I stand here, and poor merry, happy Bunny, swept into that surging sea." "Yes," Piers said, sighing; "the strong are taken and the weakly ones left. Harry is, I suppose, half way round the world again in the 'Persis.' There is Ralph working hard and enduring a good deal at the old home, while I----" "You are not unhappy, dear?" Joyce asked, anxiously. "No," he said; but the "No" was not heartily said. "After all, we think too much of ourselves and all our little concerns. Why, Joyce, what are we and this earth we live in, when compared to that great universe of which these stars, as they come out one by one, seem to bring a nightly message? What are we, to think so much of ourselves? and what are life, and death, and troubles, and joys, and petty disappointments? They are nothing--lighter than dust in the balance." "They are something to God," Joyce said, reverently. "He has told us so. Dearest Piers, you are not losing that Faith which we used to call our staff in the dear old days." Piers was silent for a moment. "Joyce," he said, at last, "I like to talk to you sometimes. I sit and read in my den, and go out and in of the sitting room and see how mother is getting on, and my brain gets full of cobwebs and I am impatient, and long to spring up into a better and nobler life, and yet I am tied down. Don't you think I did not feel my miserable weakness when I heard of Gilbert, in the thick of the rioters, saving a woman and child, and bravely doing his best in the face of the weakness and incompetence of those about him? I felt as if I would have given something to get a hard thump on my head in such a cause, the cause of humanity." "Piers, you are dull at home, I know, but you have the delightful young doctor for a friend." "Yes; but I can't sham illness to get him to come; he is a long way off. But I am doing some more diagrams for his lecture on Fungi." "I am so glad; and Piers, when Gilbert can really afford it, we are going to have a house in the country, and call it 'The Haven,' and you and mother shall come and live with us, and you shall help me to teach Falcon, and we shall be so happy." "Ah! that is looking a long way forward, Joyce. Perhaps my haven will be here, under the shadow of this old church, before then. But I feel the better already for being with you, old Joyce; you are just the same as you ever were." The brother and sister exchanged a kiss, and then, in the silence of perfect sympathy and affection, walked back to the house. * * * * * The whole family assembled in the dining-room as the bells of the church rang out the old year. In the pause--that solemn pause before the clock strikes twelve, and the knell for the dying year is followed by a great rejoicing peal for that which is new born--Gilbert Arundel read, in slow, clear tones, that wonderful Psalm which ever seems to be so fraught with wisdom, and to express so well the yearning of the human soul for something, which as the generations roll by, and pass like a tale that is told, remains steadfast and immoveable. Lord, _thou_ hast been our Refuge; and, notwithstanding the storms and the troubles of this short and mutable life, faithful hearts like Joyce's can add, in trusting confidence, "and _wilt_ be to the end." * * * * * An hour later, when the last chimes had rung out from every belfry tower from far and near, and the fair young year lay calm and beautiful beneath the stars, husband and wife went together to the long, low nursery, where the three elder children lay in profound slumber. The kiss and blessing did not disturb Lettice or Lota, but the "Happy new year, darling," brought Falcon to a state of half consciousness. "Happy new year, mother--father," he murmured, with an added word which sounded like "my trumpet." "That beloved trumpet," said Joyce, laughing. "I let him take it out into the garden after dinner, and give one great blow; but he was so loyal, he came and hid it again, out of sight, saying, 'If father heard that, it was only just _once_.'" "Dear old boy!" Gilbert said. "I shall not forget his self-denial learned from his mother." "Nay," she said, playfully, "I do not quite wish to blow trumpets." "Not your own, certainly," was the quiet rejoinder. They did not forget baby Joy. Her cradle was in their own room; and Joyce called her husband to look at her, and wish her the "happy new year," as he had wished the others. "A happy new year to my little Joy," he said. The baby moved a little, and, throwing one fat arm behind her head, a flickering smile played over her face, a light rather than a smile, such as comes over the faces of the little ones sometimes when in sleep, their angels draw near. It was one of those supreme moments in life, which do not find expression in many words:-- "A happy new year to you, my little Joy," Joyce repeated, and then there was silence, while-- "Two faces o'er the cradle bent, Two hands above the head were locked, These pressed each other while they rocked, Those watched a life that Love had sent. O solemn hour! O hidden power!" THE END WILLIAM RIDER AND SON, PRINTERS. BARTHOLOMEW CLOSE, LONDON. * * * * * BY MRS. MARSHALL. UNDER SALISBURY SPIRE. A Tale of the Times of George Herbert. With Illustrations. Third Thousand. 5s., cloth. "One of the best works which have ever come from Mrs. Marshall's pen."--_Athenæum._ IN THE CITY OF FLOWERS; or, Adelaide's Awakening. With Illustrations. Price 5s., cloth. 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7060	----	AT AGINCOURT By G. A. Henty [Illustration: GUY AYLMER SAVES THE KING'S LIFE AT THE BATTLE OF AGINCOURT.] PREFACE The long and bloody feud between the houses of Orleans and Burgundy--which for many years devastated France, caused a prodigious destruction of life and property, and was not even relaxed in the presence of a common enemy--is very fully recorded in the pages of Monstrellet and other contemporary historians. I have here only attempted to relate the events of the early portion of the struggle--from its commencement up to the astonishing victory of Agincourt, won by a handful of Englishmen over the chivalry of France. Here the two factions, with the exception of the Duke of Burgundy himself, laid aside their differences for the moment, only to renew them while France still lay prostrate at the feet of the English conqueror. At this distance of time, even with all the records at one's disposal, it is difficult to say which party was most to blame in this disastrous civil war, a war which did more to cripple the power of France than was ever accomplished by English arms. Unquestionably Burgundy was the first to enter upon the struggle, but the terrible vengeance taken by the Armagnacs,--as the Orleanists came to be called,--for the murders committed by the mob of Paris in alliance with him, was of almost unexampled atrocity in civil war, and was mainly responsible for the terrible acts of cruelty afterwards perpetrated upon each other by both parties. I hope some day to devote another volume to the story of this desperate and unnatural struggle. G. A. HENTY. CONTENTS I. A FEUDAL CASTLE II. TROUBLES IN FRANCE III. A SIEGE IV. A FATAL ACCIDENT V. HOSTAGES VI. IN PARIS VII. IN THE STREETS OF PARIS VIII. A RIOT IX. A STOUT DEFENCE X. AFTER THE FRAY XI. DANGER THREATENED XII. IN HIDING XIII. THE MASTERS OF PARIS XIV. PLANNING MASSACRE XV. A RESCUE XVI. THE ESCAPE XVII. A LONG PAUSE XVIII. KATARINA XIX. AGINCOURT XX. PENSHURST ILLUSTRATIONS GUY AYLMER SAVES THE KING'S LIFE AT THE BATTLE OF AGINCOURT. GUY HAS HIS HEAD BOUND UP AFTER A BOUT AT QUARTER-STAFF. "THE TWO MEN WHO LIT THE ALARM FIRES RODE INTO THE CASTLE." "SIR EUSTACE GAVE A LOUD CRY, FOR LYING AT THE BOTTOM OF THE STAIR WAS THE FORM OF HIS SON." THE LADY MARGARET MAKES HER OBEISANCE TO THE DUKE OF BURGUNDY. GUY AND LONG TOM COME TO THE RESCUE OF COUNT CHARLES. "TOM'S BOW TWANGED, AND THE ARROW STRUCK THE HORSEMAN UNDER THE ARM-PIT." "THE KING EXTENDED HIS HAND TO GUY, WHO WENT ON ONE KNEE TO KISS IT." "WELL, COMRADE," SAID SIMON, "I SUPPOSE YOU ARE THE MAN I WAS TOLD WOULD COME TO-NIGHT?" "GUY DELIVERED A SLASHING BLOW ON THE BUTCHER'S CHEEK, AND DASHED PAST HIM." GUY WELCOMES THE COUNT OF MONTEPONE AND HIS DAUGHTER TO VILLEROY. "KATARINA SWEPT A DEEP CURTSEY, AND WENT OFF WITH A MERRY LAUGH." AT AGINCOURT CHAPTER I -- A FEUDAL CASTLE "And is it true that our lord and lady sail next week for their estate in France?" "Ay, it is true enough, and more is the pity; it was a sad day for us all when the king gave the hand of his ward, our lady, to this baron of Artois." "They say she was willing enough, Peter." "Ay, ay, all say she loved him, and, being a favourite with the queen, she got her to ask the king to accede to the knight's suit; and no wonder, he is as proper a man as eyes can want to look on--tall and stately, and they say brave. His father and grandfather both were Edward's men, and held their castle for us; his father was a great friend of the Black Prince, and he, too, took a wife from England. Since then things have not gone well with us in France, and they say that our lord has had difficulty in keeping clear of the quarrels that are always going on out there between the great French lords; and, seeing that we have but little power in Artois, he has to hold himself discreetly, and to keep aloof as far as he can from the strife there, and bide his time until the king sends an army to win back his own again. But I doubt not that, although our lady's wishes and the queen's favour may have gone some way with him, the king thought more of the advantage of keeping this French noble,--whose fathers have always been faithful vassals of the crown, and who was himself English on his mother's side,--faithful to us, ready for the time when the royal banner will flutter in the wind again, and blood will flow as it did at Cressy and Poitiers. "The example of a good knight like Sir Eustace taking the field for us with his retainers might lead others to follow his example; besides, there were several suitors for our lady's hand, and, by giving her to this French baron, there would be less offence and heart-burning than if he had chosen one among her English suitors. And, indeed, I know not that we have suffered much from its being so; it is true that our lord and lady live much on their estates abroad, but at least they are here part of their time, and their castellan does not press us more heavily during their absence than does our lord when at home." "He is a goodly knight, is Sir Aylmer, a just man and kindly, and, being a cousin of our lady's, they do wisely and well in placing all things in his hands during their absence." "Ay, we have nought to grumble at, for we might have done worse if we had had an English lord for our master, who might have called us into the field when he chose, and have pressed us to the utmost of his rights whenever he needed money." The speakers were a man and woman, who were standing looking on at a party of men practising at the butts on the village green at Summerley, one of the hamlets on the estates of Sir Eustace de Villeroy, in Hampshire. "Well shot!" the man exclaimed, as an archer pierced a white wand at a distance of eighty yards. "They are good shots all, and if our lord and lady have fears of troubles in France, they do right well in taking a band of rare archers with them. There are but five-and-twenty of them, but they are all of the best. When they offered prizes here a month since for the bowmen of Hants and Sussex and Dorset, methought they had some good reason why they should give such high prizes as to bring hither the best men from all three counties, and we were all proud that four of our own men should have held their own so well in such company, and especially that Tom, the miller's son, should have beaten the best of them. He is captain of the band, you know, but almost all the others shoot nigh as well; there is not one of them who cannot send an arrow straight into the face of a foe at a hundred and twenty yards. There were some others as good who would fain have been of the party, but our lady said she would take no married men, and she was right. They go for five years certain, and methinks a man fights all the better when he knows there is no one in England praying for his return, and that if he falls, there is no widow or children to bewail his loss. There are as many stout men-at-arms going too; so the Castle of Villeroy will be a hard nut for anyone to crack, for I hear they can put a hundred and fifty of their vassals there in the field." "We shall miss Sir Aylmer's son Guy," the woman said; "he is ever down at the village green when there are sports going on. There is not one of his age who can send an arrow so straight to the mark, and not many of the men; and he can hold his own with a quarter-staff too." "Ay, dame; he is a stout lad, and a hearty one. They say that at the castle he is ever practising with arms, and that though scarce sixteen he can wield a sword and heavy battle-axe as well as any man-at-arms there." "He is gentle too," the woman said. "Since his mother's death he often comes down with wine and other goodies if anyone is ill, and he speaks as softly as a girl. There is not one on the estate but has a good word for him, nor doubts that he will grow up as worthy a knight as his father, though gentler perhaps in his manner, and less grave in face, for he was ever a merry lad. Since the death of his lady mother two years ago he has gone about sadly, still of late he has gotten over his loss somewhat, and he can laugh heartily again. I wonder his father can bear to part with him." "Sir Eustace knows well enough that he cannot always keep the boy by his side, dame; and that if a falcon is to soar well, he must try his wings early. He goes as page, does he not?" "Ay, but more, methinks, as companion to young Henry, who has, they say, been sickly from a child, and, though better now, has scarce the making of a stalwart knight in him. His young brother Charles is a sturdy little chap, and bids fair to take after his father; and little Lady Agnes, who comes between them, is full of fire and spirit. "Yes; methinks Guy will have a pleasant time of it out there; that is, if there are no fresh troubles. I doubt not that in two or three years he will be one of our lord's esquires, and if he has a chance of displaying his courage and skill, may be back among us a dubbed knight before many years have passed over our heads. France is a rare place for gaining honours, and so it may well be, for I see not that we gain much else by our king's possessions there." "There was plenty of spoil brought over, dame, after Cressy and Poitiers." "Ay, but it soon goes; easy come, easy go, you know; and though they say that each man that fought there brought home a goodly share of spoil, I will warrant me the best part went down their throats ere many months had passed." "'Tis ever so, dame; but I agree with you, and deem that it would be better for England if we did not hold a foot of ground in France, and if English kings and nobles were content to live quietly among their people. We have spent more money than ever we made in these wars, and even were our kings to become indeed, as they claim, kings of France as well as England, the ill would be much greater, as far as I can see, for us all. Still there may be things, dame, that we country folks don't understand, and I suppose that it must be so, else Parliament would not be so willing to vote money always when the kings want it for wars with France. The wars in France don't affect us as much as those with Scotland and Wales. When our kings go to France to fight they take with them only such as are willing to go, men-at-arms and archers; but when we have troubles such as took place but five or six years ago, when Douglas and Percy and the Welsh all joined against us, then the lords call out their vassals and the sheriffs the militia of the county, and we have to go to fight willy-nilly. Our lord had a hundred of us with him to fight for the king at Shrewsbury. Nigh thirty never came back again. That is worse than the French wars, dame." "Don't I know it, for wasn't my second boy one of those who never came back. Ay, ay, they had better be fighting in France, perhaps, for that lets out the hot blood that might otherwise bring on fighting at home." "That is so, dame, things are all for the best, though one does not always see it." A week later all the tenantry gathered in front of the castle to wish God-speed to their lord and lady, and to watch the following by which they were accompanied. First there passed half a dozen mounted men-at-arms, who were to accompany the party but half a day's march and then to return with Sir Aylmer. Next to these rode Sir Eustace and Lady Margaret, still a beautiful woman, a worthy mate of her noble-looking husband. On her other side rode Sir Aylmer; then came John Harpen, Sir Eustace's esquire; beside whom trotted Agnes, a bright, merry-faced girl of twelve. Guy rode with the two boys; then came twenty-four men-at-arms, many of whom had fought well and stoutly at Shrewsbury; while Tom, the miller's son, or, as he was generally called, Long Tom, strode along at the head of twenty-four bowmen, each of whom carried the long English bow and quiver full of cloth-yard arrows, and, in addition, a heavy axe at his leathern girdle. Behind these were some servitors leading horses carrying provisions for the journey, and valises with the clothes of Sir Eustace, his wife, and children, and a heavy cart drawn by four strong horses with the bundles of extra garments for the men-at-arms and archers, and several large sheaves of spare arrows. The men-at-arms wore iron caps, as also breast and back pieces. On the shoulders and arms of their leathern jerkins iron rings were sewn thickly, forming a sort of chain armour, while permitting perfect freedom of the limbs. The archers also wore steel caps, which, like those of the men-at-arms, came low down on the neck and temples. They had on tough leathern frocks, girded in at the waist, and falling to the knee; some of them had also iron rings sewn on the shoulders. English archers were often clad in green cloth, but Sir Eustace had furnished the garments, and had chosen leather, both as being far more durable, and as offering a certain amount of defence. The frocks were sleeveless, and each man wore cloth sleeves of a colour according to his fancy. The band was in all respects a well-appointed one. As Sir Eustace wished to avoid exciting comment among his neighbours, he had abstained from taking a larger body of men; and it was partly for this reason that he had decided not to dress the archers in green. But every man had been carefully picked; the men-at-arms were all powerful fellows who had seen service; the archers were little inferior in physique, for strength as well as skill was required in archery, and in choosing the men Sir Eustace had, when there was no great difference in point of skill, selected the most powerful among those who were willing to take service with him. Guy enjoyed the two days' ride to Southampton greatly. It was the first time that he had been away from home, and his spirits were high at thus starting on a career that would, he hoped, bring him fame and honour. Henry and his brother and sister were also in good glee, although the journey was no novelty to them, for they had made it twice previously. Beyond liking change, as was natural at their age, they cared not whether they were at their English or at their French home, as they spoke both languages with equal fluency, and their life at one castle differed but little from that at the other. Embarking at Portsmouth in a ship that was carrying military stores to Calais, they coasted along the shores of Sussex and of Kent as far as Dungeness, and then made across to Calais. It was early in April, the weather was exceptionally favourable, and they encountered no rough seas whatever. On the way Sir Eustace related to Guy and his sons the events that had taken place in France, and had led up to the civil war that was raging so furiously there. "In 1392, the King of France being seized with madness, the Dukes of Burgundy and Orleans in a very short time wrested the power of the state from the hands of his faithful councillors, the Constable de Clisson, La Riviere, and others. De Clisson retired to his estate and castle at Montelhery, the two others were seized and thrown into prison. De Clisson was prosecuted before Parliament as a false and wicked traitor; but the king, acting on the advice of Orleans, who had not then broken with the Dukes of Burgundy and Berri, had, after La Riviere and another had been in prison for a year, stopped the prosecution, and restored their estates to them. Until 1402 the Dukes of Burgundy and Berri were all-powerful, and in 1396 a great number of knights and nobles, led by John, Count of Nevers, the eldest son of the Duke of Burgundy, went to the assistance of the King of Hungary, which country was being invaded by the Turks. They were, however, on the 28th of September, utterly defeated. The greater portion of them were killed; Nevers and the rest were ransomed and brought home. "In 1402 the king, influenced by his wife, Isobel, and his brother, the Duke of Orleans, who were on terms of the closest alliance, placed the entire government in the hands of the latter, who at once began to abuse it to such an extent, by imposing enormous taxes upon the clergy and the people, that he paved the way for the return of his uncle of Burgundy to power. On the 27th of April, 1404, Philip the Bold of Burgundy died. He was undoubtedly ambitious, but he was also valiant and able, and he had the good of France at heart. He was succeeded by his son John, called the Fearless, from the bravery that he had displayed in the unfortunate Hungarian campaign. The change was disastrous for France. John was violent and utterly unscrupulous, and capable of any deed to gratify either his passions, jealousies, or hatreds. At first he cloaked his designs against Orleans by an appearance of friendship, paid him a visit at his castle near Vincennes, where he was at the time lying ill. When he recovered, the two princes went to mass together, dined at their uncle's, the Duke of Berri, and together entered Paris; and the Parisians fondly hoped that there was an end of the rivalry that had done so much harm. It was, however, but a very short time afterwards that, on the 23d of November, 1407, as the Duke of Orleans was returning from having dined with the queen, and was riding with only two esquires and four or five men on foot carrying torches, twenty armed men sprang out from behind a house and rushed upon him. "'I am the Duke of Orleans,' the prince cried; but they hurled him from his mule, and as he tried to rise to his feet one blow struck off the hand he raised to protect his head, other blows rained down upon him from axe and sword, and in less than a minute the duke lay dead. The Duke of Burgundy at first affected grief and indignation, but at the council the next day he boldly avowed that Orleans had been killed by his orders. He at once took horse and rode to the frontier of Flanders, which he reached safely, though hotly chased by a party of the Duke of Orleans' knights. The duke's widow, who was in the country at the time, hastened up to Paris with her children, and appealed for justice to the king, who declared that he regarded the deed done to his brother as done to himself. The Dukes of Berri and Bourbon, the Constable and Chancellor, all assured her that she should have justice; but there was no force that could hope to cope with that which Burgundy could bring into the field, and when, two months later, Burgundy entered Paris at the head of a thousand men-at-arms, no attempt was made at resistance, and the murderer was received with acclamations by the fickle populace. "The king at the time was suffering from one of his terrible fits of insanity, but a great assembly was held, at which princes, councillors, lords, doctors of law, and prominent citizens were present. A monk of the Cordeliers, named John Petit, then spoke for five hours in justification of the duke, and the result was that the poor insane king was induced to sign letters cancelling the penalty of the crime. For four months the duke remained absolute master of Paris, disposing of all posts and honours, and sparing no efforts to render himself popular with the burghers. A serious rebellion breaking out at Liege, and the troops sent against the town being repulsed, he was obliged to leave Paris to put down the revolt. As soon as he had left, the queen and the partisans of Orleans prepared to take advantage of his absence, and two months later Queen Isobel marched with the dauphin, now some thirteen years old, from Melun with three thousand men. "The Parisians received her with applause, and as soon as she had taken up her quarters at the Louvre, the Dukes of Berri, Bourbon, and Brittany, the Constable, and all the great officers of the court rallied round her. Two days later the Duchess of Orleans arrived with a long train of mourning coaches. A great assembly was held, and the king's advocate announced to them the intention of the king to confer the government upon the queen during his illness, and produced a document signed by the king to that effect. The Duchess of Orleans then came forward, and kneeling before the dauphin, begged for justice for the death of her husband, and that she might be granted an opportunity of refuting the calumnies that John Petit had heaped on the memory of her husband. A week later another great assembly was held, and the justification of the duke was read, refuting all these imputations, and the duchess's advocate demanded that the duke should be forced to make public reparation, and then to be exiled for twenty years. The dauphin replied that he and all the princes of blood royal present held that the charges against the Duke of Orleans had been amply refuted, and that the demands with reference to the Duke of Burgundy should be provided for in course of justice. "Scarcely had the assembly broken up when it became known that Burgundy and his army was on the way back to Paris. Resistance was out of the question; therefore, taking the young dauphin with her, and accompanied by all the members of the royal family, the queen retired to Tours. Burgundy, unscrupulous as he was, finding that although he might remain master of Paris, he could not hope to rule France, except when acting under the pretence of the king's authority, soon sent an embassy to Tours to endeavour to arrange matters. He was able to effect this with the less difficulty, that the Duchess of Orleans had just died from grief at her husband's death, and at the hopelessness of obtaining vengeance on his murderer. The queen was won to the cause of Burgundy by secret proposals submitted to her for a close league between them, and in March a treaty was concluded, and a meeting took place at Chartres, at which the duke, the king, the queen, the royal princes, and the young Duke of Orleans and his adherents were present. "The king declared that he pardoned the duke, and the princes of Orleans consented to obey his orders and to lay aside all hatred and thoughts of vengeance, and shortly afterwards Paris welcomed with shouts of joy the return of the king and queen and the apparent reconciliation of all parties. But the truce was a brief one; for the princes and adherents of Orleans might bend before circumstances at the moment, but their feelings were unchanged. "A head of the party was needed, and the young duke married the daughter of Count Bernard d'Armagnac, one of the most powerful and ambitious nobles of the south of France, who at once,--in concert with the Dukes of Berri and Brittany and other lords,--put himself at the head of the Orleans party. On the 10th of July, 1411, the three princes of Orleans sent a long letter to the king, complaining that no reparation whatever had been made for the murder of their father, and begging him that, as what was done at Chartres was contrary to every principle of law, equity, reason, and justice, the case should be reopened again. They also made complaints against the Duke of Burgundy for his conduct and abuse of power. "As the king was surrounded by Burgundy's creatures no favourable reply was returned, and a formal challenge or declaration of war was, on the 18th of July, sent by the princes to the Duke of Burgundy, and both parties began at once to make preparation for war. "Now for my own view of this quarrel. King Henry sent for me a year since, and asked for whom I should hold my castle if Orleans and Burgundy came to blows, adding that Burgundy would be viewed by him with most favour. "'My father and grandfather ever fought faithfully in the service of England,' I said; 'but for years past now, the line betwixt your majesty's possessions and those of France has been drawn in, and my estates and Castle of Villeroy now lie beyond the line, and I am therefore a vassal of France as well as of your majesty. It being known to all men that even before I became Lord of Summerley, on my marriage with your majesty's ward, Mistress Margaret, I, like my father, held myself to be the liege man of the King of England. I am therefore viewed with much hostility by my neighbours, and right gladly would they seize upon any excuse to lay complaint against me before the king, in order that I might be deprived of my fief and castle. "'This I would fain hold always for your majesty; and, seeing how it is situated but a few miles across the frontier, it is, I would humbly submit to you, of importance to your majesty that it should be held by one faithful to you--since its possession in the hands of an enemy would greatly hinder any English army marching out from Calais to the invasion of France. It is a place of some strength now; but were it in French hands it might be made very much stronger, and would cost much time and loss of men to besiege. At present your majesty is in alliance with Burgundy, but none can say how the war will go, or what changes will take place; and should the Orleanists gain the upper hand, they will be quick to take advantage of my having fought for Burgundy, and would confiscate my estates and hand them over to one who might be hostile to England, and pledged to make the castle a stronghold that would greatly hinder and bar the advance of an English army upon Paris. Therefore, Sire, I would, not for my own sake but for the sake of your majesty's self and your successors, pray you to let me for a while remain quietly at Summerley until the course of events in France is determined.' "The king was pleased to see the force of what I urged. As far as I had inclinations in the case, they were towards the cause, not of Burgundy himself, whose murder of Orleans was alike treacherous and indefensible, but of his cause, seeing that Flanders is wholly under his authority, and that in Artois he is well-nigh paramount at present. On the other hand, Amiens and Ponthieu, which lie but a short distance to the south of me, are strongly Orleanist, and I have therefore every motive for standing aloof. So far the fortune of war has been so changeable that one cannot say that the chances incline towards one faction more than the other. Even the Church has failed to bring about the end of the troubles. The Orleanists have been formally placed under interdicts, and cursed by book, bell, and candle. The king's commands have been laid upon all to put aside their quarrels, but both the ban of the Church and the king's commands have been ineffectual. I am as anxious as ever to abstain from taking any part in the trouble, the more so as the alliance between our king and Burgundy has cooled somewhat. But I have received such urgent prayers from my vassals at Villeroy to come among them, since they are now being plundered by both parties, that I feel it is time for me to take up my abode there. When the king stayed at Winchester, a month since, I laid the matter before him. He was pleased to say that what I had urged a year ago had turned out to be as I foretold, and that he would give me leave to go over and establish myself at Villeroy, and to hold myself aloof from both parties until the matter should further ripen. What will come of it I cannot say. The English king seemed to me to be ailing, and I fear that it may not be long before young Henry comes to the throne. He is a wild young prince, but has already shown himself in the Northern war to be full of spirit and courage, and methinks that when he comes to the throne he will not long observe the peaceful policy of his father, but that we shall see the royal standard once again spread to the winds of France." "But, Sir Eustace," Guy said, when he had concluded, "how do these matters affect you? I thought that by the treaty the west part of Artois was English." "Ay, lad, it was so settled; but at that time the strength of France had been broken at Poitiers, and the Black Prince and his army were so feared that his terms were willingly accepted in order to secure peace. Much has happened since then: war has been constantly going on, sometimes hotly, sometimes sluggishly; France has had her own troubles, and as the English kings have been more pacific, and England has become weary of bearing the heavy expenses of the war, the treaty has become a dead letter. Gascony, in which province Armagnac is the greatest lord, is altogether lost to England, as is the greater part of Guienne. A great proportion of the people there were always bitterly opposed to the change, and, as you know, even in the time of the Black Prince himself there were great rebellions and troubles; since then town after town and castle after castle has declared for France, and no real efforts have ever been made by the English to win them back again. I, who in England am an English baron, and--so long as things go on as at present--a French noble while in France, am in a perilous position between my two Suzerains. Were an English army to land, I should join them, for I still hold myself to be a vassal of the king of England, as we have been for three generations. As to the French disputes, I fear that sooner or later I shall have to declare in favour of one party or the other, for it will be difficult to stand altogether aloof from these conflicts, because all men, at least all men of condition, are well-nigh forced to take one side or the other. The plea that I am a baron of England will be of no avail, for both sides would turn against me and be glad of an excuse for pillaging and confiscating my estate. At present, then, I must regard myself solely as a French noble, for Villeroy has passed into the hands of France, just as for a while it passed into the hands of England, and if this war goes on we shall have to take a side." "And to which side do your thoughts incline, Sir Eustace, if I may ask you?" "I love not either side, Guy, and would fain, if it could be so, that my sword should remain in its sheath. I fear that I shall have to go with Burgundy, for he is all-powerful in Artois; but had I been altogether free to choose, I should have sided with Orleans. In the first place, it is certain that the last duke was foully murdered by Burgundy, who thereby laid the foundation for the present troubles. There were jealousies before, as there have always been between the great nobles, but that act forced almost all to take sides. The Dukes of Berri and Brittany, who had been of the party of the late Duke of Burgundy, were driven by this foul act of his son to range themselves with Orleans. Armagnac is very powerful in the south, Berri's dukedom is in the north, that of Orleans to the north-east. Burgundy's strength lies in his own dukedom,--which has ever been all but independent of France,--in Flanders, in Artois, and in Paris; thus, generally, it is the north and east of France against the south and west. This is broadly the case, but in a civil war provinces and countships, neighbours, ay, and families, become split up into factions, as interest, or family ties, or the desire to increase an estate by annexing another next to it, may influence the minds of men. "So long as it is but a war between the great dukes and princes of France we smaller men may hope to hold aloof, but, as it goes on, and evil deeds are done on both sides, men's passions become heated, the spirit spreads until every man's hand is against his neighbour, and he who joins not against one or the other finds both ready to oppress and rob him. I should not have cared to bring out an English following with me had we been forced to march any distance through France; but as Villeroy is but a few miles from the frontier, and of that distance well-nigh half is through my own estates, we can reach the castle almost unnoticed. Once there, the fact that I have strengthened my garrison will keep me from attack, for either party would be chary in attacking one who can defend himself stoutly. I was minded to leave your lady and the two younger children in England, but in truth she begged so hard to accompany me that I could not say her nay." The Castle of Villeroy was somewhat larger than the one in which Guy had been born and brought up. The plan, however, was very similar: there was the central keep, but, whereas at home this was the dwelling-house of the family, it was here used as a storehouse, and the apartments of the count and countess were in the range of buildings that formed an inner court round the keep. In point of luxury the French were in advance of the English, and they had already begun to combine comfort with strength in their buildings. The apartments struck Guy as being wonderfully spacious in comparison to those with which he was accustomed. On the ground floor of one side of the square was the banqueting-hall. Its walls were decorated with arms and armour, the joists that supported the floor above were carved, the windows large and spacious, for, looking as they did into the inner court, there was no occasion for their being mere loopholes. Above the banqueting-hall was a room where Lady Margaret sat with her maids engaged in working at tapestry; here the priest gave such slight instruction as was then considered necessary to Agnes and Charles; Henry had already passed out of his hands. Next to this room was the knight's sleeping apartment, or closet as it was then called, a room which would now be considered of ridiculously straitened dimensions; and close to it were the still smaller closets of the children. Beyond were a series of guest-chambers. Another side of the court-yard contained the apartments of the castellan, Jean Bouvard, a sturdy soldier of long experience, and those of the other officers of the household; the other two sides were occupied by the chapel, the kitchens, and the offices of the servants and retainers. All these rooms were loopholed on the side looking into the outer court. This was considerably wider and more extensive than the one surrounding the keep. Here were the stables, storehouses for grain and forage, and a building, just erected, for the lodging of the English garrison. All these buildings stood against the outer wall, so that they would afford no shelter to an enemy who had obtained possession of the first defences and was making an attack against the second line. The outer wall was twelve feet in thickness, and thirty feet above the court; outside the height was considerably greater, as there was a moat faced with stone fifteen feet deep entirely surrounding it, and containing seven or eight feet of water. Walls ran half across the outer court, and, from the end of these, light wooden bridges formed a communication with the wall of the inner court, so that in the event of the outer wall being stormed or the gates being carried by assault, the defenders could retire to the inner defences. The ends of these bridges rested upon irons projecting from the wall, and so arranged that they could be instantly withdrawn when the last of the defenders had crossed over, when the bridges would at once fall into the court-yard below. The inner wall was twelve feet higher than the outer one, and, like it, was provided with a crenellated battlement four feet high; there were projecting turrets at each corner, and one in the middle of each side. The keep rose twenty feet higher than the wall of the inner court. The lower portions of the cross walls of the outer court were carried on as far as the inner wall, thereby dividing the space into four; strong gates gave communication from one to the other. Into these could be driven the cattle of the tenantry, and one of them contained a number of huts in which the tenants themselves would be lodged. The court-yard facing the entrance was the largest of the areas into which the space between the outer and inner walls was divided, extending the whole width between the outer walls. Here the military exercises were carried on. Along the wall, at each side of the gate, were a range of stables for the use of the horses of guests, with rooms over them for the use of their retainers. There was a strong exterior work defending the approach to the drawbridge on the other side of the moat, and in all respects the castle was well appointed, and to Guy it seemed almost impossible that it could be carried by assault, however numerous the foe. CHAPTER II -- TROUBLES IN FRANCE As soon as it was heard that the lord and lady had returned, the vassals of Villeroy came in to pay their respects, and presents of fowls, game, and provisions of all kinds poured in. The table in the banqueting-hall was bountifully spread, casks of wine broached, and all who came received entertainment. As French was still spoken a good deal at the English court and among the nobles and barons, and was considered part of the necessary education of all persons of gentle blood, Guy, who had always used it in his conversation with his father, had no difficulty in performing his duty of seeing that the wants of all who came were well attended to. In a few days guests of higher degree came in, the knights and barons of that part of the province; a few of these expressed surprise at the height of the sturdy men-at-arms and archers loitering about the court-yard. Sir Eustace always answered any remarks made on the subject by saying, "Yes, Dame Margaret and I thought that instead of keeping all our retainers doing nothing in our castle in England, where there is at present no use whatever for their services, we might as well bring a couple of score of them over here. I have no wish to take part in any of the troubles that seem likely to disturb France, but there is never any saying what may happen, and at any rate it costs no more to feed these men here than in England." The English archers and men-at-arms were well satisfied with their quarters and food, and were soon on good terms with their French associates. The garrison, before their arrival, had consisted of fifty men-at-arms, and although these had no means of communicating verbally with the new arrivals, they were not long in striking up such acquaintance as could be gained by friendly gestures and the clinking of wine-cups. Their quarters were beside those of the English, and the whole of the men-at-arms daily performed their exercises in the court-yard together, under the command of the castellan, while the archers marched out across the drawbridge and practised shooting at some butts pitched there. To the French men-at-arms their performances appeared astounding. The French had never taken to archery, but the cross-bow was in use among them, and half of the French men-at-arms had been trained in the use of this weapon, which was considered more valuable in the case of sieges than of warfare in the field. While they were able to send their bolts as far as the bowmen could shoot their arrows, there was no comparison whatever in point of accuracy, and the archers could discharge a score of arrows while the cross-bowmen were winding up their weapons. "_Pardieu_, master page," Jean Bouvard said one day as he stood with Guy watching the shooting of the archers, "I no longer wonder at the way in which you English defeated us at Cressy and Poitiers. I have heard from my father, who fought at Poitiers, how terrible was the rain of arrows that was poured upon our knights when they charged up the hill against the English, but I had never thought that men could shoot with such skill and strength. It was but yesterday that I set my men-at-arms to try and bend one of these English bows, and not one of them could draw an arrow anywhere near the head with all their efforts; while these men seem to do so with the greatest ease, and the speed with which they can shoot off arrow after arrow well-nigh passes belief. That tall fellow, who is their chief, but now sent twenty arrows into a space no greater than a hand's-breadth, at a hundred and twenty yards, and that so quickly that he scarce seemed to take time to aim at all, and the others are well-nigh as skilful. Yesterday I put up a breastplate such as is worn by our men-at-arms and asked them to shoot at it at eighty yards. They fired a volley together at it. It was riddled like a colander; not one of the five-and-twenty arrows had failed to pierce it." "Ay, at that distance, Captain, an English archer of fair skill could not miss it, and it needs Milan armour, and that of the best, to keep out their arrows." "By our Lady," the captain remarked, "I should be sorry to attack a castle defended by them, and our lord has done well indeed to bring them over with him. Your men-at-arms are stalwart fellows. My own men feel well-nigh abashed when they see how these men take up a stone that they themselves can with difficulty lift from the ground, and hurl it twenty yards away; and they whirl their heavy axes round their heads as if they were reeds." "They are all picked men," Guy said with a laugh. "You must not take it that all Englishmen are of equal strength, though no doubt Sir Eustace could have gathered five hundred as strong had he wished it." "If that be so," the captain said, "I can well believe that if France and England meet again on a field of battle France shall be beaten as she was before. However, there is one comfort, we shall not be among the defeated; for our lord, and his father and his grandfather before, him, have ever been with England, and Sir Eustace, having an English wife and mother, and being a vassal of the English crown for his estates in England, will assuredly take their part in case of a quarrel. Of course, at present we hold ourselves to be neutrals, and though our lord's leanings towards England give some umbrage to his neighbours, their enmity finds no expression, since for years now there has been no righting to speak of between the two nations. How it will be if Orleans and Burgundy come to blows I know not; but if they do so, methinks our lord will have to declare for one or the other, or he may have both upon him. A man with broad estates, on which many cast covetous eyes, can scarce stand altogether aloof. However, if Villeroy is attacked, methinks that with the following Sir Eustace has brought with him across the sea even Burgundy himself will find that it would cost him so dearly to capture the castle that it were best left alone." "How about the vassals?" "They will fight for their lord," Jean Bouvard answered confidently. "You see their fathers and grandfathers fought under the Black Prince, and it is natural that their leanings should be on that side. Then they know that there is no better lord in all Artois than Sir Eustace, and his dame has made herself much beloved among them all. There is no fear that they will disobey our lord's orders whatever they be, and will fight as he bids them, for Orleans or Burgundy, England or France. He has never exercised to the full his rights of seigneur; he has never called upon them for their full quota of work; no man has even been hung on his estate for two generations save for crime committed; no vassal's daughter has ever been carried into the castle. I tell you there is not a man for over fifty miles round who does not envy the vassals of Villeroy, and this would be a happy land indeed were all lords like ours. Were we to hoist the flag on the keep and fire a gun, every man on the estate would muster here before sunset, and would march against the King of France himself did Sir Eustace order them to do so." "In that case what force could we put on the walls, Captain?" "Two hundred men besides the garrison, and we have provisions stored away in the keep sufficient for them and their women and children for a three months' siege. Sir Eustace gave me orders yesterday to procure wood of the kind used for arrows, and to lay in a great store of it; also to set the smiths to work to make arrow-heads. I asked him how many, and he said, 'Let them go on at it until further orders. I should like a store sufficient at least for a hundred rounds for each of these English archers, and if we had double that it would be all the better. They can make their own arrows if they have suitable wood.' It seemed to me that two hundred rounds was beyond all necessity, but now when I see that these men can shoot nigh twenty rounds a minute, I can well understand that a great supply for them is needful." The time passed very pleasantly at Villeroy. Sometimes Guy rode with his lord and lady when they went out hawking or paid visits to neighbouring castles. Regularly every day they practised for two hours in arms, and although well instructed before, Guy gained much additional skill from the teaching of Jean Bouvard, who was a famous swordsman. The latter was surprised at finding that the page was able to draw the English bows as well as the archers, and that, although inferior to Long Tom and three or four of the best shots, he was quite as good a marksman as the majority. Moreover, though of gentle blood he would join with the men in their bouts of quarter-staff, and took no more heed of a broken head than they did. [Illustration: GUY HAS HIS HEAD BOUND UP AFTER A BOUT AT QUARTER-STAFF.] "_Pardieu_, master page," he said one day when Guy came in from the court-yard to have his head, which was streaming with blood, bound up, "our French pages would marvel indeed if they saw you. They all practise in arms as you do, save with the shooting; but they would consider it would demean them sorely to join in such rough sports with their inferiors, or to run the risk of getting their beauty spoiled by a rough blow. No wonder your knights strike so mightily in battle when they are accustomed to strike so heavily in sport. I saw one of your men-at-arms yesterday bury his axe to the very head in a block of oak; he wagered a stoup of wine that no two of my men-at-arms would get the axe out, and he won fairly, for indeed it took four of the knaves at the handle to tug it out, and then indeed it needed all their strength. No armour ever forged could have withstood such a blow; it-would have cracked both the casque and the skull inside like egg-shells. It seemed to me that a thousand such men, with as many archers, could march through France from end to end, if they kept well together, and were well supplied with meat and drink by the way--they would need that, for they are as good trenchermen as they are fighters, and indeed each man amongst them eats as much as three of my fellows." "Yes, they want to be well fed," Guy laughed, "and they are rarely pleased with the provision that you make for them; surely not one of them ever fed so well before." "Food does not cost much," the captain said; "we have herds of our own which run half wild on the low ground near the river, which our lords always keep in hand for their own uses, and they multiply so fast that they are all the better for thinning; we sell a few occasionally, but they are so wild that it scarce pays the trouble of driving them to the nearest market, and we are always ready to grant permission to any of the vassals, whose cattle have not done as well as usual, to go out and kill one or two for meat." "I hear from the Governor of Calais," Sir Eustace said, when he returned from a visit to that town, "that a truce has been agreed upon between England and France for a year; it is France who asked for it, I suppose. Both parties here wanted to be able to fight it out without interference. Here, in Artois, where the Burgundians are most numerous, they will profit, as they will have no fear of England trying to regain some of her lost territory, while in the south it will leave Armagnac and his friends equally free from English incursions from Guienne." "And how will it affect us, Eustace?" his wife asked. "That I have not been able fully to determine. At any rate they will have no excuse for attacking us upon the ground that we are partly English, and wholly so in feeling; but upon the other hand, if we are attacked either by Burgundians or Orleanists, we cannot hope, as we should have done before, for aid from Calais, lying as we do some fifteen miles beyond the frontier. Amiens has already declared for Burgundy, in spite of the fact that a royal proclamation has been issued, and sent to every town and bailiwick through France, strictly commanding all persons whatsoever not to interfere, or in any manner to assist the Dukes of Orleans or Burgundy in their quarrels with each other. I hear that the Duke of Burgundy has seized Roye, Nesle, and Ham, and a number of other places, and that both parties are fortifying all their towns. They say, too, that there is news that the king has again been seized with one of his fits of madness. However, that matters little. He has of late been a tool in the hands of Burgundy, and the royal signature has no weight one way or the other. However, now that hostilities have begun, we must lose no time, for at any moment one party or the other may make a sudden attack upon us. Burgundy and Orleans may quarrel, but it is not for love of one or the other that most of the nobles will join in the fray, but merely because it offers them an opportunity for pillaging and plundering, and for paying off old scores against neighbours. Guy, bid John Harpen come hither." When the esquire entered, Sir Eustace went on: "Take two men-at-arms, John, and ride round to all the tenants. Warn them that there are plundering bands about, and that either the Burgundians or the Orleanists may swoop down upon us any day. Tell them that they had better send in here all their valuables, and at any rate the best of their cattle and horses, and to have everything prepared for bringing in their wives and families and the rest of their herds at a moment's notice. You can say that if they like they can at once send their wives and families in, with such store of grain and forage as they can transport; the more the better. If the plunderers come, so much the more is saved from destruction; if we are besieged, so much the more food have we here. Those who do not send in their families would do well to keep a cart with two strong horses ready day and night, so that no time would be lost when they get the signal. We shall fire a gun, hoist the flag, and light a bonfire on the keep, so that they may see the smoke by day or the fire by night. Tell Jean Bouvard to come to me." "There is trouble afoot, Jean, and at any moment we may be attacked. Place two men-at-arms on each of the roads to St. Omer, St. Pol, and Bethune. Post them yourself at the highest points you can find near our boundary. By each have a pile of faggots, well smeared with pitch, and have another pile ready on the keep, and a watch always stationed there. He is to light it at once when he sees smoke or fire from either of the three points. Let the men at the outposts be relieved every four hours. They must, of course, be mounted. Let one of the two remain by the faggots, and let the other ride three or four miles in advance, and so post himself as to see a long distance down the road. "If he sees a force advancing he must gallop back at full speed to his comrade, and light the fire. Have a gun always loaded on the keep, and have a brazier burning hard by, with an iron in it, so that the piece may be fired the instant smoke is seen. It might be two or three minutes before the beacon would give out smoke enough to be noticed, and every minute may be of the greatest importance to the vassals. As soon as you return from setting the posts see that everything is in readiness here. I myself will make sure that the drawbridge works easily and the portcullis runs freely in its groove. I have already sent off John Harpen to warn the tenants, and doubtless many of them will be in this afternoon. Send Pierre with four men, and tell them to drive up a number of the cattle from the marshes. They need not trouble to hunt them all up today. Let them bring the principal herd, the others we will fetch in to-morrow, or let them range where they are until we have further news." In a few minutes the castle resounded with the din of preparations under the superintendence of Sir Eustace. The men-at-arms and archers carried up stones from the great pile that had been collected in the court-yard in readiness, to the various points on the walls that would be most exposed to assault. Others were employed in fixing barricades in the court-yard at the rear for the reception of the herd of half-wild cattle. The water was turned from the little rivulet running down to the Somme into the moat. Two or three bullocks were killed to furnish food for the fugitives who might come in, and straw was laid down thickly in the sheds that would be occupied by them. Machines for casting heavy stones were taken from the storehouse and carried up to the walls, and set up there. Large stone troughs placed in the court-yard were filled with water, and before nightfall everything was in readiness. As Sir Eustace had anticipated, most of the vassals whose farms lay at a distance from the castle came in with their wives and families in the course of the afternoon, bringing carts laden with their household goods, and a considerable number of horses and cattle. Lady Margaret herself saw that they were established as comfortably as possible in the sheds, which were large enough to contain all the women and children on the estate. As for the men, no such provision was necessary, as at this time of the year they could sleep in the open air. Guy was busy all day seeing that the orders of his lord were carried out, and especially watching the operations of putting the ballistas and catapults together on the walls. Cannon, though now in use, had by no means superseded these machines, for they were cumbrous and clumsy, and could only be fired at considerable intervals, and their aim was by no means accurate or their range extensive, as the charge of powder that could be used in them was comparatively small, and the powder itself ill-made and defective in strength. Guy was struck with the difference of demeanour between the men-at-arms and archers, especially among the English contingent, and that of the fugitives who poured in. What was a terrible blow to the latter was the cause of a scarce concealed gratification among the former. The two months that had been spent at the castle had, to the English, been a somewhat monotonous time, and the prospect of active service and of the giving and taking of blows made their blood course more rapidly through their veins. It was the prospect of fighting rather than of pay that had attracted them to the service of Sir Eustace. Then, as for a century previous and until quite modern days, Frenchmen were regarded as the natural foes of England, and however large a force an English king wished to collect for service in France, he had never any difficulty whatever in obtaining the number he asked for, and they were ready cheerfully to give battle whatever the odds against them. The English archer's confidence in himself and his skill was indeed supreme. Before the shafts of his forefathers the flower of the French chivalry had gone down like rushes before a scythe, and from being a mere accessory to a battle the English archers had become the backbone of the force. Their skill, in fact, had revolutionized warfare, had broken the power of cavalry, and had added to the dignity and value of infantry, who had become, as they have ever since continued to be, the prime factor in warfare. Consequently the English archers and men-at-arms went about their work of preparation with a zest and cheerfulness that showed their satisfaction in it. "Why, Tom," Guy said to the tall leader of the archers, "you look as pleased as if it were a feast rather than a fray for which you were preparing." "And so I feel, Master Guy. For what have I been practising with the bow since I was eight years old but that I might, when the time came, send an arrow straight through the bars of a French vizor? In faith, I began to think that I should never have an opportunity of exercising my skill on anything more worthy than a target or peeled wand. Since our kings have given up leading armies across the sea, there was no way but to take service with our lord when I heard that he wanted a small company of archers for the defence of his castle over here, and since we have come it has seemed to us all that we were taking pay and food under false pretences, and that we might as well have stopped at home where, at least, we can compete in all honour and good temper against men as good as ourselves, and with the certainty of winning a few silver pennies, to say nothing of plaudits from the onlookers. 'Tis with our people as with the knights of old; if they win in a tournament they take the armour of the vanquished, the prize from the Queen of Beauty, and many a glance of admiration from bright eyes. It is the same with us; for there is not an English maid but would choose an archer who stands straight and firm, and can carry off a prize when in good company, to a hind who thinks of naught but delving the soil and tending the herd." Guy laughed. "I suppose it is the same, when you put it so, Long Tom; but there will be none of your English maids to watch your prowess here." "No, Master Guy; but here we shall fight for our own satisfaction, and prove to ourselves that we are as good men as our fathers were. I know naught of this quarrel. Had Sir Eustace taken us into the field to fight for one or other of these factions concerning which we know nothing, we should doubtless have done our duty and fought manfully. But we are all glad that here we are doing what we came for; we are going to defend the castle against Frenchmen of some sort or other who would do ill to our lord and lady, and we shall fight right heartily and joyfully, and should still do so were it the mad king of France himself who marched against us. Besides, master, we should be less than men if we did not feel for the frightened women and children who, having done no wrong, and caring naught for these factions, are forced to flee from their homes for their lives; so we shall strike in just as we should strike in were we to come upon a band of robbers ill-treating a woman at home.... Think you that they will come, master?" he added eagerly. "That I cannot say surely, Tom; but Sir Eustace has news that the Burgundians have already seized several towns and placed garrisons there, and that armed bands are traversing the country, burning and pillaging. Whether they will feel strong enough to make an attack on this castle I know not, but belike they will do so, for Sir Eustace, belonging as he does, and as his fathers have done before him, to the English party, neither of the others will feel any good-will towards him, and some of his neighbours may well be glad to take advantage of this troubled time to endeavour to despoil him of his castle and possessions." "They will want to have good teeth to crack this nut, Master Guy--good teeth and strong; and methinks that those who come to pluck the feathers may well go back without their own. We have a rare store of shafts ready, and they will find that their cross-bowmen are of little use against picked English archers, even though there be but twenty-five of us in all." "You know very well, Long Tom, that you would have come over here whether there was any chance of your drawing your bow on a Frenchman or not." "That is true enough, Master Guy. Our lady wanted some bowmen, and I, who have been born and bred on the estate, was of course bound to go with her. Then you see, Master Guy, haven't I taught you to use the bow and the quarter-staff, and carried you on my shoulder many a score of times when you were a little lad and I was a big boy? It would not have been natural for you to have gone out with a chance of getting into a fight without my being there to draw a shaft when you needed it. Why, Ruth Gregory, whose sworn bachelor you know I am, would have cried shame on me if I had lingered behind. I told her that if I stayed it would be for her sake, and you should have seen how she flouted me, saying that she would have no tall lout hiding behind her petticoats, and that if I stayed, it should not be as her man. And now I must be off to my supper, or I shall find that there is not a morsel left for me." The gates of the castle were closed that night, but it was not considered necessary to lower the drawbridge. Two sentries were posted at the work beyond the moat, and one above the gate, besides the watcher at the top of the keep. The next day things were got into better order. More barricades were erected for the separation of the cattle; a portion was set aside for horses. The provisions brought in from the farms were stored away in the magazines. The women and children began to settle down more comfortably in their sheds. The best of the horses and cattle were removed into the inner court-yard. The boys were set drawing water and filling the troughs, while some of the farm men were told off to carry the fodder to the animals, most of which, however, were for the time turned out to graze near the castle. Many of the men who had come in had returned to their work on the farms. During the day waggons continued to arrive with stores of grain and forage; boys and girls drove in flocks of geese and turkeys and large numbers of ducks and hens, until the yard in which the sheds were was crowded with them. By nightfall every preparation was complete, and even Jean Bouvard himself could find nothing further to suggest. "If they are coming," he said to Sir Eustace, "the sooner they come the better, my lord; we have done all that we can do, and had best get it over without more ado." "I still hope that no one will come, Bouvard, but I agree with you, that if it is to come the sooner the better. But there is no saying, it may be to-morrow, it may be months before we are disturbed. Still, in a war like this, it is likely that all will try and get as much as they can as quickly as possible, for at any moment it may suit Burgundy and Orleans to patch up their quarrel again. Burgundy is astute and cunning, and if he sees that the Orleans princes with Armagnac and the Duke of Bourbon are likely to get the best of it, he will use the king and queen to intervene and stop the fighting. Seeing that this may be so, the rogues who have their eye on their neighbours' goods and possessions will, you may be sure, lose no time in stretching out their hands for them." A week later came the news that Sir Clugnet de Brabant, who styled himself Admiral of France, had gathered two thousand men from the Orleanist garrisons and, with scaling-ladders and other warlike machines, had attacked the town of Rethel. The inhabitants had, however, notice of their coming, and resisted so stoutly that the Orleanists had been forced to retreat, and had then divided into two parties, each of whom had scoured the country, making prisoners all whom they met, firing the villages and driving off the cattle, and then returned to the town of Ham and to the various garrisons from which they had been drawn. Some of the tenants had returned to their farms, but when the news spread they again took refuge in the castle. It was probable that Artois, where almost all the towns were held by the Burgundian party, would be the next object of attack. The Orleanists remained quiet for eight days only, then the news came that they had moved out again from Ham eight thousand strong, and were marching west. Two days later several fugitives from the country round arrived at the castle with news that the Orleanists were advancing against Bapaume, and the next morning they heard that they had, after a fierce fight, won their way to the gate of the town. The Burgundian garrison had then sallied out and at first met with success, but had been obliged to retreat within the walls again. The Orleanists, however, considering the place too strong to be captured without a long siege, which might be interrupted by a Burgundian force from Flanders, had drawn off from the place, but were still marching north burning and plundering. "It is likely enough that they will come this way," Sir Eustace said as he and Jean Bouvard talked the matter over. "Assuredly Arras will be too strong for them to attempt. The straight line would take them to St. Pol, but the castle there is a very strong one also. They may sack and burn Avesne and Auvigni, and then, avoiding both St. Pol and Arras, march between them to Pernes, which is large enough to give them much plunder, but has no force that could resist them. As Pernes is but four miles away, their next call may be here." "But why should they attack us, Sir Eustace? for here, too, they might reckon upon more hard blows than plunder." "It will depend upon whom they have with them," Sir Eustace replied. "They say that our neighbour Hugh de Fruges went south ten days ago to join the Duke of Bourbon; his castle is but a small place, and as most of Artois is Burgundian he might be afraid he might be captured. He has never borne me good-will, and might well persuade the duke that were my castle and estates in his possession he might do good service to the cause; and that, moreover, standing as we do within twelve miles of the English frontier, its possession might be very valuable to him should the Orleanists ever have occasion to call in the aid of England, or to oppose their advance should the Burgundians take that step." "Surely neither of these factions will do that, Sir Eustace." "Why not, Bouvard? Every time that English armies have passed into France they have done it at the invitation of French nobles who have embroiled themselves with their kings. Burgundy and Orleans, Bourbon and Brittany, each fights for his own hand, and cares little for France as a whole. They may be vassals of the Valois, but they regard themselves as being nearly, if not altogether, their equals, and are always ready to league themselves with each other, or if it needs be with the English, against the throne." At nine o'clock on the following evening Sir Eustace and his family were startled by the report of the gun on the keep, and, running out, saw the signal-fire beginning to blaze up. "Above there!" Sir Eustace shouted, "where is the alarm?" "A fire has just blazed up on the road to St. Pol," the warder replied. "Blow your horn, then, loudly and urgently." The news that the Orleanists were marching north from Bapaume had caused the greater portion of the farmers to come in on the previous day, and in a short time those who were nearest to the castle, and who had consequently delayed as long as possible, began to arrive. The garrison were already under arms, and had taken the places assigned to them on the walls. All the tenants had brought their arms in with them, and were now drawn up in the court-yard, where a large bonfire, that had been for some days in readiness, was now blazing. The new-comers, after turning their horses into the inclosure with those already there, joined them. All had been acquainted with the share they were to bear should the place be besieged. They were to be divided into two parties, one of which was to be on duty on the walls with the garrison, the other to be held in reserve, and was--every six hours when matters were quiet--to relieve the party on the walls, or, when an attack took place, to be under arms and ready to hasten to any spot where its aid was required. The men were now inspected by Sir Eustace, additional arms were served out from the armoury to those whose equipment was insufficient, and they were then dismissed to join their wives and families until called to the walls. [Illustration: "THE TWO MEN WHO LIT THE ALARM FIRES RODE INTO THE CASTLE."] CHAPTER III -- A SIEGE The two men who had lit the alarm fires had already ridden in. They reported that they had, just as it became dark, seen flames rising from a village three miles from them, and that the man in advance had ridden forward until near enough to see that a great body of men were issuing from the village in the direction of the castle. Ten of the English men-at-arms, and as many French, were now posted in the outwork at the head of the drawbridge under the command of Jean Bouvard. Sir Eustace placed himself with his squire on the wall above the gate, and four men were stationed at the chains of the drawbridge in readiness to hoist it should the order be given. The English archers were on the wall beside Sir Eustace, as their arrows commanded the ground beyond the outwork. Half an hour after the first alarm was given the tale of the tenants was found to be complete, and the guards on the other two roads had also ridden in. Guy, to his great satisfaction, had been ordered by Sir Eustace to don his armour and to take his place beside him. It was upwards of an hour before a body of horsemen could be heard approaching. They came at a leisurely pace, for the bonfire on the road and that on the keep had apprised them that their hope of taking the castle by surprise had been frustrated by the disobedience of some of their men, who, in defiance of the strictest orders to the contrary, had set fire to several houses in the village after having plundered them. Sir Eustace, accompanied by his esquire and Guy, descended from the wall and crossed the drawbridge to the outwork. As soon as the horsemen came within bow-shot of the castle they lighted some torches, and three knights, preceded by a trooper carrying a white flag, and two others with torches, came towards the work. When within fifty yards of the postern they halted. "Is Sieur Eustace de Villeroy present?" "I am here," Sir Eustace replied, and at his order two men with torches took their place one on each side of him. "Who are you that approach my castle in armed force?" "I am Sir Clugnet de Brabant, Admiral of France. These are Sir Manessier Guieret and Sir Hugh de Fruges, and we come in the name of the Duke of Orleans to summon you to admit a garrison of his highness's troops." "I am neither for Orleans nor for Burgundy," Sir Eustace replied. "I am a simple knight, holding my castle and estate as a vassal of the crown, and am ready to obey the orders of the king,--and of him only when he is in a condition of mind to give such orders. Until then I shall hold my castle, and will admit no garrison whether of Orleans or of Burgundy." "We hold you to be but a false vassal of the crown, and we are told that at heart you are an enemy to France and devoted to England." "I am a vassal of England for the estates of my wife in that country," Sir Eustace said; "and as at present there is a truce between the two nations, I can serve here the King of France as faithfully as if, in England, I should serve the King of England." "Nevertheless, Sir Eustace, you will have to receive a garrison of Orleans. I have at my back eight thousand men, and if you compel me to storm this hold of yours I warn you that all within its walls will be put to the sword." "Thanks for your warning, Sir Knight; and I on my part warn you that, eight thousand though you be, I shall resist you to the death, and that you will not carry eight thousand away. As for Sir Hugh de Fruges, I give him my open defiance. I know it is to him that I owe this raid; and if he be man enough, I challenge him to meet me in the morning on fair ground outside this postern, with lance and battle-axe, to fight to the death. If he conquers, my castle shall be surrendered to him, upon promise of good treatment and a safe-conduct to depart where they will for all within it; but if I slay him, you must give me your knightly oath that you and your following will depart forthwith." "The conditions would be hardly fair, Sir Eustace," Sir Clugnet said; "and though I doubt not that Sir Hugh would gladly accept them, I cannot permit him to do so. I have brought some eight thousand men here to capture this castle, and hold it for the Duke of Orleans, and I see not why I should march away with them because you may perchance prove a better fighter than Sir Hugh. I am ready, however, to give a safe-conduct to all within the walls if you will surrender." "That will I not do, Sir Clugnet. I hold this castle neither for Burgundy nor Orleans, and am ready to give pledge that I will not draw sword for either of these princes; but if that will not content you, you must even take my castle if you can, and I give you fair warning that it will cost you dear." "Then adieu, Sir Knight, until to-morrow morning, when we will talk in other fashion." "So be it," Sir Eustace replied, "you will not find me backward in returning any courtesies you may pay me." The knights turned away with their torch-bearers. "Keep a close watch to-night, Bouvard," Sir Eustace said. "Mark you what the knight said,--adieu till the morning. Had I to deal with a loyal gentleman I could have slept soundly, but with these adventurers it is different. It may be that he truly does not intend to attack till morning, but it is more likely that he used the words in order to throw us off our guard." "We will keep close ward, Sir Eustace. All the men-at-arms have their cross-bows, and though I say not that they can shoot like these English archers, they can shoot straight enough to do good work should those fellows attempt in force to cross the small moat and attack the gate. But if they come, methinks it will be but to try if we are wakeful; 'tis no light thing to attack even an outwork like this, with this loop from the moat surrounding it, without previous examination of the ground and reconnoitring of the castle." "They would not attempt to attack the fortress itself," Sir Eustace said; "but if they could seize this outwork by surprise it would mightily aid them in their attack on the fortress; at any rate I will send down five archers, and if any of the enemy crawl up to see how wide the water is here, and how the attempt had best be made, I warrant that they will not return if the archers can but get a sight of them. Post half your men on the wall, and let the others sleep; change them every two hours--we want no sleepy heads in the morning." By this time the confused sound of a large number of men marching could be made out, and a quarter of an hour later three or four cottages, some five hundred yards away, were fired, and an angry murmur broke from the men as the flames shot up. After sending down the five archers, Sir Eustace returned to his post over the main gate. "Get cressets and torches in readiness to light if they attack the postern," Sir Eustace said; "we must have light to see how things go, so that we may hoist the drawbridge as soon as our men are upon it, should the enemy get the better of them. Be sure that one is not left behind; it were better that half a dozen of the enemy set foot on the drawbridge than that one of our brave fellows should be sacrificed." "I should think that there is no fear of their attacking until those flames have burnt down; we should see them against the light," John Harpen said. "No, there is no fear of their attacking; but the fire would be of advantage if any men were crawling up to spy. Of course they would not cross the slope in a line with the fire, but would work along on either side, reckoning, and with reason, that as our men would have the light in their eyes they would be all the less likely to make out objects crawling along in the shade by the side of the moat. Plant half a dozen bowmen at intervals on the wall, Tom, and tell them to keep a shrewd eye on the ground near the moat, and if they see aught moving there to try it with an arrow." There was shouting and noise up by the burning cottages, where the enemy were feasting on the spoils they had taken, and drinking from the wine-barrels that had been brought with them in carts from the last village that they had plundered. "I wish we were somewhat stronger, or they somewhat weaker," Sir Eustace said; "were it so, we would make a sally, and give the knaves a sharp lesson, but with only two hundred men against their eight thousand it would be madness to try it; we might slay a good many, but might lose a score before we were back in the castle, and it would be a heavy loss to us." "I was thinking that myself, Sir Eustace," his esquire said. "That is the worst of being on the defence; one sees such chances but cannot avail one's self of them." In the castle everything was quiet, and all those not on duty were already asleep. Along the wall watchers stood at short intervals peering into the darkness, but the main body there were also stretched on the wall with their arms by their side until required to be up and doing. Now that Sir Eustace was himself at the gate his esquire went round the walls at short intervals to be sure that the men on watch were vigilant. Presently a loud cry was heard from the corner of the moat away to the right. "Go and see what is doing, Guy," Sir Eustace said, "and bring me news." Guy ran along to the angle of the wall. Here one of the archers was posted. "What is it, Dickon?" "A man crept up to that corner opposite, Master Guy. I could not have sworn to him, it is so pesky dark, but I thought there was something moving there and shot almost at a venture, for I could scarce see the end of my arrow; but it hit there or thereabouts, for I heard him shout. A moment later he was on his feet and running. I could see him more plainly then, so I shot again, and over he went. I fancy that in the morning you will see my arrow sticking up somewhere between his shoulder-blades, though there is no saying precisely, for a nicety of shooting is not to be looked for in the dark." "You have done very well, Dickon. Keep your eyes open; we may be sure there are more than one of these fellows about." Guy hurried back with the news. "That is good," said Sir Eustace, "and it was just as well that the archer did not kill him outright with his first arrow, the cry will show any of his comrades who may be about that they had best keep their distance from the walls." A minute's silence followed, and then Long Tom said, "There is another has had his lesson, Sir Eustace. I heard a bow twang across there, and as there was no cry you may be sure that the shaft sped straight, and that the man had no time to utter one." "He may have been missed altogether, Tom." "Missed altogether! no indeed, Sir Eustace, there is no fear of that. There is not one of the men on the wall who would miss a man whose figure he could make out at fifty yards' distance, and they would scarce see them until they were as close as that. No, my lord, I would wager a month's pay that when morning dawns there is a dead man lying somewhere in front of the outwork." "Now, Guy, you had best go up to your room and lie down until daylight," Sir Eustace said. "There will be naught doing to-night, and unless I am mistaken, we shall be busy from sunrise till sunset. I shall myself lie down for a couple of hours presently, and then send John Harpen to rest till daylight. Long Tom, see that you yourself and all your men take a short sleep by turns; we shall need your eyes to be open above all others to-morrow." Guy promptly obeyed the order. Dame Margaret was still up. "Is everything quiet, Guy?" she asked as she entered, "So quiet, my lady, that Sir Eustace has ordered me to bed, and he said that he himself should come down for a short sleep presently. Two spies who crawled up have been slain by the archers. Sir Eustace is sure that no attack will be made before morning." Then he went into his little room and threw himself onto his pallet. During the first few minutes he lifted his head several times fancying that he heard noises; then he fell into a sound sleep and did not awake until the day dawned. In a few minutes Guy was on the wall. The night had passed quietly; so far as was known no fresh attempt at reconnoitring the works had been made, and as the moon had risen soon after he had gone to bed there was reason to believe that the fact that the two spies had not returned was so strong a proof of the vigilance of the garrison, that the enemy had been content to wait until morning. Just as the sun rose the three knights who had summoned the castle on the preceding evening appeared on the brow of the opposite slope, accompanied by a body of men-at-arms, and rode slowly round the castle. From time to time they halted, and were evidently engaged in a discussion as to the point at which it could be best attacked. "Shall I shoot, my lord?" Long Tom asked. "They are some two hundred and fifty yards away, but from this height methinks that I could reach them." "It would be useless," Sir Eustace said; "you could hit them, I doubt not, but you would not pierce their armour at this distance, and it is as well that they should not know how far our bows will carry until we are sure of doing execution when we shoot; besides I would rather that they began the fight. The quarrel is not one of my seeking, and I will leave it to them to open the ball. It is true that they did so last night by sending their spies here, but we have balanced that account. Moreover, if they are to attack, the sooner the better. They may have gained news from Sir Hugh of the coming here of the English archers and the men-at-arms, but if they have not done so we shall have a rare surprise in store for them." After the knights had made a circuit of the castle they retired, and presently a dense mass of men appeared from behind the brow on which the cottages they had burned had stood. "They have bundles of faggots, Sir Eustace!" Guy exclaimed. "So they have, Guy! Your eye is a good one. It seemed to me that the outline was a strange one, but doubtless it is as you say--that each man has a faggot on his shoulder. It is evident that they intend, in the first place, to assault the postern, and have brought the faggots to fill up the ditch." Then he turned to the gunners at the cannon. "Lay your pieces so as to bear on them when they come half-way down the hill," he said, "and shoot when they are fairly in the line of fire. Take the same orders, Guy, to the men working the ballistas and mangonels on the wall. Tell them not to loose their machines until after the guns are fired. If the fellows take to flight, tell them not to waste their missiles; if they advance, let them be sure that they are well within range before they shoot." With loud shouts the enemy came down the slope. When they were half-way down the two guns roared out, and their shot ploughed two lanes in the crowded body. There was a movement of retreat, but the three knights and several others threw themselves in front, waving their swords and shouting, and the Orleanists rallied and moved forward, but at a much slower pace than before. They had gone but a short distance when the arrows of the archers in the outwork and the bolts of the cross-bows worked by the men-at-arms there, began to fall among them. So true was the aim of the archers that scarce a shaft was wasted. At the distance at which they were shooting they did not aim at the knights, whose vizors and coats of mail could not have been pierced, but shot at the commonalty, whose faces and throats were for the most part unprotected. Man after man fell, and the cross-bow bolts also told heavily upon the crowd. They had come down but a short distance farther when Long Tom, and the archers with him on the wall, began to send their arrows thick and fast, and the machines hurled heavy stones with tremendous force among them. A moment later the French broke and fled up the slope again, leaving some fifty of their number stretched on the ground. The knights followed more slowly. When they reached the crest a group of them gathered around Sir Clugnet de Brabant. "By my faith," the latter said bitterly, "we have reckoned without our host, Sir Knights. We came to shear, but in good sooth we seem more likely to go back shorn. Truly those knaves shoot marvellously; scarce an arrow went astray." "As I mentioned to you, Sir Clugnet," Sir Hugh de Fruges said, "Sir Eustace brought with him from England five-and-twenty bowmen, and I heard tell from men who had seen them trying their skill at targets that they were in no wise inferior to those with whom we have before had to deal to our cost." "Truly ye did so, Sir Hugh; but the matter made no impression upon my mind, except as a proof that the knight's inclinations were still with England, and that it were well that his castle were placed in better keeping; but in truth these fellows shoot marvellously, both for strength and trueness of aim. I marked as we came back that of the men we passed lying there, nigh all those who had been struck with arrows were hit in the face or throat, and yet the distance must have been over a hundred and fifty yards." "I can answer for the force," one of the others said, "for a shaft struck me fairly on the chest, and hurled me to the ground as if it had been the shock of a lance, and it is well my mail was of the best work of Milan; but nevertheless the arrow broke two of the links; if the distance had been shorter, I doubt not that it would have slain me. Well, what shall we do next, gentlemen? For very shame we cannot with eight thousand men march away having accomplished nothing. The question is, where shall our next attack be delivered?" "Methinks," another knight said, "we delivered our attack too rashly. Had I known that there were English archers there I should have advised waiting until nightfall, and I think that it would be best to do so now. If we take our fellows up while there is light they will suffer so much from the stings of these wasps that they will soon lose heart. The knaves shoot not only straight and strong, but they shoot so fast that though, as you say, there may be but twenty-five of them, the air seemed full of arrows, and had you told us that there were two hundred archers shooting, I should have thought the estimate a reasonable one." They stood for some time discussing the best method of attack, and as soon as they had settled upon it the men were told to scatter. Some were to go to the farmhouses, and bring up any hides that might be stored there, and to fetch all the hurdles they could lay hands upon; a portion were to go to the woods and cut timber for making mantlets and cover, while two thousand were to remain under arms in case the garrison should make a sortie. Within the castle all were in high spirits at the easy repulse of the first attack. "Sir Clugnet must have learned from Sir Hugh of my having English archers and men-at-arms here," Sir Eustace said to his lieutenant, "and yet he advanced as carelessly and confidently as if he had been attacking a place defended only by fat Flemish burghers; however, he has had his lesson, and as it is said he is a good knight, he will doubtless profit by it, and we shall hear no more of him till after the sun has set. Run up to the top of the keep, Guy, and bring me back news what they are doing." In a few minutes the lad returned. "There are two or three thousand of them, my lord, drawn up in a body beyond the crest; the rest of them are scattering in various directions." "That is as I expected," Sir Eustace remarked; "they have gone to prepare materials for a regular attack. It may be delivered to-night, or may be delayed for a day or two; however, we shall be ready for them. Jean Bouvard, do you go round the walls and tell all, save a few as sentries, to retire until the watchman blows his horn to warn us if they seem to be gathering for an attack; and do you, Long Tom, give the same orders to your archers. There is no use wasting the men's strength till the work begins in earnest. If Sir Clugnet is wise he will march away at once. He would need heavy machines and cannon to make a breach in our walls, and even had he an abundance of them it would take him some time to do so. If he tries again, you may be sure that it will be the work of Sir Hugh de Fruges, who has no doubt a lively interest in the matter. He is a clever fellow, and will no doubt do his best to work on the feelings of the other knights by representing that it would be disgraceful for so large a force to abandon the enterprise merely because a first hasty attack, delivered without preparation, had been repulsed. The fact that they have made so careful an examination of the castle would seem in itself to show that they intended to renew the attempt in another form if the first onset failed, and, moreover, the scattering of the force afterwards while the knights still remained with a large body here points in the same direction." Guy on descending from the keep joined Sir Eustace and his wife in their apartments. "The lad has borne himself bravely," Sir Eustace said approvingly to his wife; "he was standing beside me when their shot was bringing down the dust round our ears, and he neither started nor flinched, though in truth it was far from pleasant, especially as we had nothing to do but to look on. It may be next time we shall have sterner fighting, and I doubt not that he will bear himself well." "Could I not come up and carry your messages, father?" Henry asked; "I am not strong like Guy, but I could do that." "He is too young for it yet, Eustace," Dame Margaret broke in. "Nay, wife," the knight said gently, "the lad is not too young for such service. There will be little danger in it, for his head will not show over the battlements, and it is well that he should learn to hear without fear the whizz of an arrow or the shock of a great stone from a ballista, the clash of arms, and the shouting of men. As he says, he is not yet strong enough to bear arms, but he will learn to brace his nerves and show a bold front in danger; that is a lesson that cannot be learned too young. Yes, Henry, you shall be my messenger. If they try an assault to-night, you shall put on for the first time the steel cap and breastpiece I had made for you in England; there will be no danger of your being hit by crossbow bolt or arrow, but there may be splinters of stone flying when a missile hits the battlement. Take no arms with you, only your dagger; they would be useless to you, and would hamper your movements in getting past the men on the wall, or in running up and down the steps leading to it. Now you had better lie down; both Guy and myself are going to do so. At sunset, if no alarm comes before, you will be called." "We must not coddle the boy, Margaret," he said as Guy and Henry went off. "I know that he is not physically strong as yet, and sorry I am that it should be so, but he might exert himself more than he does, and he is apt to think too much of his ailments. I was glad when he volunteered to do something, for it is at least as well that he should be able to stand fire even if he cannot learn the use of arms; moreover, it may be that after once bearing a part in a fray he may incline more warmly to warlike exercises than he has hitherto done; it may rouse in him a spirit which has so far been wanting. I have often thought that it would have been better if Agnes had been the boy and he the girl; she has far more courage and fire than he has. You remember when that savage bull chased them, how she saw him first over the stile and got tossed over after him for her pains?" Dame Margaret nodded. "I am not likely to forget it, Eustace, seeing that her arm was broken and I had to nurse her for six weeks. Do you know that she was up on the top of the keep while the fighting was going on? Of course I was there myself, and she begged so hard to be allowed to remain with me that I had not the heart to say her nay." "Was Henry there too?" "Oh, yes; and shouted with the best of them when the enemy fled over the hill. Even Charlie was there, and as excited as either of them. Of course, I had to hold him up sometimes for him to be able to see what was going on; and he looked rather pale at first, when they opened fire, but he soon plucked up when he saw that their shot did no damage near us. You see he is a strong healthy boy; while Henry has always been weak, although I do not think that he lacks courage." "He ought not, wife; he comes from a fighting stock on either side. But I fear that unless he changes greatly he is cut out rather for a monk than a man-at-arms. And now I will lie down, for you may be sure that I shall not close an eye to-night. Did you note the banner of Hugh de Fruges with the others?" "Yes, and I felt more uncomfortable after seeing it. He is a crafty man, Eustace." "He is not a brave one," the knight said scornfully. "I challenged him to meet me outside in a fair field, and the craven did not answer me, and Sir Clugnet had to make speech for him and decline the offer." "You will need all your vigilance, Eustace. I trust that every man within the walls is faithful to us; but if there be a traitor, be sure that Sir Hugh will endeavour to plot with him, nay, he may already have done so." "They would have no chance of making communication with him were there a dozen of them, wife. Long Tom and his comrades will take good care that none come near enough for speech." The day passed away in perfect quiet. From time to time word came down from the look-out that the scattered soldiers were returning laden with a great quantity of young trees, wattles, and doors. Dame Margaret kept watch in her room, and allowed no messengers to enter her husband's apartments. "If there be need, I will wake him," she said; "but he knows well enough what the French have gone for, and there is naught to do until they advance to the attack." Guy slept but a short time, and as he frequently started up under the impression that the horn was sounding an alarm, in the afternoon he got up and went down into the courtyard. For some time he wandered about in the quarters occupied by the tenants. These had now settled down; the children were playing about as unconcernedly as if they had been on their fathers' farms; women were washing clothes or preparing the evening meal over little charcoal fires. A certain quantity of meat had been served out to each family, and they were therefore doing better than in their own houses, for meat was a luxury seldom touched by the French peasantry. Almost all who had entered the castle had brought with them a supply of herbs and vegetables; these, with a handful or two of coarsely-ground meal boiled into broth, constituted their usual fare, and the addition of a portion of meat afforded them great satisfaction. Some of the men were still asleep, in preparation for a long night's work; others were standing about talking in little groups; some were on the walls watching with gloomy faces the smoke wreaths that still rose from what had been their homes. Ducks, geese, and hens walked about unconcernedly looking for any stray grains that had passed unnoticed when they had last been fed, and a chorus of dissatisfied grunting arose from the pigs that had a large pen in the yard next to the huts. These were still smarting under a sense of injury excited not only by their removal from their familiar haunts, but by the fact that most of them had been hastily marked by a clipping of some kind in the ear in order to enable their owners to distinguish them from the others. Boys were carrying buckets of water from a well in the court-yard to the troughs for the cattle and horses, and the men-at-arms were cleaning their armour and polishing their steel caps. "Well, Tom, I hope we shall get on as well to-night as we did this morning," Guy said to the leader of the archers. "I hope so, Master Guy, but I would rather fight by day than by night; it is random work when you can neither see your mark nor look straight along your arrow. If we had a moon we should do well enough, but on these dark nights skill does not go for much; still, I doubt not that we shall give a good account of ourselves, for at any rate we shall be able to make them out before they come to close work. The women have been making a great store of torches to-day, and that will help us a bit, though I would that they could be planted fifty yards beyond the moat instead of on the walls, for although they will be of some use to us they will be of even more to the enemy. What think you that their plan will be?" "I should say that they are intending to march forward covered by mantlets of wattles and hides. They will plant them near the edge of the moat, and throw up some earthworks to shelter them and their machines; no doubt they will use the doors they have fetched from all the farmhouses for the same purpose." "The doors will be more to the point, certainly," the bowman said. "As to their hides and wattles, at fifty yards I will warrant our arrows go through them as if they were paper; but I cannot say as much about stout oaken doors--that is a target that I have never shot against; I fear that the shock would shiver the shafts. The mantlets too would serve them to some purpose, for we should not know exactly where they were standing behind them. As for their machines, they cannot have many of them." "They had something like a score of waggons with them, Tom; these would carry the beams for half a dozen big ballistas; besides, they have their cannon." "I don't make much account of the cannon," the archer said; "they take pretty nearly an hour to load and fire them, and at that rate, however hard a shot may hit, it would be some time before they wrought much damage on the walls. It is the sound more than the danger that makes men afraid of the things, and, for my part, I would not take the trouble of dragging them about. They are all very well on the walls of a castle, though I see not that even there they are of great advantage over the old machines. It is true that they shoot further, but that is of no great use. It is when the enemy come to attack that you want to kill them, and at fifty yards I would kill more men with my shafts in ten minutes than a cannon would do with a week's firing. I wonder they trouble to carry them about with them, save that folks are not accustomed to their noise yet, and might open their gates when they see them, while they would make a stout defence if they had only ballistas and mangonels to deal with. I suppose when they have got the shelters close to the moat they will bring up planks to throw across." "Yes, no doubt they will try that, Tom; but the moat is over wide for planks, and I think it more likely that they will have provided themselves with sacks, and filled them with earth, so as to make a passage across with them." "As to the planks not being long enough, Master Guy, they could get over that easy enough. They would only have to send three or four swimmers across the moat, then thrust long beams over for those who had crossed to fix firmly, and then lay short planks across them." "So they would, Tom; I did not think of that. Well, at any rate, I expect they will manage to get across the moat somehow and plant ladders against the wall." "And we shall chuck them down again," Tom said. "They won't care much for that. But as long as they cannot knock a breach in the walls I warrant that we can hold them." CHAPTER IV -- A FATAL ACCIDENT As soon as the sun had set, the defenders gathered on the walls. Fires had already been lighted there and cauldrons of water and pitch suspended over them, and sacks of quicklime placed in readiness to be emptied; great piles of stone were placed at short intervals. "As long as they attack at only one or two places," Sir Eustace said to his wife, "I am quite confident that we shall repulse them. If they attack at a dozen they may succeed, as we should only have a couple of archers and six or seven men-at-arms at each point, besides a score or so of the vassals. I have no doubt that these will fight stoutly, for the sight of their burning homes has roused them, and each man is longing to get a blow at those who have wrought them so much damage. Still, thirty men are but a small party to beat back an assault by hundreds. However, if they carry the outside wall they will have the second to deal with, and there we shall stand much thicker together, and they cannot attack from many points, while if we are driven into the keep, we shall be stronger still. Have you seen that the women and children are ready to retire into the keep as soon as the assault begins?" "I have been round myself and given orders," Dame Margaret said. "I have told them that the inner gate will be closed as soon as fighting begins, and that those who do not come in before that must remain outside, or else mount to the walls and cross the bridges, for that on no account will the gates be opened again." "That is well, Margaret. I am now about to station two men-at-arms on the inner wall at the end of each of the three bridges, so that they may be ready on the instant to turn the catches and let the bridges fall behind our men as they rush across. The tenants have already driven as many more of their best horses and cattle into the inner court as can find standing room, so that their loss may be as small as possible. If the outer wall is carried, I have no great fear that the second wall will be taken; the plunderers who form the mass of Sir Clugnet's force will have had enough and more than enough of fighting by the time that they capture the outer one. Whatever happens, do not show yourself on the walls to-night, and see that the children do not leave their beds; you can do naught, and will see but little in the dark. To-morrow morning, wife, I will leave you free to go among the soldiers and give them encouragement as may be needed, but for to-night, I pray you stir not out. I will send Henry from time to time to let you know how matters go." Rapidly the men gathered on the walls; each had had his post assigned to him, and when Sir Eustace made a tour of inspection he was glad to see how confidently each man bore himself, and how well prepared to give the enemy a warm reception. As soon as it became dark, the outwork on the other side of the moat was abandoned, the defenders called into the castle, and the drawbridge raised, for it was evident to Sir Eustace that although it might be maintained in daylight, by the aid of the archers on the wall, it could not resist an attack by overwhelming numbers when deprived of that assistance. Sir Eustace, after inspecting the men's arms, ordered all those on the walls, with the exception of a few who were to remain on watch, to sit down with their backs against the battlement, and to maintain an absolute silence. "It is by sound rather than sight that we shall be able to judge of their movements," he said. "All sitting down may sleep, if it so pleases them, till they are roused." The sentries were ten in number, and were all taken from among the archers. Most of these men had been accustomed to the chase, were skilled in woodcraft, and accustomed to listen to the slightest noises that might tell of the movement of a stag and enable them to judge his position. Sir Eustace, for the present, posted himself in his old position over the gate. Jean Bouvard and Guy were with him, while Long Tom moved round and round the walls to gather news from his sentries. Sometimes Guy accompanied him. "They are moving," Tom the archer said as he stood listening intently on the wall at the rear of the castle. "It is an hour past sundown, and about the time the knaves will be mustering if they intend to make a regular attack on us. If it had been only an escalade there would have been no sound until nearly morning. I thought I heard them on the other side, but I am sure of it now." "I can hear singing up at their camp," Guy said, "but I don't hear anything else." "They are keeping that up to deceive us, I expect. But besides the singing there is a sort of rustle. I don't think that they are coming this way at present, or we should hear it plainer. It seems to me that it is spreading all round." "I will go back and tell Sir Eustace what you think, Tom." Guy hurried back to the other side of the castle. "Long Tom thinks, Sir Eustace, that he can hear a stir all round." "We have noticed it too--at least, all round this side. Tell him not to call the men to their feet until the enemy approaches more closely. I believe that it is the march of a large number of men, and that they are probably moving to the positions assigned to them, but it may be another hour or two before they close in." In a short time the sound became more distinct; from a rustle it rose to a deep confused murmur, then an occasional clink as of arms striking armour became audible. Most of the men on the walls were now on their feet gazing into the darkness. Presently the sound ceased, first on one side and then on another. "I fancy they are all at their stations now, Jean Bouvard; we shall soon hear more of them. Do not let your archers shoot, Tom, until they can make them out very distinctly. We may be sure that they will come up with their mantlets, and it would be a waste of arrows to loose at them until they are close to the moat; but of course if separate figures can be distinguished your men will draw on them." In a quarter of an hour messengers came from various points on the wall saying that there was something moving within sight, and to those at the post over the gate a dark confused mass like a shadow seemed to be slowly coming down towards their outwork. "Touch off the guns, Jean," Sir Eustace said; "we shall get no further chance of catching them in a body." The captain stooped, lit two touchfires at the lantern standing in readiness, gave one to a man-at-arms, and went with the other to a cannon. Both the guns had been filled to the muzzle with bits of iron and nails, and had been laid to bear on the slope beyond the outwork. They were fired almost simultaneously, and the sound was followed by yells of pain and dismay. The besiegers, seeing that there was nothing further to gain by concealment, burst into a shout that ran all round the castle, and were answered by one of defiance from the walls. The sound was succeeded by loud orders from the leaders of the various assaulting parties, and the objects before but dimly seen, now approached the walls rapidly. Jean Bouvard hurried away to superintend the defence at other parts. "You may as well go the other way, Guy, and let me know from time to time how things are getting on. Henry, run down to your mother and tell her that the enemy are moving up to the moat, and that it will be some time before there is any hard fighting; then come back here again." It was easier to see from the side walls than it had been in front, for in front there was a glow in the sky from the number of fires burning beyond the crest of the slope, and Guy was able to make out what seemed to him a wall extending some fifteen yards, near the edge of the moat. The archers and crossbow-men gathered opposite to it had just begun to shoot. Behind this wall there were other dark masses irregularly placed, and extending back as far as he could see. An occasional cry told that the arrows were doing execution upon the unseen assailants behind the mantlets, and soon the blows of cross-bow bolts against the wall and the sharp tap of arrows told that the enemy had also betaken themselves to their arms. A number of giant torches had been prepared, consisting of sheafs of straw soaked with pitch, and one of these was now lighted and elevated on a pole some fifteen feet above the battlement. Its light was sufficient to enable the scene beyond to be clearly made out. A row of mantlets some eight feet high had been placed by the moat, and others of the same height, and seven or eight feet long, elevated at short intervals behind these, were so placed as to afford shelter to the men coming down to the mantlets in front. They stood in two lines; they were some twenty feet apart, but those in one line alternated with those in the other. Guy soon saw the object of this arrangement. Men were darting to and fro across the interval some six feet wide between the two lines. Thus they had but ten feet to run from the shelter on one side to that on the other, and exposed themselves but for an instant to the aim of the archers. Some of the men carried great bundles of faggots, others had sacks on their shoulders. "Do not heed the mantlets in front," said Dickon, who was in command of the six archers near Guy, "but pick off those fellows as they come down. Shoot in turn; it is no use wasting two arrows on one man. Don't loose your shaft until a man is within three mantlets from the end; then if one misses, the next can take him when he runs across next time. That is right, Hal," he broke off, as an arrow sped and a man with a sack on his shoulder rolled over. "Now, lads, we ought not to miss them by this light." Eleven men fell, out of the next twelve who attempted to carry their burdens down. Guy went back to Sir Eustace with the news of the manner in which the attack was being carried on, and of the effect of the archers' defence. "I have just heard the same from the other side; there is one attack on each side and two behind; Jean Bouvard has posted himself there. I am going round myself now; I do not think there will be any attack made in front. I have sent the archers here to the rear, where they will be more useful; the fellows in the outwork across there have enough to do to shelter themselves." This Guy could well understand, for although the guns could not be depressed sufficiently to fire down into the _tête du pont_, the mangonels were hurling stones into it, and the men-at-arms shooting cross-bow quarrels whenever a man showed himself. The rear of the outwork was open and afforded no shelter to those who had taken possession of it, and already the greater portion had retired to the other side of the small moat surrounding it, where they lay sheltered by the outwork itself. It was not long before the assailants at the other points, finding that the plan they had formed was defeated by the skill of the archers, poured down in a mass between the two lines of mantlets, each man carrying his burden before him, thus sheltering him to a great extent. Against this method of attack the archers could do little, and now confined themselves to shooting at the men who, having thrown down the fascines or sacks by the edge of the moat, stood for a moment and hesitated before running back to the shelter of the mantlets, and not one in three got off scot-free. Guy on going round the wall found the same state of things at each of the other three points of assault. Numbers of the enemy were falling, but great piles of materials were accumulating at the edge of the moat. After a time a number of knights and men-at-arms, fully protected by armour, came down and began to hurl the sacks and bags into the moat, their operations being covered as much as possible by a storm of missiles shot through holes in the mantlets. In a short time Sir Eustace ordered the archers to desist shooting, for they were obliged, in order to aim at those so much below them, to expose a considerable portion of their bodies, and three were killed by the enemy's missiles. "We can't prevent them from filling up the moat," he said, "and it is but throwing away life to try to do so." The archers were accordingly placed in the projecting turrets, where, without being themselves exposed, they could shoot through the loopholes at any point on the face of the walls. It was not long before the moat was bridged at all four points of attack. Ladders were then brought down. This the assailants were able to accomplish without loss, as, instead of carrying them, they were pushed backwards and forwards by men stationed behind the mantlets, and were so zigzagged down to the moat without the defenders being able to offer any opposition. Then rushes were made by parties of knights, the ladders were placed, and the fight began in earnest. In the great court-yard the leader of the English men-at-arms was placed with twelve of his men as a reserve. They were to be summoned by one, two, three, or four blasts of a horn to the point at which their services were most required. The assaults were obstinate, but the walls were as stoutly defended. Sometimes the ladders were hurled back by poles with an iron fork at the end; buckets of boiling water and tar were poured over on to the assailants as they clambered up, and lime cast over on those waiting to take their turns to ascend; while with spear, axe, and mace the men-at-arms and tenants met the assailants as they endeavoured to get a footing on the wall. Guy had placed himself with the party to which he had first gone, and, taking a pike from a fallen man, was fighting stoutly. The archers from their turrets kept up a constant flight of arrows on the crowd below. Only once was the horn sounded for the aid of the reserve. Sir Eustace had taken the command at the rear, while Jean Bouvard headed the defence on the side opposite to that at which Guy was fighting. The defenders under Sir Eustace had the hardest work to hold their own, being assaulted at two points. This was evidently the main place of attack, for here Sir Clugnet himself and several of his knights led the assault, and at one time succeeded in gaining a footing on the wall at one point, while Sir Eustace was at the other. Then the knight blew his horn, and at the same time called the archers from the turret nearest to him, while some of the other party on the wall rushed to aid him of their own accord and, pressing through the tenants, opposed themselves to the knights and men-at-arms who had obtained a footing on the wall. Their strength, and the power with which they wielded their heavy axes, so held the assailants in check that they could not gain space sufficient for others to join them, and when the reserve ran up, so fierce an attack was made upon the knights that several were beaten down and the rest forced to spring over the wall at the risk of life and limb. Sir Clugnet himself was the last to do this, and was carried away insensible. Two or three of his companions were killed by the fall, but the rest, leaping far enough out to alight beyond the solid ground at the foot of the walls, had their fall broken by the yielding mass of materials by which they had crossed the moat. A loud shout of triumph rose from the defenders, and was re-echoed by shouts from the other walls. As soon as the news of the repulse at the rear reached the other parties, and that Sir Clugnet was badly hurt, while several of the knights were killed, the assault ceased at once, and the Orleanists withdrew, followed by derisive cries from the defenders. "Thanks be to the saints that it is all over," Sir Eustace said, as he opened his vizor; "it was a close thing here, and for a time I feared that the outer wall was lost. However, I think that there is an end of it now, and by the morning we shall find that they have moved off. They must have suffered very heavily; certainly three or four hundred must have fallen, for we must admit that they fought stoutly. You have all done well, my friends, and I thank you heartily. Now, the first thing is to fetch the wounded down to the hall prepared for them. Father Gregory has all in readiness for them there. Guy, go round and find who have fallen, and see them carried reverently down to the court-yard, send me a list of their names, and place two men-at-arms at each point where the assault took place. Tom, do you similarly dispose eight of your archers so that should they send a spy up to see if we sleep, a message can be sent back in the shape of a cloth-yard shaft. Bid all the tenants and retainers leave the wall; a horn will recall them should there be need. I will myself visit them shortly, and thank them for their stout defence. I will send round a cup of spiced wine to each man on the wall as soon as it can be prepared, to that all may slake their thirst after their efforts." Sir Eustace then made his way down from the wall to his Apartments, where Dame Margaret was awaiting him. She hurried to meet him. "Wait, wife, till I have removed my helmet, and even then you must be careful how you embrace me, for methinks there is more than one blood-stain on my armour, though happily not of mine own. All has gone well, love, and methinks that we shall hear no more of them; but they fought more stoutly than I had given them credit for, seeing that they were but a mixed rabble, with a small proportion of real men-at-arms among them. I suppose Henry brought you my message to close the inner gates, as they had gained a footing on the walls." "No, I received no message since the one he brought me half an hour ago, saying that all was going well, and I thought that he was with you. Where can he be, Eustace?" she asked anxiously. "I know not indeed, Margaret, but will search at once. While I do so will you go to the hall that you have prepared for the wounded, and give what aid you can there? Do not fear for the boy; he turned and ran off when I spoke to him, and as his head reaches not to the top of the battlements no harm can have befallen him, though in truth I cannot think what can have delayed him." He called to two or three of the men below to take torches, and to accompany him at once, and sent others to the sheds to ask if he had been seen there, then went up to the top of the inner wall and crossed the bridge at the back. [Illustration: "SIR EUSTACE GAVE A LOUD CRY, FOR LYING AT THE BOTTOM OF THE STAIR WAS THE FORM OF HIS SON."] "Have any of you seen aught of my son Henry?" he asked the men there. "No, my lord," one said in reply. "I marked him by our side just before the French got a footing at the other end of the wall, but I saw him not afterwards." "He ran towards the steps at the corner there," Sir Eustace said, "with a message from me that the inner doors were to be closed. Come along, men," he said to those with torches, and going to the corner of the wall descended the steps, which were steep and narrow. He took a torch from one of the men and held it over his head. As he neared the bottom he gave a low cry and ran down the last few steps, where, lying at the bottom, was the form of his son. He was stretched at full length, and there was a terrible gash on his forehead. The knight knelt beside him and raised his head, from which the steel cap had fallen; there was a deep stain of blood on the pavement beneath. He placed his hand on the boy's heart and his ear to his lips, and the men with the torches stood silently round. It was but too evident what had happened. In his haste to carry the message Henry's foot had slipped, and he had fallen headforemost down the steep steps, his head coming in contact with the edge of one of them. Without a word Sir Eustace raised the boy gently in his arms. His face was sufficient to tell the men the news; their young lord was dead. Sir Eustace carried him through the inner gate and up to the boy's own room, and laid him down on his bed, then silently he went out again and crossed the court to the keep. Dame Margaret was seeing to the wounded being laid on the straw in the lower room, and did not notice him until he touched her. She turned sharply round, his face was sufficient to tell her the truth. She gave a low cry and stepped back a pace, and he moved forwards and drew her to him. "Love," he said tenderly, "God has taken him. He was fitter for heaven than any of us; he was too gentle for this rough world of ours. We shall mourn for him, but with him it is well." Dame Margaret laid her head on his shoulder, and burst into a passion of tears. Sir Eustace let her weep for a time, then he whispered: "You must be brave, my love. There will be other mourners here for their dear ones who have died fighting for us; they will need your comfort. A Villeroy could not die better than doing his duty. It was not by man's hand that he fell, but God took him. His foot slipped in running down the stair from the wall, and he must assuredly have died without a pang. Take the priest with you; I will see to the wounded here. Father Gregory," he went on, raising his voice, "Dame Margaret has more need of you at the present moment than have these brave fellows. A grievous misfortune has befallen us. My son is dead; he fell while doing his duty. Do you take her to his room; I give her to your charge for the present. I have my work to do, and will see that your patients are well cared for." There was a murmur of surprise and regret from the wounded and those who had brought them in. The poor lad had been a general favourite in the castle for his gentle and pleasant ways with all, though many a time the rough soldiers had said among themselves, "'Tis a pity that he was not a girl, and the Lady Agnes a boy. He is more fit for a priest than for a baron in times like these, for assuredly he will never grow into a stout man-at-arms like his father." That a soldier should have been killed in such a fight was to be expected, but that a gentle boy like this should have fallen seemed strange and unnatural, and all sorrowed for him as well as for their lord and lady, and the men forgot for a time the smart of their wounds in their regret at his untimely death. Sir Eustace went about his work quietly and earnestly, bound up the soldiers' wounds, and saw as far as might be to their comfort. Their number was not large, as it was only in the fight on the wall that aught save their heads had been exposed, and those struck by cross-bow bolts had for the most part fallen as they stood. The eight men brought in had without exception received wounds from the swords of the French knights, and though some of the gashes were broad and deep, none of them were likely to prove fatal. Just as the knight had finished, Guy entered. He had heard the news, which had spread like wildfire through the castle. The lad's eyes were red, for he had been greatly attached to Henry, whose constant companion he had been whenever the family had been at their English home. "It is a strange fate, lad," Sir Eustace said, laying his hand upon Guy's shoulder. "You who have exposed yourself freely--for I marked you in the fight--have come through scatheless, while Henry, whom I thought to keep out of danger, has fallen. And what is your news?" "There have been seventeen killed, my lord, besides Jean Bouvard, who was struck in the face by one of the last crossbow bolts shot before they drew off." "This is bad news indeed. I wondered why he came not to me as soon as we had beaten them off, but I thought not of this. He was a good and trustworthy fellow, and I shall miss him sorely. Seventeen, say you? It is too many; and yet there might have been more. Who are they?" "Four of our archers, Sir Eustace, one of our English men-at-arms, and six of your French men-at-arms. These were all killed by cross-bow bolts and arrows, Two of your tenants, Pierre Leroix and Jules Beaune, and four of their men fell on the wall when the French gained a footing there; three were, I hear, unmarried men, the other has left a wife and three children." "They shall be my care," the knight said. "The wives of Leroix and Beaune shall hold their farms free of dues until their eldest sons come of age. Does all seem quiet without?" "All is quiet, my lord; but as I left the wall but now a knight with a white flag and four torch-bearers was coming down the slope towards the outwork." "I will go there myself," Sir Eustace said; "'tis likely they do but come to ask for leave to carry off the dead and wounded, which we will gladly let them do, for it will save us much trouble to-morrow." It was as the knight had supposed, and he at once gave the permission asked for, and in a short time a great number of men with torches came down the slope and for the next two hours were occupied in carrying off their dead and wounded comrades. A close watch was maintained all night, though there was small fear of a renewal of the attack. At daybreak the rear-guard of the enemy could be seen retiring, and a party of men-at-arms, under Sir Eustace himself, on going out to reconnoitre, found that none had remained behind. A mound marked the place where their dead had been buried in one great grave. Many of the mantlets had been removed, and they doubted not that these had been used as litters for the conveyance of the wounded. They afterwards heard that some four hundred and fifty men had been killed, and that over a hundred, too sorely wounded to be able to walk, had been carried away. In the afternoon Henry was buried beneath the chapel in the castle, while the men-at-arms and others were laid in the inner court-yard. Having learned that the Orleanists, greatly disheartened at their heavy repulse, had marched away to the south, the gates of the castle were opened. A small number of the garrison were retained in the castle, and the rest were sent out to aid the tenants in felling trees and getting up temporary shelters near their former homes until these could be rebuilt as before. For the time their wives and families were to remain in the castle. All fear of another attack by the Orleanists speedily passed away. Artois was, upon the whole, strongly Burgundian, and an army marching from Flanders speedily brought the whole province over to that side. Nothing was done towards commencing the work of rebuilding the farmhouses, for it was evident that the castle might at any moment be again beleaguered. Two months passed quietly. Sir Eustace busied himself in seeing that the tenants were comfortably re-established in their temporary homes. The Burgundians had again obtained several advantages, and as Sir Clugnet was known to have marched away with his following to the assistance of the Orleanists, who had of late fared badly, there was no fear of any fresh attack being made upon the castle. One day a messenger rode in from the Governor of Calais, who was personally known to Sir Eustace. The letter that he carried was an important one. After the usual greeting it read:-- _For the love I bear you, Sir Eustace, I write to let you know that there is a change in affairs. It seems that the Duke of Burgundy has but been playing with our King Henry, and that the offer of a marriage was made only in order to obtain assistance and the countenance of the king. Being now, as it would seem, powerful enough to hold his own against his enemies without such aid, the matter has fallen through. I have received a royal order, which has also been sent to the governors of other English towns, and it has been proclaimed everywhere by sound of trumpets, that none of Henry's subjects of whatever rank should in any way interfere between the two factions in France, nor go into France to serve either of them by arms or otherwise under pain of death and confiscation of fortune. But I would tell you for your private ear, that I have news that our king is in correspondence with the Dukes of Berri, Orleans, and Bourbon, and that it is like that he will shortly declare for that party, being grievously offended at the treatment that he has received at the hands of the Duke of Burgundy after having given him loyal help and assistance which had, in no slight degree, assisted him in making good his cause against his enemies._ In a short time, indeed, the English from Calais, and from other places held by them in France, began to make sorties and to carry off much plunder from the country round, and especially took by storm the Castle of Banelinghen near Ardres, notwithstanding the truce that prevailed. The intentions of the King of England were made still more manifest by his writing a letter to the Flemish towns, saying that, having heard that the Duke of Burgundy was gathering an army of Flemings to march into Aquitaine to wage war upon and destroy his subjects, and particularly his very dear and well-beloved cousins the Dukes of Berri, Orleans, and Bourbon, and the Counts of Alençon and Armagnac, and the Lord d'Albreth, he therefore begged them to inform him whether they were willing to conform to the truce concluded between them and England without in any way assisting their lord in his wicked purpose. The Flemish towns replied that they desired in no way to infringe the truce between the two countries, but that they would serve and assist the King of France, their sovereign lord, and their Count the Duke of Burgundy, as heretofore, to the utmost of their power. In a short time, indeed, it became known that a solemn treaty had been concluded between the King of England and the Orleanist nobles, they engaging to aid him to recover Guienne and the parts of Aquitaine he had lost, while he promised to put an army in the field to assist them. The position of Sir Eustace was now very difficult. It was uncertain when the English would move, and it was likely enough that if an army set sail it would land in Guienne, and that Calais would be able to render no assistance, so that he would be exposed to the attacks of the Burgundians. Nor was his position improved when he learned that on the 15th of July the two French factions, urged by the Count of Savoy, the Grand Master of Rhodes, and many others, had agreed to terms of peace between them, and that the Orleanists had formally renounced the English alliance. At the meeting of the leaders of the party, the Duke of Aquitaine, the king's son, presided. For a time all the differences were patched up. The news, however, came too late to arrest the embarkation of the English. Eight thousand men landed at La Hogue, under the Duke of Clarence, overran a wide extent of country, being reinforced by 800 Gascons, who had, according to the agreement with the Orleanists, been raised to join them. They advanced towards Paris, declaring, however, that they would retire if the Duke of Berri and his party kept their engagement with them, and paid them the two hundred thousand crowns he had agreed to do. The Duke had not, however, the means to pay this amount, and the English therefore continued to ravage the country, while a large force from Calais, under the Earl of Warwick, captured the town of Saumer-au-Bois and the Castle of Ruissault. This, however, was scarcely an invasion, and Sir Eustace, being doubtful whether Henry meditated operations upon a large scale now that he had no longer allies in France, took no part in the matter, but remained quietly in his castle. Towards the end of March, 1413, a royal herald appeared before the gate. He was at once admitted, and was received with all honour in the great hall by Sir Eustace. "Sir Eustace de Villeroy." he said, "I come to you in the name of the King of France, your lord and suzerain. He bids me to say that he has heard with satisfaction that you refused entry to your castle to those who demanded it altogether without authority from him; but that, seeing the importance of the castle in case of trouble with England, and that you are a vassal of England for estates in that country, he deems it necessary that its safety should be assured, and therefore calls upon you to send, in proof of your loyalty to and affection for him, your wife and children to Paris, where they shall be cared for in all honour and as becomes their condition; or to receive a garrison of royal troops of such strength as to defend it from any fresh assault that may be made upon it, either on the part of those who before attacked it, or of England. He charges you on your fealty to accept one or other of these conditions, or to be deemed a false vassal, which he cannot believe you are, knowing you to be a brave and worthy knight. Here is a document with the king's signature and seal to the effect which I have delivered to you." "His Majesty's demands come upon me as a surprise," the knight said gravely, "and I pray you to abide with me till to-morrow, by which time I shall have had leisure to consider the alternative and be ready to give you answer." "Your request is a reasonable one, Sir Eustace," the herald replied, "and I will await the answer for twenty-four hours." The herald was then conducted to the guest-chamber, and Sir Eustace went out into the court-yard and for some time busied himself with the usual affairs of his estate and talked to the tenants as to their plans; then he went up on to the wall and there paced moodily backwards and forwards thinking over the summons that he had received. He knew that Margaret had been in the gallery in the hall and had heard the message the herald had delivered, and he wished to think it well over before seeing her. His position was, he felt, a perilous one. The last treaty of peace between France and England had drawn the frontier line more straitly in. After Cressy was fought, but a few miles away, Villeroy had stood within the English line as far as it now stood without it. That Henry, who although now old and averse to war, must yet ere long again renew the war that had so long languished he had little doubt; but he had no hope of succour at present, and felt that though able to withstand any sudden attack like that he had recently repulsed, he could not hope to make a successful defence against a great force provided with battering machines. The message from the king was indeed but a message from Burgundy, but if Burgundy was all-powerful just at present it had the same effect as if it were the king and not he who had sent the summons. He could see no way of temporizing save that Margaret and the children should go as hostages, and the idea of this was wholly repugnant to him. Were he to admit a French garrison the castle would be virtually lost to him; for once powerless, he could easily be set aside in favour of one of Burgundy's followers. The only alternative then seemed to be that he should altogether forsake the castle and estate so long held by his ancestors, and retire to England, until maybe some day Henry might again place him in possession of it. He regretted now that he had not told Margaret that she had best keep her chamber, for she then would have known nothing of the alternative that she should go as a hostage--an alternative, he foresaw, that she was likely to favour, as by so doing the necessity for making an absolute decision and choosing between France and England would be postponed. At length, still undecided in his mind, he descended from the wall and went up to his wife's apartments. CHAPTER V -- HOSTAGES Margaret rose to meet her husband when he entered. She had looked pale in her dress of deep mourning before, but he thought that she looked paler now. She, too, had evidently been thinking over the summons that he had received, and there was an expression of firmness and resolution in her face that seemed to say that she had arrived at a more definite conclusion than he had done. "'Tis a knotty question, wife," Sir Eustace said. "In the first place, it is clear we cannot hope to defend the castle successfully against an attack by Burgundy. The last was but of the character of a raid, the next would be a serious siege by experienced soldiers provided with all proper means and appliances. Before, it was certain that Sir Clugnet would, if he tarried here, be shortly attacked by the Burgundians, whereas now there would be no prospect of assistance. There is no hope of help from England, for there is no force in Calais that could contend with that which would probably be sent against me; therefore I take it that if attacked the castle must in the end fall, in which case probably its defenders would all be put to the sword. I myself should most likely be killed, the estates forfeited, and you and the children taken prisoners to Paris. Now it seems to me that that is not to be thought of. It remains to decide, therefore, whether we shall abandon the castle and journey to England, or whether we will admit a Burgundian garrison, which will in fact, we may be sure, be the first step towards losing the castle and estate altogether. It seems to me that the first will be the best plan. I see no chance of it at present, but in time Henry may invade France; and as we lie only some seven or eight miles from the frontier he would doubtless recapture Villeroy, and we should again become its masters." "You have not mentioned the other alternative, Eustace, namely, that I and the children should go to Paris as hostages; and this, it seems to me, is the best of the three to follow. If there were indeed a chance of an English invasion I should not say so, but I think not that there is any such prospect. It is many years since England has done aught in earnest, and during all that time her power in France has been waning. I would not that our children should lose this fair estate when it can well be preserved by some slight sacrifice on my part. Were I and the children to go to Paris it would put an end to all doubts as to your loyalty, and you would hold the castle and estates. The peace now patched up between the parties will not last, and as soon as they are engaged with each other, and have no time to spare to think of attacking you here, I will endeavour to escape with the children and rejoin you. I shall assuredly have no cause for complaint. I shall, of course, have honourable treatment, and apartments fitting to our rank assigned to me. It would be no great hardship, and even were it so it would be worth enduring in order that our son Charles should inherit his father's estate." "I could not part from you, love." "Nay, Eustace, as I have said, it cannot be for long; and you must remember that twice when the children were infants I remained in England with them while you were some months here. It would be no worse now. I would take Guy with me; the lad has sense and courage, the children are both fond of him, and I myself could, if occasion arose, take counsel with him. Then I could have two or three stout men-at-arms who might ride in my train in peaceful garb as retainers. As to a maid I can, if I need one, hire her in Paris. Surely, husband, it would be far better so than that we should lose castle and land. There could be little danger to one in Paris at any time, still less to the wife of a vassal of the crown, least of all to a hostage. I shall be but staying at the court. If you peril life and limb, Eustace, in defence of your castle, surely it is not much that I should put myself to the slight inconvenience of a stay in Paris for a while." "I like it not," the knight said moodily. "I see well enough that what you say is true, and that you should be safe at Charles's court, indeed safer than here. The citizens of Paris are indeed turbulent, whether they shout for Orleans or Burgundy, but what if Henry of England should again lead an army here?" "But why imagine what is not likely to happen? Long ere Henry comes I may have joined you again; should it be otherwise I might perhaps escape, or at the very worst of all they could but keep me in duress in my chamber. Who ever heard of a woman being ill-treated for the disobedience of her lord? All that they could do would be to make you pay ransom for my return." "I would rather go as a hostage myself." "Nay, husband, that could hardly be. Who would then take care of your castle? It is not a hard thing that the king asks, merely that I and the children shall for a time live at his court as a proof that you, his vassal, hold your castle for him. Even if the worst comes to the worst we can but lose castle and land, as we must lose it now if I do not go. Nay, my dear lord, do not wrinkle your brow, we cannot strive against the might of France; and at present we must bow our heads and wait until the storm has passed, and hope for better times. There may be an English war; ere long Henry may again extend his frontiers, and you might again become a vassal of England for these possessions of yours even as your fathers were." "I see that reason is on your side, Margaret, and yet I cannot bring myself to like the plan." "Nor do I like it, husband; yet I feel that it were a thousand times better that I should be separated from you for a time than that we should risk another siege. The last has cost us dear enough, another might take you from me." "Well, well, dear, I suppose you must have your way; indeed I do not see that harm can possibly come to you, and it will at any rate ensure peace for a time and enable us to repair our tenants' losses. I shall send over a message at once to Sir Aylmer, and beg him to choose and send me another fifty archers--with that reinforcement I could make head against any attack save in the greatest force--for there is no saying how things may go. The five-and-twenty did wonders, and with thrice that force I should feel confident that Villeroy could withstand any attack save by an army with an abundance of great machines. "Well, Margaret, since you have decided for me that you are to go--and indeed I myself plainly see that that alternative is really the best--let us talk over who you had best take with you. I quite approve of your choice of Guy; he is a good lad, and will make a brave knight some day. I shall now make him one of my esquires, and as such he will always be in attendance on you; and assuredly Agnes and Charlie will, as well as yourself, benefit by his presence. He will be able to take them out and look after them, and as he talks French as well as English the lad will be useful to you in many ways. Have you any preference as to the four men-at-arms?" "Could you spare Tom, the leader of the archers? I should like to have another Englishman with me, and he is very good-tempered and obliging. He is shrewd too, and with his strength and courage I should feel that I could wholly rely upon him in any strait, though indeed I see not that there is any probability of such occurring." "Certainly you can have him, Margaret, and I shall be glad to know that he is with you. Dickon, who is next under him, can act as captain of the archers while he is away. I have noticed that Tom is picking up the language fast. He is always ready to do little kindnesses to the women and children, and I have often heard him talking with them. He will soon get to speak the language fairly. As to the others have you any choice?" "No, I think you had better choose them for me, Eustace." "They had better be French," he said; "it would not do for you to surround yourself entirely by English, although of course it is natural enough that you should have an English squire and servant. I think that you could not do better than take Jules Varey and Albert Bongarde. They are both stout men-at-arms, prudent fellows, and not given to the wine-cup. As a fourth I would say Jean Picard's son; he is a stout fellow too, and I know that, but for his father's hopes that he will one day succeed him as butler, he would have taken service regularly as a man-at-arms. He fought stoutly when the French gained the wall, and I marked him exchanging blows with Sir Clugnet himself, and bearing himself as well as any man there. You could choose no better." "So be it," she said. "I think, Eustace, that with four such defenders, to say nothing of young Guy, you need not feel uneasy about us." "I don't think that I shall feel uneasy, Margaret; but I know that I can ill spare you. You have ever been at my side since we were married, save when, after the birth of Agnes and Charles, you were forced to stay in England when I came over here. I felt it a dreary time then, and shall feel it so now; but I doubt not that all will go well with you, though it will be a very different life to that to which you have been accustomed." "I shall do well enough," Margaret said cheerfully, "and maybe I shall get so fond of court that you will have to take me to that of Henry when we return to England." "Now you had best begin to make your preparations. I will speak to Guy and the others myself." Sir Eustace went into the court-yard, where Guy was superintending the issue of provisions for the women. "This can go on without you," he said; "Gervaise will see to it. I would speak to you. You were at the meeting this morning, Guy, and you heard what the herald of France said. The position is a hard one. I cannot hold the castle against the strength of France, while if we take a Burgundian garrison I should cease to be its master, and it would doubtless soon pass into other hands. Again, if I go to England, it would equally be lost to us. Therefore my wife has resolved, in order to gain time until these disorders are over, to go to Paris with the children as a hostage for me. In no case, as it seems to me, are Dame Margaret and the children likely to be in danger; nevertheless, I am greatly loth for them to go. However, seeing no other way out of the business, I have consented, and we have arranged that you shall accompany her. You will go as my esquire, and I shall install you as such this afternoon. You will take Long Tom, two of the men-at-arms, and Robert Picard, all good men and true; but at the same time the burden and responsibility must rest upon your shoulders. You are young yet for so grave a charge, and yet I feel that I can confide it to you. You will have to be the stay and support of your mistress, you will have to be the companion and friend of my children, and I shall charge the four men-at-arms to take orders from you as from me. Tom will be a valuable fellow. In the first place, he is, I know, much attached to you, besides being shrewd, and a very giant in strength. The other three are all honest varlets, and you can rely upon them in any pinch." "I will do my best, my lord," Guy said quietly; "and I am grateful to you indeed for the confidence that you show in me, and I shall, I hope, prove worthy of it, and of my father." The news soon spread through the castle that Dame Margaret was going to Paris. The maids wept at the thought, as did many of the tenants' wives, for since the siege began, her kindness and the pains that she had taken to make them comfortable had endeared her greatly to them. On her previous visits they had seen comparatively little of her; she had been to them simply their lord's English wife, now they knew her as a friend. Nevertheless, their regret at her leaving was softened by the thought that her going to be near the king insured peace for them, and that they would now be able to venture out to the houses that were fast rising on the ruins of their former homes, and to take up their life again as they had left it. Early next morning the little cortege mustered in the court-yard in readiness for a start. Sir Eustace and his wife had said good-bye to each other in their chamber, and she looked calm and tranquil as she mounted her horse; for, having been accustomed from a child to ride with her father hunting and hawking, she could sit a horse well, and scorned to ride, as did so many ladies, on a pillion. Guy rode by her side, with Agnes on a pillion behind him. Long Tom, with Charlie perched in front of him, followed them, and the three men-at-arms brought up the rear. Charlie was in high spirits; he regarded the trip as a sort of holiday, and had been talking, ever since he got up, of the wonders that he should see in Paris. Agnes better understood the situation, and nothing but the feeling that she ought to emulate the calmness of her mother restrained her from bursting into tears when her father lifted her on to her seat. The herald led the way, followed by his two pursuivants. Dame Margaret checked her horse in the middle of the court-yard, and said in a loud clear voice to the tenants and men-at-arms round: "Adieu, good friends; I trust that I shall not be long away from you. I go to stay for a time at the court in Paris, and I leave you with the surety that you will have peace and rest until I return, and be able to repair the damages you suffered from the attack made upon us by men who regard not the law." She turned and waved her hand to Sir Eustace, who was standing immovable on the steps, and then, touching the horse with her heel, they moved on after the herald. "Do not fear to speak, Tom," Dame Margaret said, after they had left the castle behind them; "the journey is a long one, and it will go all the quicker for honest talk. What think you of this expedition to Paris?" "I would as lief go there as anywhere else, my lady. Indeed, men say that it is a fine city, and as I have never seen a bigger town than Southampton, I doubt not that I shall find plenty to interest me at times when you may not require our services." "I see that you have brought your bow with you." "Ay, my lady, I could not bring myself to part with it. Sir Eustace told me that I could not carry it, as its length would be a matter of remark, and point me out at once as being an Englishman, seeing that the French archers carry no bows of such length; so I have, even as you see, wrapped it round with straw, and fastened it to the saddle beneath my leg. I have also put fourscore arrows among the valises on the pack-horses." "There is no chance of your needing them, Tom." "I trust that it is so," the archer replied; "but, indeed, there is never any saying, and an archer without his bow is but a poor creature,--though, indeed, I trust that I can swing an axe as well as another." "And much better than most, Tom; still, I hope that neither axe nor bow will be required." "To that I say amen also; for, although a fray may sometimes be to my taste, I have no desire to be mixed up in a mêlée without some of my own stout comrades with me." "Shall we get to Paris to-night, Lady Mother?" Charlie asked. "No, indeed; it will be five days, if not six, for I see by the way that we are travelling we are bearing east, and shall sleep at Lille or may be at Tournay; then, doubtless, we shall bear south, and may stop the next night at Cambrai, and make to Noyon on the following day, and thence to Compiègne or to Senlis, and the next day will take us to Paris. It all depends how far and how fast we ride each day. But these matters will be arranged by the herald. Were we to go by the shortest route we should get there more quickly; but Amiens is held by the party to whom the men who attacked our castle belong, and by the way we are travelling we shall keep for some time in Artois, and so escape all risk of trouble on the road." "I don't care for trouble," Charlie said stoutly; "we have got Long Tom and Robert Picard and the other two, and Guy can fight also." "That would be all very well, my son," his mother said smiling, "if we were only attacked by half a dozen vagrants, but brave as they all are they could do naught if a large body surprised us; but be assured that there is no fear of that--by the way we are travelling we shall meet with none but friends." "I should like to be attacked by the vagrants, mother. The last time you made us stay with you when there was fighting going on, except just at the first, but here we should see it all." "Well, I don't want to see it, Charlie, and I am glad that we are not likely to do so; and you must remember that you and I and Agnes would sorely hamper our friends." Nevertheless whenever a party of peasants was met upon the road Charlie looked out hopefully and heaved a sigh of disappointment when, after doffing their caps in respect, they passed on quietly. Several times they encountered bodies of knights and men-at-arms, but the presence of the royal herald saved them from all question. At each halting-place Dame Margaret, her children and maid, were lodged in the house of one of the principal citizens, while Guy and the men-at-arms lay at an inn. The troubled state of the times was only manifest by the number of men-at-arms in the streets, and the strict watch kept at the gates of the towns. Many of these were kept shut, and were only opened once an hour to let people pass in and out. This, however, did not affect the travellers, for the gates were opened the moment the emblazonings on the surcoat of the herald could be made out. "We have assuredly nothing to complain of so far, Guy," Dame Margaret said, as they set out on their last day's journey; "had we been the king's special guests we could not have been more honourably treated, and I have no doubt that although we shall be much less important personages at Paris than as travellers under the royal protection, we shall yet be made comfortable enough, and shall have naught to grieve over save the separation from our lord." "I cannot doubt that it will be so, lady," Guy replied; "and that at any rate there will be no trouble, unless the Armagnacs lay siege to Paris or there are riots in the city. I heard last night at the inn from some travellers who had just left it, that although the majority of the people there are in favour of Burgundy, yet that much discontent exists on account of the harsh measures of the officers he has appointed, and especially of the conduct of the guild of butchers, who, as it seems, are high in favour with the duke, and rule the city as if it belonged to them." "It matters little to us, Guy, though it seems strange that the nobles of France and the respectable citizens of Paris should allow themselves to be ruled over by such a scum as that; but it was the same in Flanders, where Von Artevelde, our ally, a great man and the chief among them, was murdered by the butchers who at the time held sway in Ghent, and who were conspicuous for many years in all the tumults in the great towns there." "I hear, madam, that the king is ill, and can see no one." "Yes, I have heard the same from the herald. It will be John of Burgundy who will, for the time, be our master." "I could desire a better," Guy said bluntly; "but we shall at any rate know that his fair words are not to be trusted. For my part, however, I wonder that after the (agreement with) the Duke of Orleans, with whom he had sworn a solemn peace, any man should hold converse with him." "Unfortunately, Guy, men's interests count for more than their feelings, and a great noble, who has it in his power to grant favours and dispense honours, will find adherents though he has waded through blood. Burgundy, too, as I hear, has winning manners and a soft tongue, and can, when it pleases him, play the part of a frank and honest man. At least it must be owned that the title of 'Fearless' does not misbecome him, for, had it been otherwise, he would have denied all part in the murder of Orleans, instead of openly avowing that it was done by his orders." They had started at an earlier hour than usual that morning, as the herald had pointed out to Dame Margaret, that it were best to arrive in Paris as early as possible, in order that the question of their lodging might be settled at once. Accordingly, they had been up at daybreak, and arrived in Paris at noon. "How long will it be, I wonder," Dame Margaret said, as they rode through the gates, "before we shall pass through here again?" "Not very long I hope, my lady," Guy said; "but be sure that if at any time you wish to leave we shall be able to procure disguises for you all, and to make our way out without difficulty." "Nay, Guy, you forget that it is only so long as we are here that Villeroy is safe from attack. Whatever happens, nothing, save the news that an English army has landed at Calais, and is about to invade France, would leave me free to attempt an escape. If not released before that, I must then, at all hazards, try to escape, for Sir Eustace, knowing that I am here, would be placed in a sore strait indeed; both by his own inclinations and as a vassal of England, for he would want to join the English as soon as they advanced, and yet would be hindered by the knowledge that I was a hostage here. It would be for me to relieve him of that fear; and the same feeling that induced me to come hither would then take me back to Villeroy." "Then, madam, I fear that our stay here will be a long one, for Henry has never pushed on the war with France vigorously, and though plenty of cause has been given by the capture of his castles in Guienne, he has never drawn sword either to regain them or to avenge the insults put upon the English flag." "King Henry is old, Guy; and they say that his son is as full of spirit and as fiery as his father is peaceful and indisposed for war. When the king dies, my lord thinks that it will be but a short time before the English banner will be unfurled in France; and this is one of the reasons why he consented to my becoming an hostage, thinking that no long time is likely to elapse before he will have English backing, and will be able to disregard the threats of France." "How narrow and sombre are these streets!" Guy said, after a pause, "one seems to draw one's very breath with difficulty." "They are well-nigh as narrow in London," his mistress replied; "but they are gay enough below. See how crowded they are, and how brilliant are some of the costumes!" "Some of them indeed, madam, but more are poor and miserable; and as to the faces, they are so scowling and sombre, truly were we not on horseback I should keep my hand tight upon my pouch, though in truth there is nothing in it worth stealing." "Ay, ay, Master Guy," Long Tom broke in, "methinks that there are a good many heads among these scowling knaves that I would gladly have a chance of cracking had I my quarter-staff in my hand and half a dozen stout fellows here with me. See how insolently they stare!" "Hush, Tom!" Dame Margaret said, turning round, "if you talk of cracking skulls I shall regret that I brought you with me." "I am not thinking of doing it, my lady," the archer said apologetically. "I did but say that I should like to do it, and between liking and doing there is often a long distance." "Sometimes, Tom, but one often leads to the other. You must remember that above all things it behoves us to act prudently here, and to avoid drawing the attention of our foes. We English are not loved in Paris, and the less you open your mouth here the better; for when Burgundians and Armagnacs are ready to cut each other's throats over a name, fellow-countrymen though they be, neither would feel any compunction about killing an Englishman." After riding for half an hour they entered the court-yard of a large building, where men-at-arms and varlets wearing the cognizance of Burgundy were moving about, a group of nobles were standing on the steps, while some grooms were walking their horses round the court-yard. The herald made his way to the door, and here all alighted. "Whom have we here, I wonder?" one of the young nobles said to another as they came up. "A royal herald and his pursuivants; a young dame and a very fair one; her daughter, I suppose, also fair; the lady's esquire; and a small boy." "Hostages, I should say," the other replied, "for the good conduct of the lady's lord, whoever he may be. I know her not, and think that she cannot have been at court for the last ten years, for I could hardly have forgotten her face." Dame Margaret took the hands of her two children and followed the herald up the steps. She had made a motion of her head to Guy to attend her, and he accordingly followed behind. "A haughty lady as well as a fair one," the young knight laughed. "She did not so much as glance at us, but held her head as high as if she were going in to rate Burgundy himself. I think that she must be English by her looks, though what an English woman can be doing here in Paris is beyond my understanding, unless it be that she is the wife of a knight of Guienne; in that case she would more likely be with Orleans than here." "Yes, but you see the herald has brought her. It may be her lord's castle has been captured, and she has come under the safe-conduct of a herald to lay a complaint; but I think with you that she is English. The girl was fair too, though not so fair as her mother, and that curly-headed young esquire is of English stock too." "He is a stout-looking fellow, De Maupas, and will make a powerful man; he looks as if he could strike a shrewd blow even now. Let us question their knaves, one of whom, by the way, is a veritable giant in point of height." He beckoned to the four men, and Robert Picard came forward. "Who is your lady, young man?" "Dame Margaret de Villeroy, may it please you, sir. She is the wife of Sir Eustace de Villeroy." "Then we were right, De Maupas, for De Villeroy is, I know, a vassal of England for his wife's estates, and his people have always counted themselves English, because for over a hundred years their castle stood inside the English line." "He is a stout knight. We heard a month ago how bravely he held his castle against Sir Clugnet de Brabant with 8000 Orleanists, and beat him off with a loss of five knights and 400 men. Sir Clugnet himself was sorely wounded. We all ought to feel mightily obliged to him for the check, which sent them back post-haste out of Artois, where they had already done damage enough, and might have done more had they not been so roughly handled. I wonder what the lady is here for?" "It may be that he would have fought the Burgundians as stoutly as he fought the Armagnacs," the other said, "and that the duke does not care about having so strong a castle held by so stout a knight within a few miles of the English line." The other shrugged his shoulders. "The English are sleeping dogs," he said; "there is no Edward and no Black Prince to lead them now." "No, but you must remember that sleeping dogs wake up sometimes, and even try to bite when they do so; moreover we know of old that these particular dogs can bite hard." "The sooner they wake up the better, I say, De Maupas. We have a long grudge to wipe off against them, and our men are not likely to repeat the mistakes that cost us so dearly before. Besides, the English have had no real fighting for years, and it seems to me that they have altogether given up any hope of extending their possessions in France." "One can never tell, De Revelle. For my part I own that I care not that they should again spread their banner on this side of the sea. There can be no doubt that they are stout fighting-men, and seeing how France is divided they might do sore damage did they throw their weight into one side of the scale." "Methinks that there is no fear of that. The dukes both know well enough that their own followers would not fight side by side with the English; and though they might propose an alliance with the Islanders, it would only be for the purpose of bringing the war to a close by uniting both parties against our old enemy." In the meantime Dame Margaret had followed her conductor to the great chamber, where John of Burgundy held audience in almost royal state. Several nobles were gathered round him, but at the entrance of the herald these fell back, leaving him standing by himself. An eminently politic man, the duke saw at once by the upright figure and the fearless air with which Dame Margaret entered the hall, that this was a case where courtesy and deference were far more likely to bring about the desired end of winning her husband over to his interests, than any menaces or rough speaking; he therefore advanced two or three steps to meet her. "My lord duke," the herald said, "this lady, Dame Margaret of Villeroy, has journeyed hither with me in accordance with the wish expressed by His Majesty the king." "As the king's representative in Paris, lady," the duke said to Margaret, "I thank you for your promptness in thus conceding to his wish." "His Majesty's wish was naturally a command to me, Sir Duke," Margaret said with quiet dignity. "We, my husband and I, understood that some enemy had been influencing His Majesty's mind against my lord, and in order to assure him of my lord's loyalty as a faithful vassal for the land he holds, I have willingly journeyed here with my children, although in much grief for the loss of my eldest son, who died in the attack lately made upon our castle by a large body of men, of whom we knew naught, save that they did not come in the name of our lord the king." "I have heard of the attack, lady, and of the gallant and successful defence made by Sir Eustace, and the king was greatly pleased to hear of the heavy check thus inflicted upon the men who had raised the banner of revolt, and were harassing His Majesty's faithful subjects." "That being so, my lord duke," Margaret said, "'tis strange, after my lord had shown how ready and well prepared he was to protect his castle against ill-doers, that he should have been asked to admit a garrison of strangers to aid him to hold it. Sir Eustace has no desire to meddle with the troubles of the times; he holds his castle as a fief directly from the crown, as his ancestors have held it for two hundred years; he wishes only to dwell in peace and in loyal service to the king." [Illustration: THE LADY MARGARET MAKES HER OBEISANCE TO THE DUKE OF BURGUNDY.] "Such we have always understood, madam, and gladly would the king have seen Sir Eustace himself at his court. The king will, I trust, shortly be recovered from his malady; until he is so I have--for I was made acquainted with your coming by messenger sent forward by Monjoie--arranged for you to be lodged in all honour at the house of Master Leroux, one of the most worshipful of the citizens of Paris, and provost of the guild of silversmiths. My chamberlain will at once conduct you thither." "I thank you, my lord duke," Margaret said with a stately reverence, "and trust that when I am received by my lord the king I shall be able to prove to him that Sir Eustace is his faithful vassal, and can be trusted to hold his castle for him against all comers." "I doubt it not, lady," the duke said courteously. "Sir Victor Pierrepoint, I pray you to see this lady to the entrance. Sir Hugo will already be waiting her there." CHAPTER VI -- IN PARIS "A bold dame and a fair one," John of Burgundy said to the gentlemen round him when Margaret left the chamber. "Methinks that she would be able to hold Villeroy even should Sir Eustace be away." "That would she," one of the knights said with a laugh. "I doubt not that she would buckle on armour if need were. But we must make some allowance for her heat; it is no pleasant thing to be taken away from her castle and brought hither as a hostage, to be held for how long a time she knows not." "It was the safest way of securing the castle," the duke said. "Can one doubt that, with her by his side, her husband would open his gates to the English, should they appear before it? He himself is a vassal both of England and France, and should the balance be placed before him, there can be little doubt that her weight would incline him to England. How well these English women keep their youth! One might believe her to be but a few years past twenty, and yet she is the mother of that girl, who is well-nigh as tall as herself." "And who bids to be as fair, my lord duke." "And as English, De Porcelet. She would be a difficult eaglet to tame, if I mistake not; and had she been the spokeswoman, methinks she would have answered as haughtily as did her mother. But it might be no bad plan to mate her to a Frenchman. It is true that there is the boy, but the fief might well be bestowed upon her if so mated, on the ground that the boy would likely take after his father and mother and hold Villeroy for England rather than for France. However, she is young yet; in a couple of years, De Porcelet, it will be time for you to urge your suit, if so inclined." There was a general smile from the circle standing round, but the young knight said gravely, "When the time comes, my lord duke, I may remind you of what you have said. 'Tis a fair young face, honest and good, though at present she must naturally feel with her mother at being thus haled away from her home." Sir Victor escorted Margaret to the court-yard. As they appeared at the entrance a knight came up and saluted her. "I am intrusted by the duke with the honour of escorting you to your lodgings," he said; "I am Hugo de Chamfort, the duke's chamberlain." After assisting her into the saddle he mounted a horse which an attendant brought up and placed himself by her side. Two men-at-arms with their surtouts embroidered with the cognizance of Burgundy led the way, and the rest of the party followed in the same order in which they had come. The distance was short, and beyond a few questions by the knight as to the journey and how she had been cared for on the way, and Margaret's replies, little was said until they reached the house of the provost of the silversmiths. As they rode up to the door Maître Leroux himself came out from the house. "Welcome, lady," he said, "to my abode. My wife will do all that she can to make you comfortable." "I am sorry indeed, good sir," Margaret said, "to be thus forced upon your hospitality, and regret the trouble that my stay will impose upon you." "Say not so, lady," he said, "we deem it an honour that his grace the Duke of Burgundy should have selected us for the honour of entertaining you. The house is large, and we have no family. Chambers are already prepared for yourself, your daughter, and son, while there are others at your disposal for your following." "I would not trespass too much upon you," she said. "My daughter can sleep with me, and I am sure that my esquire here, Master Guy Aylmer, will gladly share a room with my boy. I can obtain lodgings for my four followers without." "You will grieve me much if you propose it, lady. There is a large room upstairs unoccupied, and I will place pallets for them there; and as for their meals they can have them apart." By this time they had mounted a fine flight of stairs, at the top of which Dame Leroux was standing to receive her guests. She was a kindly-looking woman between thirty and forty years of age. "Welcome, Lady Margaret," she said with a cordiality that made Margaret feel at once that her visit was not regarded as an infliction. "We are quiet people, but will do our best to render your stay here a pleasant one." "Thanks indeed, mistress!" Margaret replied. "I feared much that my presence would be felt as a burden, and had hardly hoped for so kind a welcome. This is my daughter Agnes, and my son Charles." Then she turned to Sir Hugo: "I pray you to give my thanks to his grace the Duke of Burgundy, and to thank him for having so well bestowed me. I thank you also for your courtesy for having conducted me here." "I will convey your message to the duke," he said, "who will, I am sure, be pleased to hear of your contentment." Maître Leroux accompanied the knight downstairs again, and when he had mounted and ridden off he called two servitors, and bade one carry the luggage upstairs, and the other conduct the men to the stables he had taken for the horses. "After you have seen to their comfort," he said to Robert Picard, "you will return hither; you will find a meal prepared for you, and will be bestowed together in a chamber upstairs." In the meantime his wife had ushered Dame Margaret into a very handsomely furnished apartment. "This is at your entire service, Lady Margaret," she said. "The bedroom behind it is for yourself, the one next to it for your daughter, unless you would prefer that she should sleep with you." "I thank you. I was telling your husband that I should prefer that; and my son and esquire can therefore occupy the second room. But I fear greatly that I am disturbing yourself and your husband." "No, indeed; our sitting-room and bedroom are on the other side of the landing. These are our regular guest-chambers, and your being here will make no change whatever in our arrangements. I only regret that the apartments are not larger." "Do not apologize, I beg of you, madam. I can assure you that the room is far handsomer than that to which I have been accustomed. You citizens of Paris are far in advance of us in your ideas of comfort and luxury, and the apartments both at Villeroy and in my English home cannot compare with these, except in point of size. I never dreamt that my prison would be so comfortable." "Say not prison, I pray you, lady. I heard, indeed, that your visit to the court was not altogether one of your own choice; but, believe me, here at least you will be but a guest, and an honoured and welcome one. I will leave you now. If there is aught that you desire, I pray you to ring that bell on the table; refreshments will be quickly served. Had I known the precise hour at which you would come we should have been in readiness for you, but I thought not that you would arrive till evening." "I hope that you will give me much of your company, mistress," Margaret said warmly. "We know no one in this great city, and shall be glad indeed if, when you can spare time, you will sit with us." "Well, children, what do you think of this?" she asked when their hostess had left the room. "It is lovely, mother," Agnes said. "Look at the inlaid cabinets, and the couches and tables, and this great warm rug that covers all the floor, how snug and comfortable it all is. Why, mother, I never saw anything like this." "You might have seen something like it had you ever been in the house of one of our rich London traders, Agnes; at least so I have heard, though in truth I have never myself been in so luxuriously furnished a room. I only hope that we may stay here for some time. The best of it is that these good people evidently do not regard us as a burden. No doubt they are pleased to oblige the Duke of Burgundy, but, beyond that, their welcome seemed really sincere. Now let us see our bedroom. I suppose that is yours, Charlie, through the door in the corner." The valises had already been brought to the rooms by another entrance, and Margaret and her daughter were charmed with their bedroom. A large ewer and basin of silver stood on a table which was covered with a white cloth, snowy towels hung beside it; the hangings of the bed were of damask silk, and the floor was almost covered by an Eastern carpet. An exquisitely carved wardrobe stood in one corner. "It is all lovely!" Agnes said, clapping her hands. "You ought to have your room at home fitted up like this, mother." "It would take a large slice out of a year's revenue, Agnes," her mother said with a smile, "to furnish a room in this fashion. That wardrobe alone is worth a knight's ransom, and the ewer and basin are fit for a king. I would that your father could see us here; it would ease his anxiety about us. I must ask how I can best despatch a messenger to him." When they returned to the other apartment they found the table already laid, and in a short time a dainty repast was served. To this Guy sat down with them, for except when there were guests, when his place was behind his lord's chair, he had always been treated as one of the family, and as the son of Sir Aylmer rather than as a page. "Well, Master Guy, what think you of affairs?" "They seem well to the eye, mistress, but I would not trust that Duke of Burgundy for an hour. With that long face of his and the hooked nose and his crafty look he resembles little a noble of France. He has an evil face, and one which accords well with the foul murder of the king's brother. However, as I see not that he has aught to gain by holding you here,--save that he thinks it will ensure our lord's keeping his castle for him,--there is no reason why he should not continue to treat you honourably and courteously. We have yet to learn whether Master Leroux is one of his party, or whether he is in favour of Armagnac." "I should think that he cannot be for Armagnac," she said, "or Duke John would hardly have quartered us upon him. No doubt it was done under the semblance of goodwill, but most men would have considered it a heavy tax, even though, as I expect, we shall not remain here long. Doubtless, however, the trader considers that his complaisance in the matter would be taken by the duke as a sign of his desire to show that at least he is not hostile to him." When they rose from the table Guy, at his mistress's suggestion, went below and found the four men sitting in the great kitchen, where they had just finished an ample meal. "You have seen to the horses, Robert?" "Yes, Master Guy, they are comfortably bestowed, with an abundance of provender." "I am going out to see how matters stand in the town. Our lady says that at all times two of you must remain here, as it may be necessary to send messages, or should she wish to go out, to escort her, but the other two can be out and about as they please, after first inquiring of me whether there is aught for them to do. You can arrange among yourselves which shall stay in, taking turns off duty. Tom, you had better not go out till after dark. There is something in the cut of your garments which tells that you are not French. Robert will go out with me now, and find a clothier, and bid him send garments here for you to choose from, or if he has none to fit, which may likely enough be, send him to measure you. It might lead to broils and troubles were any of the rabble to notice that you were a stranger." "That is right enough, Master Guy; and in sooth I have no desire to go out at present, for after riding for the last six days I am well content to sit quiet and take my ease here." Guy then started with Robert Picard. Except in the streets where the principal merchants dwelt, the town struck him as gloomy and sombre. The palaces of the nobles were veritable fortresses, the streets were ill-paved and evil-smelling, and the people in the poorer quarters had a sinister aspect. "I should not care to wander about in this district after nightfall, Robert," Guy said to the man-at-arms, who kept close to his elbow. "Nor I," the man growled. "It is as much as I can do to keep my hands off my dagger now, for methinks that nine out of ten of the fellows loitering about would cut our throats willingly, if they thought that we had but a crown in our pockets." Presently they found themselves on the quays, and, hailing a boat, rowed up the river a little beyond the walls. Hearing the sound of music they landed, and on seeing a number of people gather round some booths they discharged the boat and went on. They found that it was a sort of fair. Here were sword-players and mountebanks, pedlars who vended their wares at a lower price than those at which they were sold within the limits of the city, booths at which wine and refreshments could be obtained. Here many soldiers were sitting drinking, watching the passers-by, and exchanging ribald jests with each other, and sometimes addressing observations to the wives and daughters of the citizens, amid fits of laughter at the looks of indignation on the part of their husbands or fathers. "It is evidently a holiday of some sort," Guy remarked, as they found that the fair extended for a considerable distance, and that the crowd was everywhere large. They stopped for a minute or two in front of a booth of more pretensions than the generality. In front of it a man was beating a drum, and a negro walking up and down attired in showy garments. The drum ceased and the latter shouted: "Those of you who wish to see my master, the famous Elminestres, the most learned doctor in Europe, who can read the stars, cast your horoscope, foretell your future, and cure your ailments, should not lose this opportunity." The curtains opened behind, and a man dressed in dark garments with a long black cloak spotted with silver stars came forward. "You have heard, good people, what my slave has said. He speaks with knowledge. I saved his life in the deserts of Africa when he was all but dead with fever, by administering to him one of my wonderful potions; he at once recovered and devoted himself to my service. I have infallible remedies for every disease, therefore do you who are sick come to me and be cured; while for you who do not suffer I can do as much or more, by telling you of your future, what evils to avoid and what chances to grasp." He stood for a minute silent, his eyes wandering keenly over the spectators. "I see," he said, "one among you who loves a fair maiden standing beside him. At present her parents are unfavourable to his suit, but if he will take my advice he will be able to overcome their objections and to win the damsel. Another I see who has come to Paris with the intention of enlisting in the service of our good duke, and who, I foresee, will attain rank and honour and become a distinguished soldier if he does but act prudently at the critical moment, while if he takes a wrong turn misfortune and death will befall him. I see a youth of gentle blood who will become a brave knight, and will better his condition by marriage. He has many dangers to go through before that, and has at present a serious charge for one so young; but as he has circumspection as well as courage he may pass through them unharmed. To him too I could give advice that may be valuable, more especially as he is a stranger to the land, as are those of whom he is in charge." "It is wonderful, Master Guy!" Robert Picard whispered in Guy's ear in a tone of astonished awe. "The knave doubtless saw us ride in this morning, and recognized me again. There is naught of magic in it, but the fellow must be shrewd, or he would not have so quickly drawn his conclusions. I will go in and speak to him presently, for though I believe not his prophecies one jot, a fellow of this sort may be useful. Let us be moving on at present." They passed two monks, who were scowling angrily at the man, who was just exciting the laughter of the crowd by asserting that there was a holy man present who usually preferred a flask of good wine to saying his vespers. "Rogues like this should be whipped and branded, Brother Anselmo." "Ay, ay," the other agreed: "and yet," he added slyly, "it may be that he has not altogether missed his mark this time. We are not the only two monks here," he went on as the other turned upon him angrily, "and it may well be that among them is one who answers to the fellow's lewd description." On the outskirts of the fair were many people of higher degree. Knights and ladies strolled on the turf exchanging greetings, looking for a minute or two at the gambols of a troupe of performing dogs, or at a bout of cudgel play--where two stout fellows belaboured each other heartily, and showed sufficient skill to earn from the crowd a shower of small pieces of money, when at last they ceased from pure exhaustion. Half an hour later Guy returned to the booth of the doctor, and went in by a side entrance, to which those who wished to consult the learned man had been directed by the negro. The latter was at the entrance, and, observing that Guy's condition was above that of the majority of his master's clients, at once took him into an inner apartment divided from the rest of the tent by a hanging. Over the top of this was stretched a black cloth spotted with silver stars, and similar hangings surrounded it; thus all light was cut off, and the room was dimly illuminated by two lamps. A table with a black cloth stood at the back. On this stood a number of phials and small boxes, together with several retorts and alembics. The doctor was seated on a tripod stool. He rose and was about to address Guy in his usual style, when the latter said: "So you saw us ride in this morning, Master Doctor, and guessed shrewdly as to our condition and nationality. As to the latter, indeed, it needed no sorcery, for it must have been plain to the dullest that my mistress and her daughter were not of French blood, and though I am much less fair, it was a pretty safe guess to suppose that I also was of their country. I need not tell you that I have not come here either for charms or nostrums, but it seemed to me that being, as you said, strangers here, we might benefit by the advice of one who like yourself notes things quickly, and can form his own conclusions." The doctor removed his tall conical cap, and placed it on the table. "You guess rightly," he said with a smile. "I was in the crowd and marked you enter, and a soldier standing next to me observed to a comrade that he had heard that Burgundy had sent the herald to demand the surrender of a castle held by one Sir Eustace, a knight who was known to have friendly leanings towards the English, being a vassal of their king for estates that had come to him with an English wife, and that doubtless this was the lady. When my eye fell on you in the crowd I said: Here is a youth of shrewdness and parts, he is alone and is a foreigner, and maybe I can be of service to him; therefore I shot my shaft, and, as you see, with success. I said to myself: This youth, being a stranger, will know of no one to whom he can turn for information, and I can furnish him with almost any that he may require. I come in contact with the highest and the lowest, for the Parisians are credulous, and after dark there are some of rank and station who come to my doors for filtres and nostrums, or to have their horoscope cast and their futures predicted. You will ask why one who has such clients should condescend to stand at a booth and talk to this rabble; but it has its purpose. Were I known only as one whom men and women visit in secret, I should soon become suspected of black arts, the priests would raise an outcry against me, and one of these days I might be burned. Here, however, I ostensibly earn my living as a mountebank vendor of drugs and nostrums, and therefore no one troubles his head about me." "There is one thing that you have not told me," Guy said when he ceased speaking. "Having, as you say, good clients besides your gains here, why should you trouble to interest yourself in our affairs?" "Shrewdly put, young sir. I will be frank with you. I too am a stranger, and sooner or later I may fall into discredit, and the power of the church be too much for me. When I saw your mistress to-day I said to myself: Here is an English lady of rank, with a castle and estate in England; should I have to fly--and I have one very dear to me, for whose sake I value my life--it might be well for me that I should have one friend in England who would act as protectress to her should aught befall me. Your mistress is a stranger here, and in the hands of enemies. I may be of use to her. I know this population of Paris, and can perhaps give her better information of what is going on both at the court and in the gutter than any other man, and may be able to render her assistance when she most needs it; and would ask but in payment that, should I come to England, she will extend her protection to my daughter until I can find a home and place her there. You see I am playing an open game with you." "I will reply as frankly," Guy said. "When I came in here it was, as I told the man-at-arms my companion, with the thought that one who had noticed us so shrewdly, and had recognized me so quickly in the crowd, was no ordinary mountebank, but a keen, shrewd man who had some motive for thus addressing me, and I see that my view was a right one. As to your proposal I can say naught before I have laid it before my mistress, but for myself I may say at once that it recommends itself to me as excellent. We are, as you say, strangers here, and know of no one from whom we might obtain information as to what is going on. My mistress, if not an actual prisoner, is practically so, being held with her children as hostages for my lord's loyalty to France. She is the kindest of ladies, and should she authorize me to enter into further communication with you, you may be sure that she would execute to the full the undertaking you ask for on behalf of your daughter. Where can I see you again? This is scarce a place I could often resort to without my visits being noticed, if, as is likely enough, the Duke of Burgundy may occasionally set spies to inform him as to what we are doing, and whether my mistress is in communication with any who are regarded as either doubtful or hostile to his faction." "If you will be in front of Notre Dame this evening at nine o'clock, I will meet you there and conduct you to my abode, where you can visit me free of any fear of observation." "What name shall I call you?" Guy asked. "My name is Montepone. I belong to a noble family of Mantua, but mixing myself up with the factions there, I was on the losing side, and unfortunately it happened that in a fray I killed a noble connected with all the ruling families; sentence of death was passed upon me in my absence, my property was confiscated. Nowhere in Italy should I have been safe from the dagger of the assassin, therefore I fled to France, and for ten years have maintained myself by the two arts which so often go together, astrology and buffoonery. I had always been fond of knowledge, and had learned all that could be taught in the grand science of astrology, so that however much I may gull fools here, I have obtained the confidence of many powerful personages by the accuracy of my forecasts. Had Orleans but believed my solemn assurance he would not have ridden through the streets of Paris to his death that night, and in other cases where I have been more trusted I have rendered valuable assistance." The belief in astrology had never gained much hold upon the mass of the English people, many as were the superstitions that prevailed among them. Guy had never even given the matter a thought. Montepone, however, evidently believed in his powers of foreseeing the future, and such powers did not in themselves seem altogether impossible to the lad; he therefore made no direct reply, but saying that he would not fail to be at the appointed place at nine that evening, took his leave. "Truly, Master Guy, I began to be uneasy about you," Robert Picard said when he rejoined him, "and was meditating whether I had best enter the tent, and demand what had become of you. It was only the thought that there might have been others before you, and that you had to wait your turn before seeing him, that restrained me. You have not been taking his nostrums, I trust; for they say that some of those men sell powders by which a man can be changed into a wolf." Guy laughed. "I have taken nothing, Robert, and if I had I should have no fear of such a change happening to me. I have but talked to the man as to how he came to know me, and it is as I thought,--he saw us as we entered. He is a shrewd fellow, and may well be of some use to us." "I like not chaffering with men who have intercourse with the devil," Picard said, shaking his head gravely; "nothing good comes of it. My mother knew a man who bought a powder that was to cure his wife of jealousy; and indeed it did, for it straightway killed her, and he was hung. I think that I can stand up against mortal man as well as another, but my blood ran cold when I saw you enter yon tent, and I fell into a sweat at your long absence." "The man is not of that kind, Robert, so you can reassure yourself. I doubt not that the nostrums he sells are perfectly harmless, and that though they may not cure they will certainly not kill." They made their way back to the house of the provost of the silversmiths. "Well, what do you think of Paris, Guy?" Dame Margaret asked when he entered. "It is a fine city, no doubt, lady, but in truth I would rather be in the country than in this wilderness of narrow streets. But indeed I have had somewhat of an adventure, and one which I think may prove of advantage;" and he then related to his mistress his visit to the booth of the supposed doctor. "Do you think that he is honest, Guy?" she asked when he concluded. "I think so, madam. He spoke honestly enough, and there was a ring of truth in what he said; nor do I see that he could have had any motive for making my acquaintance save what he stated. His story seemed to me to be a natural one; but I shall be able to judge better when I see him in his own house and with this daughter he speaks of; that is, if your ladyship is willing that I should meet him." "I am willing enough," she said, "for even if he is a spy of Burgundy's there is nothing that we wish to conceal. I have come here willingly, and have no thought of making my escape, or of mixing myself up in any of the intrigues of the court. Therefore there is no harm that he can do us, while on the other hand you may learn much from him, and will gather in a short time whether he can be trusted. Then by all means go and meet him this evening. But it would be as well to take Tom with you. It does not seem to me at all likely that any plot can be intended, but at any rate it will be well that you should have one with you whom you can thoroughly trust, in case there is any snare set, and to guard you against any lurking cut-throats." "I will tell him to be in readiness to go with me. It will be his turn to go out with one of the others this evening, and he might not be back in time if I did not warn him." "What arms shall I take with me?" Long Tom said, when Guy told him of their expedition. "Nothing but your sword and quarter-staff. I see that many of the beggars and others that one meets in the streets carry long staffs, and yours is not much longer than the generality. You brought it tied up with your bow, so you would do well to carry it, for in a street broil, where there is room to swing it, you could desire no better weapon, in such strong hands as yours, Tom. Besides, you can knock down and disable with it and no great harm is done, whereas if you used your sword there would be dead men; and although by all I hear these are not uncommon objects in the streets of Paris, there might be trouble if the town watch came up, as we are strangers. I shall carry a stout cudgel myself, as well as my sword." Accordingly at half-past eight they set out. Guy put on a long cloak and a cap such as was worn by the citizens, but strengthened inside by a few bands of steel forming sufficient protection to the head against any ordinary blow. This he had purchased at a stall on his way home. Tom had put on the garments that had been bought for him that afternoon, consisting of a doublet of tanned leather that could be worn under armour or for ordinary use, and was thick enough to afford considerable protection. The streets were already almost deserted; those who were abroad hurried along looking with suspicion at all whom they met, and walking in the middle of the road so as to avoid being taken by surprise by anyone lurking in the doorways or at the corners of alleys. Once or twice men came out and stared at Guy and his companion by the light of the lanterns suspended across the streets, but there was nothing about their appearance to encourage an attack, and the stalwart figure of the archer promised hard blows rather than plunder. Arriving at the square in front of Notre Dame they waited awhile. Here there were still people about, for it was a rendezvous both for roistering young gallants, thieves, and others starting on midnight adventures. After walking backwards and forwards two or three times Guy said, "You had best stand here in the shadow of this buttress while I go and place myself beneath that hanging lamp; seeing that we are together, and he, looking perhaps only for one, may not recognize me." On reaching the lamp, Guy took off his hat, so that the light should fall on his face, waited for a minute, and then replaced it. As soon as he did so a slightly-built lad came up to him. "Were you not at the fair by the river to-day, sir, and are you not expecting some one to meet you here?" "That is so, lad. If you will tell me whom I am expecting I shall know that he has sent you, though, indeed, I looked to meet himself and not a messenger." "Montepone," the lad said. "That is right. Why is he not here himself?" "He received a message before starting that one whose orders he could not neglect would call upon him this evening, and he therefore sent me to the rendezvous. I have been looking anxiously for you, but until now had not seen you." "I have a companion with me; being a stranger here in Paris, I did not care to be wandering through the streets alone. He is a countryman of mine, and can be trusted." "It is indeed dangerous to be out alone. It is seldom that I am in the streets after dark, but the doctor came with me and placed me in a corner of the porch, and then returned by himself, telling me to stir not until I saw you; and that should you not come, or should I not be able to make you out, I was to remain until he came for me even if I waited until morning." "I will fetch my follower," Guy said, "and am ready to accompany you." The lad was evidently unwilling to be left there for a moment alone, and he walked back with Guy to the buttress where the archer was standing. "This is our guide, Tom," Guy said, as the archer stepped out to join him; "the person I expected was unable to come himself. Now, lad, I am ready; you see we are well guarded." The boy nodded, evidently reassured by the bulk of the archer, and was about to step on ahead of them, when Guy said, "You had best walk with us. If you keep in front, it will seem as if you were guiding us, and that would point us out at once as strangers. Is it far to the place you are taking us to?" "A short quarter of an hour's walk, sir." CHAPTER VII -- IN THE STREETS OF PARIS They crossed the bridge to the right bank of the river, and followed the stream down for some distance. Passing through some narrow lanes, they presently emerged into a street of higher pretensions, and stopped at the door of a small house wedged in between two of much larger size. The boy took a key from his girdle, opened the door, and entered. "Stand here a moment, I pray you," he said; "I will fetch a light." In a few seconds he appeared with a lantern. He shut and barred the door, and then led the way upstairs and showed them into a small but well-furnished room, which was lighted by a hanging lamp. He then went to a buffet, brought out a flask of wine and two goblets, and said: "Will it please you to be seated and to help yourselves to the wine; my master may possibly be detained for some little time before he is able to see you." Then he went out and closed the door behind him. "It is evident, Tom," Guy said, as he took off his hat and cloak, and seated himself, "that the doctor has a good idea of making himself comfortable. Sit down, we may have to wait some time." "Do you think that it will be safe to touch the wine, Master Guy? Perchance it may be drugged." "Why should it be?" Guy asked. "We are not such important personages that anyone can desire to make away with us. I am convinced that the doctor was in earnest when he told me that story that I repeated to you this evening. It is possible that he may not be able to give us as much information as he said, but that he means well by us I am certain; and I think we may be sure that his wine is as good as his apartments are comfortable." This turned out to be the case; the wine was excellent, and the archer soon laid aside any doubt he might have entertained. From time to time steps could be heard in the apartment above, and it was evident that it was here that the interview between the doctor and his visitor was taking place. Presently a ring was heard below. "Another visitor," Guy said. Getting up, he slightly drew aside a thick curtain that hung before a casement, a moment later he let it fall again. "There are two men-at-arms standing on the other side of the street and one at the door." He heard the door opened, then the boy's step was heard on the stairs, two or three minutes later there was a movement above and the sound of the footsteps of two men coming down. Presently the outside door closed, two or three minutes elapsed; then the door opened and the Italian entered. "I regret that I have kept you so long," he said courteously, "but my visitor was not to be got rid of hastily. It was a lady, and there is no hurrying ladies. When a man comes in, I have already ascertained what he desires to know; he listens to my answer and takes his departure. A woman, on the contrary, has a thousand things to ask, and for the most part they are questions quite beyond my power to answer." "I have, as you see, Signor Montepone, brought my tall countryman with me; as you noticed me, I doubt not for a moment that you also marked him when we entered the city. Knowing nothing of the ways of Paris, but having heard that the streets were very unsafe after dark, I thought it best to bring him with me; and I am indeed glad that I did so, for we met with several very rough-looking characters on our way to Notre Dame, and had I been alone I might have had trouble." "You did quite right," the Italian said; "I regretted afterwards that I did not myself advise you to bring some one with you, for indeed it is not safe for one man to go abroad alone after dark. And now, will you accompany me upstairs; this tall fellow will doubtless be able to pass the time with that flask of wine until you return." "He should be able to do so," Guy said with a smile, "for indeed it is the best wine I have tasted, so far as my judgment goes, since I crossed the Channel, and indeed the best I have ever tasted." "'Tis good wine. I received a cask of it from the grower, a Burgundian noble, who had, as he believed, gained some advantage from following my advice." The man led the way upstairs. The room he entered there was much larger than that which they had left, extending over the whole floor. It was draped similarly to that in the booth, but was far more handsomely and elaborately got up. The hangings were of heavy cloth sprinkled with stars, the ceiling was blue with gold stars, a planisphere and astrolabe stood in the centre of the room, and a charcoal fire burned in a brazier beside them. A pair of huge bats with outstretched wings hung by wires from the ceiling, their white teeth glistening in the light of four lamps on stands, some six feet high, one in each corner of the room. The floor was covered with a dark Eastern carpet, a large chair with a footstool in front stood at a short distance from the planisphere; at one end was a massive table on which were retorts, glass globes, and a variety of apparatus new to Guy. At the other end of the room there was a frame some eight feet square on which a white sheet was stretched tightly. "Now, Master Guy," the Italian said, "firstly, I beg you to give me the date of your birth and if possible the hour, for I would for my own information if not for yours, cast your horoscope. I like to know for my own satisfaction, as far as may be, the future of those with whom I have to deal. If I perceive that misfortunes and perhaps death threaten them, it is clearly of no use my entering into relations with them. In your case, of course, it is with your mistress that I am chiefly concerned; still as your fortunes are at present so closely mixed up with hers, I may learn something of much utility to me from your horoscope." "I was born on the 8th of December, 1394, and shall be therefore seventeen in a fortnight's time. I was born a few minutes after midnight, for I have heard my mother say that the castle bell had sounded but a few minutes before I was born. She said that she had been anxious about it, because an old woman had predicted that if she ever had a child born on the 7th day of the month, it would be in every way unfortunate; so my mother was greatly pleased that I had escaped the consequences predicted." "And now," the Italian went on, having made a note in his tablets, "what said your lady?" "She bid me say, sir, that she was very sensible of the advantage that it would be to her to receive news or warning from one so well informed as yourself; and that she on her part promises that she will befriend and protect your daughter should you at any time bring her to her castle in England, or should she come alone with such tokens from you as that she might be known; and this promise my lady vows on the sacraments to keep." "Then we are in agreement," the Italian said; "and right glad am I to know that should aught befall me, my daughter will be in such good hands. As far as worldly means are concerned her future is assured, for I have laid out much of the money I have received in jewels of value, which will produce a sum that will be an ample dowry for her. Now I can give you some news. The Duke of Berri with the queen came two days since from Melun to Corbeil, and Louis of Bavaria came on here yesterday to the Duke of Aquitaine with a message to Burgundy and to the butchers, asking that they would allow him to attend the queen to Paris, and that she might reside in his house of Nasle. Burgundy was minded to grant her leave, but at a meeting of the chiefs of the guild of butchers this afternoon they resolved to refuse the request; and this evening they have broken every door and window of the Duke of Berri's house, and committed great damages there, so that it should not be habitable; they resolved that Berri should not enter Paris, but that the queen might come. I hear that it has been determined that the king shall be placed in the Louvre, where the citizens of Paris can keep guard over him and prevent any attempt by the Orleanists to carry him away. "All this will make no difference to your mistress directly; the point of it is that the power of these butchers, with whom go the guild of skinners and others, is so increasing that even the Duke of Burgundy is forced to give in to them. Some of the other guilds and the greater part of the respectable traders are wholly opposed to these men. They themselves may care little whether Orleans or Burgundy sways the court and the king, but this usurpation of the butchers, who have behind them the scum of Paris, is regarded as a danger to the whole city, and the feeling may grow into so hot a rage that there may be serious rioting in the streets. I tell you this that you may be prepared. Assuredly the butchers are not likely to interfere with any save such of the townspeople as they may deem hostile to them, and no harm would intentionally be done to her or to any other hostage of Burgundy. But the provost of the silversmiths is one of those who withstands them to the best of his power, and should matters come to serious rioting his house might be attacked. The leaders of the butchers' guild would be glad to see him killed, and their followers would still more like to have the sacking of his rich magazine of silver goods and the spoiling of his furniture. "I say not that things are likely to come to that yet, but there is no telling how far they may be carried. It is but a dark cloud in the distance at present, but it may in time burst into a storm that will deluge the streets of Paris with blood. I may tell you that, against you as English there is no strong feeling at present among the Burgundians, for I am informed that the duke has taken several bodies of English archers into his pay, and that at Soissons and other towns he has enlisted a score or two of these men. However, I am sure to gain information long before matters come to any serious point, except a sudden outbreak arise from a street broil. I may tell you that one result of the violence of the butchers to-day may be to cause some breach between them and the Burgundian nobles, who are, I am told, greatly incensed at their refusing to give permission to the Duke of Berri to come here after Burgundy had acceded to his request, and that these fellows should venture to damage the hotel of one of the royal dukes seemed to them to be still more intolerable. The Duke of Burgundy may truckle to these fellows, but his nobles will strongly resent their interference and their arrogant insolence, and the duke may find that if he is to retain their support he will have to throw over that of these turbulent citizens. Moreover, their conduct adds daily to the strength of the Orleanists among the citizens, and if a strong Armagnac force approaches Paris they will be hailed by no small portion of the citizens as deliverers." "In truth I can well understand, Signor Montepone, that the nobles should revolt against this association with butchers and skinners; 'tis past all bearing that fellows like these should thus meddle in public affairs." "The populace of Paris has ever been turbulent," the Italian replied. "In this it resembles the cities of Flanders, and the butchers are ever at the bottom of all tumults. Now I will introduce my daughter to you; it is well that you should know her, for in case of need she may serve as a messenger, and it may be that I may some day ask you to present her to your lady." He opened the door. "Katarina!" he said without raising his voice, and at once a girl came running up from the floor below. "This is my daughter, Master Aylmer; you have seen her before." Katarina was a girl of some fourteen years of age. She was dressed in black, and was tall and slight. Her complexion was fairer than that of her father, and she already gave promise of considerable beauty. Guy bowed to her as she made her reverence, while her face lit up with an amused smile. "Your father says I have seen you before, signora, but in sooth I know not where or how, since it was but this morning that I arrived in Paris." "We parted but half an hour since, monsieur." "Parted?" Guy repeated with a puzzled expression on his face. "Surely you are jesting with me." "Do you not recognize my messenger?" the Italian said with a smile. "My daughter is my assistant. In a business like mine one cannot trust a stranger to do one service, and as a boy she could come and go unmarked when she carries a message to persons of quality. She looks a saucy page in the daytime when she goes on the business, but after nightfall she is dressed as you saw her this evening. As a girl she could not traverse the streets unattended, and I am far too busy to bear her company; but as a boy she can go where she likes, and indeed it is only when we are alone, and there is little chance of my having visitors, that she appears in her proper character." "You must be very courageous, signora," Guy said; "but, indeed, I can well imagine that you can pass where you will without anyone suspecting you to be a girl, for the thought that this was so never entered my head." "I am so accustomed to the disguise," she said, "that I feel more comfortable in it than dressed as I now am, and it is much more amusing to be able to go about as I like than to remain all day cooped up here when my father is abroad." "And now, Master Aylmer, that you have made my daughter's acquaintance, and I have told you what news I have gathered, it needs not that I should detain you longer; the hour is getting late already, and your lady may well be getting anxious at your absence. Can you read?" "Yes, signor; the priest at my lady's castle in England, of which my father is castellan during my lord's absences, instructed me." "It is well; for sometimes a note can be slipped into a hand when it would not be safe to deliver a message by word of mouth. From time to time if there be anything new you shall hear from me, but there will be no occasion for you to come hither again unless there is something of importance on which I may desire to have speech with you, or you with me. Remain here, Katarina, until my return; I will see monsieur out, and bar the door after him." [Illustration: GUY AND LONG TOM COME TO THE RESCUE OF COUNT CHARLES.] Passing downstairs Guy looked in at the room where he had left the archer. The latter sprung to his feet as he entered with a somewhat dazed expression on his face, for indeed, he had fallen off into a sound sleep. "We are going now, Tom," Guy said. "I have concluded my business with this gentleman. We will not go back the way we came," he went on, as they issued into the street, "for I am sure we should never find our way through those alleys. Let us keep along here until we come to a broader street leading the way we wish to go; fortunately, with the river to our left, we cannot go very far wrong." They presently came to a street leading in the desired direction. They had scarcely entered it when they heard ahead of them the sound of a fray. A loud cry arose, and there was a clashing of sword-blades. "Come on, Tom!" Guy said; "it may be that some gentleman is attacked by these ruffians of the streets." Starting off at a run, they soon arrived at the scene of combat, the features of which they were able to see by the light of the lamp that hung in the centre of the street. A man was standing in a narrow doorway, which prevented his being attacked except in front, and the step on which he stood gave him a slight advantage over his adversaries. These were nearly a dozen in number, and were evidently, as Guy had supposed, street ruffians of the lowest class. Without hesitation Guy and the archer fell upon them, with a shout of encouragement to the defender of the doorway, who was evidently sorely pressed. Tom's quarter-staff sent two of the men rolling on the ground almost before they realized that they were attacked, while Guy ran another through the body. For a moment the assailants scattered, but then, seeing that they were attacked by only two men, they fell upon them with fury. Guy defended himself stoutly, but he would have fared badly had it not been for the efforts of Long Tom, whose staff descended with such tremendous force upon the heads of his assailants that it broke down their guard, and sent man after man on to the pavement. Guy himself received a sharp wound in the shoulder, but cut down another of his assailants; and the defender of the door, leaving his post of vantage, now joined them, and in a couple of minutes but four of the assailants remained on their feet, and these, with a shout of dismay, turned and took to their heels. Guy had now opportunely arrived. As the latter took off his hat he saw time to look at the gentleman to whose assistance he had so that the stranger was but a year or two older than himself. "By our Lady, sir," the young man said, "you arrived at a lucky moment, for I could not much longer have kept these ruffians at bay. I have to thank you for my life, which, assuredly, they would have taken, especially as I had disposed of two of their comrades before you came up. May I ask to whom I am so indebted? I am Count Charles d'Estournel." "My name is Guy Aylmer, sir; I am the son of Sir James Aylmer, an English knight, and am here as the esquire of Dame Margaret de Villeroy, who arrived but this morning in Paris." "And who is this stalwart fellow whose staff has done more execution than both our sword-blades?" the young count asked; "verily it rose and fell like a flail on a thrashing-floor." "He is one of Dame Margaret's retainers, and the captain of a band of archers in her service, but is at present here as one of her men-at-arms." "In truth I envy her so stout a retainer. Good fellow, I have to thank you much, as well as Monsieur Guy Aylmer, for your assistance." "One is always glad of an opportunity to stretch one's arms a bit when there is but a good excuse for doing so," the archer said; "and one needs no better chance than when one sees a gentleman attacked by such scum as these ruffians," and he motioned to the men lying stretched on the ground. "Ah, you are English!" D'Estournel said with a slight smile at Tom's very broken French. "I know all about you now," he went on, turning to Guy. "I was not present today when your lady had audience with Burgundy, but I heard that an English dame had arrived, and that the duke came but badly out of the encounter in words with her. But we had best be moving on or we may have the watch on us, and we should be called upon to account for these ten fellows lying here. I doubt not but half of them are only stunned and will soon make off, the other six will have to be carried away. We have a good account to give of ourselves, but the watch would probably not trouble themselves to ask any questions, and I have no fancy for spending a night locked up in the cage with perhaps a dozen unsavoury malefactors. Which way does your course lie, sir?" "We are lodged at the house of Maître Leroux, provost of the silversmiths." "Then you are going in the wrong direction. You return up this street, then turn to your right; his house is in the third street to the left. I shall do myself the honour of calling in the morning to thank you more fully for the service you have rendered me, which, should it ever fall into my power, you can count on my returning. My way now lies in the opposite direction." After mutual salutes they parted, and Guy followed the directions given to them. "That was a sharp skirmish, Master Guy," Long Tom said contentedly; "the odds were just enough to make it interesting. Did you escape scatheless?" "Not altogether, Tom, I had a sword-thrust in my shoulder; but I can do with it until I get back, when I will get you to bandage it for me." "That will I; I did not get so much as a scratch. A quarter-staff is a rare weapon in a fight like that, for you can keep well out of the reach of their swords. In faith I have not had so pleasant an exercise since that fight Dickon and I had in the market-place at Winchester last Lammas fair." "I am afraid Dame Margaret will scold us for getting into a fray." "Had it not been for your wound we need have said nothing about it; but you may be sure that you will have to carry your arm in a sling for a day or two, and she will want to know the ins and outs of the matter." "I think the affair has been a fortunate one, for it has obtained for me the friendship of a young Burgundian noble. Friendless as we are here, this is no slight matter, and I by no means grudge the amount of blood I have lost for such a gain. There is a light in Dame Margaret's casement; she said that she should sit up till my return, and would herself let me in, for the household would be asleep two hours ago; and as Maître Leroux and his wife have shown themselves so kindly disposed towards us, she should not like the household disturbed at such an hour. I was to whistle a note or two of _Richard Mon Roi_, and she would know that we were without." He whistled a bar or two of the air, they saw a shadow cross the casement, then the light disappeared, and in a minute they heard the bolts undrawn and the door opened. "You are late, Guy," she said; "I have been expecting you this hour past. Why, what has happened to you?" she broke off as she saw his face. "It is but a trifle, lady," he said; "a sword-thrust in the shoulder, and a little blood. Long Tom will bind it up. Our delay was caused partly by the fact that the Italian was engaged, and it was half-an-hour before I could see him. Moreover, we had been kept at the trysting-place, as the guide did not recognize me owing to Tom being with me; and lastly, we were somewhat delayed by the matter that cost me this sword-thrust, which I in no way grudge, since it has gained for us a friend who may be useful." Tom had by this time barred the door and had gone upstairs. "I am disappointed in you, Guy," Dame Margaret said severely when they entered the room. "I told you to keep yourself free from frays of all kinds, and here you have been engaged in one before we have been twelve hours in Paris." "I crave your pardon, madam, but it is not in human nature to stand by without drawing a sword on behalf of a young gentleman defending himself against a dozen cut-throats. I am sure that in such a case your ladyship would be the first to bid me draw and strike in. The matter did not last three minutes. Tom disposed of six of them with his quarter-staff, the gentleman had killed two before we arrived, and I managed to dispose of two others, the rest took to their heels. The young gentleman was Count Charles d'Estournel; he is, as it seems, in the Duke of Burgundy's train; and as we undoubtedly saved his life, he may turn out a good and useful friend." "You are right, Guy; I spoke perhaps too hastily. And now about the other matter." Guy told her all that had taken place. "And what is this man like?" she asked when he had concluded. "Now that I saw him without the astrologer's robe and in his ordinary costume he seemed to me a very proper gentleman," Guy replied. "He is my height or thereabouts, grave in face and of good presence. I have no doubt that he is to be trusted, and he has evidently resolved to do all in his power to aid you, should it be necessary to do so. He would scarce have introduced his daughter to me had it not been so." "He must be a strange man," Dame Margaret said thoughtfully. "He is certainly no common man, lady. As I have told you, he believes thoroughly in his science, and but adopts the costume in which I first saw him and the role of a quack vendor of nostrums in order that his real profession may not be known to the public, and so bring him in collision with the church." "It seems to me, Guy," Dame Margaret said the next morning, "that as you have already made the acquaintance of a young French noble, and may probably meet with others, 'twill be best that, when we have finished our breakfast, you should lose no time in sallying out and providing yourself with suitable attire. Spare not money, for my purse is very full. Get yourself a suit in which you can accompany me fitly if I again see the duke, or, as is possible, have an interview with the queen. Get two others, the one a quiet one, and not likely to attract notice, for your ordinary wear; the other a more handsome one, to wear when you go into the company of the young men of station like this Burgundian noble whom you succoured last night. Your father being a knight, you may well, as the esquire of my lord, hold your head as high as other young esquires of good family in the train of French nobles." On Agnes and Charlie coming into the room, the latter exclaimed, "Why have you got your arm in a scarf, Guy?" "He was in a fray last night, Charlie. He and Tom came upon a number of ruffians fighting a young gentleman, so they joined in and helped him, and Guy was wounded in the shoulder." "Did they beat the bad men, mother?" "Yes, dear; Guy had taken a sword with him, as it was after dark, and Tom had his quarter-staff." "Then the others can have had no chance," Charlie said decidedly. "I have often seen Long Tom playing with the quarter-staff, and he could beat anyone in the castle. I warrant he laid about him well. I should have liked to have been there to have seen it, mother." "It will be a good many years yet, Charlie, before you will be old enough to go out after dark in such a place as Paris." "But I saw real fighting at the castle, mother, and I am sure I was not afraid even when the cannon made a great noise." "No, you behaved very well, Charlie; but it is one thing to be standing on the top of a keep and another to be in the streets when a fray is going on all round." "Did you kill anyone, Guy?" the boy asked eagerly. "Some of them were wounded," Guy replied, "but I cannot say for certain that anyone was killed." "They ought to be killed, these bad men who attack people in the street. If I were King of France I would have all their heads chopped off." "It is not so easy to catch them, Charlie. When the watch come upon them when they are doing such things there is not much mercy shown to them." As soon as breakfast was over Guy went out, after learning from Maître Leroux the address of a tradesman who generally kept a stock of garments in store, in readiness for those passing through Paris, who might not have time to stop while clothes were specially made for them. He returned in the course of an hour, followed by a boy carrying a wooden case with the clothes that he had bought. He had been fortunate in getting two suits which fitted him perfectly. They had been made for a young knight who had been despatched by the duke to Flanders just after he had been measured for them, and the tailor said that he was glad to sell them, as for aught he knew it might be weeks or even months before the knight returned, and he could make other suits for him at his leisure. Thus he was provided at once with his two best suits; for the other he had been measured, and it was to be sent in a couple of days. On his return he went straight to his room, and attired himself in readiness to receive the visit of Count Charles d'Estournel. The suit consisted of an orange-coloured doublet coming down to the hips, with puce sleeves; the trousers were blue, and fitting closely to the legs; the shoes were of the great length then in fashion, being some eighteen inches from the heel to the pointed toe. The court suit was similar in make, but more handsome--the doublet, which was of crimson, being embroidered with gold; the closely-fitting trousers were striped with light blue and black; the cap with the suit in which he was now dressed was yellow, that with the court suit crimson, and both were high and conical, resembling a sugar-loaf in shape. From his sword-belt he carried a light straight sword, instead of the heavier one that would be carried in actual warfare, and on the right side was a long dagger. Charlie clapped his hands as he entered the sitting-room. "That will do very well, Master Esquire," Dame Margaret said with a smile; "truly you look as well fitted as if they had been made for you, and the colours are well chosen." Guy told her how he had obtained them. "You are very fortunate," she said, "and this afternoon, when I mean to take a walk to see the city, I shall feel that I am well escorted with you by my side." "Shall you take us, mother?" Charlie asked anxiously. "I intend to do so. You are so accustomed to be in the open air that you would soon pine if confined here, though indeed the air outside is but close and heavy compared with that at home. I have been speaking to Master Leroux while you have been away, and he tells me that a post goes once a week to Lille, and that he will send a letter for me to Sir Eustace under cover to a worthy trader of that town, who will forward it thence to Villeroy by a messenger. Therefore I shall write this morning; my lord will be pleased indeed to learn that we are so comfortably bestowed here, and that there is no cause for any uneasiness on his part." CHAPTER VIII -- A RIOT While Dame Margaret was speaking to Guy, one of the servitors came up with word that Count Charles d'Estournel was below desiring to speak with Master Guy Aylmer. "Show the count up. Or no, you had best go down yourself to receive him, Guy. Pray him to come up with you; it will be more fitting." Guy at once went down. "So this is my saviour of last night," the count said gaily as Guy joined him. "I could scarce get a view of your face then, as the lamps give such a poor light, and I should hardly have known you again. Besides, you were wrapped up in your cloak. But you told me that you were an esquire, and I see that you carry a sword. I want to take you out to introduce you to some of my friends. Can you accompany me now?" "I shall do so willingly, Count; but first will you allow me to present you to my lady mistress? She prayed me to bring you up to her apartments." "That shall I right willingly; those who were present yesterday speak of her as a noble lady." They went upstairs together. "My lady, this is Count Charles d'Estournel, who desires me to present him to you." "I am glad to meet you, Sir Count," Dame Margaret said, holding out her hand, which he raised to his lips, "seeing that my esquire, Master Guy Aylmer, was able to render you some slight service last night. This is my daughter Agnes, and my son Charles." "The service was by no means a slight one," the young count said, returning a deep salute that Agnes and Charlie made to him, "unless indeed you consider that my life is a valueless one, for assuredly without his aid and that of your tall retainer, my father would have been childless this morning. I was indeed in sore plight when they arrived; my arm was tiring, and I could not have defended myself very much longer against such odds, and as I had exasperated them by killing two of their comrades, I should have received no mercy at their hands. In my surprise at being so suddenly attacked I even forgot to raise a shout for the watch, though it is hardly likely that they would have heard me had I done so; the lazy knaves are never on the spot when they are wanted. However, we gave the ruffians a lesson that those of them who escaped are not likely to forget readily, for out of the fourteen who attacked me we accounted for ten, of whom your retainer levelled no less than six with that staff of his, and I doubt whether any of the other four came off scatheless. I imagine that those levelled by your retainer got up and made off,--that is, if they recovered their senses before the watch came,--but I am sure that the other four will never steal pouch or cut throat in future. 'Tis a shame that these rascals are suffered to interfere with honest men, and it would be far better if the city authorities would turn their attention to ridding the streets of these pests instead of meddling with things that in no way concern them." "It would no doubt be much wiser," Dame Margaret replied; "but since their betters are ever quarrelling among themselves, we can hardly wonder that the citizens do not attend to their own business." "No doubt you are right," the young count said with a smile; "but it is the highest who set the bad example, and we their vassals cannot but follow them, though I myself would far rather draw my sword against the enemies of France than against my countrymen. But methinks," and here he laughed, "the example of the wars that England has so often waged with Scotland might well cause you to take a lenient view of our misdoings." "I cannot gainsay you there, Sir Count, and truly those quarrels have caused more damage to England than your disputes between Burgundy and Orleans have, so far, inflicted on France; but you see I am a sufferer in the one case and not in the other. Even now I am ignorant why I have been brought here. There is a truce at present between England and France, and assuredly there are more English in the service of nobles of Burgundy than in those of Orleans, and at any rate I have seen no reason why there can at present be any doubt at all of the conduct of my lord, who has but lately defended his castle against the followers of Orleans.'" "So I have heard, madame, and I know that there are some of my friends who think that Duke John has behaved hardly in the matter; but he seldom acts without reason, though it may not be always that one which he assigns for any action." Then, changing the subject, he went on. "I have come to take Master Guy for a walk with me, and to introduce him to some of my friends. My father is absent at present, but on his return he will, I know, hasten to express his gratitude. I trust that you can spare your esquire to go out with me." "Certainly, so that he does but return in time to escort me for a walk through the streets this afternoon." "I will be sure to come back, madam," Guy said. "You have but to say the hour at which you will start; but indeed I think that I shall probably be in to dinner at one." "I cannot see," Guy said, when he had sallied out with the young count, "why they should have called upon Sir Eustace to furnish hostages. As the Duke of Burgundy has English archers in his pay, and France is at truce with England, there seems less reason than at other times to demand sureties of his loyalty, especially as he has shown that he is in no way well disposed to the Armagnacs." "Between ourselves, Guy, I think that the duke in no way expected that hostages would be given, and that he was by no means well pleased when a messenger arrived from the herald to say that he was returning with your lady and her children. What was his intention I know not, but in times like these it is necessary sometimes to reward faithful followers or to secure doubtful ones, and it may be that he would have been glad to have had the opportunity of finding so fair a castle and estate at his disposal. You know the fable of the wolf and the lamb; a poor excuse is deemed sufficient at all times in France when there is a great noble on one side and a simple knight on the other, and I reckon that the duke did not calculate upon the willingness of your Sir Eustace to permit his wife and children to come here, or upon the dame's willingness to do so, and in no way expected matters to turn out as they have done, for there is now no shadow of excuse for him to meddle with Villeroy. Indeed, I question whether the condition about hostages was of his devising; but it may well be that the king or the queen wished it inserted, and he, thinking that there was no chance of that alternative being accepted, yielded to the wish. Mind, all this is not spoken from my own knowledge, but I did hear that Duke John was much put out when he found that the hostages were coming, and there was some laughter among us at the duke being for once outwitted." "Then you do not love him overmuch, Count?" "He is our lord, Guy, and we are bound to fight in his cause, but our vows of fealty do not include the word love. The duke his father was a noble prince, just and honourable, and he was loved as well as honoured. Duke John is a different man altogether. He is brave, as he proved in Hungary, and it may be said that he is wise, but his wisdom is not of the kind that Burgundian nobles love. It might have been wise to remove Orleans from his path, although I doubt it, but it was a dastardly murder all the same; and although we are bound to support him, it alienated not a few. Then he condescends to consort with these sorry knaves the butchers, and others of low estate, to take them into his counsels, and to thrust them upon us, at which, I may tell you, there is grievous discontent. All this is rank treason to the duke, I have no doubt, but it is true nevertheless. Here we are at our first stopping-place. This is as it is kept by a Burgundian master, who has with him two or three of the best swordsmen in France, and here a number of us meet every morning to learn tricks of fence, and to keep ourselves in good exercise, which indeed one sorely needs in this city of Paris, where there is neither hawking nor hunting nor jousting nor any other kind of knightly sport, everyone being too busily in earnest to think of amusement. Several of my best friends are sure to be here, and I want to introduce you to them." When they entered the salon they found some thirty young knights and nobles gathered. Two or three pairs in helmet and body-armour were fighting with blunted swords, others were vaulting on to a saddle placed on a framework roughly representing a high war-horse; one or two were swinging heavy maces, whirling them round their heads and bringing them down occasionally upon great sand-bags six feet high, while others were seated on benches resting themselves after their exercises. D'Estournel's arrival was greeted with a shout, and several of those disengaged at once came over to him. "Laggard!" one exclaimed, "what excuse have you to make for coming so late? I noted not that De Jouvaux's wine had mounted into your head last night, and surely the duke cannot have had need of your valuable services this morning?" "Neither one nor the other befell, D'Estelle. But first let me introduce to you all my friend Guy Aylmer, an English gentleman, the son of a knight of that country, and himself an esquire of Sir Eustace de Villeroy. I am sure you will welcome him when I tell you that he saved my life last night when attacked by a band of cut-throats. Guy, these are my friends Count Pierre d'Estelle, Count Walter de Vesoul, the Sieur John de Perron, and the Knights Louis de Lactre, Sir Reginald Poupart, Sir James Regnier, Sir Thomas d'Autre, and Sir Philip de Noisies." "I can assure you of our friendship," the first-named of these gentlemen said cordially to Guy, "for indeed you have rendered us all a service in thus saving to us our friend D'Estournel. Tell us how the matter occurred, Charles; in sooth, we shall have to take these ruffians of Paris in hand. So long as they cut each other's throats no great harm is done, but if they take to cutting ours it is time to give them a lesson." "The matter was simple enough," D'Estournel said. "As you know, it was late before we broke up at De Jouvaux's last night, for I heard it strike half-past ten by the bell of St. Germain as I sallied out. I was making my way home like a peaceful citizen, when two men came out from a narrow lane and stumbled roughly across me. Deeming that they were drunk, I struck one a buffet on the side of his head and stretched him in the gutter." "That was not like a peaceful citizen, Charles," one of the others broke in. "Well, hardly, perhaps; but I forgot my character at the moment. However, an instant later there was a shout, and a dozen or so armed men poured out from the lane and fell upon me. I saw at once that I had been taken in a trap. Luckily there was a deep doorway close by, so I sprang into it, and, drawing my sword, put myself in a posture of defence before they were upon me. I ran the first through the body, and that seemed to teach the others some caution. Fortunately the doorway was so deep that only two could assail me at once, and I held my ground for some time pretty fairly, only receiving a few scratches. Presently I saw another opening, and, parrying a thrust, I ran my sword through the fellow's throat. He fell with a loud outcry, which was fortunate, for it came to the ears of my friend here, and brought him and a stout retainer--a prodigiously tall fellow, with a staff longer than himself--to my aid. They were but just in time, for the ruffians, furious at the fall of another of their companions, were pressing me hotly, and slashing so furiously with their swords that it was as much as I could do to parry them, and had no time to thrust back in reply. My friend here ran two of them through, his tall companion levelled six to the ground with his staff, while I did what I could to aid them, and at last the four that remained still on their legs ran off. I believe they thought that the man with the staff was the Evil One himself, who had got tired of aiding them in their villainous enterprises." "It was a narrow escape indeed, Charles," Count Walter de Vesoul said gravely, "and it was well for you that there was that doorway hard by, or your brave friend would have found but your body when he came along. It is evident, gentlemen, that when we indulge in drinking parties we must go home in couples. Of course, Charles, you must lay a complaint before the duke, and he must let the Parisians know that if they do not keep their cut-throats within bounds we will take to sallying out at night in parties and will cut down every man we find about the streets." "I will lay my complaint, but I doubt if much good will come of it. The duke will speak to the provost of the butchers, and nothing will be done." "Then we will take them in hand," the other said angrily. "If the Parisians won't keep order in their streets we will keep it for them. Such doings are intolerable, and we will make up parties to scour the streets at night. Men passing peaceably along we shall not of course molest, but any parties of armed men we find about we will cut down without hesitation." "I shall be heartily glad to join one of the parties whenever you are disposed, De Vesoul," D'Estournel said. "Perchance I may light on one or more of the four fellows who got away last night. Now I am ready to have a bout with swords." "We have all had our turn, Charles," the other said. "Then I must work with the mace," the count said. "My friend here, you see, did not come off as scatheless last night as I did, or else I would have asked him to have a bout with me. He held his own so well against two of them who fell on him together that I doubt not I should find him a sturdy adversary." "I fear not, Count," Guy said smiling. "I can use my sword, it is true, in English fashion, but I know little of feints and tricks with the sword such as I am told are taught in your schools." "A little practice here will amend that," D'Estournel said. "These things are well enough in a _salle d'armes_, and are useful when one man is opposed to another in a duel, but in a battle or _mêlée_ I fancy that they are of but little use, though indeed I have never yet had the chance of trying. We will introduce you to the master, and I hope that you will come here regularly; it will give real pleasure to all. This salon is kept up by the duke for our benefit, and as you are one of his most pressingly invited guests you are certainly free of it." They went up in a body to the master. "Maître Baudin," Count Charles said, "I have to introduce to you a gentleman who is our mutual friend, and who last night saved my life in a street brawl. He is at present an esquire of Sir Eustace de Villeroy, and has travelled hither with the knight's dame, who has come at the invitation of the duke. His father is an English knight, and as the friend of us all we trust that you will put him upon the list of your pupils." "I shall be pleased to do so, Count Charles, the more so since he has done you such service." "I am afraid that you will, find me a very backward pupil," Guy said. "I have been well taught in English fashion, but as you know, maître, we were more famed for downright hard hitting than for subtlety and skill in arms." "Downright hard hitting is not to be despised," the master said, "and in a battle it is the chief thing of all; yet science is not to be regarded as useless, since it not only makes sword-play a noble pastime, but in a single combat it enables one who is physically weak to hold his own against a far stronger antagonist." "That I feel greatly, maître. I shall be glad indeed of lessons in the art, and as soon as my shoulder is healed I shall take great pleasure in attending your school regularly, whenever my lady has no need of my presence. I am now in the position of the weak antagonist you speak of, and am therefore the more anxious to acquire the skill that will enable me to take my part in a conflict with full-grown men." "You showed last night that you could do that," Count Charles said with a smile. "Nay, men of that sort do not count," Guy said. "They are but rough swordsmen, and it was only their number that rendered them dangerous. There is little credit in holding one's own against ruffians of that kind." "Well, I will be lazy this morning," the young count said, "and do without my practice. Will you all come round to my rooms, gentlemen, and drink a glass or two of wine and make the better acquaintance of my friend? He is bound to be back at his lodgings by one, and therefore you need not be afraid that I am leading you into a carouse." Guy passed an hour in the count's lodgings and then returned to the provost's. The count accompanied him, saying that he had not yet seen his tall friend of the night before, and must personally thank him. Long Tom was called down, he being one of the two who had remained in for the morning. "I must thank you again for the service that you rendered me last night," the count said frankly, holding out his hand to the archer. "I hope that you will accept this ring in token of my gratitude; I have had it enlarged this morning so that it may fit one of your strong fingers. It may be useful some day to turn into money should you find yourself in a pinch." "I thank you, sir," Tom said. "I will wear it round my neck, for in truth rings are not for the use of men in my condition. As to gratitude, I feel that it is rather the other way, for my arms were beginning to get stiff for want of use. I only wish that the fray had lasted a bit longer, for I had scarce time to warm to it, and I hope that the next time your lordship gets into trouble I may have the good luck to be near at hand again." "I hope you may, my friend; assuredly I could want no better helper." After the count had taken his leave Guy went upstairs and told Lady Margaret how he had spent the morning. "I am very glad to hear what you say about the fencing school, Guy; it will be good for you to have such training. And indeed 'tis well that you should have some employment, for time would hang but wearily on your hands were you to remain long caged up here. I shall be very glad for you to go. It will make no difference to us whether we take our walk in the morning or in the afternoon." After dinner they went out. Guy escorted Dame Margaret, Agnes and Charlie followed, Long Tom and Jules Varoy bringing up the rear, both armed with swords and carrying in addition heavy cudgels. First of all they visited the cathedral, where Dame Margaret and her daughter knelt for some time in prayer before one of the shrines; then crossing the bridge again they followed along the broad pavement between the foot of the walls and the river, which served as a market, where hucksters of all sorts plied their trade; then entering the next gate on the wall they walked down the street to the Place de la Bastille, which had been finished but a few years. "'Tis a gloomy place and a strong one," Dame Margaret said with a shiver as she looked at its frowning towers; "the poor wretches who are once entombed there can have but little hope of escape. Surely there cannot be so many state prisoners as to need for their keeping, a building so large as that. Still, with so turbulent a population as this of Paris, it doubtless needs a strong castle to hold them." "It seems to me, madame, that, though useful doubtless as a prison, the castle was never really built for that purpose, but as a stronghold to overawe Paris." "That may be so, Guy; at any rate I am glad that they did not use it as our place of detention instead of the house of Maître Leroux." "They see well enough, madame, that you are more securely held than bolts and bars could detain you. I imagine that they would like nothing better than for you to get away back to Villeroy, since it would give them an excuse for an attack on the castle." "Doubtless that is so, Guy; I came freely, and I must stay freely until some change takes place that will leave it open to us to fly. But in sooth it seems to me that nothing short of the arrival of an English army could do that. Were the Armagnacs to get the better of the Burgundians our position would be even worse than it is now." "That is true enough, madame, for the Burgundians have no cause of hostility whatever to Sir Eustace and you, while we have given the Armagnacs good reasons for ill-will against us. Still, were they to come here it would be open to you to fly, for all Artois is Burgundian; and though the duke might not be able to hold his position here, Artois and Flanders would long be able to sustain themselves, and you would therefore be safe at Villeroy, for they would have other matters to attend to without meddling with those who only ask to be let alone." On their way back from the Bastille they saw a crowd in the street and heard loud shouts. "We had best turn off by this side street, madame," Guy said; "doubtless it is a body of the scoundrel butchers at their work of slaying some enemy under the pretext of his being an Orleanist. Do you hear their shouts of 'Paris and Burgundy!'?" Turning down a side street they made a circuit round the scene of the tumult, and then coming up into the main street again resumed their way. After walking a considerable distance they came to a large building. "What place is this, Guy?" "It is the Louvre, madame. It should be the abode of the King of France, but he is only sometimes lodged there; but often stays at one of the hotels of the great lords. These palaces are all fortified buildings. Our country castles are strong, but there is no air of gloom about them; these narrow streets and high houses seem to crush one down." "We will go back again, Guy; I do not think that I shall often go out in future." "You can take a boat on the river, madame, and row up or down into the country. They say it is pretty; once fairly away from Paris, there are hills and woods and villages." "That may be pleasant. If they would but let me go and live in one of those quiet spots I should be as contented as it is possible for me to be away from my husband. "Nothing can be kinder than are Maître Leroux and his wife, but one cannot but feel that one is a burden upon them. My hope is that when the king comes to his senses I may be able to obtain an interview with him, and even if I cannot have leave to return to Villeroy I may be allowed to take up my abode outside the walls, or at any rate to obtain a quiet lodging for ourselves." For the next three weeks the time passed quietly. Guy went every morning to the _salle d'armes_, for his wound being on his left shoulder he was able to use his sword arm as soon as it began to heal. "You underrated your skill," the fencing-master said when he had given him his first lesson. "It is true that you do not know the niceties of sword-playing, but indeed you are so quick of eye and wrist that you can afford to do without them. Still, doubtless after a couple of months' practice here you will be so far improved that he will need to be a good swordsman who holds his own with you." Guy paid only one visit during this time to the lodgings of the Italian. "You have not heard from me, Master Aylmer," the latter said, "because indeed there has been nothing of importance to tell you. The Armagnacs are, I hear, collecting a great army, and are likely ere long to march in this direction. The butchers are becoming more and more unpopular and more and more violent; not a day passes but many citizens are killed by them under the pretence that they are Armagnacs, but really because they had expressed themselves as hostile to the doings of these tyrants. I have cast your horoscope, and I find that the conjunction of the planets at your birth was eminently favourable. It seems to me that about this time you will pass through many perilous adventures, but you are destined to escape any dangers that threaten you. You will gain honour and renown, and come to fortune through a marriage. There are other things in your career that are uncertain, since I cannot tell at what date they are likely to occur and whether the planets that were favourable at your birth may again be in the ascendant; but, for as much as I have told you, I have no doubt whatever." "I thank you for the trouble that you have taken, Count Montepone," for Guy had now learned the rank that the Italian held in his own country, "and can only trust that your predictions will be verified. I would rather win fortune by my own hand than by marriage, though it will not come amiss." "Whatever way it may happen, you will be knighted," the astrologist said gravely, "after a great battle, and by the hand of a sovereign; though by whom the battle will be fought and who the sovereign may be I cannot say, but methinks that it will be the English king." "That I can wish more than anything," Guy said warmly. "Fortune is good, but to be knighted by a royal hand would be an honour greater than any other that could befall me." "Bear your destiny in mind," the Italian said earnestly, "remember that in many cases predictions bring about their own fulfilment; and truly I am rejoiced that I have found that the stars point out so prosperous a future for you." Guy was not free from the superstition of the time, and although in his English home he had seldom heard astrology mentioned, he had found since he had been in France that many even of the highest rank had an implicit belief in it, and he was convinced that at any rate the count himself believed in the power of the stars. He was gratified, therefore, to be told that his future would be prosperous; and, indeed, the predictions were not so improbable as to excite doubt in themselves. He was already an esquire, and unless he fell in combat or otherwise, it was probable that he would attain the honour of knighthood before many years had passed. The fact, however, that it was to be bestowed by royal hand added greatly to the value of the honour. Knighthood was common in those days; it was bestowed almost as a matter of course upon young men of good birth, especially if they took up the profession of arms. Every noble had some, while not a few had many knights in their service, discharging what would now be the duties of officers when their levies were called out, and they could themselves bestow the rank upon any man possessing a certain amount of land; but to be knighted by a distinguished leader, or by a sovereign, was a distinction greatly prized, and placed its recipient in quite another category to the knights by service. It was a testimony alike of valour and of birth, and was a proof that its bearer was a warrior of distinction. The prophecy that he would better his fortune by marriage weighed little with him; marriage was a matter that appeared to him at present to be a very remote contingency; at the same time it was pleasant to him to be told that his wife would be an heiress, because this would place him above the need of earning his living by his sword, and would enable him to follow his sovereign, not as one of the train of a powerful noble, but as a free knight. CHAPTER IX -- A STOUT DEFENCE The Duke of Burgundy had left Paris upon the day after he had received Dame Margaret, and as the king had a lucid interval, the Duke of Aquitaine, his son, was also absent with the army. In Paris there existed a general sense of uneasiness and alarm. The butchers, feeling that their doings had excited a strong reaction against them, and that several of the other guilds, notably that of the carpenters, were combining against them, determined to strike terror into their opponents by attacking some of their leaders. Several of these were openly murdered in the streets, and the houses of others were burnt and sacked. One evening when Guy had returned at nine o'clock from a supper at Count Charles's lodgings, it being the first time he had been out after dark since his first adventure, he had but just gone up to his room, when he heard a loud knocking at the door below. Going to the front window he looked out of the casement. "Who is it that knocks?" he asked. "It is I--the lad of Notre Dame." He recognized the voice and ran down and opened the door. "What is it, signora?" "My father bids me tell you, sir, that he but learned the instant before he despatched me that the butchers are going to attack this house this evening, under the pretext that there are English spies here, but really to slay the provost of the silversmiths, and to gratify their followers by the sack of his house. I fear that I am too late, for they were to march from the _abattoirs_ at nine, and it is already nearly half-past. Look! I see torches coming up the street." "It is too late, indeed, to fly, even if we wished to," Guy said. "Dame Margaret and the children retired to bed an hour ago. Will you take this ring," and he took off from his finger one that D'Estournel had given him, "and carry it at once to the lodgings of Count Charles d'Estournel? They are in the house on this side of the Hotel of St. Pol. He is still up, and has some of his friends with him. Tell him from me that this house is being attacked, and beg him to gather a party, if he can, and come to our assistance. Say that we shall defend it until the last." The girl took the ring and ran off at the top of her speed. The roar of the distant crowd could now be distinctly heard. Guy put up the strong bars of the door and then rushed upstairs. First he knocked at the door of Maître Leroux. "The butchers are coming to attack your house!" he shouted. "Call up your servants; bid them take to their arms." Then he ran up to the room where his men slept. Long Tom, who had met him at D'Estournel's door and accompanied him home, sprang to his feet from his pallet as Guy entered. "The butchers are about to attack the house, Tom; up all of you and arm yourselves; bring down your bow and arrows. Where do the men-servants sleep?" "There are five of them in the next room, and the two who serve in the shop are in the chamber beyond," the archer replied, as he hastily buckled on his armour. Guy rushed to the door and awoke the inmates of the rooms, telling them to arm and hasten down to defend the house, which was about to be attacked. A moment later Maître Leroux himself appeared and repeated the order. "Art sure of what you say, Master Guy?" he asked. "Look from the window and you will see them approaching," Guy replied, and going to the casement window which was at the front of the house he threw it open. Some four hundred yards away a dense throng was coming along; a score of torches lighted up the scene. "Resistance is vain," the silversmith said. "It is my life they seek; I will go down to them." "Resistance will not be in vain," Guy said firmly. "I have already sent for aid, and we shall have a body of Burgundian men-at-arms here to our assistance before long. Your life will not satisfy them; it is the plunder of your shop and house that they long for, and you may be sure that they will put all to the sword if they once break in. Now let us run down and see what we can do to strengthen our defences." "The shutters and doors are all strong," the provost said as they hurried downstairs, followed by the four men-at-arms and the servants--for in those days men removed but few of their garments as they lay down on their rough pallets. "In the first place," Guy said, "we must pile everything that we can find below against these doors, so that when they yield we can still make a defence here, before we retire. Are there other stairs than these?" "No." "So much the better. As soon as we have blocked the door we will barricade the first landing and defend ourselves there. Jean Bart, do you take the command below for the present. Seize everything that you can lay hands on, logs from the wood-store, sacks of charcoal, cases, everything heavy that you can find, and pile them up against the door. Tom, do you come with us; an arrow or two will check their ardour, and it is not likely they have brought bows or cross-bows with them. Try to parley with them as long as you can, Maître Leroux, every minute is of value." "What is all this, Guy?" Dame Margaret asked as she entered the apartment. Having been aroused by the noise she had hastily attired herself, and had just come into the front room. "The butchers are about to attack the house, lady; we are going to defend it. I have sent to D'Estournel, and we may hope for aid before long." At this moment there was a loud knocking at the door and a hoarse roar of voices from the street. The silversmith went to the casement and opened it, and he and Guy looked out. A shout of fury arose from the street, with cries of "Death to the English spies!" "Death to the Armagnac provost!" Leroux in vain endeavoured to make his voice heard, and so tell the crowd that his guests were not spies, but had been lodged at his house by the Duke of Burgundy himself. A tall man on horseback, one of several who were evidently leaders of the mob, pressed his way through the crowd to the door and evidently gave some orders, and a din of heavy sledge-hammers and axes beating against it at once mingled with the shouts of the crowd. The horseman crossed again to the other side of the street and shook his fist threateningly at Leroux. "That is Jacques Legoix," the silversmith said, as he retired from the window; "one of the great leaders of the butchers; his family, and the St. Yons and Taiberts rule the market." "Tom," Guy said to the archer, who was standing behind him. "Begin by picking off that fellow on horseback opposite." Tom had already bent his bow and had an arrow in readiness, a moment later the shaft flew and struck the butcher between the eyes, and he fell dead from his horse. A yell of consternation and rage rose from the crowd. "Now you can distribute a few arrows among those fellows at the door," Guy said. The archer leant far out of the low casement. "It is awkward shooting, Master Guy," he said quietly, "but I daresay I can make a shift to manage it." Disregarding the furious yells of the crowd, he sent arrow after arrow among the men using the sledges and axes. Many of them had steel caps with projecting rims which sheltered the neck, but as they raised their weapons with both hands over their heads they exposed their chests to the marksman above, and not an arrow that was shot failed to bring down a man. When six had fallen no fresh volunteers came forward to take their places, although another horseman made his way up to them and endeavoured by persuasions and threats to induce them to continue the work. This man was clad in armour, and wore a steel cap in the place of the knightly helmet. "Who is that fellow?" Guy asked the merchant. "He is the son of Caboche, the head of the flayers, one of the most pestilent villains in the city." "Keep your eye on him, Tom, and when you see a chance send an arrow home." "That armour of his is but common stuff, Master Guy; as soon as I get a chance I will send a shaft through it." The man with a gesture of anger turned and gave instructions to a number of men, who pushed their way through the crowd, first picking up some of the fallen hammers and axes. The fate of his associate had evidently taught the horseman prudence, for as he moved away he kept his head bent down so as not to expose his face to the aim of the terrible marksman at the window. He halted a short distance away and was evidently haranguing the crowd round him, and in his vehemence raised his arm. The moment he did so Tom's bow twanged. The arrow struck him at the unprotected part under the arm-pit, and he fell headlong from his horse. Maddened with rage the crowd no longer hesitated, and again attacked the door. Just as they did so there was a roar of exultation down the street as twelve men brought up a solid gate that they had beaten in and wrenched from its hinges from a house beyond. [Illustration: "TOM'S BOW TWANGED, AND THE ARROW STRUCK THE HORSEMAN UNDER THE ARM-PIT."] "You can shoot as you like now, Tom. I will go down and see how the men are getting on below; the mob will have the door in sooner or later." Guy found that the men below had not wasted their time. A great pile of logs, sacks, and other materials was piled against the door, and a short distance behind stood a number of barrels of wine and heavy cases ready to be placed in position. "Get them upstairs, Jean," Guy said; "they will make a better barricade than the furniture, which we may as well save if possible." The nine men set to work, and in a very short time a strong barricade was formed across the top of the wide staircase. "Have you all the cases out of the shop?" "Yes, we have not left one there, Master Guy. If they are all full of silver there must be enough for a royal banqueting-table." Some, indeed, of the massive chests were so heavy that it required the efforts of six men to carry them upstairs. "How do matters go, Guy?" Dame Margaret asked quietly as he re-entered the apartment. "Very well," he replied. "I don't think the door will hold out much longer; but there is a strong barricade behind it which it will take them some time to force, and another on the landing here that we ought to be able to hold for an hour at least, and before that yields we will have another ready on the landing above." "I will see to that," she said. "I will take Agnes and Charlie up with me, and then, with the women, I will move out the clothes' and linen chests and build them up there." "Thank you, madame; I trust long before the barricade here is carried we shall have D'Estournel and his friends to our assistance. Indeed, I doubt whether they will be able to carry it at all; it is as solid and almost as strong as a stone wall, and as there are thirteen or fourteen of us to defend it, it seems to me that nothing short of battering the cases to pieces will enable them to force a way." "I wish I could do something," Agnes broke in; "it is hard not to be able to help while you are all fighting for us. I wish I had brought my bow with me, you know I can shoot fairly." "I think that it is just as well that you have not," Guy said with a smile. "I do not doubt your courage for a moment, but if you were placing yourself in danger we should all be anxious about you, and I would much rather know that you were safe with your mother upstairs." Guy now went to the window. Maître Leroux had been directing his servants in the formation of the barricades. "I can do nothing to protect the door," the archer said; "they have propped up that gate so as to cover the men who are hammering at it. I have been distributing my arrows among the crowd, and in faith there will be a good many vacancies among the butchers and flayers in the market tomorrow morning. I am just going up to fill my quiver again and bring down a spare armful of arrows." "Leave those on the landing here, Tom, and bring your full quiver down below. The door will not hold many minutes longer: I could see that it was yielding when I was down there just now. I don't think that we shall be able to make a long defence below, for with their hooked halberts they will be able to pull out the logs, do what we will." One of the servants now ran in. "They have broken the door down, sir. It is only kept in place by the things behind it." Guy ran out, climbed the barricade--which on the landing was four feet high, but as it was built on the edge of the top stair it was nine inches higher on that face--let himself drop on to the stairs, and ran down into the passage. "I think, Maître Leroux," he said, "that you and your men had better go up at once and station yourselves at the barricade. There is no room here for more than five of us to use our arms, and when we retire we shall have to do so quickly. Will you please fasten a chair on the top step in such a way that we can use it to climb over the barricade without delay? We are like to be hard pressed, and it is no easy matter to get over a five-foot wall speedily with a crowd of armed men pressing hotly on your heels." The provost told two of his men to pick out a square block of firewood, as nearly as possible the thickness of the height of one of the steps. After trying several they found one that would do, and on placing it on the stair next to the top it formed with the step above it a level platform. On this the chair was placed, a strong rope being attached to it so that it could be pulled up over the barricade when the last of the defenders had entered. By the time this was finished the battle below began in earnest. The infuriated assailants had pulled the doors outwards and were making desperate efforts to climb the pile of logs. This they soon found to be impossible, and began with their halberts to pull them down, and it was not long before they had dislodged sufficient to make a slope up which they could climb. Their work had not been carried on with impunity, for the archer had stationed himself on the top and sent his arrows thick and fast among them. "In faith, master," he said to Guy, who stood close behind, "methinks that I am doing almost as much harm as good, for I am aiding them mightily in making their slope, which will presently contain as many dead men as logs." As soon as they deemed the slope climbable the furious assailants charged up. They were met by Guy and the four men-at-arms. Tom had now slung his bow behind him and had betaken himself to his heavy axe, which crashed through the iron caps of the assailants as though they had been eggshells. But in such numbers did they press on that Guy saw that this barricade could not be much longer held. "Get ready to retire when I give the word!" he shouted to his companions. "Tom, you and Jules Varoy and Robert Picard run first upstairs. When you have climbed the barricade, do you, Tom, take your place on the top. Jean Bart and I will come up last, and you can cover us with your arrows. Tell Maître Leroux to remove the light into the room, so that they will not be able to see what there is to encounter, while these torches here and those held by the crowd will enable you to see well enough to take aim. Now!" he shouted, "fall back!" Tom and the two men-at-arms sprang up the stairs, Guy and Jean Bart followed more slowly, and halted a few steps from the top. "All up, master!" Tom shouted, and Jean and Guy were able to cross the barricade before the foremost of their pursuers reached them. There had indeed been confusion below, for several of those who had first climbed the barricade had, instead of pressing hotly in pursuit, run along the hall and through the door into the shop, in their eagerness to be the first to seize upon the plunder. They expected the others to follow their example, but one of their leaders placed himself in their way and threatened to cut them down if they did not first assault the stairs. "Fools!" he shouted, "do you think that the old fox has wasted the time we have given him? You may be sure that the richest prizes have been carried above." There was an angry altercation, which was continued until those who had first run into the shop returned with the news that it had been completely stripped of its contents. There was now no longer any hesitation in obeying their leader, and the men poured up the stairs in a mass. Suddenly some torches appeared above, and those in front saw with consternation the obstacle that stood between them and their prey. They had little time for consideration, however, for the arrows from the archer now smote them, and that with a force and rapidity that bewildered them. Five or six of those in front fell shot through the brain. "Heads down!" a voice shouted. There was no retreat for those in front, for the mass behind pressed them forward, and, instinctively obeying the order, they ran up. But neither helm nor breast-plate availed to keep out the terrible English arrows, which clove their way through the iron as if it had been pasteboard. Stumbling over the bodies of those who had fallen, the front rank of the assailants at last reached the barricade, but here their progress was arrested. A line of men stood behind the smooth wall of massive cases, and those who strove to climb it were smitten with axe or sword, while they themselves could not reach the defenders above them. They could but thrust blindly with pike or halbert, for if a face was raised to direct the aim one of the deadly arrows struck it instantly. In vain they strove by the aid of the halberts to haul down a case from its position, the weight was too great for one man's strength to move, and before several could grasp the handle of the halbert to aid them, the shaft was cut in two by the blow of an axe. Hopeless as the attempt seemed, it was persevered in, for the crowd below, ignorant of the nature of the obstacle, maddened with fury and with the wine which had been freely served out before starting, still pressed forward, each fearing that the silversmith's treasures would be appropriated before he could obtain his share. For half an hour the fight continued, then there was a roar in the street, and Dame Margaret, who, after seeing the barricade above completed, had come down to her room and was gazing along the street, ran out on to the landing. "Help is at hand!" she cried, "the knights are coming!" Then came the loud tramp of horses, mingled with shouts of "Burgundy!" The crowd at the entrance at once turned and ran out, and as the alarm reached those within, they too rushed down, until the stairs were untenanted save by the dead. Bidding the others hold their places lest the assailants should return, Guy ran in and joined Lady Margaret at the window. A fierce conflict was going on in the street, with shouts of "Burgundy!" "A rescue!" "A rescue!" The knights, who were followed by some fifty men-at-arms, rode into the mob, hewing them down with their swords. The humiliations that they had received from the arrogance and insolence of the butchers had long rankled in their minds, and they now took a heavy vengeance. The windows of all the houses opposite, from which men and women had been peering timidly out, were now crowded; women waving their handkerchiefs to the knights, and men loudly shouting greetings and encouragements. The whole of the traders of Paris were bitterly opposed to the domination of the market guilds, and while they cared but little for the quarrel between the rival dukes, the alliance between Burgundy and the butchers naturally drove them to sympathize with the opposite party. The proof afforded by the charge of the knights upon the mob delighted them, as showing that, allied with them though they might be, the Burgundians were determined no longer to allow the rioting and excesses of the men of the market guilds to continue. In two or three minutes all was over. The resistance, though fierce, was short, and the mob was driven down the side streets and chased until the trading quarter was cleared of them. As the knights returned Guy went down to the door, to which Maître Leroux had already descended to thank his rescuers for their timely aid. "I thank you, my lords and knights," the silversmith said, "for the timely succour you have rendered me. I would pray you to enter and to allow me to thank you in more worthy fashion, but indeed the stairs and passage are encumbered with dead." "Dame Margaret of Villeroy prays me to say that she also desires greatly to thank you," Guy said. "I feared that we should have been too late," Count Charles replied. "We lost no time when your messenger came, Guy, but it took some time to rouse the men-at-arms and to saddle our horses. You must have made a stout defence indeed, judging by the pile of dead that encumber your passage." "There are many more inside," Guy said, "and methinks that we could have held out for another hour yet if it had been needed. Indeed, the only thing that I feared was that they might set fire to the lower part of the house." "I should like to see your defences, Maître Leroux," Count Walter de Vesoul said, "What say you, my friends, shall we mount and see the scene of this battle? Methinks we might well gain something by it, for 'tis no slight thing that an unfortified house should for over an hour defend itself against a mob full a couple of thousand strong. I doubt not, too, that Master Leroux will serve us with a flagon of wine; and, moreover, we should surely pay our respects to this English lady,--who while a hostage of the duke has been thus sorely ill-treated by the scum of Paris,--if she will please receive us at this hour of the evening." The other knights, of whom there were ten in number, at once dismounted. The silversmith's servants brought torches, and after ordering two of them to broach a cask of wine and to regale the men-at-arms, the provost led the way upstairs. "Wait a moment, good provost," the Count de Vesoul said, "let us understand the thing from the beginning. I see that the knaves lying here and many of those in the road are pierced by arrows, which, as I note, have in some cases gone through iron cap or breast-piece; how comes that?" "That is the work of one of my lady's retainers. He is an English archer, and one of the most skilful. He comes from her English estate, and when she chose him as one of the four men-at-arms to accompany her, he begged leave to bring his bow and arrows, and has in truth, as you see, made good use of them." "That is the same tall fellow who, as I told you, Walter, did me such good service in that fray," said D'Estournel. "By Saint Anne, Guy, I would that I had a dozen such men among my varlets. Why, there are a round dozen lying outside the door." "There would have been more," Guy said, "had they not brought up that great gate and used it as a screen while they battered in the door here." "Then you built the barricade behind it?" Count Walter said as he climbed over the heap of logs. "Yes, Count, it was built against the door, but when that gave way they pulled it down with halberts until they could climb over it. But, as you see, no small portion of slope on the outside is composed of their bodies. The archer's arrows did good execution as they worked at it, and when they made the assault we--that is to say, Dame Margaret's four retainers and I--held it for some time, then we retired up the stairs and defended that barricade we had built across the top." The knights picked their way among the bodies that encumbered the stairs. "By Saint Denis, Charles, this is a strong work indeed!" the count said to D'Estournel, as they reached the top; "no wonder the knaves found it too much for them. What are all these massive cases?" "They contain the goods from my shop," Maître Leroux said. "Master Aylmer had them carried here while the archer was defending the door, and by so doing not only made, as you see, a stout breast-work, but saved them from being plundered." "They were well fitted for it," Guy said, "for they are very weighty; and though the fellows tried hard they could not move them with their hooks, and as fast as they strove to do so the provost's men and ours struck off the heads of the halberts with axes; and the work was all the more difficult as our archer had always a shaft fitted to let fly whenever they lifted their heads." "But how did you manage to get over safely when they won the barricade below?" D'Estournel asked; "it was not an easy feat to climb this wall with a crowd of foemen behind." Guy explained how they had arranged a chair to form a step. "There was, however," he went on, "no great need for haste. The archer and two others went first, and he took his stand on the top of the chests in readiness to cover the retreat of the fourth man-at-arms and myself. But happily many of the knaves wanted to sack the shop more than to follow us, and there was such confusion below, that we had time to climb over and pull up the chair before they had mustered to the attack." While they were talking Long Tom and the others had removed one of the chests and made a passage by which they could pass through, and Maître Leroux led them into his private apartments, which were similar to, although larger than, Dame Margaret's. A number of candles had already been lighted, and in a minute Mistress Leroux entered, followed by two of her maids carrying trays with great beakers of wine and a number of silver goblets, and she and the provost then poured out the wine and offered it with further expressions of thanks to the knights. "Say naught about it, madame," Count Walter said; "it was high time that a check was put on these rough fellows who lord it over Paris and deem themselves its masters. I doubt not that they will raise some outcry and lay their complaint before the duke; but you, I trust, and other worthy citizens, will be beforehand with them, and send off a messenger to him laying complaints against these fellows for attacking, plundering, and burning at their will the houses of those of better repute than themselves. We have come to your help not as officers of the duke, but as knights and gentlemen who feel it a foul wrong that such things should be done. Moreover, as Dame Margaret of Villeroy, a hostage of the duke, was lodged here at his request, it was a matter that nearly touched his honour that her life should be placed in danger by these scurvy knaves, and we shall so represent the matter to the duke." Just as the knights had drunk their wine, Guy, who had left them on the landing, entered, escorting Dame Margaret and her two children. Count Charles d'Estournel, after saluting her, presented his companions to her, and she thanked each very heartily for the succour they had brought so opportunely. "In truth, lady," the Count de Vesoul said, "methinks from what we saw that you might even have managed without us, so stoutly were you defended by your esquire and your retainers, aided as they were by those of the provost, though in the end it may be that these must have succumbed to numbers; for I can well imagine that your assailants, after the loss that they have suffered, would have spared no effort to avenge themselves, and might indeed, as a last resource, have fired the house. This they would no doubt have done long before had it not been that by so doing they would have lost all the plunder that they counted on. This stout defence will no doubt teach these fellows some moderation, for they will see that citizens' houses are not to be plundered without hard fighting and much loss. As for ourselves, we shall see the Duke of Burgundy's lieutenant to-morrow morning and lay the matter before him, praying him to issue a proclamation saying that in order to suppress the shameful disorders that have taken place, he gives notice that all who attack the houses of peaceful citizens will henceforth be treated as evildoers and punished accordingly." After some further conversation the knights prepared to leave. "I shall do myself the honour, sirs," Maître Leroux said, "of sending to your lodgings to-morrow the cups that you have used, as a small testimony of my gratitude to you, and as a memorial of the events of this evening." While they were upstairs the men-at-arms and servants had been employed in clearing the stairs, throwing the bodies that had encumbered it out into the street. The men-at-arms of the knights had, after drinking the wine that had been sent out to them, aided in clearing the passage; buckets of water had been thrown down on the stairs, and the servitors by a vigorous use of brooms had removed most of the traces of the fray. The work had just been finished, and Dame Margaret's men had, by Guy's orders, stationed themselves on the landing to do honour to the knights as they set out. "Ah, my tall friend," D'Estournel said to the archer, "so you have been at work again, and I can see that you are even more doughty with the bow than with that long staff of yours. Well, this time there must have been enough fighting to please even you." "It has been an indifferent good fight, my lord," Tom said; "but in truth, save for the stand on that pile of logs below, when things were for a time brisk, it has been altogether too one-sided to please me." "Most people would think that the one-sidedness was all the other way," D'Estournel laughed. "Well, men, you have all done your duty to your lady right well this night, and there is not one of us here who would not gladly have such brave fellows in his service. I see that you are all four wounded." "They are scarce to be called wounds, Sir Count, seeing that they are but flesh cuts from their halberts which we got in the fray below. These slaughterers can doubtless strike a good blow with a pole-axe, but they are but clumsy varlets with other weapons. But to give them their due, they fought stoutly if with but little skill or discretion." Several of the others also said a few words of commendation to the men. The provost and Guy escorted the knights to the door below. The latter had ordered twenty of their men-at-arms to remain in the house until morning, after which ten were to stay there until the doors had been repaired and refixed. As soon as the knights had ridden off the silversmith ordered several bundles of rushes to be strewn in the shop for the guard, and a meal of cold meat to be set for their supper. Two of them were posted as sentinels at the door. "I shall not open the shop to-morrow," he said as he ascended the stairs with Guy, "nor indeed shall I do so until things have settled down. There will be for some time a mighty animosity on the part of these butchers and skinners against me, and it is only reasonable that after such an attack I should close my shop. Those who have dealings with me will know that they can do their business with me in private. And now methinks we will retire to bed; 'tis past midnight, and there is no fear of our being disturbed again. If they send anyone to spy out whether we are on the watch, the sight of the Burgundian soldiers below will suffice to tell them that there is nothing to be done. The first thing tomorrow I will set the carpenters to work to make me an even stronger pair of doors than those that have been spoilt." CHAPTER X -- AFTER THE FRAY On going into Dame Margaret's apartments Guy found that she had again retired to rest, and at once threw himself on his bed without disrobing himself further than taking off his armour, for he felt that it was possible the assailants might return after finding that the Burgundian knights and men-at-arms had ridden away. He had told the men-at-arms to keep watch by turns at the top of the stairs, where the barricade still remained, and to run in to wake him should they hear any disturbance whatever at the door below. He slept but lightly, and several times went out to see that the watch was being well kept, and to look up and down the street to assure himself that all was quiet. "You did nobly last night, Guy," Dame Margaret said as she met him in the morning; "Sir Eustace himself could have done no better had he been here. When I next write to my lord I shall tell him how well you have protected us, and pray him to send word of it to your father." "I did my best, lady; but it is to Long Tom that it is chiefly due that our defence was made good. It was his shooting that caused the long delay in breaking open the door, and that enabled us to hold the barricade below, and he also stoutly aided in the defence of the landing." "Nevertheless, Guy, it was under your direction that all things were done. It is to the leader who directs that the first praise is due rather than to the strongest and bravest of his men-at-arms. It was, too, owing to your interference on behalf of Count Charles d'Estournel that we owe it that succour came to us; it was his friendship for you that prompted him to gather his friends to come to our aid; and it was the warning, short though it was, sent us by that strange Italian that enabled you to send to the count for aid. I must see his daughter and thank her personally for the part she played in the matter. No, Guy, had it not been for you this house would now have been an empty shell, and all of us would have been lying under its ruins. I have been thinking during the night that you must be most careful when you go abroad; you know that the son of that monster Caboche, the leader of the skinners, and doubtless many leaders of the butchers, among them Legoix, were killed, and their friends are certain to endeavour to take vengeance on you. They saw you at the window, they will know that you are my esquire, and will doubtless put down their defeat entirely to you. You cannot be too careful, and, above all, you must not venture out at night save on grave occasion. Agnes," she broke off as the girl entered the room, "you too must thank our brave esquire for having so stoutly defended us." "I do thank you most heartily, Guy," the girl said, "though I felt it very hard that I could do nothing to help you. It was terrible sitting here and hearing the fight so close to us, and the dreadful shouts and screams of those people, and to have nothing to do but to wait. Not that I was frightened, I felt quite confident that you would beat them, but it was so hard to sit quiet. I should not have minded so much if I could have been standing there to see the brave deeds that were being done." "Like the queen of a tournament, Agnes," her mother said with a smile. "Yes, indeed, it is one of the hardships of us women. It is only when a castle is besieged and her lord is away that a woman may buckle on armour and set an example to her retainers by showing herself on the wall and risking the enemies' bolts, or even, if necessary, taking her place with her retainers on the breach; at other times she must be passive and wait while men fight." "If I had only had my bow," Agnes said regretfully, "I could really have done something. You would have let me go out then, mother, would you not?" "I don't know, dear; no, I don't think I should. It was anxious work enough for me as it was. If you had gone out I must have done so, and then Charlie would have wanted to go too. No; it was much better that we all sat together as we did, waiting quietly for what might come, and praying for those who were fighting for us." "I was glad that Madame Leroux stayed upstairs with her maid instead of coming down here as you asked her, mother; she looked so scared and white that I do think it would have been worse than listening to the fighting to have had to sit and look at her." Dame Margaret smiled. "Yes, Agnes, but I think that she was more frightened for her husband than for herself, and I don't suppose that she had ever been in danger before. Indeed, I must say that to look out at that crowd of horrible creatures below, brandishing their weapons, shouting and yelling, was enough to terrify any quiet and peaceable woman. As a knight's wife and daughter it was our duty to be calm and composed and to set an example, but a citizen's wife would not feel the same obligation, and might show her alarm without feeling that she disgraced herself or her husband." On going out Guy found their host already engaged in a conference with a master carpenter as to the construction of the new doors. They were to be very strong and heavy, made of the best oak, and protected by thick sheets of iron; the hinges were to be of great strength to bear the weight. A smith had also arrived to receive instructions for making and setting very strong iron bars before the shop, the front of which would require to be altered to allow of massive shutters being erected on the inside. Iron gates were also to be fixed before the door. "That will make something like a fortress of it, Master Aylmer," the silversmith said, "and it will then need heavy battering-rams to break into it. Several others of my craft similarly protect their shops; and certainly no one can blame me, after the attack of last night, for taking every means to defend myself. I intend to enlist a party of ten fighting men to act as a garrison until these troubles are all over." "I think that you will act wisely in doing so," Guy said. "Your servants all bore themselves bravely last night, but they had no defensive armour and were unaccustomed to the use of weapons. Only I would advise you to be very careful as to the men that you engage, or you may find your guard within as dangerous as the mob without." "I will take every pains as to that, you may be sure, and will engage none save after a careful inquiry into their characters." The streets had already been cleared of the slain. All through the night little parties had searched for and carried off their dead, and when at early morning the authorities sent a party down to clear the street there remained but some twenty-five bodies, evidently by their attire belonging to the lowest class, and presumably without friends. That day petitions and complaints were sent to the king by the provosts of the merchants, the gold and silver smiths, the cloth merchants, the carpenters and others, complaining of the tumults caused by the butchers and their allies, and especially of the attack without cause or reason upon the house of Maître Leroux, the worshipful provost of the silversmiths. Several skirmishes occurred in the evening between the two parties, but an order was issued in the name of the king to the Maire and syndics of Paris rebuking them for allowing such disturbances and tumults, and ordering them to keep a portion of the burgher guard always under arms, and to repress such disturbances, and severely punish those taking part in them. Maître Leroux and his wife paid a formal visit to Dame Margaret early in the day to thank her for the assistance that her retainers had given in defending the house. "You were good enough to say, madame," the silversmith said, "that you regretted the trouble that your stay here gave us. We assured you then, and truly, that the trouble was as nothing, and that we felt your presence as an honour; now you see it has turned out more. Little did we think when you came here but a few days since that your coming would be the means of preserving our lives and property, yet so it has been, for assuredly if it had not been for your esquire and brave retainers we should have been murdered last night. As it is we have not only saved our lives but our property, and save for the renewal of the doors we shall not have been the losers even in the value of a crown piece. Thus, from being our guests you have become our benefactors; and one good result of what has passed is, that henceforth you will feel that, however long your stay here, and however much we may try to do for you, it will be but a trifle towards the discharge of the heavy obligation under which we feel to you." After a meeting of the city council that afternoon, a guard of ten men was sent to the silversmith's to relieve the Burgundian men-at-arms. Five of these were to be on duty night and day until the house was made secure by the new doors and iron grill erected in front of the shop. Guy proposed to Dame Margaret that he should give up his visit to the _salle d'armes_, but this she would not hear of. "I myself and the children will go no more abroad until matters become more settled, but it is on all accounts well that you should go to the school of arms. Already the friends that you have made have been the means of saving our lives, and it is well to keep them. We know not what is before us, but assuredly we need friends. Maître Leroux was telling me this morning that the Armagnacs are fast approaching, and that in a few days they will be within a short distance of Paris. Their approach will assuredly embitter the hostility between the factions here, and should they threaten the town there may be fierce fighting within the walls as well as without. At present, at any rate, there are likely to be no more disturbances such as that of last night, and therefore no occasion for you to remain indoors. Even these butchers, arrogant as they are, will not venture to excite the indignation that would be caused by another attack on this house. That, however, will make it all the more likely that they will seek revenge in other ways, and that the house will be watched at night and any that go out followed and murdered. "You and Tom the archer are no doubt safe enough from the attack of ordinary street ruffians, but no two men, however strong and valiant, can hope to defend themselves successfully against a score of cut-throats. But I pray you on your way to the school go round and thank, in my name, this Italian and his daughter, and say that I desire much to thank the young lady personally for the immense service she has rendered me and my children. Take the archer with you, for even in the daytime there are street brawls in which a single man who had rendered himself obnoxious could readily be despatched." "In faith, Master Guy," Long Tom said as they sallied out, "it seems to me that if our stay in Paris is a prolonged one I shall return home rich enough to buy me an estate, for never did money so flow into my pocket. We have been here but a short time, and I have gained as much and more than I should do in a year of hard service. First there was that young French count, the very next morning when he called here he gave me a purse with thirty crowns, telling me pleasantly that it was at the rate of five crowns for each skull I cracked on his behalf. Then this morning Maître Leroux came to me and said, 'Good fellow, it is greatly to your skill and valour that I owe my life, and that of my wife; this will help you to set up housekeeping; when you return home,' and he gave me a purse with a hundred crowns in it; what think you of that, master? The other three also got purses of fifty crowns each. If that is the rate of pay in Paris for a couple of hours' fighting, I do not care how often I take a share in a fray." "You are doing well indeed, Tom, but you must remember that sooner or later you might go into a fray and lose your life, and with it the chance of buying that estate you speak of." "We must all take our chances, master, and there is no winning a battle without the risk of the breaking of casques. Are we going to the house we went to the first night we came here, Master Guy? Methinks that this is the street we stopped at." "Yes, Tom. It was the man who lives here who sent me word that the butchers were going to attack the provost's house, by the same messenger who met us before Notre Dame, and who last night, after warning me, carried my message to Count Charles, praying him to come to our aid." "Then he did us yeoman service," the archer said warmly, "though I think not that they would have carried the barricade had they fought till morning." "Perhaps not, though I would not say so for certain, for they might have devised some plan such as they did for covering themselves while they assaulted the door. But even had they not done so they would have been sure before they retired to have fired the house." "That is what I thought of when they were attacking us," the archer said, "and wondered why they should waste men so freely when a torch would have done their business just as well for them." "That would have been so, Tom, had they only wished to kill us; but though, no doubt, the leaders desired chiefly the life of the provost, the mob simply fought for plunder. If they had found all the jeweller's store in his shop, they would have fired the house very quickly when they discovered that they could not get at us. But it was the plunder that they wanted, and it was the sight of those chests full of silver-ware that made them venture their lives so freely, in order to have the handling of it. I do not think that I shall be long here, Tom. Do not wait for me at the door, but stroll up and down, keeping a short distance away, so that I can see you when I come out." A decrepit old woman opened the door, and on Guy giving his name she said that she had orders to admit him if he called. The girl came out dressed in her female attire as he went upstairs. "Ah, signor," she said, "I am glad indeed to see that you are safe." "Thanks to you," he said warmly; "we are all your debtors indeed." "I had but to run a mile or two," she said; "but what was there in that? But indeed I had an anxious time, I so feared that I should be too late. When I had seen the Count d'Estournel and delivered your message to him and had shown him your ring, and he and his friends had declared that they would call up their men and come at once to your aid, I could not go back and wait until this morning to learn if they arrived in time, so I ran to your street again and hid in a doorway and looked out. Just as I got there they broke in the door and I saw some of them rush in. But there was a pause, though they were all pressing to enter. They went in very slowly, and I knew that you must be defending the entrance. At last there was a sudden rush, and I almost cried out. I thought that it was all over. A great many entered and then there was a pause again. The crowd outside became more and more furious; it was dreadful to hear their shouts and to see the waving of torches and weapons. "They seemed to be almost mad to get in. The crush round the door was terrible, and it was only when two or three horsemen rode in among them shouting, that the press ceased a little. One horseman obtained silence for a moment by holding up his hand. He told them that their friends inside were attacking a barricade, and would soon carry it, and then there would be silver enough for all; but that by pressing forward they did but hamper the efforts of their comrades. It seemed, oh, such a long, long time before I saw the Burgundians coming along, and I could not help throwing my cap up and shouting when they charged into the crowd. I waited until it was all over, and then I ran back home and had a rare scolding for being out so late; but I did not mind that much, after knowing that you were all safe." At this moment a voice from the landing above said: "Are you going to keep Master Aylmer there all day with your chattering, Katarina?" The girl made a little face and nodded to Guy to go upstairs. "Katarina is becoming a madcap," the astrologer said, as he led Guy into the room. "I cannot blame her altogether; I have made a boy of her, and I ought not to be shocked at her acting like one. But she gave me a rare fright last night when she did not return until close on midnight. Still, it was natural for her to wish to see how her mission had turned out." "Her quickness saved all our lives," Guy said. "Had it not been for her carrying my message to the Count d'Estournel we should have been burnt alive before morning." "It was unfortunate that I sent you the message so late, Master Aylmer. I was busy when a medical student who sometimes gathers news for me in the butchers' quarter came here, and left a missive for me. Had he sent up a message to me that it was urgent, I would have begged the personage I had with me to wait a moment while I read the letter. As it was, it lay downstairs till my visitor departed. When I learned the news I sent off Katarina at once. She had but a short time before come in, and was fortunately still in her boy's dress, so there was no time lost. I went out myself at ten o'clock to see what was going on, and must have been close to her without either of us knowing it. I looked on for a short time; but seeing that nothing could be done, and feeling sure that the house must be taken,--knowing nothing of the chance of the Burgundians coming to the rescue,--I returned here and was surprised to find that Katarina had not returned. "I did not think that she could have reached the shop and warned you before the mob arrived, and therefore I became greatly alarmed as the time went by without her appearing. Indeed, my only hope was that she must have been looking on at the fight and would return when it was all over, as indeed it turned out; and I should have rated her much more soundly than I did had she not told me how she had fetched the Burgundians and that they had arrived in time. I hear that there is a great stir this morning. The number of men they have lost, and specially the deaths of Legoix and of the young Caboche, have infuriated the butchers and skinners. They have already sent off two of their number to lay their complaint before the Duke of Burgundy of the conduct of some of his knights in attacking them when they were assailing the house of a noted Armagnac. But they feel that they themselves for the moment must remain quiet, as the royal order has emboldened the Maire, supported by the traders' guilds, and notably by the carpenters, who are a very strong body, to call out a portion of the city guard, and to issue an order that all making disturbances, whomsoever they may be and under whatsoever pretext they are acting, will be summarily hung if captured when so engaged. "In spite of this there will no doubt be troubles; but they will not venture again to attack the house of the silversmith, at any rate until an order comes from the Duke of Burgundy to forbid his knights from interfering in any way with their doings." "Which I trust he will not send," Guy said; "and I doubt if the knights will obey it if it comes. They are already much enraged at the insolence of the butchers, and the royal proclamation this morning will justify them in aiding to put down disturbances whatsoever may be the duke's orders. And now, Sir Count, I have come hither this morning on behalf of my lady mistress to thank you for sending the news, and still more for the service your daughter rendered in summoning the knights to her assistance. She desires much to return thanks herself to your daughter, and will either call here to see her or would gladly receive her at her lodging should you prefer that." "I should prefer it, Master Aylmer. Your lady can scarce pass through the streets unnoticed, for her English appearance marks her at once; and as all know she lodges at the silversmith's, she will be more particularly noticed after the events of last night, and her coming here will attract more attention to me than I care for. Therefore I will myself bring Katarina round and will do myself the honour of calling upon your lady. I can wrap the girl up in a cloak so that she shall not attract any observation, for no one knows, save the old woman below, that I have a daughter here; and with so many calling at the house, and among them some reckless young court gallants, I care not that it should be known, if for no other reason than, were it so, it would be soon suspected that the lad who goes so often in and out is the girl in disguise, and I could then no longer trust her in the streets alone." "You will find my lady in at whatever hour you come, signor, for she has resolved not to go abroad again until order is restored in Paris." "The decision is a wise one," the Italian said; "though indeed I think not that she would be in any danger, save that which every good-looking woman runs in troubled times like these, when crime is unpunished, and those in authority are far too occupied with their own affairs to trouble their heads about a woman being carried off. But it is different with you and your comrade. The butchers know well enough that it was your work that caused their failure last night. Your appearance at the window was noticed, and it was that tall archer of yours who played such havoc among them. Therefore I advise you to be ever on your guard, and to purchase a mail shirt and wear it under your doublet; for, however watchful you may be, an assassin may steal up behind you and stab you in the back. You may be sure that Caboche and the friends of Legoix will spare no pains to take vengeance upon you." Guy presently rejoined the archer in the street. "Henceforth, Tom," he said, "you must always put on breast-and-back piece when you go out. I have been warned that our lives will almost surely be attempted, and that I had best put on a mail shirt under my doublet." "Perhaps it would be best, Master Guy. I fear not three men if they stand up face to face with me, but to be stabbed in the back is a thing that neither strength nor skill can save one from. But as I care not to be always going about in armour I will expend some of my crowns in buying a shirt of mail also. 'Tis better by far than armour, for a man coming up behind could stab one over the line of the back-piece or under the arm, while if you have mail under your coat they will strike at you fair between the shoulders, and it is only by striking high up on the neck that they have any chance with you. A good coat of mail is money well laid out, and will last a lifetime; and even if it cost me all the silversmith's crowns I will have a right good one." Guy nodded. He was wondering in his own mind how he should be able to procure one. His father had given him a purse on starting, but the money might be needed for emergencies. He certainly could not ask his mistress for such a sum, for she too might have need of the money that she had brought with her. He was still turning it over in his mind when they reached the fencing-school. He was greeted with acclamations as he entered by the young count and his friends. "Here is our defender of houses," the former exclaimed. "Truly, Guy, you have given a lesson to the butchers that they sorely needed. They say that the king himself, who is in one of his good moods to-day, has interested himself mightily in the fray last night, and that he has expressed a wish to hear of it from the esquire who he has been told commanded the defence. So it is not unlikely that there will be a royal message for you to attend at the palace. Fortunately we had the first say in the matter this morning. My father returned last night, and as he is rather a favourite of his majesty, we got him to go to the king and obtain audience as soon as he arose, to complain of the conduct of the butchers in attacking the house of the provost of the silversmiths, and where, moreover, Dame Villeroy, who had arrived here in obedience to his majesty's own commands, was lodged. The king when he heard it was mightily offended. He said he had not been told of her coming, and that this insult to her touched his honour. He sent at once for the Maire and syndics, and upbraided them bitterly for allowing such tumults to take place, and commanded them to put a stop to them under pain of his severe displeasure. "That accounts, you see, for the Maire's proclamation this morning. The king desired my father to thank me and the other knights and gentlemen for having put down the riot, and said that he would at once send off a message to the Duke of Burgundy commanding him to pay no attention to any reports the butchers might send to him, but to give them a stern answer that the king was greatly displeased with their conduct, and that if any fresh complaint about them was made he would straightway have all their leaders hung. "It is one thing to threaten, and another to do, Guy; but at any rate, so long as the duke is away they will see that they had best keep quiet; for when the king is in his right senses and is not swayed by others, he is not to be trifled with. "You can imagine what an excitement there was last night when that boy you sent arrived. The ring was sent up first, and when I gave orders that he should be admitted he came in well-nigh breathless. There were six or eight of us, and all were on the point of leaving. Thinking that it might be something private, they had taken up their hats and cloaks. The boy, as he came in, said, 'Which of you is Count Charles d'Estournel?' 'I am,' I said. 'You are the bearer of a message from Guy Aylmer?' 'I am, my lord. He prays you hasten to his assistance, for the butchers and skinners are attacking Maître Leroux's house, and had begun to hammer on the door when I was still in the street. If they make their way in, they will surely kill all they find in there. They are shouting, 'Death to the Armagnacs! Death to the English spies!' "I called upon my comrades to join me, and all were eager to do so. We had long been smarting under the conduct of these ruffians, and moreover I was glad to discharge a part of my debt to you. So each ran to his lodgings and despatched servitors to summon their men-at-arms, and to order the horses to be saddled, and to gather in front of my lodging with all speed. Two or three of my friends who had left earlier were also summoned; but though we used all the speed we could it was more than an hour before all were assembled. The men-at-arms were scattered, and had to be roused; then there was the work of getting the stables open, and we had to force the doors in some places to do it. I was on thorns, as you may well imagine, and had little hope when we started that we should find any of you alive. Delighted indeed we were when, on getting near enough, we could see the crowd were stationary, and guessed at once that you were still holding out--though how you could have kept so large a number at bay was beyond us. We struck heartily and heavily, you may be sure, and chased the wolves back to their dens with a will. I hear that, what with those you slew in the house and street and those we cut down, it is reckoned that a couple of hundred were killed; though as to this none can speak with certainty, seeing that so many bodies were carried away before morning." "I trust that none of you received wounds, Count Charles?" "None of us; though several of the men-at-arms had gashes from the rascals' weapons, but naught, I think, that will matter." At this moment one of the attendants of the salon came in. "An usher from the palace is here, my lords and gentlemen. He has been to the lodging of Master Guy Aylmer, and has learned that he will most likely be here. If so, he has the king's command to conduct him to the palace, as His Majesty desires to have speech with him." "I told you so, Guy; my father's story has excited the king's curiosity, and he would fain hear all about it. Make the most of it, for His Majesty loves to be entertained and amused." "Had I better ask the usher to allow me to go back to my lodging to put on a gayer suit than this?" Guy asked. "Certainly not; the king loves not to be kept waiting. Fortunately no time has been wasted so far, as this is on the road from the silversmith's to the palace." The Louvre at that time bore no resemblance to the present building. It was a fortress surrounded by a strong embattled wall, having a lofty tower at each corner and others flanking its gates. On the water-face the towers rose from the edge of the river, so that there was no passage along the quays. The building itself was in the castellated form, though with larger windows than were common in such edifices. Eight turret-shaped buildings rose far above it, each surmounted with very high steeple-like roofs, while in the centre rose another large and almost perpendicular roof, terminating in a square open gallery. The building was further protected by four embattled towers on each side, so that if the outer wall were carried it could still defend itself. In the court-yard between the outer wall and the palace were rows of low barracks, where troops were lodged. Two regiments of the best soldiers of Burgundy were quartered here, as the duke feared that some sudden rising of the Armagnac party might put them in possession of the king's person, in which case the Orleanists would easily persuade him to issue proclamations as hostile to Burgundy as those which were now published in his name against the Orleanists. The Louvre, indeed, differed but slightly from palaces of several of the great nobles within the walls of Paris, as all of these were to some extent fortified, and stood as separate fortresses capable of offering a stout resistance to any attack by the populace. "I would rather face those villains of last night for another hour than go before the king," Guy said, as he prepared to follow the attendant; "but I trust that good may come of my interview, and that I can interest the king in the case of my mistress." Joining the usher, who was waiting at the entrance, and who saluted him courteously--for the manner in which the message had been communicated to the usher showed him that the young squire was in no disgrace with the king--Guy walked with him to the Louvre, which was a short half-mile distant. Accompanied as he was by a royal officer, the guard at the gate offered no interruption to his passage, and proceeding across the court-yard he entered the great doorway to the palace, and, preceded by the usher, ascended the grand staircase and followed him along a corridor to the apartments occupied by the king. CHAPTER XI -- DANGER THREATENED On being ushered into the royal apartment Guy was led up to the king, who was seated in a large arm-chair. He was stroking the head of a greyhound, and two or three other dogs lay at his feet. Except two attendants, who stood a short distance behind his chair, no one else was present. The king was pale and fragile-looking; there was an expression of weariness on his face, for in the intervals between his mad fits he had but little rest. He was naturally a kind-hearted man, and the troubles that reigned in France, the constant contention among the great lords, and even among the members of his own family, were a constant source of distress to him. Between the Duke of Burgundy, the queen, his nephew of Orleans, and the other royal dukes he had no peace, and the sense of his inability to remedy matters, and of his position of tutelage in the hands of whoever chanced for the moment to be in the ascendant, in no slight degree contributed to the terrible attacks to which he was subject. At the present moment the Duke of Burgundy was away, and therefore, feeling now comparatively free, he looked up with interest when the usher announced Guy Aylmer. "You are young, indeed, sir," he said, as Guy made a deep bow, "to be the hero of the story that I heard this morning. I hear that you have been slaying many of the good citizens of Paris!" "Some have certainly been slain, sire; but I think not that any of them could be considered as good citizens, being engaged, as they were, in attacking the house of the worshipful provost of the silversmiths, Maître Leroux." "I know him," the king said, "and have bought many rare articles of his handiwork, and more than once when I have needed it have had monies from him on usance. 'Tis a grave scandal that so good a citizen should thus be attacked in my city, but I will see that such doings shall not take place again. And now I would hear from your own lips how you and a few men defended the house so long, and, as I hear, with very heavy loss to those attacking it. I am told that you are English." "Yes, sire, I have the honour to be an esquire to Sir Eustace de Villeroy, and am here in attendance upon his dame, who, with her two children, have been brought as hostages to Paris under your royal order." A look of pain passed across the king's face. "Your lord is our vassal for his castle at Villeroy?" "He is, sire, and is also a vassal of England for the estates of his wife." "Since England and France are not at present on ill terms," the king said, "he may well discharge both duties without treason to either Henry or myself; but they told me that his vassalage to me has sat but lightly upon him." "His father and grandfather, sire, were vassals of England, as Villeroy was then within the English bounds, but he is, I am assured, ready faithfully to render any service that your majesty might demand of him, and is willing to submit himself, in all respects, to your will. But since he wishes not to take any part in the troubles between the princes, it seems that both regard him with hostility. Two months since his castle was attacked by some eight thousand men from Ham, led by Sir Clugnet de Brabant. These he repulsed with heavy loss, and deemed that in so doing he was acting in accordance with your majesty's proclamation, and was rendering faithful service to you in holding the castle against your enemies, and he had hoped for your majesty's approbation. He was then deeply grieved when your royal herald summoned him, in your name, either to receive a garrison or to send his wife and children hither as hostages." "I will see into the matter," the king said earnestly. "And so your mistress was bestowed at the house of Maître Leroux?" "She was, sire, and is most hospitably entertained by him." "Now let us hear of this defence. Tell me all that took place; withhold nothing." Guy related the details of the defence. [Illustration: "THE KING EXTENDED HIS HAND TO GUY, WHO WENT ON ONE KNEE TO KISS IT."] "Truly it was well done, young sir, and I owe you thanks for having given so shrewd a lesson to these brawlers, Maître Leroux has good reasons for being thankful to the duke for lodging your lady in his house, for he would doubtless have lost his life had you and your four men not been there. When the Duke of Burgundy returns I will take council with him touching this matter of your mistress. I know that he gave me good reasons at the time for the bringing of her hither, but in the press of matters I do not recall what they were. At any rate, as she is here as my hostage her safety must be ensured, and for the present I will give orders that a guard be placed at the house." He extended his hand to Guy, who went on one knee to kiss it and then retired. He took the news back to Dame Margaret. "I knew well enough that the poor king had nothing to do with the matter," she said. "Were it otherwise I would myself have asked for an audience with him; but I knew that it would be useless, he would but have replied to me as he has to you, that he must consult the duke." In the afternoon the Italian called with his daughter upon Dame Margaret. The former was now dressed in accordance with his rank as an Italian noble, and the girl, on laying aside her cloak, was also in the costume of a young lady of position. Guy presented the count to his mistress. "I am greatly indebted to you, Count Montepone," she said, "for the timely warning that you sent us, and still more for the service rendered to us by your daughter in summoning the Burgundian knights to our aid. Truly," she added with a smile, "it is difficult to believe that it was this young lady who was so busy on our behalf. I thank you, maiden, most heartily. And, believe me, should the time ever come when you require a friend; which I hope may never be the case, you will find one in me on whom you can confidently rely. "This is my daughter Agnes. She is, methinks, but a year or so younger than yourself, though she is as tall or taller, and she will gladly be your friend also." Katarina replied quietly and composedly, and Guy, as he watched her and Agnes talking together, was surprised at the way in which she adapted herself to circumstances. As a boy she assumed the character so perfectly that no one would suspect her of being aught else. She was a French gamin, with all the shrewdness, impudence, and self-confidence of the class. As he saw her at her father's in female attire something of the boy's nature seemed still to influence her. There was still a touch of sauciness in her manner, and something of defiance, as if she resented his knowledge of her in her other character. Now she had the quiet composure of a young lady of rank. As Dame Margaret had said, she was but little older than Agnes; but though less tall than the English girl, she looked a woman beside her. Guy stood talking with them while Dame Margaret and the count conversed apart. Gradually as they chatted Katarina's manner, which had at first been somewhat stiff, thawed, and Guy left her and Agnes together and went to look through the window. He could vaguely understand that Katarina at first, knowing that Dame Margaret and Agnes must be aware of her going about as a boy, was standing a little on her dignity. The simple straightforwardness of Agnes and her admiration of the other's boldness and cleverness had disarmed Katarina, and it was not long before they were chatting and laughing in girlish fashion. There was a difference in their laughter, the result of the dissimilar lives they had led. One had ever been a happy, careless child, allowed to roam about in the castle or beyond it almost unattended, and had only to hold herself as became the position of a maiden of rank on special occasions, as when guests were staying in the castle; the other had been for years her father's assistant, engaged in work requiring shrewdness and quickness and not unattended at times with danger. She had been brought into contact with persons of all ranks and conditions, and at times almost forgot her own identity, and was in thought as well as manner the quick-witted messenger of her father. After the latter had chatted for some time with Dame Margaret he beckoned her to him. "Dame Margaret has promised me to be your protector should aught befall me, child," he said, "and I charge you now in her hearing should anything happen to me to go at once to her castle at Villeroy, and should she not be there to her castle at Summerley, which lies but twelve miles from the English port of Southampton, and there to place yourself under her guardianship, and to submit yourself to her will and guidance wholly and entirely. It would be well indeed for you to have a quiet English home after our troubled life. To Italy you cannot go, our estates are long since confiscated; and did you return there you would find powerful enemies and but lukewarm friends. Besides, there would be but one mode of life open to you, namely, to enter a convent, which would, methinks, be of all others the least suited to your inclinations." "I can promise you a hearty welcome," Dame Margaret said kindly. "I trust that you may never apply for it; but should, as your father says, aught happen to him, come to me fearlessly, and be assured that you will be treated as one of my own family. We shall ever be mindful of the fact that you saved our lives last night, and that nothing that we can do for you will cancel that obligation." "I trust that I may never be called upon to ask your hospitality, Lady Margaret," the girl said quietly, "but I thank you with all my heart for proffering it, and I feel assured that I should find a happy home in England." "'Tis strange how it has all come about," her father said. "'Tis scarce a month since I saw Dame Margaret enter Paris with her children, and the thought occurred to me that it would be well indeed for you were you in the charge of such a lady. Then, as if in answer to my thoughts, I saw her young esquire in the crowd listening to me, and was moved at once to say words that would induce him to call upon me afterwards, when I saw that I might possibly in these troublous times be of use to his mistress. And thus in but a short time what was at first but a passing thought has been realized. It is true that there are among my clients those whose protection I could obtain for you; but France is at present as much torn by factions as is our native Italy, and none can say but, however highly placed and powerful a man may be to-day, he might be in disgrace to-morrow." Carefully wrapping his daughter up in her cloak again, the Italian took his leave, refusing the offer of Dame Margaret for two of her men-at-arms to accompany them. "There is no fear of trouble of any sort to-day," he said. "The loss that was suffered last night was so severe that the people will be quiet for a few days, especially as the king, as well as the city authorities, are evidently determined to put a stop to rioting. Moreover, the fact that the Burgundian nobles have, now that the duke is away, taken a strong part against the butchers' faction has for the moment completely cowed them. But, apart from this, it is my special desire to return to my house unnoticed. It is seldom that I am seen going in and out, for I leave home as a rule before my neighbours are about, and do not return till after nightfall. I make no secret of my being a vendor of drugs at the fairs, and there are few can suspect that I have visitors after dark." "I like your astrologer, Guy," Dame Margaret said when they had left. "Before I saw him I own that I had no great faith in his countship. Any man away from his native country can assume a title without anyone questioning his right to use it, so long as he is content to live in obscurity, and to abstain from attracting the attention of those who would be likely to make inquiries. But I have no doubt that our friend is, as he represents himself, the Count of Montepone, and I believe him to be sincere in the matter of his dealings with us. He tells me that he has received more than one hint that the reports that he deals with the stars and exercises divinations have come to the ears of the church, and it is likely ere long he may be forced to leave Paris, and indeed that he would have done so before now had it not been that some of those who have had dealings with him have exercised their influence to prevent things being pushed further. "No doubt it is true that, as he asserts, he in no way dabbles in what is called 'black art,' but confines himself to reading the stars; and he owned to me that the success he has obtained in this way is to some extent based upon the information that he obtains from persons of all classes. He is evidently a man whose nature it is to conspire, not so much for the sake of any prospect of gain or advantage, but for the pleasure of conspiring. He has dealings with men of both factions. Among the butchers he is believed to be an agent of the duke, who has assumed the character of a vendor of nostrums simply as a disguise, while among the Armagnacs he is regarded as an agent of Orleans. It is doubtless a dangerous game to play, but it both helps him in his profession of astrologer and gives him influence and power. I asked him why he thus mingled in public affairs. He smiled and said: 'We are always conspiring in Italy; we all belong to factions. I have been brought up in an atmosphere of conspiracy, and it is so natural to me that I could scarce live without it. I am rich: men who trade upon the credulity of fools have plenty of clients. My business of a quack doctor brings me in an income that many a poor nobleman would envy. I travel when I like; I visit alternately all the great towns of France, though Paris has always been my head-quarters. "'As an astrologer I have a wide reputation. The name of the Count Smarondi--for it is under that title that I practise--is known throughout France, though few know me personally or where I am to be found. Those who desire to consult me can only obtain access to me through some of those whose fortunes I have rightly foretold, and who have absolute faith in me, and even these must first obtain my consent before introducing anyone to me. All this mystery adds both to my reputation and to my fees. Could anyone knock at my door and ask me to calculate his horoscope he would prize it but little; when it is so difficult to obtain an introduction to me, and it is regarded as a matter of favour to be allowed to consult me, people are ready to pay extravagant sums for my advice. And,' he said with a smile, 'the fact that ten days or a fortnight always elapses between the time I am asked to receive a new client and his or her first interview with me, enables me to make such minute inquiries that I can not only gain their complete confidence by my knowledge of certain events in their past, but it will aid me in my divination of their future. "'I believe in the stars, madame, wholly and implicitly, but the knowledge to be gained from them is general and not particular; but with that general knowledge, and with what I know of men's personal character and habits, of their connections, of their political schemes and personal ambitions, I am able in the majority of cases so to supplement the knowledge I gain from the stars, as to trace their future with an accuracy that seems to them astonishing indeed. For example, madame, had I read in the stars that a dire misfortune impended over you last night, and had I learned that there was a talk among the butchers that the provost of the silversmiths was a strong opponent of theirs, and that steps would shortly be taken to show the Parisians the danger of opposing them, it would have needed no great foresight on my part to tell you that you were threatened with a great danger, and that the danger would probably take the form of an attack by the rabble on the house you occupied. I should naturally put it less plainly. I should tell you to beware of this date, should warn you that I saw threatening faces and raised weapons, and that the sounds of angry shouts demanding blood were in my ears. "'Any astrologer, madame, who works by proper methods can, from the conjunction of the stars at anyone's birth, calculate whether their aspect will be favourable or unfavourable at any given time, and may foretell danger or death; but it needs a knowledge of human nature, a knowledge of character and habits, and a knowledge of the questioner's surroundings to be able to go much farther than this. That I have had marvellous successes and that my counsels are eagerly sought depends, then, upon the fact that I leave nothing to chance, but that while enveloping myself in a certain amount of mystery I have a police of my own consisting of men of all stations, many, indeed most of whom, do not know me even by sight. They have no idea of the object of my inquiries, and indeed believe that their paymaster is the head of the secret police, or the agent of some powerful minister.' "You see, Guy, the count spoke with perfect frankness to me. His object naturally was to gain my confidence by showing himself as he is, and to explain why he wished to secure a home for his daughter. He took up his strange profession in the first place as a means of obtaining his living, and perhaps to secure himself from the search of private enemies who would have had him assassinated could he have been found; but he follows it now from his love for an atmosphere of intrigue, and for the power it gives him, because, as he told me, he has already amassed a considerable fortune, and could well retire and live in luxury did he choose. He said frankly that if he did not so interest himself his existence would be simply intolerable to him. "'I may take my daughter to England,' he said; 'I may stay there until I see her established in life, but when I had done so I should have to return here. Paris is always the centre of intrigues; I would rather live on a crust here than be a prince elsewhere.' "He certainly succeeded in convincing me wholly of his sincerity, as far as we are concerned. Devoted to intrigue himself, he would fain that his daughter should live her life in peace and tranquillity, and that the money for which he has no use himself should be enjoyed by her. 'I have lost my rank,' he said, 'forfeited it, if you will; but she is the Countess Katarina of Montepone, and I should like to know that she and my descendants after her should live the life that my ancestors lived. It is a weakness, a folly, I know; but we have all our weak points and our follies. At any rate I see that that fancy could not well be carried out in France or in Italy, but it may be in England.' At any rate, after all he has told me I feel that he has it in his power to be a very useful friend and ally to us here; I am convinced that he is truly desirous of being so." "And how did you like the girl, Agnes?" she said, raising her voice. Agnes had fetched Charlie in, and they were looking together down into the street while their mother was talking to Guy. "I hardly know, mother; she seemed to be so much older than I am. Sometimes when she talked and laughed, I thought I liked her very much, and then a minute later it seemed to me that I did not understand her one bit. But I do think that she would be very nice when one came to know her thoroughly." "She has lived so different a life to yourself, Agnes, that it is no wonder that you should feel at first that you have nothing in common with her. That she is very clever I have no doubt, and that she is brave and fearless we know. Can you tell us anything more, Guy?" "Not very much more, Lady Margaret. I should say that she was very true and loyal. I think that at present she enters into what she has to do in something of the same spirit as her father, and that she thoroughly likes it. I think that she is naturally full of fun and has high spirits, and that she enjoys performing these missions with which she is entrusted as a child enjoys a game, and that the fact that there is a certain amount of danger connected with them is in itself attractive to her. I am glad that you have told me what he said to you about himself, for I could not understand him before. I think I can now, and understanding him one can understand his daughter." At eight o'clock all retired to bed. They had had little sleep the night before, and the day had been full of events. Guy's last thought was that he was sorry for the king, who seemed to wish to do what was right, but who was a mere puppet in the hands of Burgundy or Queen Isobel, to be used as a lay figure when required by whichever had a temporary ascendency. For the next fortnight Guy worked hard in the _salle d'armes_, being one of the first to arrive and the last to depart, and after taking a lesson from one or other of the masters he spent the rest of the morning in practising with anyone who desired an adversary. Well trained as he was in English methods of fighting, he mastered with a quickness that surprised his teachers the various thrusts and parries that were new to him. At the end of that time he was able to hold his own with the young Count d'Estournel, who was regarded as an excellent swordsman. The attendance of the Burgundian nobles had now fallen off a good deal. The Armagnac army had approached Paris, St. Denis had opened its gates to them, and there were frequent skirmishes near the walls of Paris between parties of their knights and the Burgundians. Paris was just at present more quiet. Burgundy was still absent, and the future seemed so uncertain, that both factions in the city held their hands for a time. The news that a reconciliation between Orleans and Burgundy had been fully effected, and that the great lords would soon enter Paris together, was received with a joy that was modified by recollections of the past. Burgundy and Orleans had once before sworn a solemn friendship, and yet a week or two later Orleans lay dead in the streets of Paris, murdered by the order of Burgundy. Was it likely that the present patching up of the quarrel would have a much longer duration? On the former occasion the quarrel was a personal one between the two great houses, now all France was divided. A vast amount of blood had been shed, there had been cruel massacres, executions, and wrongs, and the men of one faction had come to hate those of the other; and although neither party had dared to put itself in the wrong by refusing to listen to the mediators, it was certain that the reconciliation was a farce, and that it was but a short truce rather than a peace that had been concluded. Nevertheless Paris rejoiced outwardly, and hailed with enthusiasm the entry of the queen, the Dukes of Aquitaine, Burgundy, Berri, and Bourbon. The Duke of Aquitaine was now acting as regent, though without the title, for the king was again insane. He had married Burgundy's daughter, but it was rumoured that he was by no means disposed to submit himself blindly to the advice of her father. The only effect of the truce between the parties was to add to the power of the Burgundian faction in Paris. But few of the Armagnac party cared to trust themselves in the city that had shown itself so hostile, but most of them retired to their estates, and the great procession that entered the town had been for the most part composed of adherents of Burgundy. Three days after their arrival in the town Guy, on leaving the _salle d'armes_, found Katarina in her boy's attire waiting for him at the corner of the street. "My father would speak with you, Master Guy," she said shyly, for in the past two months she had always been in her girl's dress when he had met her. "Pray go at once," she said; "I will not accompany you, for I have other matters to attend to." "Things are not going well," the count said when Guy entered the room; "the Orleanists are discouraged and the butchers triumphant. At a meeting last night they determined that a body of them should wait upon the Dukes of Aquitaine and Burgundy to complain of the conduct of the knights who fell upon them when attacking the silversmith's, and demand in the name of Paris their execution." "They would never dare do that!" Guy exclaimed indignantly. "They will assuredly do it, and I see not how they can be refused. The duke has no force that could oppose the Parisians. They might defend the Louvre and one or two of the strongly fortified houses, but the butchers would surround them with twenty thousand men. Burgundy's vassals might come to his assistance, but the gates of Paris would be closed, and it would need nothing short of an army and a long siege before they could enter Paris. When they had done so they might punish the leaders, but Burgundy would thereby lose for ever the support of the city, which is all-important to him. Therefore if you would save your friends you must warn them that it will be necessary for them to make their way out of Paris as quickly and as quietly as may be. In the next place, and principally, you yourself will assuredly be murdered. There was a talk of the meeting demanding your execution and that of your four men; but it was decided that there was no need to do this, as you could all be killed without trouble, and that possibly the Duke of Aquitaine might refuse on the ground that, as your lady had come here under safe-conduct as a royal hostage, you were entitled to protection, and it would be contrary to his honour to give you up. "There are others who have displeased the Parisians whose lives they will also demand, and there are several women among them; therefore, it is clear that even the sex of your lady will not save her and her children from the fury and longing for revenge, felt by the family of Legoix and by Caboche the skinner. The only question is, where can they be bestowed in safety? I know what you would say, that all this is monstrous, and that it is incredible that the Parisians will dare to take such steps. I can assure you that it is as I say; the peril is most imminent. Probably to-night, but if not, to-morrow the gates of Paris will be closed, and there will be no escape for any whom these people have doomed to death. In the first place, you have to warn your Burgundian friends; that done, you must see to the safety of your four men. The three Frenchmen may, if they disguise themselves, perchance be able to hide in Paris, but your tall archer must leave the city without delay, his height and appearance would betray him in whatever disguise he were clad. "Now as to your lady and the children, remain where they are they cannot. Doubtless were she to appeal to the Duke of Burgundy for protection he would place her in the Louvre, or in one of the other castles--that is, if she could persuade him of the intentions of the Parisians, which indeed it would be difficult for her to do; but even could she do so she would not be safe, for if he is forced to surrender some of his own knights and ladies of the court to these miscreants, he could not refuse to hand over Lady Margaret. They might, it is true, possibly escape from Paris in disguise, but I know that there is already a watch set at the gates. The only resource that I can see is that she should with her children come hither for a time. This is but a poor place for her, but I think that if anywhere she might be safe with me. No one knows that I have had any dealings whatever with you, and no one connects me in any way with politics. What should a vendor of nostrums have to do with such affairs? Thus, then, they might remain here without their presence being in the slightest degree suspected. At any rate I have as good means as any for learning what is being done at their councils, and should receive the earliest information were it decided that a search should be made here; and should this be done, which I think is most unlikely, I shall have time to remove them to some other place of concealment. "Lastly, as to yourself, I take it that nothing would induce you to fly with your Burgundian friends while your lady is in hiding in Paris?" "Assuredly not!" Guy said. "My lord appointed me to take charge of her and watch over her, and as long as I have life I will do so." "You will not be able to aid her, and your presence may even add to her danger. Still, I will not say that your resolution is not honourable and right. But, at least, you must not stay here, for your detection would almost certainly lead to hers. You, however, can be disguised; I can darken your skin and hair, and, in some soiled garb you may hope to pass without recognition. Where to bestow you I will talk over with my daughter. As soon as it becomes dusk this evening she will present herself at the house-door of Maître Leroux. She will bring with her disguises for your lady, the children, and yourself--I have many of them here--and as soon as it is quite dark she will guide here Dame Margaret with her daughter and son. You had best not sally out with them, but can follow a minute or two later and join them as soon as they turn down a side street. As to the men, you must arrange with them what they had best do. My advice is that they should this afternoon saunter out as if merely going for a walk. They ought to go separately; you can decide what they had best do when outside." CHAPTER XII -- IN HIDING The news of this terrible danger was so wholly unexpected that Guy for a moment felt almost paralyzed. "It seems almost incredible that such wickedness could take place!" he exclaimed. "My information is certain," the count replied. "I do not say that I think your Burgundian friends are in so much danger as some of those of the king's party, as Burgundy's influence with these Parisians goes for something; still, he might not be able to save them if they waited till the demand was made, although he might warn them if he learned that they were to be among those demanded." "Does the duke, then, know what is intended?" The count smiled. "We know what followed the last reconciliation," he said, "and can guess pretty shrewdly at what will happen now. _Then_ the duke murdered Orleans, _now_ he may take measures against the supporters of the present duke. It was certain that the struggle would begin again as soon as the kiss of peace had been exchanged. Last time he boldly avowed his share in the murder; this time, most conveniently for him, the Parisians are ready and eager to do his work for him. Dismiss from your mind all doubt; you can rely upon everything that I have told you as being true. Whether you can convince these young knights is a matter that concerns me not; but remember that if you fail to convince your mistress, her life and those of her children are forfeited; and that, so far as I can see, her only hope of safety is in taking refuge here." "I thank you with all my heart," Guy said, "and will now set about carrying out your advice. First, I will return to my lady and consult with her, and see what we had best do with the men. As to Count Charles d'Estournel and his friends, I will see them as soon as I have arranged the other matter. Their case is not so pressing, for, at least, when once beyond the gates they will be safe. I will see that my lady and the children shall be ready to accompany your daughter when she comes for them." "Look well up and down the street before you sally out," the count said; "see that there are but few people about. It is a matter of life and death that no one who knows you shall see you leave this house." Guy followed his advice, and waited until there was no one within fifty yards of the door, then he went out, crossed the street, took the first turning he came to, and then made his way back to the silversmith's as fast as he could. "What ails you, Guy?" Dame Margaret said as he entered the room, "you look sorely disturbed, and as pale as if you had received some injury." "Would that that were all, my lady. I have had news from the Count of Montepone of so strange and grave a nature that I would not tell you it, were it not that he is so much in earnest, and so well convinced of its truth that I cannot doubt it." He then related what the count had told him, and repeated the offer of shelter he had made. "This is, indeed, beyond all bounds," she said. "What, is it credible that the Duke of Burgundy and the king's son, the Duke of Aquitaine, can hand over to this murderous mob of Paris noble gentlemen and ladies?" "As to Burgundy, madame, it seems to me from what the count said that he himself is at the bottom of the affair, though he may not know that the Parisians demand the lives of some of his own knights as well as those of his opponents. As he did not of old hesitate to murder Orleans, the king's own brother, we need credit him with no scruples as to how he would rid himself of others he considers to stand in his way. As to Aquitaine, he is a young man and powerless. There are no Orleanist nobles in the town to whom he might look for aid; and if a king's brother was slain, why not a king's son? It seems to me that he is powerless." "That may be; but I cannot consent to what the count proposes. What! disguise myself! and hide from this base mob of Paris! It would be an unworthy action." "It is one that I knew you would shrink from, madame; but pardon me for saying that it is not your own life only, but those of your children that are at stake. When royal princes and dukes are unable to oppose these scoundrel Parisians, women and children may well bend before the storm." Dame Margaret sat for some time with knitted brows. At last she said: "If it must be, Guy, it must. It goes sorely against the grain; but for the sake of the children I will demean myself, and will take your advice. Now you had best summon the four men-at-arms and talk over their case with them." Guy went upstairs and fetched the four men down. "We have sure news, my friends," Dame Margaret said calmly, "that to-night we and many others shall be seized by the mob and slain." An exclamation of rage broke from the four men. "There will be many others slain before that comes about," Long Tom said. "That I doubt not, Tom, but the end would be the same. An offer of refuge has been made to me and the children, and for their sake, unwilling as I am to hide myself from this base mob, I have brought myself to accept it. My brave esquire will stay in Paris in disguise, and do what may be to protect us. I have now called you to talk about yourselves. The gates will speedily be guarded and none allowed to sally out, therefore what is to be done must be done quickly." "We will all stay and share your fate, madame. You could not think that we should leave you," Robert Picard said, and the others murmured their agreement. "You would add to my danger without being able to benefit me," she said, "and my anxiety would be all the greater. No, you must obey my commands, which are that you forthwith quit Paris. Beyond that I must leave you to judge your own course. As French men-at-arms none would question you when you were once beyond the gate. You may find it difficult to travel in this disturbed time, but you are shrewd enough to make up some story that will account for your movements, and so may work your way back to Villeroy. The difficulty is greater in the case of your English comrade--his height and that light hair of his and ruddy face would mark him anywhere, and if he goes with you would add to your danger, especially as his tongue would betray him as being English the first time he spoke. However, beyond ordering you to quit Paris, I must leave this matter in your hands and his, and he will doubtless take counsel with my esquire and see if any disguise can be contrived to suit him. I will see you again presently. You had best go with them, Guy, and talk the matter over." "This thing cannot be done, Master Guy," the archer said doggedly when they reached their apartments; "it is not in reason. What should I say when I got home and told them at Summerley that I saved my own skin and left our dear lady and the children to be murdered without striking a blow on their behalf? The thing is beyond all reason, and I will maintain it to be so." "I can understand what you say, Tom, for I feel exactly as you do. The question is, how is the matter to be arranged?" Then he broke into French, which the archer by this time understood well enough, though he could speak it but poorly. "Tom is saying that he will not go, men," he said, "and I doubt not that you feel as he does. At the same time our lady's orders must be carried out in the first place, and you must leave Paris. But I say not that you need travel to any distance; on the contrary, I should say that, if it can be arranged, you must return here in a few days, having so changed your attire and aspect that there is no fear of your being recognized, and bestow yourself in some lodging where I may find you if there be need of your services." "That is what will be best, Master Guy," Robert Picard said. "We have but to get steel caps of another fashion to pass well enough, and if need be we can alter the fashion of our hair. There are few here who have noticed us, and I consider that there is no chance whatever of our being recognized. There are plenty of men among the cut-throats here who have served for a while, and we can easily enough get up some tale that will pass muster for us three. That matter is simple enough, the question is, what are we to do with Tom? We cannot shorten his stature, nor give his tongue a French twist." "No, that is really the difficulty. We might dye that hair of his and darken his face, as I am going to do myself. There are tall men in France, and even his inches would not matter so much; the danger lies in his speech." "I would never open my mouth, Master Guy; if need were I would sooner cut out my tongue with a dagger." "You might bleed to death in the doing of it, Tom. No; we must think of something better than that. You might perhaps pass as a Fleming, if we cannot devise any other disguise." "Leave that to me, Master Guy, I shall think of something. I will at any rate hide somewhere near Paris, and the lads here will let me know where they are to be found, and I shall not be long before I join them in some such guise as will pass muster. But it will be necessary that we should know where you will be, so that you can communicate with us." "That I don't know myself yet; but I will be every evening in front of Notre Dame when the bell strikes nine, and one of you can meet me there and tell me where you are bestowed, so that I can always send for you in case of need. Now I think that you had better lose no time, for we know not at what hour a guard will be placed on the gate. You had better go out in pairs as if merely going for a walk. If you are stopped, as may well happen, return here; but as you come purchase a length of strong rope, so that you may let yourselves down from the wall. Now that peace has been made, there will be but slight watch save at the gates, and you should have no difficulty in evading the sight of any who may be on guard." "That will be easy enough," Robert Picard said confidently. "We had best not come back here, for there may be a watch set upon the house and they may follow us." "The only thing that troubles me," Tom said, "is that I must leave my bow behind me." "You can get another when you get back to Villeroy; there are spare ones there." "Yes, yes, but that is not the same thing, Master Guy; a man knows his own bow, and when he takes to a fresh one his shooting is spoilt until he gets to know it well. Every bow has its niceties; for rough shooting it makes but little matter, but when it comes to aiming at the slit in a knight's vizor at eighty yards one makes poor shooting with a strange bow." "Well, you must practise with your new one, that is all, Tom; and if you hide yours here it may be that you will be able to recover it before we start for Villeroy. You must leave your bundles behind, it would look suspicious if you were to attempt to take them with you. I should advise you to put on one suit over the other, it will not add greatly to your bulk. When you are ready to start, come below and our lady will say good-bye to you. Do not give her a hint that you are thinking of staying near Paris; if she asks any questions say that you intend to disguise Tom, and he will travel with you." A few minutes later there was a tapping at Dame Margaret's door; Guy opened it and the four men entered. "I wish you good fortunes, my friends," Dame Margaret said. "Here is a letter, Robert, that I have written to my lord telling him that you have all served me faithfully and well, and that I commend you to him. I have told him that you are leaving me by my special orders, and that you would willingly have stopped and shared my danger, but that, as I feel that force would avail nothing and your presence might lead to the discovery of my hiding-place, I bid you go. Here are four purses to pay the expenses of your journey and of any disguises you may find it necessary to adopt. And now farewell. Tarry not an instant, my heart will be lighter when I know that you are beyond the walls." She held out her hand to them; each in turn knelt and kissed it, the three Frenchmen in silence but with tears running down their cheeks. Tom was the last, and said as he rose: "I am obeying your orders, Lady Margaret, but never before have I felt, as I feel now, that I am doing a mean and cowardly action. I would rather stay by your side, though I knew that I should be cut in pieces this very night, than leave you thus." "I doubt it not, Tom. I know well how your inclinations lie, and yet I feel that it is necessary that you should go. If the great nobles cannot withstand this cruel mob of Paris, the arm of a single man can avail nothing, and your presence would bring danger rather than safety to me." "I feel that, my lady; did I not do so I would not go even at your command. You are my liege lady, and I have a right to give my life for you, and would do it were it not that I see that, as you say, my staying here would bring danger upon you." As soon as they had gone Dame Margaret said: "Now, Guy, I will detain you no longer; hasten and warn your friends." Guy hurried away; he found that Count Charles was on the point of mounting to go for a ride with some of his friends. "Stay a moment I beg of you, Count," Guy said as he hurried up, "I have a matter of most serious import to tell you." "Wait, my friends," the young count said to Sir Pierre Estelle, Count Walter de Vesoul, and the Sieur John de Perron, who were already mounted; "I shall not detain you many minutes." "Well, what is it, friend Guy?" he asked as he entered his room. "I have come to warn you of a great danger, Count. This evening a mob of Parisians, I know not how numerous, but at least of great strength, will demand from Burgundy and the Duke of Aquitaine the surrender to them of you and the others who took part in defeating them the other night, besides other gentlemen, and, as I hear, ladies." "_Pardieu_! if it be so the duke will give the impudent knaves their answer." "Ten thousand armed men are not apt to take an answer, Count. You know that many times already the Duke of Burgundy has been overborne by the leaders of these Parisians and forced to do things that must have displeased him, as they displeased you all, therefore I implore you to ride off while you may. Even now it is possible that the gales may be closed, but if so, they are not likely to be strongly guarded. It is evident that your going would at any rate save the duke from grave embarrassment." "Are you sure that this news is true?" the count asked. "Absolutely certain. If you would save yourself and your friends I pray you to call upon them at once to mount and ride in a body to one of the gates. You may bid some of your retainers mount and follow you at a short distance, and if you find the gates closed and the fellows will not let you out, call them up and fight your way out. You can stay for to-night at Sèvres, and if you find in the morning that I have not spoken truly you can return and upbraid me as you will. If, however, you find that strange events have happened here, then you had best ride away to Burgundy and stay there until you find that these villainous knaves here have been reduced to order, which methinks it will need an army to undertake." The count went to the window, opened it, and called his friends below to come up. "No, no," D'Estelle said laughing; "if we once come up we shall stay there. If you cannot come now, join us at the Lion d'Or at Sèvres, where you will find us eating the dinner that we have sent on to order." "The matter is urgent," D'Estournel said. "I am not joking with you, but pray you to come up at once." Seeing that the matter was serious the three knights dismounted and went up. They were at first absolutely incredulous when they heard from Count Charles what Guy had told them. "That the knaves owe us no good-will I know well enough," Count Walter said, "for they have over and over again laid their complaint against us before the duke; but it is hard to believe that they would dare to demand what Burgundy would never grant." Guy repeated the arguments that he had used with D'Estournel. "There is no limit," he said, "to the arrogance of these knaves, and in truth it cannot be denied that they are masters here, and that even the duke cannot altogether withstand them; and you know, moreover, how essential is their goodwill to him. But even should he ever so obstinately refuse their demands they might well take their way without his leave. What can he, with a handful of knights and a few hundred armed men, do against the mob of Paris? I earnestly pray you, gentlemen, to treat the matter as serious. Warn your eight friends without delay; bid your retainers mount and ride to the gate. If it is open, all the better, it is but a party of pleasure bound for Sèvres, and if you learn to-morrow morning that all is quiet here you can return. If it seems better to you, and this may save you much argument, merely ask your friends to mount and ride with you to dine there; if any refuse, say you have a motive that they will learn when they get there, and almost compel them to go with you. I pledge you my honour that you will have no reason to regret having taken my advice." "Well, what do you say, gentlemen?" Count Walter asked. "As Master Aylmer says, it will at worst be but a carouse, which I hope he will share with us." "That I would right gladly do," Guy replied, "but I have the safety of my lady and her children to look after, for she too, as well as our four men-at-arms, have incurred the enmity of these butchers. I have sent the men out of the town, and a place of safety has been prepared for her and the children. I shall see them safely bestowed there at nightfall." "Since you have thought such preparations necessary we will at any rate act on the information that you have given us, and will promise not to blame you unduly should it turn out that the affair you speak of does not come off. Let us lose no time, gentlemen; let us each go to two of our friends and take no denial from them to our invitation to dine with us at Sevres. Let us say nothing to them about bringing their men-at-arms and grooms with them. We can ourselves muster some thirty fighting men, and that should be enough with our own swords to bring these knaves to reason if they keep their gates shut against us." "As my arrangements are all made," Guy said, "and I have an hour to spare, I shall walk down towards the gate and see what comes of it." The four gentlemen at once mounted and rode off,--after giving directions to their grooms to order their men-at-arms to mount at once and to wait for them at a spot a quarter of a mile from the gate,--and Guy strolled off in the same direction. In half an hour he had the satisfaction of seeing the men-at-arms ride up and halt as ordered. Walking a little further on he saw that something unusual had happened. Groups of people were standing about talking, and each man who came up from the gate was questioned. Joining one of the groups he soon learned that the excitement was caused by the unusual closing of the gates, no one being allowed either to enter or pass out. None could account for this proceeding. It was certain that it had not been done by the orders either of the Dukes of Aquitaine or Burgundy,--for there were no royal guards or men-at-arms with the duke's cognizance,--but by men of the city, who, as all agreed, must be acting under the orders of the butchers. "It is a bold deed," one said, "for which they will have to account. It is a usurpation of authority, and one the Duke of Aquitaine, who is now king in all but name, will surely resent hotly." "How strong is the party?" one of the bystanders asked, putting the question that Guy had on his lips. "Some forty or fifty, all stout fellows with steel caps and breast-pieces, and well armed." Guy turned and walked back to the spot where the Burgundian men-at-arms were drawn up. In ten minutes D'Estournel and his party rode up. Guy was glad to see that he had with him the whole of his companions. He at once went up to them. "The gates are closed, Count, and held by forty or fifty of the townsmen in arms, so you see that my information was correct. Had you not better tell your friends of the truth now, for otherwise they might hesitate to take so grave a step as to attack them?" D'Estournel nodded, and, riding to the others, said in a low voice: "Gentlemen, we had not intended to let you into this little mystery until we had left Paris, but I find it necessary to do so now. I have learned surely that the rabble of Paris have resolved upon massacring us to-night for the share we took in that little affair at the provost of the silversmiths. To that end they have shut the gates, and hold it with some fifty armed men. It is as well that some of us have brought our men-at-arms here. I can hardly fancy that these rascals will try to prevent us from passing out, seeing that they have no warrant but their own for closing the gates against us, but if they do there is nothing for it but to open them ourselves. Let us ride forward at once, gentlemen, for these fellows may receive a reinforcement at any time." So saying, he put spurs to his horse, calling upon the men-at-arms to follow. His three companions, who were already in the secret, joined him at once; and the others, after a pause of astonishment and almost incredulity, followed, in no way loath at the chance of another fight with the followers of the butchers. As they approached the gate the townsmen hastily drew up in front of it. "What means this?" Count Walter de Vesoul said haughtily, as he reined up his horse a few paces from the line. "By what authority do you dare close the gates and thus stand armed before them?" "By the authority of the city of Paris," the leader of the party said insolently. "I recognize no such authority while the king and the Duke of Aquitaine, who holds his full powers, are resident here. Clear the way, my man, and open the gates, or I will ride over you." The butcher answered him with a derisive laugh. "It will cost you your lives if you attempt it," he said. "Gentlemen, draw your swords and give these rough fellows the lesson they need;" and, setting the example, he rode at the butcher and cut him down. The idea that the Burgundian knights would venture to force a passage in the teeth of the prohibition of the master of the butchers had apparently not so much as entered the minds of the guard, and as soon as the knights and their followers fell upon them, the greater portion of them flung down their arms and fled, a few only fighting stoutly until overpowered. As soon as the skirmish was over the keys were brought out from the guard-room, and the gate unlocked and the massive bars taken down. In the meantime some of the men-at-arms had run up on to the wall, hoisted the portcullis, and lowered the drawbridge across the fosse. As soon as they returned and mounted the party rode through. As they did so, four men ran out from a lane near the wall and followed them; and Guy at once recognized in them the archer and his three companions. Greatly pleased, he returned to the city and informed Dame Margaret of what had taken place. "No doubt," he said, "when they found the gates shut they remembered what I had said, that I was going to warn Count Charles and his friends, and went back to observe what these were doing; and the sight of their retainers going towards the gate must have told them which way they intended to leave; and they, no doubt, went down and hid up near the gate to watch the conflict, and to take advantage of it, if a chance offered, to get off themselves." "That is indeed a satisfaction, Guy; and I am glad, too, that your friends got away. There can be no doubt now that the count's information was accurate; the gates having been closed, as he said they would be, vouches for this. Katarina has been here; she was dressed this time as an apprentice in the service of some trader, and brought a large box containing our disguises and yours. For you there is a bottle of dye for your hair, a mixture for darkening your skin, and clothes--the latter such as would be worn by a workman. Charlie is to wear a girl's dress, at which he is mightily offended; nor is Agnes better pleased, for a boy's suit has been sent for her. My disguise is simply a long cloak with a hood, such as is worn by the wives of small traders. Katarina explained that it had been thought better to change the sex of Agnes and Charlie, so that, when a hue and cry is raised for a missing woman, with a girl of fourteen, and a boy of ten, no one should associate the woman with two lads and a little girl, whom they passed in the street, as being the party for which search is being made. And now, Guy, do you not think that we should warn our good host of the danger that threatens, for, doubtless, he also has been marked out as a victim?" "I will see him at once, and will tell him as much as it is necessary for him to know. Assuredly it is now too late for him to escape beyond the walls, unless he were to take his wife with him, and bring his serving-men to let them down from the walls; but this, I should think, he will not do, he would rather take refuge in the house of some of his friends." The silversmith listened gravely when Guy told him that he had received sure information that the butchers would that evening make a slaughter of some of their opponents, that they would be in such force that resistance would be hopeless, and that the few royal troops and the followers of Burgundy would be insufficient to make head against them. "Your news does not surprise me, and though I know not how you came by it, I fear that it is true. The news that the city gates have been all shut and are being guarded by strong parties of the butchers' rabble, shows but too surely that there is danger in the air. In the first place, there is your lady to be thought of; I must endeavour to obtain for her also shelter among my friends." "We have already arranged for a hiding-place for her and the children, Maître Leroux. I may not name where it is to anyone, but suffice that it is a quiet house where there is little fear of any suspicions resting upon them, and where they will be able to remain until order is restored." "I fear that that will be a long time," the silversmith said. "The butchers boast that they can place 20,000 men under arms, and indeed the terror excited by them is so great, that very many who hate their doings as much as I do myself have been forced to make a semblance of joining them. Next about your men-at-arms, they are brave fellows and I owe them much." "They are all safe outside the walls. Some Burgundian knights, indignant that this rabble should dare stop them, cut their way out through the Port St. Denis, and our men took advantage of the gates being open to follow them." "And as to yourself, Master Aylmer?" "I have dyes to blacken my hair and a tincture for darkening my face. I have also a disguise by which I may pass as an apprentice to a trader. I shall at all hazards remain in Paris, but what I shall yet do I know not. And now about yourself and Madame Leroux--you will not, I hope, think of defending the house as you did before." "Certainly not; it would not avail to save our lives, and would assuredly cost those of my servitors and most likely of the women. I have friends, who will, I hope, gladly take us in. Maître Lepelletiere, the Master Carpenter, who has been doing my doors, is an old friend of mine, and after the last attack, urged me to withdraw for a time from the attention of the mob, and offered me refuge in his place. He lives in the Rue des Fosses; which is close to the old inner wall that is now for the most part in ruins. You pass along by the hospital, and when beyond the old wall turn to the right; 'tis the third doorway. There are no houses facing it, but it looks straight upon the wall, the ground between being some thirty or forty yards wide; and doubtless when the house was built, it was before the present wall was erected, and stood on the outer side of the fosse round the old one. There are many others of the same trade who live in that quarter, and as they are for the most part opposed to the butchers, I doubt not that my friend will have no difficulty in obtaining a lodging for you among them should no other have been settled upon." "Thank you indeed," Guy replied; "the arrangement has been made by others, and I know not for certain what has yet been decided upon, but should not a suitable place have been chosen I will gladly accept your offer." "And now I must set to work," the silversmith said. "In what way?" Guy asked in surprise. "In hiding my wares. In a city like Paris, with its sieges and its tumults, a prudent man having goods of great value will assuredly prepare a place of safety for them. I will set my men to work at once; the business must be finished before it becomes dark, for as soon as it does so we must leave the house and close it." "I have nothing to do at present, and shall be glad to help your men," Guy said. He followed the silversmith downstairs. Maître Leroux called his head man. "We must move, Jacques, and that quickly; you have heard that the gates are shut." "Yes, master, people are talking of nothing else." "I have news that there will be trouble to-night, so we must set to work at once to place the chests in safety. First let them clear out the wood-cellar." This was done in a few minutes by the seven men, then Jacques told the others to go back into the shop and pack up all the silver goods in the chests. As soon as they were gone Jacques looked inquiringly at his master, who nodded. Then he touched a brick in the wall some seven feet above the floor; it sprung back. "Will you lift me up?" the man said to Guy. The lad did as he was asked, and the man thrust his arm into the orifice. A moment later he asked Guy to set him down. "Go to the doorway," he said, and hurried across to where Maître Leroux was standing; then kneeling down he pushed his hand under the sill of the doorway and then stood up. "Do you hear that?" the silversmith said. "I hear a dull rumbling somewhere," Guy replied. As he spoke he saw half the floor, which was apparently of solid flags, beginning to rise. "This was done in my father's time," Maître Leroux said, "and it was made for him by Maître Lepelletiere's father with the aid of two or three good smiths, who put the machinery together at his house and were in ignorance where it was intended to be placed." The trap-door was now raised, and Guy to his astonishment saw a stream of running water three feet below the opening. "Whence comes this?" he asked in astonishment. "No wonder you are surprised," the silversmith said; "it was a piece of rare good-luck that my father hit upon it. A map that he had showed him that in the old days, before there were any houses on this side of the river, a narrow branch left the stream some hundred yards above the position of his house, made a circuit and came into it again as much below. He inquired among some old men, and learned that they had heard their grandfathers say that they knew that at some time or other this stream had been built over when Paris began to grow in this direction. After he had contrived this apparatus that you see, which is worked by a heavy counterpoise in the wall, he began to dig, and a foot below the surface came upon an arch of brickwork, so my father concluded that his house was exactly over the old stream. "On breaking through the crown he discovered, as you see, that the water still flowed through this tunnel, which is some three and a half yards wide and eight feet deep. My men, all of whom are trusty fellows, know of the existence of this hiding-place, but Jacques is the only one besides myself who knows the secret of the opening. Now, Jacques, fetch the chests along as fast as they are ready." The chests were soon brought up and one by one lowered. Chains were attached from the handle of each to that of the one that followed; they were almost the weight of the water and sank until within an inch-or two of the surface. Each was floated down as it was lowered, until twenty great chests had been taken down. Then one more heavy and ponderous than the rest was attached to the train, and a sloping board being placed from the cellar floor to the bottom of the stream, the case was allowed to slide down this until it rested on the bottom several feet beyond the trap-door. "There you see," the silversmith said, "even if they discovered the trap-door and broke up the floor with sledgehammers, which would be no easy matter, and probed the stream with lances, they would find nothing. As you saw, there is a chain to the end of the last box, which is, as it were, an anchor to the rest; this chain Jacques will now attach to a strong wire, and fasten that to a ring below the water's edge, and a foot beyond the trap-door, so that when danger is past we shall haul up the chain and recover the cases one by one in the order in which they have been sent down." As soon as Jacques had fastened the wire to the ring he touched another heavy spring under the sill, then pulled hard on the trap-door; this gradually began to sink, and in a minute was in its place again. At the same time the brick that had been pushed in above came out into its place again, dust was then swept into the crack at the edge of the trapdoor, and no one who had not seen the latter raised would have dreamt of its existence. CHAPTER XIII -- THE MASTERS OF PARIS The trap-door closed, the firewood was carried back again, and Guy went upstairs, where he found that Dame Margaret, Agnes, and Charlie had already put on their disguises. Their faces had been slightly darkened; Agnes had coiled her hair up under a cap, while Dame Margaret's would be completely hidden under the hood. She and Charlie could, have passed very well even in daylight, but Agnes by no means looked her character. Her mother had darkened the skin at the back of her neck as well as on her face, but the girl's evident discomfort and shyness were so unboylike that they would at once be noticed. Guy fetched a short cloak reaching only to his hips from his room and brought it in to her. "I think that you will be more comfortable in this," he said. "Yes, indeed," she exclaimed gratefully, as she put it over her shoulders; "I shall not mind now." It reached nearly down to her knees, and the high collar concealed the back of her head effectually. "I did not expect that you would be ready so soon," he said, turning to Dame Margaret; "it will not be dark for two hours yet." "No; but I thought it much better to be prepared to leave at any moment. Mistress Leroux has shown me a door opening from the yard into a very narrow lane behind. She says that it has not been used for years, but she has been down herself with the key and has unlocked it, so that we have only to let a bar down to open it, and if there should be an attack on the front of the house we can escape that way." "It would be best to leave that way in any case," Guy said, "and thereby you will avoid observation by anyone who may be watching. It is evident that the citizens of this quarter are very anxious and alarmed; looking from the window I have seen them standing in groups, or going in and out of each other's houses. They cannot know what is going to take place, but the closing of the gates by the butchers without any warrant has, of course, shown them that something serious is going to occur." "You had better disguise yourself at once, Guy." "I will do so, mistress, but I do not think that there is any fear of disturbance until evening; men who are engaged in work, that may some day bring punishment upon those concerned in it, prefer darkness. Besides, at that time all careful men will be in their houses, and will not dare to come out whatever sounds they may hear." Maître Leroux presently came up. "I have been out and trying to gather news. There are all sorts of rumours abroad, but none know aught with certainty. They say that the butchers have stationed guards at the end of all the streets leading to the market quarter, and they allow none to pass in or out. It is reported that Aquitaine has sent an officer to the butchers to demand under what warrant they have closed the gates of the city, and to order them to open them forthwith, and to withdraw the men stationed there. It is said that their answer was that they had acted for the good of the state, and for the safety of the king's person, and that they would presently call upon his highness and explain matters to him. This may be true or merely rumour, but it is generally believed. Everyone is talking of the fight at the gate of St. Denis. Some say that it was forced open by order of the Duke of Burgundy, while others affirm that Caboche, and that mischievous varlet John de Troyes, went in great haste to the duke when they received the news, that he declared to them that he knew nothing whatever of the affair, and that whatever was done was certainly done without his orders. Most of my men have already left; it were better that they should go off one by one than that they should move off together. 'Tis well that my wife bethought her of that back entrance. It has never been used in my time, for the lane is but three feet wide, and the houses beyond are of no very good repute. I talked at one time of having it bricked up, and only refrained from doing so from the thought that it might be useful on some such occasion as this. Your esquire has not gone out, I suppose, Lady Margaret?" "No, he is putting on his disguise--at least, he is colouring his hair and face, and so altering himself that he would not be known; but he will not put on his full disguise until later." Guy soon came out. He was in his ordinary garments, but having put on his best suit beneath them he looked broader and bulkier than usual, while his blackened hair and darkened face had made so great a change in his appearance that both Agnes and her mother agreed that they would not have known him. "You could certainly go anywhere, Guy, and mix with any crowd, and no one would have a suspicion that you were the young Englishman for whom the whole town was searching." Half an hour before it became dark, Guy went down to the front door. Standing there listening attentively, he presently heard three little knocks given, as by a hand on the door. He opened it a little, Katarina slipped in, and he again fastened it and put up the bar. "I brought the disguises early," she said, "as I thought they might be required in haste, but my father has learned that it will be eight o'clock before the butchers sally out with their forces from the markets." "All here are ready and prepared to start at a moment's notice, and have arranged to go out by a door behind, that leads into a narrow lane." "That is good!" the girl said. "I have been near for the last half-hour and have noticed two or three men hanging about, and by their furtive glances in the direction of the house I have no doubt that they are watching it. I had to wait until there happened to be a group of people before the door, and then slipped in behind them, and got in without, I am sure, their having seen me. I have been uneasy as to how we should leave, for if they saw a party of three or four issuing out together, one of them would be sure to follow." They were now upstairs. The fact that Agnes was in the same disguise as herself freed Katarina from the shame-facedness that she would otherwise have felt at being seen by Dame Margaret in her present attire. "You are well disguised," the latter said as she entered. "I no longer wonder that you are able to go about as a boy without suspicion; you look one to the life, while Agnes is so awkward that she would be detected in a moment." "She has not had the practice that I have had," Katarina said with a laugh; "the awkwardness will soon wear off if she has to dress like this for a short time. As for me, I have learnt all a boy's tricks and ways. I can whistle and shout with any of them, can quarrel, and bluster, be saucy on occasion, and have only once been in trouble." "How was that, Katarina?" "A boy who was a bit taller than I ran against me and declared that it was my fault, and gave me a cuff on the head. I might have run away, and of course I ought to have done so, but I was angry, for he really hurt me; so I had to do what any boy would have done, and I flew at him so fiercely, and cuffed and scratched and kicked so savagely that at last he turned and ran. He had hit me too, but I did not feel it at the time, and next morning I was all sorts of colours round the eyes. Father was very angry, but when I asked what else he would have done if he had been cuffed, he could not tell me. I had a very important message to carry that morning for him. At first he said I could not go out in that state; but, as I told him, I had never looked so much like a boy before." All were glad when it became dark enough for them to make a start. The men and maids had all been sent away, and none remained save Maître Leroux and his wife. They were not in any disguise, but were wrapped up in cloaks, and in the badly-lighted streets could pass unrecognized. "Do you go out first, Master Aylmer," the silversmith said. "I have no fear of anyone watching behind, for it is not likely that any of them know of this entrance to my house; still, it is as well to make certain. When you get out of the lane you had best stay there until the others have passed on, then you can follow them. We will wait for a few minutes after they have gone, and lock the door behind us. You have not forgotten where you are to find us." "No, I have the name and house right. Shall I ask for you as Maître Leroux?" "I have not thought of that. No, it will be better, perhaps, to ask for Philip Sampson; it were just as well that none should know my name there except Lepelletiere and his wife." As arranged Guy went out first; there was still light enough for him to make his way along the narrow lane without falling over piles of dirt and rubbish that at some points almost blocked it. The street into which it opened was also a very narrow one, and no one was about. In a minute Dame Margaret, walking with Katarina, and with Agnes close behind, holding Charlie's hand, passed him. "It is all quite clear," he said. Keeping some fifteen yards behind he followed them until they entered a broader street. There were a good many people about here. The nearest way would have been to have crossed the road and passed by another small street facing that from which they had come, but somewhat to his surprise they turned and went along the broader street. He soon acknowledged to himself that this was the wiser course, for there were so many people about that their passage would be unnoticed, while in the narrow lanes some rough fellow might have accosted them. Keeping always in frequented streets they made a long detour before they reached that in which the count resided, and it was with a feeling of great relief that Guy saw them enter the house. He himself, as arranged, did not approach it for another quarter of an hour, then he went and knocked on the door with his hand, which was at once opened by Katarina. "All is well," she said; "your lady is in the room where you first waited--my father is with her." As Guy entered the count was just saying: "Yes, it would certainly be best, madame, that your daughter should continue at present in that disguise. In the first place, she will get accustomed to it, and should she have occasion to move again she would be able to do so without attracting notice; in the second place, it would be desirable that, even accidentally, no one should know that there is a young lady of her age here. I have no visitors save on business, but possibly either she or your boy might come out on to the stairs when one is going up or down. It would be unfortunate that he should see them at all, but if it were but a boy he caught sight of he would not at any rate associate them with your party. These precautions may seem to you absurd, but it is often by little accidents that things are discovered when as it seemed everything had been provided against." "I shall not mind," Agnes said. "When I first went out it seemed dreadful, but when I found that nobody noticed me I began to be accustomed to it, and as your daughter is dressed as a boy too I shall not mind it." "I shall not like being dressed as a girl," Charlie said sturdily. The count smiled. "Well, we will see what we can do in your case; anyhow, you must keep on that dress--for a day or two. And now, Guy, about yourself. I have arranged for you to lodge with a man who gets news for me; it is in the butchers' quarter, which is the last place where anyone would think of looking for you. Besides, there you will see all that is going on. I have two other disguises in addition to that I sent you; one is that of a young butcher, another is that of one of the lads who live in misery, who sleep at the market where they can earn a few sous by doing odd jobs, and beg or steal when they can do nothing else. I hear that you have also arranged for a shelter in the quarter between the walls; that too may be very useful, and it will be well for you to go thither to-morrow and arrange so that you can have a place to go to when you choose; it will doubtless be much more pleasant for you there than in the market quarter. Lastly, I have got you a white hood, which may be most useful of all." Guy looked surprised. "Henceforth," the count went on, "white is to be the butchers' colour. All who march this evening are to be so clad, and as soon as it is known to-morrow, you will find three-fourths of the people wearing it, for not to do so will be taken as a sign of hostility to their faction. They will have started by this time, and if it pleases you to put on the butcher's dress and the white hood over it you can mingle in safety with them and see all that is done; then when they return to their quarter, you can go with them. The house to which you are to go is the third on the left-hand side of the Rue des Couteaux. My man lodges at the top of the house, the room to the left when you mount the stair--his name is Simon Bouclier. The lane is at the back of the butchers' market. The man has no idea who you are. I have simply told him that I will send a young man to help gather news for me of what is going on, that you would work separately, but that he was to do all in his power to aid you, and that at any time if he wanted to send a message to me and could not himself come, he was to intrust it to you, and similarly he was to bring any message that you might want to send to the spot where he meets my messenger. The man works for one of the Thiberts. He does not know who I am, but I think he believes me to be an agent of Burgundy's, and that I collect the information so that he may be privately informed of what is doing. I have encouraged that idea, because it is more likely to keep him truthful to me, since he would think that were he to play me false the duke would see that some harm or other befell him. Therefore, it is as well that you should drop a word as if by accident that will confirm that notion, and will lead him to believe that you too are working under the orders of the duke. This will lull any suspicion that he might feel on seeing, as he must do, that you live in a position far higher than would appear from your garb. And now, if you would see to-night's doings, you had best put on that disguise and the white hood, and be off without delay; you will find the things in the room above." In a few minutes Guy was ready to start. He could not help looking with disfavour at the greasy and stained garments, and he put them on with an expression of strong disgust. The two suits that he had taken off he made up into a bundle, placed the disguise he had brought with him with them, putting up separately that of which the count had spoken, and which was so ragged and dirty that he inwardly hoped he might never be obliged to assume it; then he went downstairs again. He had strapped round his waist a heavy sword placed beside the clothes, and carried in his hand a short pike. Dame Margaret smiled when he entered, and Katarina laughed aloud at the expression of his face. "Truly, Guy," the former said, "you might go anywhere in that garb without a soul suspecting you. This journey with me is leading you into strange disguises and adventures, which will give you much matter for talk when we are safely back at Summerley." "I have left my other disguises above," he said to the count. "The decent one of an apprentice I have placed with my own clothes, and will take them with me to any lodging that I may get among the carpenters, but that beggar suit I will take to Simon Bouclier's the next time I come. I suppose you would not wish me to come here during the day." "No, unless it is very important; and to that end I think you had better carry the apprentice's disguise also to your lodging in the market. You would not gain favour among the carpenters were you to go among them in the dress you now wear, and your calling upon me here in your apprentice's dress would excite no attention; therefore, if you have need to come here during the day, you had best come as an apprentice." Guy now went down into the street through which the butchers' force would pass. In a short time he heard a deep dull sound, and soon they came along, a host of armed men. He fell in unnoticed near the head of the column. Soon after he had joined them they halted, and three or four knights came up and entered into conversation with their leaders. Guy recognized among them Sir Robert de Mailly, Sir Charles de Lens, and several others of the household of the Duke of Burgundy. These talked for some time with the Sieur de Jacqueville, Governor of Paris, who had joined the butchers' faction and was now riding at the head of the column, whereupon the force went no farther, but turned and retraced its steps. Guy wondered greatly where the butchers could be going, but soon found that they were making for the Bastille. After much parley between De Jacqueville and the governor, the latter consented, on the order of the Duke of Burgundy's friends, to hand over to them Sir Peter des Essars and his brother Sir Anthony, who were both supporters of the Orleanists and had come to Paris secretly, and had by the orders of the Duke of Aquitaine been admitted as guests to the Bastille. These were marched back to the Louvre, the gates of which were opened by the orders of Burgundy's friends, and the two knights were thrown into the prison of the palace. On the way back the houses of a very rich upholsterer and of a cannon-founder of great repute, both of whom had withstood the butchers, were broken into and their owners both murdered. After this the mob marched to the house of Maître Leroux. No reply being given to their summons to open, an attack was made upon the door. While they were engaged in doing this, screens of wattles covered with two or three thicknesses of hides were placed so as to shelter the assailants from the arrows that had proved so deadly on the occasion of their last attack. It was thus evident that the outrage was a planned one. Guy looked on with some amusement until the door gave way under the action of some very heavy sledge-hammers wielded by a party of brawny smiths; the moment it did so the crowd made a tremendous rush. So great was the pressure that many were thrown down and trampled to death in the doorway. It was not long before several of the windows were thrown open and voices shouted down that the house was deserted. A yell of fury burst from the crowd below, but the pressure at the door was even greater than before. The loss incurred during the first attack had caused all but the bravest and most determined to hang back somewhat; now, however, that it seemed that the silversmith's stores could be ransacked without danger, all were anxious to have a hand in it. Presently one of the leaders appeared at a casement on the first floor and waved his arms for silence. The roar of voices ceased and the man cried: "Citizens, 'tis of no use to press forward into the house, not only has the traitor and those with him fled from the just vengeance of the people, but he has taken away with him the whole of his silverware." A yell of disappointment and rage rose, then as it ceased for a moment a voice shouted out: "They are trying to cheat us, my friends; those who got in first have divided up the spoil and wish us to have no share in it." This caused a fresh outburst of commotion. At a signal from the leader above a number of well-armed men, who were evidently a sort of body-guard, pressed forward to the door and drove back the crowd with blows from the staves of their pikes. Presently those who had entered began to pour out, and in a quarter of an hour the house was cleared. As soon as it was so the windows were lit up by a lurid light which showed that it had been fired on each floor, and the flames very soon burst out through the casements. Satisfied with having done this the butchers returned to their quarter, and Guy mounted to the chamber of Simon Bouclier. The man had evidently just returned, as he too wore a white hood. He had been carrying a torch in the procession, and this was stuck into a ring on the wall. [Illustration: "WELL, COMRADE," SAID SIMON, "I SUPPOSE YOU ARE THE MAN I WAS TOLD WOULD COME TO-NIGHT?"] "Well, comrade," he said as Guy entered, "I suppose you are the man I was told would come here to-night." "I am so," Guy said. "I should have been here before, but I joined the procession, as I guessed that you would be there also." "Yes," the man said; "though I should not have gone had I not thought that more would come of it. What have we done? Captured two knights and killed two bourgeois! Pooh, it did not need five thousand men for that." "No, but it was just as important as if we had killed a hundred." "How so?" the other asked. "Because it has shown the Armagnacs that Paris and Burgundy are as united as ever, and that they will stand no intrigues by the court party." "That is true. We are all sound here; there were but five thousand out to-night, because that was enough for the work, but there will be four times as many next time we go to the Louvre. To-morrow morning, you know, we are going to pay a visit to the Duke of Aquitaine at his hotel, to teach that young man that he has to do as we and Burgundy order him, or that it will be worse for him." "So I understand," Guy said carelessly. "As long as all hold together in this quarter everything will go right. My duty principally is to find out if there are any signs of wavering; there are no signs, of course, among the butchers, but some of the others are thought to be but half-hearted." "The butchers and skinners are all right, never fear," the man said; "and if there are others in the quarter who may not be quite so hot in the matter as we are, they know better than to open their mouths. Of course, in the other quarters there may be a strong party who would thwart us; the smiths and the carpenters and masons are ever jealous of us of the markets, but they have no leaders, and hold not together as we do. Besides, they know that we have Burgundy with us, so whatever they think they are not likely to say much, for if it came to a battle we could sweep them out of the city." "Yes, yes, I know that there is no fear of that, the great thing is to make sure that some of those who seem to be hottest in the matter, are not taking money from the other party; there are one or two I am specially to observe." "I understand you, comrade. I myself have never had much confidence in John de Troyes nor his medical students. He is good at talking, no one will deny that; but for myself I would rather that we kept among ourselves and had nothing to do with such cattle, who have no interest in the privileges of the guilds, and who take part with us no one knows why. But I am sleepy; that bundle of fresh rushes in the corner is yours, I got them in the hay-market to-day when I heard that you were coming. You can keep beside me to-morrow morning and I will get you a good place in the ranks. From whence shall I say that you come, as many will ask the question, seeing that your face is strange?" "You can say I am from Nancy." "Yes, that will be good enough; that is the right quarter of France for a man to have come from just at present." Guy was thoroughly fatigued with the long excitement of the day. At eleven in the morning everything had been going on as usual, now Dame Margaret and the two children were in hiding, her four men-at-arms fugitives, and Paris was virtually in a state of insurrection against the royal authority, stirred up thereto by the Duke of Burgundy, who had thus openly leagued himself with the scum of Paris. That what he had seen that evening was but the beginning of a series of crimes, Guy could not doubt; and although this man had expressed his confidence in the power of the market-men to sweep the craftsmen out of Paris, he felt sure from what he had heard, that this could not be done until a fierce and doubtful battle had been fought in the streets. At eight next morning he went out with his companion. "It is well not to go into a place where we shall meet many till your face is better known," the latter said; and he led the way to a small _trattoir_ a quarter of a mile away. Here they sat down and breakfasted, then they returned to the market where the White Hoods were mustering. Simon, who was evidently well known to most of the butchers, took his place near the head of the column, and at nine o'clock it got into motion. When it issued from its own quarters it was evident that its approach excited general apprehension. The streets were deserted as it passed along. None of the casements were opened, and although the traders dared not put up their shutters, none of them appeared at the doors, where their apprentices and workmen gathered to look at the procession. Passing along steadily and in good order, and headed as before by the knights of the Duke of Burgundy's household, they drew up before the palace of the Duke of Aquitaine. Caboche, John de Troyes, and one of the butchers entered the house. The guards having no orders, and seeing how strong was the force that was at their back, did not venture to oppose their entrance, and they pushed on into the private apartments of the duke and informed him that they, on behalf of the good town of Paris and for the welfare of his father and himself, required the delivery to them of certain traitors now in the hotel. The duke, furious at their insolence, told them that such affairs were not their business, and that there were no traitors in the hotel. In the meantime many of the White Hoods had followed their leaders, Simon and Guy entering with them. They scattered through the apartments and seized the duke's chancellor, the Duke of Bar, a cousin of the king, and twelve other knights and gentlemen, some of whom were in the apartment of the Duke of Aquitaine himself. While this was going on the Dukes of Burgundy and Lorraine arrived, and Aquitaine, turning to the former angrily, said: "Father-in-law, this insurrection has been caused by your advice; those of your household are the leaders of it; you shall some day repent of this. The state shall not be always governed according to your will and pleasure." However, in spite of his indignation and remonstrance, the twelve gentlemen were carried away and confined in different prisons; and presently discovering the king's secretary, they killed him and threw the body into the river. They compelled the Duke of Aquitaine himself to leave his palace, and with the king, his father, to take up his abode in the Hôtel de St. Pol. Placing a strong guard round it, so as to prevent them from leaving Paris, the mob then compelled all the nobles and even the prelates, they met, to put on white hoods, and their leaders sent off letters to the chief towns in France to inform them that what they had done was for the welfare of the king and kingdom, and requiring them to give aid should there be any necessity for it; they then published an edict in the name of the king ordering that it should be proclaimed in every bailiwick that no person, under penalty of death and confiscation of goods, should obey any summons from their superior lord to take up arms or to trouble the kingdom. The mad king was made to sign this after the Dukes of Aquitaine, Berri, and Lorraine, and other nobles of the council had put their names to it. At nine o'clock that evening Guy went to the square before Notre Dame. Here many groups of people were talking over the events of the day. Guy had, as soon as he left the market quarter, taken off his white hood, and before starting he put on his dress as an apprentice. There was no doubt that the opinion of the great majority of those in the square was hostile to the authors of the events of the day, and that the consternation among the citizens was very great. After thus forcing the great nobles to obey their will and outraging the palace of the Duke of Aquitaine, there was no saying to what length they would go, and fears were expressed that ere long they might sack the whole of the better quarters of Paris. It was so evident, however, that they had the support of the Duke of Burgundy that no one saw any way out of their trouble, and that nothing but the arrival of a powerful army of Orleanists could relieve them from their peril. As Guy had no real expectation of seeing any of his followers,--although the gates had been opened that afternoon after the seizure of the knights,--he attended more to the conversations going on about him than to the matter on which he had come. Presently, however, he saw a rough-looking fellow watching him attentively. He walked close to him, but not recognizing him would have passed on, had not the man taken a step forward and said in a low voice: "Villeroy!" "Is it you, Robert? In faith I did not recognize you in that attire." "And I was not sure that it was you, Master Guy; I should certainly not have known you by your face. Your figure and walk, when a short distance away, attracted my attention, and knowing your disguise was that of an apprentice I made sure it was you. Then as you came closer I doubted, and though I ventured upon saying the name of our lord, I scarce thought that you would reply." "Where are the others, Robert?" "They are walking about separately seeking for you. We are to meet on the steps of the cathedral at half-past nine." "What has become of Tom?" The man laughed. "If you will come along this way, master, you will see." They went to a quiet corner of the square. As they approached it they heard angry voices, and standing under a lamp Guy saw a tall man of wild and unkempt appearance, with black hair and a begrimed face, and a basket of vegetables strapped to his shoulders, threatening angrily with a staff three or four gamins who were making fun of him. He spoke in a wild, incoherent way, and seemed to be half-witted. "What are you worrying this poor fellow for?" Robert said angrily to the boys. "If you do not be off, and that quickly, I will lay my cudgel about your shoulders." This threat was much more efficacious than those of the half-witted man had been, and the boys at once took to their heels. The tall man shuffled towards the new-comers. "Is it really you, Tom?" Guy said in a low tone. "It is me, sure enough, Master Guy. I should not know myself, and am not surprised that you do not know me; in faith, my back aches with walking with a stoop, and my legs with shuffling along as if I had scarce the use of them, instead of stepping out manfully. Is all well? We have heard of strange doings--that the butchers have, with the countenance of Burgundy, bearded the Duke of Aquitaine, and even carried off some of his friends from before his face; also that the houses of three of those who had withstood them had been burned, among them that of Maître Leroux; also that two traders had been killed, though which two they were we have not been able to learn." "All is well, Tom; our lady and her children were safely bestowed, as was also the silversmith and his wife." "I am right glad of that; they were a worthy couple. And so his house is burned and sacked?" "Burned, but not sacked, Tom; for he had, before they came, stowed away in a hiding-place where they could not be found all those chests of his, and not a single piece of silver fell into the hands of the butchers." "That was well done," the archer said, rubbing his hands. "I should like to have seen the dogs' faces when they burst in and found nothing. And my bow, Master Guy?" "I fear that the flames will not have spared it. I went past the house to-day, and naught but the bare walls are standing." At this moment the bell of the cathedral struck the half-hour, and Robert Picard said: "Will you stay here, Master Guy? I must go and meet the others, and forthwith bring them to you here." CHAPTER XIV -- PLANNING MASSACRE In a short time Robert Picard returned with his two companions, and leaving the square, they all went along the quays to a quiet spot. "We cannot be overheard here," Guy said, "and now, in the first place, let me know how you have fared. I knew that you had got safely away, for I was near the gate of St. Denis when the Burgundians fought their way out, and I saw you follow." "We had no difficulty," Robert Picard said. "We went into the wood, and thence I went across to St. Cloud and bought these garments that you see us in, and we hid away our steel caps and harness in some bushes in the heart of the wood, where they are not likely to be found. Then after a long talk with Tom we agreed that he had best go as a half-witted man with a basket of vegetables for sale, and I went into St. Cloud again, dressed as I now am, and found a little shop where they sold rags and old garments, and got his outfit for a couple of francs, and dear at that. We thought in that way he would not have to say much, and that any confusion of speech would be set down to the fact that his brain was weak. Hearing that the gates were open this afternoon, we came in just before they were closed for the night. We have got a room in a lane which honest folk would not care to pass through even in daylight; 'tis a vile hole, but consorts well with our appearance." "I will try and find you a better place to-morrow, Robert. I am going to see the people with whom Maître Leroux is in hiding. I hear that they have no sympathy with these butchers, and when I tell them that you are stout fellows and good fighters methinks they will find quarters for you; and you may be able to put on safer disguises than those you wear at present, except that of Tom's, which I think we cannot better. Besides, he can lie there quietly, and need not, except when he chooses, sally out. I myself am lodging at present among the butchers. I hear that Caboche and the Legoix are furious at our having slipped through their fingers, and they declare that, as we cannot have escaped from Paris, they will lay hands on us very soon." "I should like to lay hands on a few of them myself, Master Guy," Tom said earnestly, "say out in that wood there with a quarter-staff, and to deal with four of them at a time. They have burnt my bow, and I shall not get even with them till I have cracked fully a dozen of their skulls." "I shall be likely to be near you in the quarter where I hope to get you lodging, Tom, for I too am going to have a room there, though I shall generally live where I now am, as I can there obtain news of all that is going on, and might be able to warn our lady in time if they should get any news that may set them on her track. Heard you aught at St. Cloud of any Orleanist gathering?" "I heard a good deal of talk about it, but naught for certain; but methinks that ere long they will be stirring again. The news that I have heard of the insolence of the mob here to the Duke of Aquitaine, and of the seizure of their friends who were with him, is like to set them on fire, for they will see that all the promises made by Burgundy meant nothing, and that, with the aid of the Parisians, he is determined to exercise all authority in the state, and to hold Aquitaine as well as the king in his hands." The next morning Guy went to the house of Maître de Lepelletiere, and inquired for Philip Sampson. Maître Leroux was in. "I have spoken to my friend about you," he said, after they had talked over the events of the last two days, "and he has arranged for a room for you in a house three doors away; and I have no doubt that your four men can be lodged there also, for 'tis a large house, and is let out, for the most part, as he told me, to journeymen carpenters. But since the troubles began there has been little building, and men who can find no work here have moved away to seek for it in places less afflicted by these troubles. That is one of the reasons why the carpenters have not made a firmer stand against the butchers. I will ask him to come up here. You already know him, as you have spoken with him several times when he was looking after his men putting up the new doors." The master carpenter soon came in. "I will gladly get a lodging for your men," he said, when Guy had explained the matter to him. "We may come to blows with these market people, and four stout fellows are not to be despised. There will be a meeting of the council of our guild this afternoon, and on my recommendation they will give me the necessary documents, saying that the men--you can give me their names--have received permission to work as carpenters in Paris. They can then put on dresses suitable for craftsmen, and the papers will suffice to satisfy anyone who may inquire as to their business. I think that your tall archer may safely lay aside the disguise you say he has assumed, it might be likely to get him into trouble; the change in the colour of the hair and the darkening of his eyebrows should be quite sufficient disguise, and if he is always when abroad with one of his comrades, he has but to keep his mouth shut, and if questioned the man with him can say that he is dumb." "That would be excellent," Guy said, "and I am greatly obliged to you. Doubtless, too, they will soon make acquaintance with some of the other workmen, and by mixing with these there will be less suspicion excited than if they always went about together." "I will tell my foreman to present them to the men who work for me, and they will soon get known in the quarter. Five or six of my men lodge in the house where I took the room for you. It might be useful, too, were I to give you a paper of apprenticeship, and if you were similarly introduced. In that case it might be convenient to exchange the small room that I have taken for you for a larger one; as an apprentice you would ordinarily lodge with your master, and if you did not you would scarce have a room to yourself, but were you to lodge with your four men it would seem natural enough." "That would be a capital plan, Maître Lepelletiere." "You see, in that way, too," the carpenter went on, "you would only have to place a plank on your shoulder and then go where you will without exciting the least attention. I will furnish you with a list of the houses where I have men at work, and this again would be an assistance to you. It is my foreman who took the lodging for you; I am expecting him here shortly for orders, and he shall go round with you. As you say that your fellows are dressed at present in rough fashion it will be as well that they should provide themselves with their new disguises before they come here, as, if they were seen in their present guise, it would prejudice them with the others in the house, for craftsmen look down greatly upon the rough element of the street." "They shall do so," Guy said, "and I will come with them myself this evening." Guy presently went in with the foreman and arranged for a large attic with a dormer window, at the top of the house. At midday he met Robert Picard and told him the arrangements that had been made, supplying him with money for the purchase of the four dresses. "As soon as it becomes dark," he said, "you had best go to some quiet spot and change them. Bring the clothes you now have on in a bundle, for they may yet prove useful, and meet me at eight o'clock at the corner of the Rue des Fosses." Guy then went to the Italian's and told Dame Margaret of the arrangements he had made. "Since you have managed it all so well, Guy, I am glad to hear that the men are all back in Paris. I before wished that they should make straight for Villeroy, but since they are so safely bestowed it were best perhaps that they should be within reach. Long Tom is the only one I shall feel anxious about, for of course he is less easy to disguise than the others." "He has plenty of shrewdness, my lady, and will, I have no doubt, play his part well. I know that I myself feel very glad that there are four true men upon whom we can rely if any difficulty should arise." "Some evening, mother," Agnes said, "when I have grown more accustomed to this boy's dress I will go with Katarina to this house so that I can carry a message there, should she happen to be away when there is need for sending one." Lady Margaret hesitated, but Guy said: "By your leave, my lady, I think that the idea is a very good one, saving that I myself will escort the two ladies there as soon as Mistress Agnes feels confident enough to go." "In that case I should have no objection, Guy. Under your charge I have no doubt Agnes would be perfectly safe, but I could hardly bring myself to let her go out without escort in so wild a city as this is at present." The Italian and his daughter presently joined them, and heard with satisfaction where Guy and the four men had obtained a safe lodging. "Still," he said, "I should advise you sometimes to sleep at your lodging by the market-place. Simon is not the sort of companion you would choose. I have only seen him once, and I was then so disguised that he would not recognize me again--for none of those with whom I have dealings know who I am or where I live--but that once was sufficient to show me that the fellow might be trusted to serve me well as long as he was paid well, especially as he believed that I was an agent of the duke's; still, he is a rough and very unsavoury rascal, and had I been able to think at the moment of anywhere else where you could for the time safely shelter I should not have placed you with him." "I do not mind," Guy said; "and at any rate with him I have opportunities of seeing what is going on, as, for example, when they insulted the Duke of Aquitaine, and it is certainly well to be able to learn what the intentions of the fellows are. As an Englishman I care naught for one party or the other, but as one of gentle blood it fills me with anger and disgust to see this rabble of butchers and skinners lording it over nobles and dragging knights and gentlemen away to prison; and if it were in my power I would gladly upset their design, were it not that I know that, for my lady's sake, it were well to hold myself altogether aloof from meddling in it." "You are right," the Italian said gravely. "I myself am careful not to meddle in any way with these affairs. I try to learn what is doing, because such knowledge is useful to me and gains me credit as well as money with those who consult me, and may possibly be the means of saving their lives if they do but take my warning. Thus, having learned what was proposed to be done yesterday morning, I was able to warn a certain knight who visited me the evening before that it might cost him his life were he to remain in Paris twelve hours. He was incredulous at first, for I would give him no clue as to the nature of the danger; however, by a little trick I succeeded in impressing him sufficiently for him to resolve to leave at daybreak. This he did; at least they searched for him in vain at the Duke of Aquitaine's, and therefore I have no doubt that he took my advice, engaged a boat, and made his escape by the river. It was his first A to me, and I doubt not that henceforth he will be a valuable client, and that he will bring many of his friends to me. If I mistake not, I shall have more opportunities of doing such services and of so increasing my reputation ere long." For a time things went on quietly. Tom and his companions were on friendly terms with the other men in the house, who all believed them to be carpenters who had come to Paris in search of employment. Long Tom was supposed by them to be dumb, and never opened his lips save when alone with his companions, and seldom left the house. The room was altogether unfurnished, but furniture was regarded as by no means a necessity in those days. Five bundles of rushes formed their beds, and Guy, as there was little to learn in the markets, generally slept there. An earthenware pan, in which burned a charcoal fire over which they did what cooking was necessary, a rough gridiron, and a cooking pot were the only purchases that it was necessary to make. Slices of bread formed their platters, and saved them all trouble in the matter of washing up. Washing was roughly performed at a well in the court-yard of the house. Things had now quieted down so much that a considerable number of great nobles resorted to Paris, for the king had now a lucid interval. Among them were the Dukes of Berri, Burgundy, and Lorraine, with Duke Louis of Bavaria, the queen's brother, with the Counts de Nevers, De Charolais, De St. Pol, the Constable of France, and many other great lords and prelates. The queen was also with her husband. "There will shortly be trouble again," the Italian said one day to Guy. "Simon told my daughter yesterday evening that the butchers were only biding their time to get as many fish into their net as possible, and that when they would draw it they would obtain a great haul. You have not been down there for some time; it were best that you put on your butcher's garb again and endeavour to find out what is intended." "I was expecting you," Simon said, when that evening Guy entered his room. "There will be a meeting at midnight in the butchers' hall, and I cannot take you in with me, but I will tell you what happens." "That will do as well as if I went myself," Guy said, "though in truth I should like well to see one of these councils." "No one is admitted save those known to be, like myself, thoroughly devoted to the cause." "That I can well understand, Simon; a traitor might mar all their plans." "Some time I may take you," Simon said, "for doubtless I could smuggle you in; but to-night--" and he hesitated, "to-night it will be specially important, and they have to be more particular than usual as to who are admitted." Guy noticed the hesitation, and replied carelessly that one occasion would be as good as another for him, and presently lay down in his corner. He wondered to himself what the business could be that his companion was evidently anxious that he should hear nothing of. He might wish that he should alone have the merit of reporting it, or it might be something that it was deemed the Duke of Burgundy himself, the butchers' friend and ally, would not approve of. At any rate he was determined, if possible, to find it all out; he therefore feigned sleep. At eleven o'clock Simon got up and went down; Guy waited for two or three minutes and then rose and followed. As soon as he was out of the door he made direct for the hall of the butchers' guild. He knew that Simon was not going straight there, as the meeting was not, he said, for an hour, and that he would be stopping to drink at some cabaret with his associates. The hall was but a short distance away. When Guy approached it he saw that as yet it was not lighted up. On three sides it was surrounded by a garden with high trees; near the front entrance some twenty men were gathered talking together. He, therefore, went round to the back; several trees grew near the wall, and the branches of one of these extended over it. With considerable difficulty Guy succeeded in climbing it, and made his way along the branch and got upon the top of the wall. This was about fourteen feet high, and, lowering himself by his arms, he dropped into the garden and crossed to the building. He took off his white hood and thrust it into his doublet. The windows were six feet from the ground, and were, as usual at this time, closed by wooden shutters on the inside. Putting his fingers on the sill he raised himself up. There was plenty of room for him to stand, and, holding on by the iron bars, he took out his dagger and began to cut a hole in the shutter. The wood was old, and after half an hour's hard work he succeeded in making a hole three inches long and an inch wide. By the time this was finished the hall had been lighted up with torches, and men were pouring in through the doors at the other end. Across the end next to him was a platform on which was a table. For a time no one came up there, for the members as they entered gathered in groups on the floor and talked earnestly together. After a few minutes ten men came up on to the platform; by this time the body of the hall was full, and the doors at the other end were closed. A man, whom Guy recognized as John de Troyes, stepped forward from the others on the platform and, standing in front of the table, addressed his comrades. "My friends," he said, "it is time that we were at work again. Paris is becoming infested by enemies of the people, and we must rid ourselves of them. The nobles are assembled for the purpose, as they say, of being present at the marriage of Louis of Bavaria with the widow of Peter de Navarre, but we know well enough that this is but a pretext; they have come to consult how best they can overthrow the power of our Duke of Burgundy and suppress the liberty of this great city. The question is, are we tamely to submit to this?" A deep shout of "No!" ran through the multitude. "You are right, we will not submit. Were we to do so we know that it would cost the lives of all those who have made themselves prominent in the defence of the liberties of Paris; they might even go so far as to suppress all our privileges and to dissolve our guilds. In this matter the Duke of Burgundy hesitates and is not inclined to go with us to the full, but we Parisians must judge for ourselves what is necessary to be done. The duke has furnished us with a list of twelve names; these men are all dangerous and obnoxious to the safety of Paris. But there must be a longer list, we must strike at our own enemies as well as at those of the duke, and the council has therefore prepared a list of sixty names, which I will read to you." Then, taking out a roll of paper, he read a list of lords and gentlemen, and also, to Guy's indignation, the names of several ladies of rank. "These people," he said when he had finished, "are all obnoxious, and must be cast into prison. They must be tried and condemned." Even among the greater portion of those present the boldness of a proposal that would array so many powerful families against them created a feeling of doubt and hesitation. The bolder spirits, however, burst into loud applause, and in this the others speedily joined, none liking to appear more lukewarm than the rest. Then up rose Caboche, a big, burly man with a coarse and brutal expression of face. "I say we want no trials," he cried, striking one hand on the palm of the other. "As to the number, it is well enough as a beginning, but I would it were six hundred instead of sixty. I would that at one blow we could destroy all the nobles, who live upon the people of France. It needs but a good example to be set in Paris for all the great towns in France to follow it. Still, paltry as the number is, it will, as I said, do as a beginning. But there must be no mistake; if trials they must have, it must be by good men and true, who will know what is necessary and do it; and who will not stand upon legal tricks, but will take as evidence the fact that is known to all, that those people are dangerous to Paris and are the enemies of the king and the Duke of Burgundy. Last time we went, we marched with five thousand men; this time we must go with twenty thousand. They must see what force we have at our command, and that Paris is more powerful than any lord or noble even of the highest rank, and that our alliance must be courted and our orders obeyed. The Duke of Burgundy may pretend to frown, but at heart he will know that we are acting in his interest as well as our own; and even if we risk his displeasure, well, let us risk it. He needs us more than we need him. Do what he will, he cannot do without us. He knows well enough that the Orleanists will never either trust or forgive him, and he committed himself so far with us last time that, say what he will, none will believe that he is not with us now. For myself, I am glad that De Jacqueville and his knights will not this time, as last, ride at our head; 'tis best to show them that Paris is independent even of Burgundy, and that what we will we can do." The hall rang with the loud acclamations, then John de Troyes got up again. "I agree, we all agree, with every word that our good friend has spoken, and can warrant me that the judges shall be men in whom we can absolutely trust, and that those who enter the prisons will not leave them alive. The day after to-morrow, Thursday, the 11th of May, we shall hold a great assembly, of which we shall give notice to the king and the royal dukes, and shall make our proposals to the Duke of Aquitaine. Now, my friends, let each come forward with a list of the number of his friends who he will engage shall be present on Thursday." At this point, Guy, seeing that the main business of the meeting had been declared, and that there now remained but to settle the details, got down from his post. With the aid of some ivy he climbed the wall and dropped down beyond it, and made his way back to his lodging. When Simon returned an hour later, Guy was apparently as fast asleep as before. When sleeping at the butchers' quarter he always rose at a very early hour, so that none who might have noticed him in his butcher's attire should see him go out in that of an apprentice, and he was obliged to walk about for some time before he could call at the count's. As soon as he thought that they would be likely to be stirring he knocked at the door. The old woman opened it. "Is your master up yet?" he asked. She nodded, and without further question he made his way upstairs to the Italian's chamber. "You are early, Master Aylmer," the latter said in surprise as he entered. "Have you news of importance?" "I have indeed, Count," and he at once related all that he had heard through the hole in the shutter. "The insolence of these people surpasses all bounds," the count said angrily as he walked up and down the room. "Were there any force in the town that could resist them I would warn the Duke of Aquitaine what was intended, but as it is, nothing would be gained by it. You can only remember the eight or ten names that you have given me?" "That is all; they were names that I was familiar with, while the others were strange to me." "Two or three of them I can at least save from the grasp of these rascals," he said, "but I will take them all down on my tablets. What need was there for you," he went on after he had done this, "to run such risk as you did--for you would assuredly have been killed without mercy had they caught you spying upon them--when Simon, who you say was present, could have sent me full particulars of all that passed?" Guy stated his reasons for fancying that upon this occasion Simon did not intend to send a full account. "I thought so before I started," he said, "but I was well assured of it when I heard that, although Burgundy had given the names of twelve persons whom he desired to be arrested, he would go no further in the matter, and that he had no knowledge of their further pretensions. It seems to me, Count, that, believing as he does that you are an agent of the duke's, he was unwilling to say anything about this matter, as Burgundy might thwart the intentions of the butchers. The man is heart and soul with them, and though he is willing to sell you information that can do no harm to their plans, he will say nothing that might enable Burgundy to thwart them." "If I thought that Burgundy could, or would do so, I would inform him as well as Aquitaine what is doing; but in the first place he has not the power, and in the second he would not have the will. What are a few score of lives to him, and those mostly of men of the Orleanist faction, in comparison with the support of Paris? I am vexed, too, at this failure of Simon, that is to say, if it be a failure. That we shall know by mid-day. My daughter will meet him in the Place de Grève at eleven, and we shall hear when she comes back how much he has told her. I am going after breakfast to my booth outside the walls, where you first saw me. I must send notes to the three gentlemen whom I know, begging them to see me there." "Can I take them for you? I have nothing to do, and shall be glad of anything to occupy me." "I shall be obliged if you will; you are sure to find them in at this hour." He sat down and wrote three short communications. The wording was identical, but the times fixed for the interview were an hour apart. They ran as follows: "_My Lord,--Consulting the stars last night I find that danger menaces you. It may be averted if you quit Paris when you receive this, for it seems to me that it is here only that your safety is menaced. Should you wish to consult me before doing so, come, I pray you, to my booth in the fair at two, but come mounted. _" Instead of a signature a cabalistic figure was drawn below it, and then the words were added: _The bearer can be trusted._ The slips of parchment were then rolled up and sealed; no addresses were put on. "If they question you," he said, "say nothing, save that I told you that the matter contained in the letter was sure and certain, and that a great risk of life would assuredly be run unless my advice was taken. Deliver them into the hands of those they concern, and trust them to no others, Master Aylmer. If you cannot obtain access to them, say to the varlets that they are to inform their lords that one from the man in the Rue des Essarts desires urgently to see them, and that should be sufficient if the message is given. If they refuse to take it, then I pray you wait outside for a while on the chance of the gentlemen issuing out. This, on which you see I have made one dot, is for the Count de Rennes, who is at present at the Hotel of St. Pol, being in the company of the Duke of Berri; this is for Sir John Rembault, who is at the Louvre, where he is lodging with the governor, who is a relation of his; the third is for the Lord of Roubaix, who is also lodged at the Louvre." "They shall have them," Guy said as he placed them in his doublet, "if I have to stop till midnight to get speech with them; the matter of waiting a few hours is but a trifle in comparison with the life of a man. I would that I could warn others." The Italian shook his head. "It could not be done without great danger," he said. "Were you to carry an anonymous letter to others you might be seized and questioned. The three to whom you now carry notes have all reason for knowing that my predictions are not to be despised, but the others would not accept any warning from an unknown person. They might take it for a plot, and you might be interrogated and even put to torture to discover who you are and whence you obtained this information. Things must go on as they are; assuredly this is no time for meddling in other people's affairs. We are only at the beginning of troubles yet, and know not how great they may grow. Moreover, you have no right to run a risk for strangers when your life may be of vital service to your mistress. Should you succeed in handing these three letters to the gentlemen to whom they are written by noon, I shall be glad if you will bring the news to me at my booth, and I shall then be able to tell, you how much information the butcher has sent of the proceedings last night." Guy went first to the Louvre. As many people were going in and out, no question was asked him, and on reaching the entrance he inquired of some varlets standing there for the lodgings of the Lord de Roubaix and Sir John Rembault. "I am in the service of the Lord de Roubaix; what would you with him?" "I am charged with a message for him; I was told to deliver it only to himself." "From whom do you come? I cannot disturb him with such a message from I know not who." "That is reasonable," Guy replied, "but if you tell him that I come from the man in the Rue des Essarts I warrant that he will see me. You don't suppose that I am joking with you," he went on as the varlet looked at him suspiciously, "when I should likely be whipped for my pains. If you will give the message to your lord I doubt not that he will give me audience." "Follow me," the varlet said, and led the way upstairs and through several corridors, then he motioned to him to wait, and entered a room. He returned in a minute. "My lord will see you," he said, and led the way into the room. "This is the person, my lord," he said, and then retired. The Lord of Roubaix was a tall man of some forty years of age. Guy bowed deeply and handed to him the roll of parchment. The count broke the seal and read it, and when he had finished looked fixedly at Guy. "The writer tells me that you are to be trusted?" "I hope so, my lord." "Do you know the contents of this letter?" "I know so much, my lord, that the writer told me to assure you that the matter was urgent, and that he could not be mistaken as to what was written in the letter." The count stood irresolute for a minute or two; then he said: "Tell him that I will act upon his advice. He has before now proved to me that his warnings are not to be neglected. You seem by your attire to be an apprentice, young sir, and yet your manner is one of higher degree." "Disguises are convenient in times like these, my lord," Guy said. "You are right, lad." He put his hand to his pouch, but Guy drew back with a smile. "No, my lord, had you offered me gold before you remarked that I was but playing a part, I should have taken it in order to keep up that part; as it is I can refuse it without your considering it strange that I should do so." The count smiled. "Whoever you are, you are shrewd and bold, young sir. I shall doubtless see you when I return to Paris." Guy then left, and delivered the other two missives. In each case those who received them simply returned an answer that they would be at the place at the hour named, and he then went beyond the walls, observing as he passed out through the gates that a party of White Hoods had stationed themselves there. However, they interfered with no one passing in or out. On reaching the booth he informed the count of the success of his visits. "I doubt, however," he said, "whether either of the three gentlemen will be here at the time appointed, for the White Hoods are watching at the gate." "I think that they will not stop anyone to-day, Master Aylmer. They intend to make a great haul to-morrow, and would not wish to excite suspicion by seizing anyone to-day. Were it known that they had done so, many others who have reason to believe they are obnoxious to Burgundy or to the Parisians, might conceal themselves or make their escape in various disguises. I hear that a request has been made that a deputation of the citizens of Paris shall be received by the Duke of Aquitaine to-morrow morning, and that the great lords may be present to hear the request and complaints of the city." CHAPTER XV -- A RESCUE Guy had found his mornings hang heavy on his hands, as of course he had been obliged to give up attending the fencing-school. Going down to the river now, he sat there watching the passing boats until nearly one o'clock, and then returned to the fair. Before reaching the booth Katarina joined him. "I have been watching for you, Monsieur Guy. Father said it was as well that you should not, twice in a day, be seen entering his place. He bade me tell you that the three gentlemen have been to him and will not re-enter Paris." "Did you see Simon this morning?" "Yes, he only told me that the market men would have an interview with the Duke of Aquitaine to-morrow, and would demand the arrest of those whom the Duke of Burgundy had pointed out as his enemies. He said that they would go in such force that the duke would be unable to refuse their request. Although it was so early, I think that the man had been drinking. My father, when I told him, said I should go no more to meet him." "I am very glad to hear it," Guy said. "He is a low scoundrel, and though I say not but that the information obtained from him may have been of some advantage, for indeed it was the means of my being enabled to save our lives and those of my Burgundian friends, I like not the thought of your going to meet him; and I am sure that if he were to take the idea into his thick head that it was not for the advantage of the Duke of Burgundy that the information he had given was being used, he is capable of denouncing you." "I did not mind meeting him,", the girl said. "I never went into the rough quarters, but always met him in one of the better squares or streets. Still, I am glad that I have not to go again. I think that he had been drinking all night, and with his unwashed face and his bloodshot eyes and his foul attire I was ashamed even in my present dress to speak with him." "I hope that I have done with him too," Guy said. "Of course, for my mistress's sake, I shall go again if there be aught to be learnt by it, but as it seems he is now no longer to be trusted it is not likely that any advantage is to be gained by visiting him. However, I shall hear what your father thinks this evening." Upon talking over the matter with the astrologer the latter at once said that he thought that it would be better for him not to go to Simon's again. "When he finds that my daughter meets him no more he will feel aggrieved. I myself shall go in disguise to-morrow to meet him in the Place de Grève, and tell him that for the present there will be no occasion for him to come to the rendezvous, as the events of the meeting which will have taken place before I see him show that there can be no doubt that the butchers are ready to go all lengths against the Orleanist party; but that if any change should occur, and private information be required, you would go to his lodging again, I shall make no allusion to his having given me none of the names save those furnished by the duke, or remark on the strangeness that, having been at the meeting, he should have heard nothing of the measures proposed against the others; his own conscience will no doubt tell him that his failure is one of the causes of my no longer desiring any messages from him. I have other means of gaining information, as I have one of the medical students who follow that cracked-brained fellow, John de Troyes, in my pay. Hitherto I have not employed him largely, but shall now, if need be, avail myself of his services. But I do not think that I shall have any occasion to do so. After the demand by the Parisians for so many nobles and gentlemen to be arrested, it will be clear to all adhering to Orleans that Paris is no longer a place for them, and even the followers of Burgundy will see that those the duke regarded as his servants have become his masters, and there will be but few persons of quality remaining in Paris, and therefore, save when some citizen wishes to consult me, I shall have little to do here save to carry on my work as a quack outside the gates. Even this I can drop for a time, for the people of Paris will not be inclined for pleasure when at any moment there may be fierce fighting in the streets. I shall be well content to look on for a time. I have been almost too busy of late. And it was but yesterday that I received news from a Carthusian monk,--whom I thought it as well to engage to let me know what is passing,--that there have been debates among some of the higher clergy upon reports received that persons, evidently disguised, call upon me at late hours, and that I practise diabolic arts. A determination has been arrived at that an inquisition shall be made into my doings, my house is to be searched, and myself arrested and tried by the judge for having dealings with the devil. This news much disturbed me; however, when you told me that the Archbishop of Bourges was among those on the list of accused, and also Boisratier, confessor to the queen, it is evident that these good ecclesiastics will have ample matter of another sort to attend to, and are not likely to trouble themselves about sorcery at present." On the following morning some twelve thousand White Hoods marched to the Hôtel de St. Pol, and the leaders, on being admitted, found all the great lords assembled. After making various propositions they presented a roll to the Duke of Aquitaine containing the names of those they charged with being traitors. He at first refused to take it; but so many of their followers at once poured into the great hall that he was obliged to do so, and to read out the names. Twenty of those mentioned in the list were at once, in spite of the protest of the duke, arrested and carried off; a proclamation was made by sound of trumpet in all the squares of Paris summoning the other forty named to appear within a few days, under penalty of having their property confiscated. A week later the king, having recovered his health, went to the church of Notre Dame, he and all the nobles with him wearing white hoods. Four days later the Parisians rose again, seized the gates, drew up the bridges, placed strong guards at each point, and a cordon of armed men outside the walls all round the city, to prevent any from escaping by letting themselves down from the walls. Parties of ten armed men were placed in every street, and the sheriffs and other leaders marched a large body of men to the Hôtel de St. Pol and surrounded it by a line three deep. They then entered and found the king, dukes, and nobles all assembled in the great hall. They then ordered a Carmelite friar, named Eustace, to preach to the king. He took for his text, "_Except the Lord keep the city, the watchman waketh but in vain_," and upon this discoursed on the bad state of the government of the kingdom, and of the crimes committed. The Chancellor of France demanded of the friar when he had concluded who were those who had incited him thus to speak, and the leaders at once said they had done so, and called up a number of other leaders, who on bended knees declared to the king that Father Eustace had spoken their sentiments; that they had the sincerest love for the king and his family, and that what they had done had been for the welfare of himself and the kingdom. While this was going on, the Duke of Burgundy, at once indignant and alarmed at this insolence of the Parisians, had gone out, and, finding the lines of armed men surrounding the hotel, had earnestly entreated them to retire, saying that it was neither decent nor expedient that the king, who had but just recovered from his illness, should thus see them drawn up in battle array round his abode. Those he addressed replied like the leaders within, that they were there for the good of the kingdom, and then gave him a roll, saying that they should not depart until those written on it were delivered up to them. With the names of Louis of Bavaria, five knights, an archbishop and priest, were those of nine ladies of high rank, including the eldest daughter of the constable. The duke found that neither his authority nor powers were of the slightest avail, and returning to the queen, showed her the list. She was greatly troubled, and begged him to go with the Duke of Aquitaine and beg the Parisians in her name to wait for eight days, and that she would at the end of that time allow them to arrest her brother. The two dukes went out to the Parisians, but they positively refused to grant the request, and declared that they would go up to the queen's apartments and take those named by force, even in her or the king's presence, unless they were given up. On their return to the queen they found Louis of Bavaria and the king with her. On their report of the Parisians' demands the Duke of Bavaria went out and begged them to take him into custody, and that if he were found guilty they could punish him, but that if found innocent he should be allowed to go back to Bavaria, under a promise not to return to France again. He begged them to be content with taking him a prisoner, and to arrest no others. They would not, however, abate one jot of their pretensions, and the whole of those demanded were at once brought out, including the ladies. They were put two and two on horseback, each horse escorted by four men-at-arms, and were carried to various prisons. The Duke of Burgundy now, with his usual craft, professed to be well satisfied with what the Parisians had done, and handed over to them the Duke of Bar and the other prisoners confined in the Louvre, for whose security he had solemnly pledged himself. The Parisians then obliged the king to appoint twelve knights, nominated by themselves, and six examiners, to try the prisoners and punish all found guilty, while the dukes were obliged to draw up a statement and send it to the University for their seal of approval of what had been done. The University, however, to their honour, stood firm; and while king and nobles had quailed before the violence of the crowd, they declared in full council before the king that they would in nowise intermeddle or advise in the business; and that so far from having advised the arrests of the dukes and other prisoners, they were much displeased at what had taken place. The University was a power; its buildings were strong, and the students were numerous, and at all times ready to take part in brawls against the Parisians; and even the butchers, violent as they were, were afraid to take steps against it. They foresaw, however, that the position taken up by the University might lead some day to an inquiry into their conduct, and therefore obtained from the king an edict declaring that all that had been done was done by his approval and for the security of his person and the state, and that the arrests and imprisonments were therefore to be considered and regarded as having been done for the true honour and profit of the crown, and that he accordingly commanded all his councillors, judges, and officers to proclaim that this was so in all public places. This was signed by the king in council, the Dukes of Berri and Burgundy, and several other nobles and ecclesiastics, by the Chancellor of Burgundy, and other knights attached to the duke. Many nobles quitted Paris at once, either openly or in disguise, including many of the Burgundian party, who were to the last degree indignant at what was going on; for the mock trials were at once commenced, and many of the prisoners, without regard to sex, were daily either put to death in prison or drowned in the Seine. Some of the bodies were exhibited on gibbets, the heads of others were fixed on lances, and some of them were beheaded in the market-place. During this time Paris remained in a state of terror, bands of armed butchers parading the streets were loud in their threats as to what would be done to all who did not join heartily with them. None of the better class ventured from their houses, and the mob were absolute masters of the city. The leaders, however, maintained for the time a certain degree of order. For the time they were anxious to appear in the light of earnest friends of the king, and as carrying out in his name the punishment of his enemies. But many tumults, murders, and conflagrations occurred in the city, and the country in general soon perceived the real nature of their doings. It was known that the Orleanist forces were marching against the city. The Count d'Eu had left Paris and returned to his estates, where he raised two thousand men-at-arms and marched to Verneuil, where the Dukes of Orleans, Brittany, and Bourbon were assembled, with a number of great lords, among whom were the Counts of Vettus and D'Alençon, the king's sons. The former had made his escape from Paris, and brought letters from the Duke of Aquitaine declaring that he himself, with the king and queen, were prisoners in the hands of the Parisians. All these nobles met in a great assembly, and letters were written to the king, his great council, and to the Parisians, ordering them to allow the Duke of Aquitaine to go wherever he pleased, and to set at liberty the Dukes of Bar and Bavaria and all other prisoners. Should they refuse to comply, they declared war against the town of Paris, which they declared they would destroy, with all within it except the king and the princes of royal blood. The Parisians compelled the king to send a friendly answer, putting them off with excuses, and in the meantime to despatch commissaries to all the towns and baronies of France assuring them that the trials and executions of the traitors had been fairly conducted and their guilt proved, and calling upon the country to take up arms to aid Paris against various nobles who were traitorously advancing against it. During this time Guy remained quietly in his lodging with the four retainers, seldom stirring abroad. The men were now regarded by all their neighbours as honest carpenters, and they shared the indignation of the great body of the craft at this usurpation by the market men of the government of France, and at the murders of knights and ladies that were daily taking place. At present, however, the opponents of the butchers dared not resort to arms. So great had been the fear that they excited that most men, however much at heart opposed to them, had been constrained to appear to side with and agree with them, and as there was no means of knowing who could be counted upon to join the carpenters were these to take up arms, the latter could not venture alone to enter the lists against the armed host of the other party. One evening Guy, who had not been near the Italian's for over a fortnight, received a message from Dame Margaret to say that she wished to speak to him, for that she had determined, if any way of escape could be decided on, to quit Paris, and to endeavour to make her way to Villeroy. He was greatly pleased at the news. He had himself ventured to urge this step on the day after the Duke of Bar and his companions were seized, pointing out that it was evident that the Duke of Burgundy had neither the power nor the inclination to thwart the Parisians, and that although both parties were now nominally hostile to the English, neither were likely, at so critical a time, to give so much as a thought to Villeroy. Dame Margaret had agreed to this, but considered the difficulties of getting out of Paris and traversing the intervening country were so great that she preferred to wait until some change took place in the situation of Paris. But it was now too evident that the changes were entirely for the worse, and that if discovered the butchers would undoubtedly add her and her children to their long list of victims. His companions were equally glad when Guy told them the news. "The sooner the better, Master Guy," Long Tom said. "I own that I should like to have a tussle with these rascals before I go; their doings are so wicked that every honest man must want to get one fair blow at them. Still, I don't see any chance of that, for although the good fellows round here grumble under their breath, there does not seem any chance of their doing anything. There is not an hour passes that my heart is not in my mouth if I hear a step on the stairs, thinking that they may have found out where my lady is hidden." Guy had just turned into the street where the astrologer dwelt when he heard loud voices from a little group in front of him. Four armed men, whose white hoods showed that they were one of the butchers' patrols, were standing round a slight figure. "It is well you stopped him, comrade," a voice said, that Guy recognized at once as being that of Simon Bouclier. "I know the young fellow; he has been to me many a time on the part of a knave who professed to be an agent of Burgundy's, making inquiries of me as to the doings in our quarter. I have found out since that the duke employed no such agent, and this matter must be inquired into. We will take him with us to the market; they will soon find means of learning all about him and his employer." Guy felt at once that if Katarina were carried to the butchers, not only would the consequences to herself be terrible, but that she would be forced to make such disclosures as would lead to the arrest of the count, and to the discovery of Dame Margaret. He determined at all hazards to get her out of these men's hands. The girl made a sudden attempt to free herself, slipped from the grasp that one of the men had of her shoulder, dived between two others, and would have been off had not Simon seized her by the arm. Guy sprung forward and threw himself on the butcher, and with such force that Simon rolled over in the gutter. "Run, run!" he shouted at the same moment to Katarina, who darted down a lane to the left, while he himself ran forward and turned down the first lane to the right with the three men in hot pursuit of him. Young, active, and unencumbered by armour, he gained on them rapidly; but when he neared the end of the lane he saw some five or six White Hoods, whose attention had been called by the shouts of his pursuers, running to meet him. He turned and ran back till close to those who had been following him, and then suddenly sprung into a doorway when they were but three or four paces from him. They were unable to check their speed, and as they passed he brought his sword down on the neck of the one nearest, and as he fell to the ground Guy leapt out and ran up the street again. He had gone but ten paces when he met Simon, who rushed at him furiously with an uplifted axe. Springing aside as the blow descended he delivered a slashing cut on the butcher's cheek, dashed past him, and kept on his way. He took the first turning, and then another, leading, like that in which he had been intercepted, towards the river. His pursuers were fifty yards behind him, but he feared that at any moment their shouts would attract the attention of another patrol. More than once, indeed, he had to alter his direction as he heard sounds of shouts in front of him, but at last, after ten minutes' running, he came down on to the main thoroughfare at the point where the street leading to the bridge across to the island issued from it. [Illustration: "GUY DELIVERED A SLASHING BLOW ON THE BUTCHER'S CHEEK, AND DASHED PAST HIM."] His pursuers were still but a short distance away, for fresh parties who had joined them had taken up the chase, and Guy was no longer running at the speed at which he had started. His great fear was that he should be stopped at the gate at the end of the bridge; but as there was no fear of attack this had been left open, so as not to interfere with the traffic between that quarter of the city on the island and those on the opposite banks. Guy was now again running his hardest, in order to get across far enough ahead of his pursuers to enable him to hide himself, when a strong patrol of some twenty White Hoods issued from the gate at the other side of the bridge. Without a moment's hesitation he climbed the parapet and threw himself over. It would, he knew, be as bad for his mistress were he captured as if Katarina had fallen into their hands, for if caught he felt sure that tortures would be applied to discover who he was and where his mistress was hidden, and he had made up his mind that if he was overtaken he would fight until killed rather than be captured. When he came to the surface of the water Guy turned on his back and suffered himself to float down until he recovered his breath. When he did so he raised his head and, treading the water, listened attentively. He was now nearly a quarter of a mile below the bridge. There was no sound of shouting behind him, but he felt sure that the pursuit was in no way abandoned. Already torches were flashing on the quay between the wall and the river, and in a short time others appeared on his left. On both sides there were dark spaces where the walls of the great chateaux of the nobles extended down to the water's side, and obliged those pursuing him along the quays to make a detour round them to come down again to the bank. He could hardly succeed in reaching one of these buildings without being seen, for the light of the torches on the opposite shore would be almost certain to betray his movements as soon as he began to swim, and even if he did reach the shore unseen he might at once be handed over to the White Hoods by those in the hotel. He therefore remained floating on his back, and in twenty minutes was beyond the line of the city wall. He could now swim without fear of being discovered, and made for the southern shore. It was now the middle of June, and the water was fairly warm, but he was glad to be out of it. So far as Guy had heard he had not been caught sight of from the moment that he had sprung from the bridge. It might well be supposed that he had been drowned. Climbing up the bank he gained, after walking a quarter of a mile, the forest that surrounded Paris on all sides. Going some distance into it he threw himself down, after first taking off his doublet and hanging it on a bush to dry. He had escaped the first pressing danger, that of being taken and tortured into confession, and the rest was now comparatively easy. He had but to obtain another disguise of some sort and to re-enter Paris; he would then be in no greater danger than before, for in the sudden attack on Simon, and in the subsequent flight through the ill-lighted streets, he was certain that beyond the fact that he was young and active, and that he was evidently not a noble, no one could have noted any details of his dress, and certainly no one could have had as much as a glance at his face. He started at daybreak, walked through the woods up to Meudon, and thence to Versailles, which was then little more than a village. By the time that he reached it his clothes had thoroughly dried on him, and being of a dark colour they looked little the worse, save that his tight pantaloons had shrunk considerably. The stalls were just opening when he arrived there, and he presently came upon one where garments of all sorts were hanging. The proprietor's wife, a cheery-looking woman, was standing at the door. "I have need of some garments, madame," he said. "You look as if you did," she said with a smile, glancing at his ankles. "I see that you are an apprentice, and for that sort of gear you will have to go to Paris; we deal in country garments." "That will suit me well enough, madame. The fact is that, as you see, I am an apprentice; but having been badly treated, and having in truth no stomach for the frays and alarms in Paris (where the first man one meets will strike one down, and if he slays you it matters not if he but shout loud enough that he has killed an Orleanist), I have left my master, and have no intention of returning as an apprentice. But I might be stopped and questioned at every place I pass through on my way home did I travel in this 'prentice dress, and I would, therefore, fain buy the attire of a young peasant." The woman glanced up and down the street. "Come in," she said. "You know that it is against the law to give shelter to a runaway apprentice, but there are such wild doings in Paris that for my part I can see no harm in assisting anyone to escape, whether he be a noble or an apprentice, and methinks from your speech that you are as like to be the former as the latter. But," she went on, seeing that Guy was about to speak, "tell me naught about it. My husband, who ought to be here, is snoring upstairs, and I can sell what I will; therefore, look round and take your choice of garments, and go into the parlour behind the shop and don them quickly before anyone comes in. As to your own I will pay you what they are worth, for although those pantaloons are all too tight for those strong limbs of yours they may do for a slighter figure." Guy was soon suited, and in a few minutes left the shop in a peasant's dress, and made his way along the village until beyond the houses. Then he left the road, made a long detour, and returned to Sèvres. Here he first purchased a basket, which he took outside the place and hid in a bush. Then he went down into the market and bargained for vegetables, making three journeys backwards and forwards, and buying each time of different women, until his basket was piled up. Then he got a piece of old rope for two or three sous, slung the basket on his shoulders, crossed the ferry, and made for Paris. He felt strange without his sword, which he had dropped into the water on landing; for although in Paris every one now went armed, a sword would have been out of character with his dress, in the country, and still more so in the disguise in which he had determined to re-enter the town. He passed without question through the gate, and made his way to his lodgings. As he entered Long Tom leapt up with a cry of joy. "Thank God that you are safe, Master Guy! We have been grievously disturbed for your safety, for the count came here early this morning in disguise to ask if we had heard aught of you. He said that his daughter had returned last night saying that you had rescued her from the hands of the White Hoods, and that beyond the fact that they had followed you in hot pursuit she had no news of you, and that the countess was greatly alarmed as to your safety. The other three men-at-arms started at once to find out if aught could be learned of you. I would fain have gone also, but the count said that I must bide here in case you should come, and that there was trouble enough at present without my running the risk of being discovered. An hour since Robert Picard returned; he had been listening to the talk of the White Hoods, and had learned that one of their number had been killed and another sorely wounded by a man who had rescued a prisoner from the hands of a patrol. He had been chased by a number of them, and finally threw himself off the bridge into the Seine to avoid falling into their hands. The general idea was that he was one of the nobles in disguise, of whom they were in search, and that the capture would have been a very important one. "All agreed that he could never have come up alive, for there were bands of men with torches along both banks, and no sign of him had been perceived. However, they are searching the river down, and hope to come upon his body either floating or cast ashore. Robert went out again to try and gather more news, leaving me well-nigh distraught here." "The story is true as far as it goes, Tom. I did catch one of them a back-handed blow just under his helmet as he ran past me, and I doubt not that it finished him; as to the other, I laid his cheek open. It was a hot pursuit, but I should have got away had it not been that a strong patrol came out through the gate at the other end of the bridge just as I was in the middle, and there was no course but to jump for it. I thrust my sword into the sheath, and went over. It added somewhat to my weight in the water, and it sunk my body below the surface, but with the aid of my hands paddling I floated so that only my nose and mouth were above the water; so that it is little wonder that they could not make me out. I landed on the other bank a quarter of a mile beyond the walls, slept in the forest, started this morning from Versailles, where I got rid of my other clothes and bought these. I purchased this basket and the vegetables at Sèvres, then walked boldly in. No one could have seen my face in the darkness, and therefore I am safe from detection, perhaps safer than I was before." "Well done, Master Guy; they would have killed you assuredly if they had caught you." "It was not that that I was afraid of--it was of being taken prisoner. You see, if they had captured me and carried me before the butchers in order to inquire who I was before cutting my throat, they might have put me to the torture and forced me to say who I was, and where my mistress was in hiding. I hope if they had, that I should have stood out; but none can say what he will do when he has red-hot pincers taking bits out of his flesh, and his nails, perhaps, being torn out at the roots. So even if I could not have swam a stroke I should have jumped off the bridge." "You did well, Master Guy," the archer said admiringly; "for indeed they say that the strongest man cannot hold out against these devilish tortures." At this moment a step was heard on the stairs, and Jules Varoy entered. "The saints be praised!" he exclaimed as he recognized Guy. "I thought that you were drowned like a rat, Master Guy; and though Tom here told us that you could swim well, I never thought to see you again." Guy told him in a few words how he had escaped, and begged him to carry the news to his mistress. He was about to give him the address--for up till now he had refrained from doing so, telling them that it was from no doubt of their fidelity, but that if by any chance one of them fell into the hands of the White Hoods they might endeavour to wring from them the secret, and it was therefore best that they should not be burdened with it--but the man stopped him. "The count told us that he would be at his booth at the fair at eleven o'clock, and that if any of us obtained any news we were to take it to him there. He said that there were several parties of White Hoods in the streets, and that as he went past he heard them say that the boy of whom they were in search was a messenger of some person of importance at court, and that doubtless the man who had rescued him was also in the plot, and that a strict watch was to be kept on the quarter both for the boy and for the man, who was said to be tall and young. Simon, who had been wounded by him, had declared that he knew him to be connected with the boy; that he was a young man with dark hair, and was in the habit of using disguises, sometimes wearing the dress of an apprentice, and at other times that of a butcher's assistant. He said that he was about twenty-three." Guy smiled. He understood that the butcher, who was a very powerful man, did not like to own that the man who had killed one of his comrades and had severely wounded himself was but a lad. "As you go, Jules," he said, "will you see Maître Leroux and ask him if he can come hither, for I would consult him on the matter." CHAPTER XVI -- THE ESCAPE Maître Leroux came in shortly after Jules Varoy had left. He had not, until the man told him, heard of the events of the night before, and Guy had to tell him all about it before anything else was said. "It was a lucky escape, Master Aylmer, if one can call luck what is due to thought and quickness. Is there anything I can do for you?" "This black hue that I gave my hair has been of good service to me hitherto, but as it is a youth with black hair that they are now looking for, I would fain change its hue again." "What dye did you use?" "It was bought for me at a perfumer's in the Rue Cabot. As you see, it is fading now, and the ducking last night has greatly assisted to wash it out. The shopman said that it was used by court ladies and would last for a long time, but I have already had to renew it four or five times. I would now colour my hair a red or a reddish-brown; if I cannot do that I must crop it quite short. It matters nothing in this disguise whether it is altogether out of the fashion or not. What think you?" "Doubtless you could get dyes of any shade at the perfumer's you speak of, for he supplies most of the court ladies with dyes and perfumes; and I should say that reddish-brown dye would suit you well, since that differs a good deal from your hair's original colour and still more from what it is at present. I will ask one of Lepelletiere's daughters to fetch it for you. It would be better than cutting it short, though that might not go badly with your present disguise, but should you need to adopt any other it would look strange, since in our days there is scarce anyone but wears his hair down to his shoulders. In the meantime I would have you wash your hair several times with a ley of potash, but not too strong, or it will damage it. I warrant me that will take out the dye altogether; but be sure that you wash it well in pure water afterwards, so as to get rid of the potash, for that might greatly affect the new dye. I will send a boy up with some potash to you at once, so that you may be ready to apply the dye as soon as you get it." Late in the afternoon Guy sallied out in the disguise in which he had arrived. His hair was a tawny brown. He had left his basket behind him, and carried a heavy cudgel in his hand. He sauntered quietly along, stopping often to stare at the goods on the stalls, and at nobles who rode past followed generally by two or three esquires. No one would doubt that he was a young countryman freshly arrived in Paris. He had sent a message to the count by Jules Varoy that he would pass along the street in the disguise of a young peasant as the clock struck seven, and that if he saw no White Hoods about he would look up at the casement, return a minute or two afterwards, and then try if the door was unfastened. If so he would come in, while if it were fastened he should consider that it was judged unsafe for him to enter. He caught sight of Katarina's face at the window as he glanced up. There was a patrol of the White Hoods in sight, but it was far down the street, and after going a few yards past the house he crossed the road, and as he returned he pushed at the door. It yielded at once, and with a glance round to see that no one was watching he entered quickly and closed it behind him. "The Madonna be thanked that you are safe!" Katarina, now in her girl's dress, exclaimed as she seized his hand. "Oh, Monsieur Guy, how I have suffered! It was not until two o'clock that my father returned and told us that you were safe; I should never have forgiven myself if harm had come to you from your noble effort to save me. I heard their shouts as they ran in pursuit of you, and scarce thought it possible that you could escape when there was so many of their patrols about in the street. I cried all night at the thought that you should have thrown away your life to try to save mine, for I knew well enough what would have happened had that evil butcher dragged me to his quarter. After my father had been out early and brought back the news that you had leapt into the Seine we had some little hope, for Dame Margaret declared that she knew that you could swim well. We had no one we could send out, for the old woman is too stupid, and my father now strictly forbids me to stir outside the door. So here we all sat worn with anxiety until my father returned from the booth with the news. He could not come back earlier, and he had no one to send, for the black man must keep outside amusing the people as long as my father is there." All this was poured out so rapidly that it was said by the time they reached the door upstairs. Dame Margaret silently held out her hands to Guy as he entered, and Agnes kissed him with sisterly affection, while Charlie danced round and round him with boisterous delight. "I hardly knew how much you were to me and how much I depended upon you, Guy," Dame Margaret said presently, "until I feared that I had lost you. When, as I thought must be the case from what Katarina said, I believed you were killed or a prisoner in the hands of those terrible people, it seemed to me that we were quite left alone, although there still remained the four men. Neither Agnes nor I closed our eyes all night Charlie soon cried himself to sleep, Katarina sat up with us till nigh morning, and we had hard work to console her in any way, so deep was her grief at the thought that it was owing to her that you had run this peril. All night we could hear the count walking up and down in the room above. He had pointed out the peril that might arise to us all if you had fallen into the hands of the butchers, but at the time we could not dwell on that, though there were doubtless grounds for his fears." "Great grounds, madame. That is what I most feared when I was flying from them, and I was resolved that I would not be taken alive, for had I not gained the bridge I was determined to force them to kill me rather than be captured. It was fortunate, indeed, that I came along when I did, Katarina, for had I not heard what Simon said I should have passed on without giving a thought to the matter. There are too many evil deeds done in Paris to risk one's life to rescue a prisoner from the hands of a patrol of the White Hoods." "As for me, I did not realize it until it was all over," Katarina said. "I felt too frightened even to think clearly. It was not until the shouts of your pursuers had died away that I could realize what you had saved me from, and the thought made me so faint and weak that I was forced to sit down on a door-step for a time before I could make my way home. As to my father, he turned as pale as death when I came in and told him what had happened." Shortly afterwards the count, who had been engaged with a person of consequence, came down. He thanked Guy in the warmest terms for the service he had rendered his daughter. "Never was a woman in greater peril," he said, "and assuredly St. Anthony, my patron saint, must have sent you to her rescue. She is all that I have left now, and it is chiefly for her sake that I have continued to amass money, though I say not that my own fancy for meddling in such intrigues may not take some part in the matter. After this I am resolved of one thing, namely, that she shall take no further part in the business. For the last year I had often told myself that the time had come when I must find another to act as my messenger and agent. It was difficult, however, to find one I could absolutely trust, and I have put the matter off. I shall do so no longer; and indeed there is now the less occasion for it, since, as I have just learned, fresh negotiations have been opened for peace. That it will be a lasting one I have no hope, but the Orleanists are advancing in such force that Burgundy may well feel that the issue of a battle at present may go against him. But even though it last but a short time, there will come so many of the Orleanist nobles here with doubtless strong retinues that Paris will be overawed, and we shall have an end of these riots here. I shall, therefore, have no need to trouble as to what is going on at the markets. As to other matters I can keep myself well informed. I have done services to knights and nobles of one party as well as the other, and shall be able to learn what is being done in both camps. The important point at present is, Lady Margaret, that there is like to be a truce, at any rate for a time. As soon as this is made and the Duke of Aquitaine has gained power to act you may be sure that the leaders of the White Hoods will be punished, and there will be no more closing of gates and examination of those who pass in and out. Therefore, madame, you will then be able to do what is now well-nigh impossible, namely, quit the town. At present the orders are more stringent than ever, none are allowed to leave save with orders signed by John de Troyes, who calls himself keeper of the palace, Caboche, or other leaders and even peasants who come in with market goods must henceforth produce papers signed by the syndics of their villages saying they are the inhabitants of his commune, and therefore quiet and peaceable men going about their business of supplying the city with meat or vegetables, as the case may be. These papers must also be shown on going out again. Until a change takes place, then, there is no hope of your making your way out through the gates with your children; but as soon as the truce is concluded and the Orleanists come in you will be able to pass out without trouble." It was not, indeed, for another month that the truce was settled, although the terms were virtually agreed upon at Pontois, where the Dukes of Berri and Burgundy met the Dukes of Orleans and Bourbon and the other Orleanist nobles, and the conditions were considered at a council to which the delegates of the University and the municipality of Paris were admitted. The conduct of the insurgents of Paris was now repudiated by the Duke of Burgundy, and the severest, censure passed upon them, in the conditions of the treaty. The greatest alarm was excited in the market quarter, and this was increased when, immediately afterwards, the Dukes of Bar and Bavaria were liberated. On the 12th of August and on the 4th of September the rest of the prisoners still left alive were also set free. The bells of the churches rang a joyful peal. De Jacqueville, John de Troyes, Caboche, and many of the leaders of the butchers at once fled from Paris. Most of the knights who had been agents for the insurgents in the mock trials also left Paris, and shortly afterwards the duke himself, finding how strongly the tide had set against him, and fearing that he himself might shortly be seized and thrown into prison, went out from Paris under the pretence of hunting, and fled. During this time Guy had remained with the four men-at-arms. As soon as the power of the butchers diminished and the guards were removed from the gates, and all who pleased could enter or leave, Dame Margaret prepared for flight. Along with the Burgundian knights and nobles who returned after the truce was proclaimed came Count Charles d'Estournel, and several of those who had fled with him. Guy met the former riding through the street on the day after his return to Paris. Not caring to accost him there, he followed him and saw him dismount at his former lodging. As soon as he had entered Guy went up to the door. "What do you want?" one of the count's valets said. "I want to see your master, fellow," Guy said sharply, "and I will pull your ears for your insolence if you accost me in that style." The valet stared at him open-mouthed, then thinking that this peasant might be deputed by the terrible butchers to see his lord, he inquired in a changed tone what message he should give to the count. "Say to him that the man of the street fray wants to see him." A minute later the young count himself ran downstairs and warmly embraced Guy, to the astonishment of the valet. "My dear friend," he exclaimed, "I am indeed delighted to see you! Twice have you saved my life, for assuredly had we not got through the Port St. Denis that day not one of us would ever have left Paris alive, and we are all under the deepest obligation to you. But even after our skirmish at the gate we scarcely realized the danger that we had escaped, for we believed that even had the Parisians been insolent enough to demand our arrest for stopping them when engaged in attacking the houses of peaceable citizens, the duke would treat their demand with the scorn that it deserved. However, when next day we heard that some of the officers of his household had headed them when they forced their way into the Duke of Aquitaine's hotel, and carried off the Duke of Bar and others from before his eyes, and that the duke in all things assisted them, we knew that he would not have hesitated to deliver us up to the villains. "We held a council as to what we should do. We could not affirm that he had failed, as our lord, in giving us protection, for he had not done so, seeing that we had taken the matter in our own hands. Had he actually consented to hand us over to the Parisians, we should have issued a declaration laying the matter before all the great vassals of Burgundy and denouncing him as a false lord. There are many who would have been very glad to have taken up the matter, for his truckling to these knaves has greatly displeased all save the men who are mere creatures of his. However, as we had no proof that he was willing to surrender us to the fury of the mob of Paris, we could do nothing, and the crafty fox called upon my father the next day and expressed his satisfaction that we had all ridden away, though at the same time saying that there was no reason whatever for our having done so, as he should of course have refused to give any satisfaction to the mob of Paris, and he caused several letters to the same effect to be sent to my friends who escaped with me. "My father was very short with him, and told him that as it seemed the Parisians were the masters of the city, and that he had no power to restrain them, however monstrous their doings, he thought that we had all acted very wisely in going. He himself left Paris the next day, and several other nobles, relations or friends to some of us, took the earliest opportunity also of leaving for their estates. Now that the power of the butchers has been broken and that their leaders have fled, I came back again, chiefly to find out what had become of you, and whether you and your charges have passed through these evil times unharmed." "We have all been in hiding, and save for an adventure or two have passed the time quietly. Now that the gates are open we are going to make our escape, for you see everything points to the probability that the Orleanists will very shortly be supreme here, and after the defeat Sir Eustace gave Sir Clugnet de Brabant they might be glad still to retain our lady as hostage, though methinks they would treat her more honourably than the Duke of Burgundy has done." "Possibly they might, but I would not count upon it, for indeed wherever they have taken a town they have treated those who fell into their hands most barbarously. 'Tis true that they have some excuse for it in the treatment of so many knights and ladies here. Indeed it seems to me that France has been seized with madness, and that Heaven's vengeance will fall upon her for the evil things that are being done. And now, can we aid you in any way? The duke was extremely civil when I saw him on my arrival here yesterday. He said that I and my friends were wrong in not having trusted in him to protect us from the demands of the butchers. I told him frankly that as he had in other matters been so overborne by them, and had been unable to save noble knights and ladies from being murdered by them under the pretence of a trial that all men knew was a mockery, it was just as well that we had taken the matter into our own hands without adding it to his other burdens; and that I and my friends felt that we had no reason to regret the step we had taken, and we knew that our feelings were shared by many other nobles and knights in Burgundy. "He looked darkly at me, but at the present pass he did not care to say anything that would give offence, not only to me, but to my friends, who with their connections are too powerful to be alienated at a time when he may need every lance. I could not, however, well ask from him a free conduct for your people without naming them, but I might get such a pass from his chancellor, and if your former host, Maître Leroux, be still alive, he might doubtless get you one from the municipality. As an additional protection I myself shall certainly ride with you. It is for that that I have returned to Paris. I shall simply say to the chancellor that I am riding to Arras on my own business, and that though in most places I should be known to Burgundians, yet that it would be as well that I should have a pass lest I be met by any rude body of citizens or others who might not know me, and I shall request him to make it out for me personally and for all persons travelling in my train. So that, as far as Flanders at any rate, there should be no difficulty. I only propose that you should also get a document from the city in case of anything befalling us on the way. "I see not indeed what can befall us; but it is always well in such times as these, when such strange things occur, to provide for all emergencies. I may tell you that Louis de Lactre and Reginald Poupart have arrived with me in Paris bent on the same errand, and anxious like myself to testify their gratitude to you; so that we shall be a strong body, and could if necessary ride through France without any pass at all, since one or other of us is sure to find a friend in every town which we may traverse." "Truly, I am thankful indeed to you and to your friends, Count. I own that it has been a sore trouble to me as to how we should be able, however we might disguise ourselves, to travel through the country in these disturbed times, without papers of any kind, when bodies of armed men are moving to and fro in all directions, and travellers, whoever they may be, are questioned at every place on the road where they stop." "Do not speak of thanks, Guy; I twice owe you my life, and assuredly 'tis little enough to furnish you in return with an escort to Artois. Now, tell me all that you have been doing since we left." Guy gave a short account of all that had happened. "It has been fortunate for us both," the Count Charles said when he had finished, "that this astrologer should have made your acquaintance; it was his warning that enabled you to save us as well as your lady. I have heard several times of him as one who had wondrous powers of reading the stars, but now I see that it is not only the stars that assist him." "I can assure you that he himself believes thoroughly in the stars, Count; he says that by them he can read the danger that is threatening any person whose horoscope he has cast. I had not heard much of such things in England, but I cannot doubt that he has great skill in them. To my knowledge he has saved several lives thereby." "He certainly saved ours, Guy, and should he like to join your party and ride with us he will be heartily welcomed." "I will return at once," Guy said, "and give my lady the good news. I will not ask you to go with me now, for if the count--for he is really a nobleman though an exile--decides to stay here he would not care to attract the attention of his neighbours by the coming of a noble to his house in daylight. Though I cannot without his permission take you there, I will return here this evening at eight o'clock, if you will be at home at that hour." "I will be here, and De Lactre and Poupart will be here to meet you. I will go now direct to the chancellor and obtain the pass both in their names and mine, then we shall be ready to start whenever your lady is prepared. We have all brought some spare horses, so that you will have no trouble on that score. Your men-at-arms will, of course, ride with ours. We have brought eight horses, knowing the number of your company; if your Italian and his daughter go with us Lady Agnes and Charles can ride behind some of us." Dame Margaret, Agnes, and Charlie were delighted indeed when they heard from Guy of his meeting with the young Count d'Estournel, and of the latter's offer to escort them to Artois. "The saints be praised!" his lady said. "I have spoken little about it, Guy, but I have dreaded this journey far more than any of the dangers here. In times so disturbed I have perceived that we should run innumerable risks, and eager as I am to return to my lord I have doubted whether, with Agnes with me, I should be right in adventuring on such a journey. Now there can be no risk in it, saving only that of falling in with any of the bands of robbers who, as they say, infest the country, and even these would scarce venture to attack so strong a party. We shall be ready to start to-morrow, if Count d'Estournel is prepared to go so soon. We will be veiled as we ride out. It is most unlikely that anyone will recognize us, but 'tis as well for his sake that there should be no risk whatever of this being known. The count is out and will not return until six, therefore it will be best that you should go at once and warn the others that we start to-morrow." The pleasure of Long Tom and his companions at the news was scarcely less than had been that of Dame Margaret, and they started at once to recover their steel caps and armour from the place where they had been hidden, saying that it would take them all night to clean them up and make them fit for service. Then Guy went in to Maître Lepelletiere and saw the silversmith, who was also sincerely glad at the news he gave him. "I was but yesterday arranging for a house where I could open my shop again until my own was rebuilt," he said, "for there is an end now of all fear of disturbances, at any rate for the present, and I was heartily greeted by many old friends, who thought that I was dead. I will go down with Lepelletiere this afternoon to the offices of the municipality and ask for a pass for madame--what shall I call her?" "Call her Picard: it matters not what surname she takes." "Madame Picard, her daughter and son, and her cousin Jean Bouvray of Paris, to journey to St. Omer. It does not seem to me that the pass is likely to be of any use to you; at the same time it is as well to be fortified with it. Now that the tyranny of the market-men is over they will be glad to give us the pass without question." On the Italian's return that afternoon Dame Margaret herself told him of the offer the Count d'Estournel had made. He sat silent for a minute or two and then said: "I will talk it over with Katarina; but at present it does not seem to me that I can accept it. I am a restless spirit, and there is a fascination in this work; but I will see you presently." An hour later he came down with Katarina. "We have agreed to stay, Lady Margaret," he said gravely, "I cannot bring myself to go. It is true that I might continue my work in London, but as a stranger it would be long before I found clients, while here my reputation is established. Two of the knights I enabled to escape have already returned. One called upon me last night and was full of gratitude, declaring, and rightly, that he should have been, like so many of his friends, murdered in prison had I not warned him. I have eight requests already for interviews from friends of these knights, and as, for a time at any rate, their faction is likely to be triumphant here, I shall have my hands full of business. This is a pleasant life. I love the exercise of my art, to watch how the predictions of the stars come true, to fit things together, and to take my share, though an unseen one, in the politics and events of the day. I have even received an intimation that the queen herself is anxious to consult the stars, and it may be that I shall become a great power here. I would fain that my daughter should go under your protection, though I own that I should miss her sorely. However, she refuses to leave me, and against my better judgment my heart has pleaded for her, and I have decided that she shall remain. She will, however, take no further part in my business, but will be solely my companion and solace. I trust that with such protection as I shall now receive there is no chance of even the Church meddling with me, but should I see danger approaching I will send or bring her to you at once." "I shall be glad to see her whenever she comes, and shall receive her as a daughter. We owe our lives to your shelter and kindness, and we already love her." "The shelter and the kindness have already been far more than repaid by the inestimable service your esquire rendered us," the Italian said. "I have since blamed myself bitterly that I neglected to consult the stars concerning her. I have since done so, and found that a most terrible danger threatened her on that day; and had I known it, I would have kept her indoors and would on no account have permitted her to go out. However, I shall not be so careless of her safety in future. I see that, at any rate for some time, her future is unclouded. She herself will bitterly regret your absence, and has already been weeping sorely at the thought of your leaving. Save myself she has never had a friend, poor child, and you and your daughter have become very dear to her." Dame Margaret had no preparations to make, for in their flight from the silversmith's each had carried a bundle of clothes. Guy brought Count d'Estournel round in the evening, and the arrangements were then completed. It was thought better that they should not mount at the house, as this would be certain to attract considerable observation and remark, but that Count Charles should come round at seven in the morning and escort them to his lodging. There the horses would be in readiness, and they would mount and ride off. Guy then went round to the Rue des Fosses and warned the men of the hour at which they were to assemble at the count's. He found them all hard at work burnishing up their armour. "We shall make but a poor show, Master Guy, do what we will," Tom said; "and I doubt whether this gear will ever recover its brightness, so deeply has the rust eaten into it. Still, we can pass muster on a journey; and the swords have suffered but little, having been safe in their scabbards. I never thought that I should be so pleased to put on a steel cap again, and I only wish I had my bow slung across my shoulder." "It will be something for you to look forward to, Tom, and I doubt not that you will find among the spare ones at Villeroy one as good as your own, and that with practice you will soon be able to shoot as truly with it." Tom shook his head doubtfully. "I hope so, but I doubt whether I shall be suited again till I get home, and Master John the bowyer makes one specially suitable for me, and six inches longer than ordinary. Still, I doubt not that, if it be needed, I shall be able to make shift with one of those at Villeroy." The evening before the departure of Dame Margaret and her children, Maître Leroux and his wife, with a man bearing a large parcel, had called upon Dame Margaret at the house of the astrologer, whose address Guy had given, the provost that day. "We could not let you leave, Lady Margaret," his wife said, "without coming to wish you God speed. Our troubles, like yours, are over for the present, and I trust that the butchers will never become masters of Paris again, whatever may happen." "Maître Lepelletiere," said the silversmith, "is going to organize the whole of his craft, the workmen and apprentices, into an armed body, and the master of the smiths will do the same. I shall endeavour to prevail upon all the traders of my own guild and others to raise such a body among their servitors; and while we have no wish whatever to interfere in the political affairs of state, we shall at least see that the market people of Paris shall not become our masters again. Master Aylmer, I have brought hither for you a slight token of my regard and gratitude for the manner in which you saved not only our property but our lives. Within this package are two suits of armour and arms. One is a serviceable one suitable to your present condition of an esquire; the other is a knightly suit, which I hope you will wear in remembrance of us as soon as you obtain that honour, which I cannot but feel assured will not be far distant. Had you been obliged to leave Paris in disguise I should have made an endeavour to send them to you in England by way of Flanders; but as you will issue out in good company, and without examination or question asked, you can wear the one suit and have the other carried for you." Guy thanked the silversmith most heartily, for, having lost his armour at the burning of the house, he had felt some uneasiness at the thought of the figure that he would cut riding in the train of the three Burgundian knights. But at the same time his own purse had been exhausted in the purchase of the disguises for himself and the men-at-arms, and that of his mistress greatly reduced by the expenses of the keep of the men, and he had determined not to draw upon her resources for the purchase of armour. His thanks were repeated when, on the package being opened, the beauty of the knightly armour was seen. It was indeed a suit of which any knight might be proud. It was less ornate in its inlaying and chasing than some of the suits worn by nobles, but it was of the finest steel and best make, with every part and accessory complete, and of the highest workmanship and finish. "It is a princely gift, sir," Guy said as he examined it, "and altogether beyond my poor deserts." "That is not what I think, Master Aylmer. You have shown all through this business a coolness and courage altogether beyond your years, and which would have done honour to an experienced knight. My store of silver-ware that was saved by your exertions, to say nothing of our lives, was worth very many times the value of this armour, and I am sure that your lady will agree with me that this gift of ours has been well and honourably earned." "I do indeed, Maître Leroux," Dame Margaret said warmly; "and assure you that I am as pleased as Guy himself at the noble gift you have made him. I myself have said but little to him as to the service that he has rendered here, leaving that until we reach our castle in safety, when Sir Eustace, on hearing from me the story of our doings, will better speak in both our names than I can do." In the morning Dame Margaret and her children set out for the lodging of D'Estournel, escorted by the count and Guy, followed by a porter carrying the latter's second suit of armour and the valises of Dame Margaret. Guy himself had charge of a casket which the Count de Montepone had that morning handed to Dame Margaret. "These are gems of value," he said, "In the course of my business I more often receive gifts of jewels than of money. The latter, as I receive it, I hand to a firm here having dealings with a banker of Bruges, who holds it at my disposal. The gems I have hitherto kept; but as it is possible that we may, when we leave Paris, have to travel in disguise, I would fain that they were safely bestowed. I pray you, therefore, to take them with you to your castle in England, and to hold them for us until we come." Dame Margaret willingly took charge of the casket, which was of steel, strongly bound, and some nine inches square. "Its weight is not so great as you would think by its appearance," the Italian said, "for it is of the finest steel, and the gems have been taken from their settings. It will, therefore, I hope, be no great inconvenience to you." At parting, Katarina, who was greatly affected, had given Guy a small box. "Do not open it until you reach Villeroy," she said; "it is a little remembrance of the girl you saved from deadly peril, and who will never forget what she owes to you." On reaching the count's lodgings they found the other two knights in readiness. Dame Margaret's four men-at-arms were holding the horses. "I am glad to see you all again," she said as she came up. "This is a far better ending than our fortunes seemed likely to have at one time, and I thank you all for your faithful service." "I am only sorry, my lady, that we have had no opportunity of doing aught since we were cooped up," Tom replied; "nothing would have pleased us better than to have had the chance again of striking a stout blow in your defence." "We may as well mount at once, if it is your pleasure, Dame Margaret," Count d'Estournel said, "for the other men-at-arms are waiting for us outside the gates." The packages were at once fastened on the two pack-horses that were to accompany them; all then mounted. The three knights with Dame Margaret rode first, then Guy rode with Agnes by his side, and the four men-at-arms came next, Charlie riding before Jules Varoy, who was the lightest of the men-at-arms, while two of the count's servants brought up the rear, leading the sumpter horses. CHAPTER XVII -- A LONG PAUSE A quarter of a mile beyond the gate the party was joined by eighteen men-at-arms, all fully armed and ready for any encounter; eight of them fell in behind Dame Margaret's retainers, the other ten took post in rear of the sumpter horses. With such a train as this there was little fear of any trouble with bands of marauders, and as the road lay through a country devoted to Burgundy there was small chance of their encountering an Orleanist force. They travelled by almost the same route by which Dame Margaret had been escorted to Paris. At all the towns through which they passed the Burgundian knights and their following were well entertained, none doubting that they were riding on the business of their duke. One or other of the knights generally rode beside Guy, and except that the heat in the middle of the day was somewhat excessive, the journey was altogether a very pleasant one. From Arras they rode direct to Villeroy. As soon as their coming was observed from the keep the draw-bridge was raised, and as they approached Sir Eustace himself appeared on the wall above it to hear any message the new-comers might have brought him. As they came near, the knights reined back their horses, and Dame Margaret and Agnes rode forward, followed by Guy having Charlie in front of him. As he recognized them Sir Eustace gave a shout of joy, and a moment later the drawbridge began to descend, and as it touched the opposite side Sir Eustace ran across to the outwork, threw open the gate, and fondly embraced his wife and children, who had already dismounted. "Ah, my love!" he exclaimed, "you cannot tell how I have suffered, and how I have blamed myself for permitting you and the children to leave me. I received your first letter, saying that you were comfortably lodged at Paris, but since then no word has reached me. I of course heard of the dreadful doings there, of the ascendency of the butchers, of the massacres in the streets, and the murders of the knights and ladies. A score of times I have resolved to go myself in search of you, but I knew not how to set about it when there, and I should assuredly have been seized by Burgundy and thrown into prison with others hostile to his plans. But who are these with you?" "They are three Burgundian knights, who from love and courtesy, and in requital of a service done them by your brave esquire here, have safely brought us out of Paris and escorted us on our way. They are Count Charles d'Estournel, Sir John Poupart, and Sir Louis de Lactre." Holding his hand she advanced to meet them and introduced them to him. "Gentlemen," Sir Eustace said, "no words of mine can express the gratitude that I feel to you for the service that you have rendered to my wife and children. Henceforth you may command me to the extent of my life." "The service was requited before it was rendered, Sir Eustace," Count Charles said; "it has been service for service. In the first place your esquire, with that tall archer of yours, saved my life when attacked by a band of cutthroats in Paris. This to some small extent I repaid when, with my two good friends here and some others, we charged a mob that was besieging the house in which your dame lodged. Then Master Aylmer laid a fresh obligation on us by warning us that the butchers demanded our lives for interfering in that business, whereby we were enabled to cut our way out by the Port St. Denis and so save our skins. We could not rest thus, matters being so uneven, and therefore as soon as the king's party arrived in a sufficient force to put down the tyranny of the butchers, we returned to Paris, with the intention we have carried out--of finding Dame Margaret in her hiding-place, if happily she should have escaped all these perils, and of conducting her to you. And now, having delivered her into your hands, we will take our leave." "I pray you not to do so, Count," the knight said; "it would mar the pleasure of this day to me, were you, who are its authors, thus to leave me. I pray you, therefore, to enter and accept my hospitality, if only for a day or two." The knights had previously agreed among themselves that they would return that night to Arras; but they could not resist the earnestness of the invitation, and the whole party crossed the drawbridge and entered the castle, amid the tumultuous greeting of the retainers. "You have been away but a few months," Sir Eustace said to his wife, as they were crossing the bridge, "though it seems an age to me. You are but little changed by what you have passed through, but Agnes seems to have grown more womanly. Charlie has grown somewhat also, but is scarcely looking so strong!" "It has been from want of air and exercise; but he has picked up a great deal while we have been on the road, and I, too, feel a different woman. Agnes has shared my anxiety, and has been a great companion for me." "You have brought all the men back, as well as Guy?" "You should rather say that Guy has brought us all back, Eustace, for 'tis assuredly wholly due to him that we have escaped the dangers that threatened us." The knights and men-at-arms dismounted in the courtyard, and Sir Eustace and Dame Margaret devoted themselves at once to making them welcome with all honour. The maids hurried to prepare the guest-chambers, the servitors to get ready a banquet. Guy and his men-at-arms saw to the comfort of the knights' retainers and their horses, and the castle rang with sounds of merriment and laughter to which it had been a stranger for months. After the cup of welcome had been handed round Sir Eustace showed the knights over the castle. "We heard the details of the siege, Sir Eustace, from your esquire, and it is of interest to us to inspect the defences that Sir Clugnet de Brabant failed to capture, for, foe though he is to Burgundy, it must be owned that he is a very valiant knight, and has captured many towns and strong places. Yes, it is assuredly a strong castle, and with a sufficient garrison might well have defeated all attempts to storm it by foes who did not possess means of battering the walls, but the force you had was quite insufficient when the enemy were strong enough to attack at many points at the same time, and I am surprised that you should have made good your defence against so large a force as that which assailed you. "But it was doubtless in no slight degree due to your English archers. We saw in Paris what even one of these men could do." "I am all anxiety to know what took place there," Sir Eustace said, "and I shall pray you after supper to give me an account of what occurred." "We will tell you as far as we know of the matter, Sir Eustace; but in truth we took but little share in it, there was just one charge on our part and the mob were in flight. Any I can tell you that we did it with thorough good-will, for in truth we were all heartily sick of the arrogance of these butchers, who lorded over all Paris; even our Lord of Burgundy was constrained to put up with their insolence, since their aid was essential to him. But to us, who take no very great heed of politics and leave these matters to the great lords, the thing was well-nigh intolerable; and I can tell you that it was with hearty good-will we seized the opportunity of giving the knaves a lesson." As soon as the visitors had arrived, mounted men had ridden off to the tenants, and speedily returned with a store of ducks and geese, poultry, wild-fowl, brawn, and fish; the banquet therefore was both abundant and varied. While the guests supped at the upper table, the men-at-arms were no less amply provided for at the lower end of the hall, where all the retainers at the castle feasted royally in honour of the return of their lady and her children. The bowmen were delighted at the return of Long Tom, whom few had expected ever to see again, while the return of Robert Picard and his companions was no less heartily welcomed by their comrades. After the meal was concluded Dame Margaret went round the tables with her husband, saying a few words here and there to the men, who received her with loud shouts as she passed along. Then the party from the upper table retired to the private apartment of Sir Eustace, leaving the men to sing and carouse unchecked by their presence. When they were comfortably seated and flagons of wine had been placed on the board, the knight requested Count Charles to give him an account of his adventure with the cut-throats and the part he had subsequently played in the events of which he had spoken. D'Estournel gave a lively recital, telling not only of the fray with the White Hoods, but of what they saw when, after the defeat of the mob, they entered the house. "Had the passage and stairs been the breach of a city attacked by assault it could not have been more thickly strewn with dead bodies," the count said; "and indeed for my part I would rather have struggled up a breach, however strongly defended, than have tried to carry the barricade at the top of the stairs, held as it was. I believe that, even had we not arrived, Master Aylmer could have held his ground until morning, except against fire." "I wonder they did not fire the house," Sir Eustace remarked. "Doubtless the leaders would have done so as soon as they saw the task they had before them; but you see plunder was with the majority the main object of the attack, while that of the leaders was assuredly to get rid of the provost of the silversmiths, who had powerfully withstood them. The cry that was raised of 'Down with the English spies!' was but a pretext. However, as all the plate-cases with the silverware were in the barricade, there would have been no plunder to gather had they set fire to the house, and it was for this reason that they continued the attack so long; but doubtless in the end, when they were convinced that they could not carry the barricade, they would have resorted to fire." Then he went on to recount how Guy had warned himself and his friends of the danger that threatened, and how difficult it had been to persuade them that only by flight could their safety be secured; and how at last he and the two knights with him had returned to Paris to escort Dame Margaret. "Truly, Count, your narrative is a stirring one," Sir Eustace said; "but I know not as yet how Guy managed to gain the information that the house was going to be attacked and so sent to you for aid, or how he afterwards learned that your names were included with those of the Duke of Bar and others whom the butchers compelled the Duke of Aquitaine to hand over to them." "Dame Margaret or your esquire himself can best tell you that," the count said. "It is a strange story indeed." "And a long one," Dame Margaret added. "Were I to tell it fully it would last till midnight, but I will tell you how matters befell, and to-morrow will inform you of the details more at length." She then related briefly the incidents that had occurred from the day of her interview with the Duke of Burgundy to that of her escape, telling of the various disguises that had been used, the manner in which Guy had overheard the councils of the butchers before they surrounded the hotel of the Duke of Aquitaine and dragged away a large number of knights and ladies to prison, and how the four men-at-arms had re-entered Paris after their escape, and remained there in readiness to aid her if required. Guy himself was not present at the narration, as he had, after staying for a short time in the room, gone down into the banqueting-hall to see that the men's wants were well attended to, and to talk with the English men-at-arms and archers. "It seems to me," Sir Eustace said when his wife had finished the story, "that my young esquire has comported himself with singular prudence as well as bravery." "He has been everything to me," Dame Margaret said warmly; "he has been my adviser and my friend. I have learned to confide in him implicitly. It was he who secured for me in the first place the friendship of Count Charles, and then that of his friends. He was instrumental in securing for us the assistance of the Italian who warned and afterwards sheltered us--one of the adventures that I have not yet told, because I did not think that I could do so without saying more than that person would like known; but Guy rendered him a service that in his opinion far more than repaid him for his kindness to us. The messenger he employed was a near relation of his." And she then related how Guy had rescued this relation from the hands of the butchers, how he had himself been chased, and had killed one and wounded another of his assailants; and how at last he escaped from falling into their hands by leaping from the bridge into the Seine. "You will understand," she said, "that not only our host but we all should have been sacrificed had not the messenger been rescued. He would have been compelled by threats, and if these failed by tortures, to reveal who his employer was and where he lived, and in that case a search would have been made, we should have been discovered, and our lives as well as that of our host would have paid the penalty." "It is impossible to speak too highly of the young esquire," Sir John Poupart said warmly. "For a short time we all saw a good deal of him at the fencing-school, to which D'Estournel introduced him. He made great progress, and wonderfully improved his swordsmanship even during the short time he was there, and the best of us found a match in him. He was quiet and modest, and even apart from the service he had rendered to D'Estournel, we all came to like him greatly. He is a fine character, and I trust that ere long he may have an opportunity of winning his spurs, for the courage he has shown in the defence of his charges would assuredly have gained them for him had it been displayed in battle." The knights were persuaded to stay a few days at the castle, and then rode away with their retainers with mutual expressions of hope that they would meet again in quieter times. Guy had opened the little packet that Katarina had given him at starting. It contained a ring with a diamond of great beauty and value, with the words "With grateful regards." He showed it to Sir Eustace, who said: "It is worth a knight's ransom, lad, and more, I should say. Take it not with you to the wars, but leave it at home under safe guardianship, for should it ever be your bad luck to be made a prisoner, I will warrant it would sell for a sufficient sum to pay your ransom. That is a noble suit of armour that the silversmith gave you. Altogether, Guy, you have no reason to regret that you accompanied your lady to Paris. You have gained a familiarity with danger which will assuredly stand you in good stead some day, you have learned some tricks of fence, you have gained the friendship of half a score of nobles and knights; you have earned the lasting gratitude of my dame and myself, you have come back with a suit of armour such as a noble might wear in a tournament, and a ring worth I know not how much money. It is a fair opening of your life, Guy, and your good father will rejoice when I tell him how well you have borne yourself. It may be that it will not be long before you may have opportunities of showing your mettle in a wider field. The English have already made several descents on the coast, and have carried off much spoil and many prisoners, and it may not be long before we hear that Henry is gathering a powerful army and is crossing the seas to maintain his rights, and recover the lands that have during past years been wrested from the crown. "I propose shortly to return to England. My dame has borne up bravely under her troubles, but both she and Agnes need rest and quiet. It is time, too, that Charlie applied himself to his studies for a time and learnt to read and write well, for methinks that every knight should at least know this much. I shall take John Harpen back with me. Such of the men-at-arms and archers as may wish to return home must wait here until I send you others to take their places, for I propose to leave you here during my absence, as my castellan. It is a post of honour, Guy, but I feel that the castle will be in good hands; and there is, moreover, an advantage in thus leaving you, as, should any message be sent by Burgundian or Orleanist, you will be able to reply that, having been placed here by me to hold the castle in my absence, you can surrender it to no one, and can admit no one to garrison it, until you have sent to me and received my orders on the subject. Thus considerable delay may be obtained. "Should I receive such a message from you, I shall pass across at once to Calais with such force as I can gather. I trust that no such summons will arrive, for it is clear that the truce now made between the two French factions will be a very short one, and that ere long the trouble will recommence, and, as I think, this time Burgundy will be worsted. The Orleanists are now masters of Paris and of the king's person, while assuredly they have the support of the Duke of Aquitaine, who must long to revenge the indignities that were put upon him by Burgundy and the mob of Paris. They should therefore be much the stronger party, and can, moreover, issue what proclamations they choose in the king's name, as Burgundy has hitherto been doing in his own interest. The duke will therefore be too busy to think of meddling with us. Upon the other hand, if the Orleanists gain the mastery they are the less likely to interfere with us, as I hear that negotiations have just been set on foot again for the marriage of King Henry with Katherine of France. The English raids will therefore be stopped, and the French will be loath to risk the breaking off of the negotiations which might be caused by an assault without reason upon the castle of one who is an English as well as a French vassal, and who might, therefore, obtain aid from the garrison of Calais, by which both nations might be again embroiled." "If you think well, my lord, to leave me here in command I will assuredly do the best in my power to prove myself worthy of your confidence; but it is a heavy trust for one so young." "I have thought that over, Guy, but I have no fear that you will fail in any way. Were the garrison wholly a French one I might hesitate, but half the defenders of the castle are Englishmen; and in Tom, the captain of the archers, you have one of whose support at all times you will be confident, while the French garrison will have learned from the three men who went with you that they would as readily follow you as they would a knight of experience. Moreover, good fighters as the English are, they are far more independent and inclined to insubordination than the French, who have never been brought up in the same freedom of thought. Therefore, although I have no doubt that they will respect your authority, I doubt whether, were I to put a Frenchman in command, they would prove so docile, while with the French there will be no difficulty. I might, of course, appoint John Harpen, who is ten years your senior, to the command; but John, though a good esquire, is bluff and rough in his ways, and as obstinate as a mule, and were I to leave him in command he would, I am sure, soon set the garrison by the ears. As an esquire he is wholly trustworthy, but he is altogether unfitted for command, therefore I feel that the choice I have made of you is altogether for the best, and I shall go away confident that the castle is in good hands, and that if attacked it will be as staunchly defended as if I myself were here to direct the operations." Two days later Sir Eustace with his family started, under the guard of ten English and ten French men-at-arms, for Calais. Before starting he formally appointed Guy as castellan in his absence, and charged the garrison to obey his orders in all things, as if they had been given by himself. He also called in the principal tenants and delivered a similar charge to them. The English men-at-arms were well pleased to be commanded by one whom they had known from childhood, and whose father they had been accustomed to regard as their master during the absences of Sir Eustace and Dame Margaret. The archers had not, like the men-at-arms, been drawn from the Summerley estate, but the devotion of their leader to Guy, and the tales he had told them of what had taken place in Paris rendered them equally satisfied at his choice as their leader. As for the French men-at-arms, bred up in absolute obedience to the will of their lord, they accepted his orders in this as they would have done on any other point. Sir Eustace left Guy instructions that he might make any further addition to the defences that he thought fit, pointing out to him several that he had himself intended to carry out. "I should have set about these at once," he had said, "but it is only now that the vassals have completed the work of rebuilding their houses, and I would not call upon them for any service until that was completed. I have told them now that such works must be taken in hand, and that, as they saw upon the occasion of the last siege, their safety depends upon the power of the castle to defend itself, I shall expect their services to be readily and loyally rendered, especially as they have been remitted for over six months. It would be well also to employ the garrison on the works--in the first place, because they have long been idle, and idleness is bad for them; and in the second place because the vassals will all work more readily seeing that the garrison are also employed. While so engaged an extra measure of wine can be served to each man, and a small addition of pay. Here are the plans that I have roughly prepared. Beyond the moat I would erect at the centre of each of the three sides a strong work, similar to that across the drawbridge, and the latter I would also have strengthened. "These works, you see, are open on the side of the moat, so that if carried they would offer the assailants no shelter from arrows from the walls, while being triangular in shape they would be flanked by our fire. Each of these three forts should have a light drawbridge running across the moat to the foot of the wall, thence a ladder should lead to an entrance to be pierced through the wall, some fifteen feet above the level of the moat; by this means the garrison could, if assailed by an overwhelming force, withdraw into the castle. These outposts would render it--so long as they were held--impossible for storming-parties to cross the moat and place ladders, as they did on the last occasion. The first task will, of course, be to quarry stones. As soon as sufficient are prepared for one of these outworks you should proceed to erect it, as it would render one side at least unassailable and diminish the circuit to be defended. As soon as one is finished, with its drawbridge, ladder, and entrance, proceed with the next. I would build the one at the rear first. As you see from this plan, the two walls are to be twenty feet high and each ten yards long, so that they could be defended by some twenty men. After they are built I would further strengthen them by leading ditches from the moat, six feet deep and ten feet wide, round them. The earth from these ditches should be thrown inside the walls, so as to strengthen these and form a platform for the defenders to stand on. If the earth is insufficient for that purpose the moat can be widened somewhat." "I will see that your wishes are carried out, Sir Eustace; assuredly these little outworks will add greatly to the strength of the castle. Are the bridges to be made to draw up?" "No; that will hardly be necessary. Let them consist of two beams with planks laid crosswise. They need not be more than four feet wide, and the planks can therefore be easily pulled up as the garrison falls back. I have told the tenants that during the winter, when there is but little for their men to do, they can keep them employed on this work, and that I will pay regular wages to them and for the carts used in bringing in the stones." Guy was very glad that there was something specific to be done that would give him occupation and keep the men employed. Sir Eustace had informed the garrison of the work that would be required of them, and of the ration of wine and extra pay that would be given, and all were well satisfied with the prospect. For the English especially, having no friends outside, found the time hang very heavy on their hands, and their experience during the last siege had taught them that the additional fortifications, of the nature of which they were ignorant, however, would add to their safety. As soon, therefore, as Sir Eustace had left, Guy commenced operations. A few men only were kept on guard, and the rest went out daily to prepare the stones under the direction of a master mason, who had been brought from Arras by Sir Eustace. Some fifty of the tenants were also employed on the work, and as the winter closed in this number was doubled. The quarry lay at a distance of half a mile from the castle, and as fast as the stones were squared and roughly dressed they were taken in carts to the spot where they were to be used. Guy had the foundations for the walls dug in the first place, to a depth below that of the bottom of the moats, and filled up with cement and rubble. The trenches were then dug at a distance of five feet from the foot of the walls. With so many hands the work proceeded briskly, and before springtime the three works were all completed, with their bridges and ladders, passages pierced through the castle wall, and stone steps built inside by which those who passed through could either descend into the court yard or mount to the battlements. At the end of September fifteen archers and men-at-arms arrived from England to take the place of those who had desired to return home, and who on their coming marched away to Calais. From time to time reports were received of the events happening in Paris. Paris had been strongly occupied by the Orleanists, and a proclamation had at once been issued in the name of the king condemning all that had been done in the city, and denouncing by name all the ringleaders of the late tumults, and such of these as were found in Paris were arrested. Another proclamation was then issued enjoining all parties to keep the peace, to refrain from gathering in armed bodies, and to abstain from the use of expressions against each other that might lead to a breach of the peace. On the 13th of November, the year being 1413, fresh and more stringent orders were issued by the king against any assemblies of men-in-arms, and at the end of this month the Duke of Burgundy sent to the king a letter of complaint and accusation against his enemies. Those surrounding Charles persuaded him to send no answer whatever to what they considered his insolent letter. Some of the Burgundian knights had still remained in Paris, and on the advice of the Dukes of Berri and Orleans and other princes, the queen caused four knights of the suite of the Duke of Aquitaine to be carried away from the Louvre. This so much enraged the duke that he at first intended to sally out and call upon the populace of Paris to aid him to rescue the prisoners. The princes of the blood, however, restrained him from doing this; but although he pretended to be appeased he sent secret letters to the Duke of Burgundy begging him to come to his assistance. This served as an excuse for Burgundy to gather all his adherents and to march towards Paris, and as he collected the force he sent letters to all the principal towns saying that at the invitation of his son-in-law, the Duke of Aquitaine, and in consequence of the breach of the peace committed by his enemies, he was forced to take up arms to rescue his beloved daughter and the duke from the hands of those who constrained them. Upon the other hand, letters were written in the king's name to the various towns on the line by which Burgundy would advance from Artois, begging them not to open their gates to him. The Burgundian army advanced and occupied St. Denis, thence the duke sent detachments to the various gates of Paris in hopes that the populace would rise in his favour. However, the citizens remained quiet, and the duke, being unprovided with the engines and machines necessary for a siege, fell back again, placing strong garrisons in Compiègne and Soissons. Then the Orleanists took the offensive, besieged and captured town after town, and revenged the murder of their friends in Paris by wholesale massacres and atrocities of the worst description. The Burgundians in vain attempted to raise an army of sufficient strength to meet that of the king, who himself accompanied the Orleanist forces in the field. The fact that he was present with them had a powerful influence in preventing many lords who would otherwise have done so from joining Burgundy, for although all knew that the king was but a puppet who could be swayed by those who happened to be round him, even the shadow of the royal authority had great weight, and both parties carried on their operations in the king's name, protesting that any decrees hostile to themselves were not the true expression of his opinion, but the work of ambitious and traitorous persons who surrounded him. After occupying Laon, Peronne, and other places, the king's army entered Artois, captured Bapaume, and advanced against Arras, where Sir John of Luxemburg, who commanded a Burgundian garrison, prepared for the siege by sending away the greater part of the women and children, and destroying all the buildings and suburbs outside the walls. As soon as it was evident that the Orleanist army was marching against Artois, Guy despatched one of the English soldiers to Summerley to inform his lord that if, as it seemed, the Orleanists intended to subdue all the Burgundian towns and fortresses in the province, it was probable that Villeroy would be besieged. The messenger returned with twenty more archers, and brought a letter from Sir Eustace to Guy saying that Dame Margaret had been ill ever since her return from France, and that she was at present in so dangerous a state that he could not leave her. "I trust," he said, "that as the negotiations for the marriage of the king with the French princess are still going on, you will not be disturbed. The main body of the French army will likely be engaged on more important enterprises, and if you are attacked it will probably be only by strong plundering detachments; these you need not fear. Should you be besieged strongly, hold out as long as you can. I shall be sure to receive news of it from Calais, and will go at once to the king and pray for his protection, and beg him to write to the King of France declaring that, to his knowledge, I have ever been as loyal a vassal of France as of England. Should you find that the pressure upon you is too great, and that the castle is like to be taken, I authorize you to make surrender on condition that all within the castle are permitted to march away free and unmolested whithersoever they will." CHAPTER XVIII -- KATARINA As soon as the king's army approached Arras, Guy repeated all the precautions that had before been taken, but as this time there had been long warning, these were carried out more effectually. A considerable number of the cattle and sheep of the tenants were driven to Calais and there sold, the rest, with the horses, were taken into the castle. The crops were hastily got in, for it was near July, and these were thrashed and the grain brought in, with the household furniture and all belongings. A great store of arrows had been long before prepared, and Guy felt confident that he could hold out for a long time. The women and children took up their abode in the castle, and the former were all set to work to make a great number of sacks. A hundred cart-loads of earth were brought in, and this was stored in a corner of the court-yard. The earth was to be employed in filling the sacks, which were to be lowered from the walls so as to form a protection against heavy missiles, should an attempt be made to effect a breach. [Illustration: GUY WELCOMES THE COUNT OF MONTEPONE AND HIS DAUGHTER TO VILLEROY.] A few days after the king's army sat down before Arras, the look-out informed Guy that a horseman, together with a lady and two attendants, were riding towards the castle. Wondering who these visitors could be, Guy crossed the drawbridge to the outwork, where a small party were now stationed. As they rode up, he saw, to his surprise and pleasure, that they were the Count of Montepone and his daughter. He ran out to meet them. "I am delighted to see you, Count, and you also Mistress Katarina. I regret that Sir Eustace and Dame Margaret are not here to receive you properly." "We were aware that she was absent," the count said as he dismounted, while Guy assisted Katarina from her saddle. "I received a letter three months since; it came by way of Flanders from Sir Eustace, expressing his thanks for what slight services I had rendered to his wife. He told me that they had crossed over to England, and that you were his castellan here. But I thought that ere this he might have returned." "I heard from him but a few days ago," Guy said. "He is detained in England by the illness of Dame Margaret, or he would have hastened hither on hearing that the French army was moving north. I need scarcely ask how you are, Mistress Katarina, for you have changed much, and if I may say it without offence, for the better." The girl flushed a little and laughed, and her father said: "It is nigh three months since we left Paris; the country air has done her good. Since we left she has till now been in disguise again, and has ridden as my page, for I could not leave her behind, nor could I in an army, with so many wild and reckless spirits, take her in the dress of a girl." By this time they had crossed the drawbridge, the servants leading their horses after them. "My stay must be a short one," the count said as they entered the banqueting-hall, and Guy gave orders for a repast to be served. "I hoped that you were come to stay for a time, Count; I would do all in my power to make your visit a pleasant one." The Italian shook his head. "No, I must ride back tonight. I have come here for a double purpose. In the first place I must send Katarina to England; she is almost a woman now, and can no longer wander about with me in times like these. In the second place, I have come to tell you that I think you need have no fear of an attack upon the castle. That news you gave me, which enabled me to save those three Orleanist nobles, has, added to what I had before done in that way, helped me vastly. One of them is a great favourite with Aquitaine, and the latter took me under his special protection; and he and many other great lords, and I may tell you even the queen herself, consult me frequently. Shortly after you left I moved to a larger house, and as there was no longer any need for me to assume the character of a vendor of medicines I abandoned that altogether, and took handsome apartments, with my negro from the booth to open the door, and two other lackeys. "My knowledge of the stars has enabled me with some success to predict the events that have taken place, and Aquitaine and the queen have both implicit confidence in me and undertake nothing without my advice. The Duke of Orleans, too, has frequently consulted me. I have used my influence to protect this castle. I have told them that success will attend all their efforts, which it was easy enough to foresee, as Burgundy has no army in the field that can oppose them. But I said that I had described a certain point of danger. It was some time before I revealed what this was, and then said that it appeared to me that the evil in some way started from the west of Arras. I would go no further than this for many days, and then said that it arose from a castle held by one who was not altogether French, and that were an attack made upon it evil would arise. I saw that it would lead to a disturbance, I said, in the negotiations for the marriage, and perhaps the arrival of an English army. More than this I said the stars did not tell me. "Aquitaine made inquiries and soon found that my description applied to Villeroy, and he and the queen have issued strict orders that no plundering party is to come in this direction, and that on no account is the castle to be interfered with, and I shall take care that their intentions in this matter are not changed. I had the royal orders to accompany the army. This I should have done in any case, but of course I professed a certain reluctance, by saying that I had many clients in Paris. However, I received various rich presents, and was therefore prevailed upon to travel with them." "I thank you most heartily, Count, for, as you saw on crossing the court-yard, I have already called all the vassals in and made preparations to stand a siege. As to your daughter, I will, if you wish it, appoint two of the tenants' daughters as her attendants, and send an elderly woman as her companion, with an escort under Robert Picard,--one of those who were with me in Paris,--and four other men-at-arms to accompany her to Summerley and hand her over to the charge of Dame Margaret, who will, I trust, be in better health than when Sir Eustace wrote to me. It will be a great relief to our lord and lady to know that their presence is not urgently required here. The escort can start to-morrow at daybreak if you wish that they should do so." The count hesitated, and Guy went on: "I will appoint the woman and the two maids at once. Mistress Katarina can occupy Dame Margaret's chamber, and the woman and the maids can sleep in those adjoining it." "That will do well," the count said cordially. "We have ridden twenty miles already, and she could hardly go on to-day, while if she starts at daybreak they may reach Calais to-morrow." "I will give Picard a letter to the governor, asking him in my lord's name to give honourable entertainment to the young lady, who is under Dame Margaret's protection, and to forward her upon her journey to join them by the first vessel sailing to Southampton, or if there be none sailing thither, to send her at once by ship to Dover, whence they can travel by land. One of the four men-at-arms shall be an Englishman, and he can act as her spokesman by the way." "That will do most excellently," the count said, "and I thank you heartily. As soon as I have finished my meal I must ride for the camp again. I started early this morning in order not to be observed; in the first place because I did not wish my daughter to be seen in her female dress, and in the second because I would not that any should notice my coming in this direction, and indeed we rode for the first mile backwards along the road to Bapaume, and I shall return by the same way." "What will the end of these troubles be, Count?" "As I read the stars there will be peace shortly, and indeed it is clear to me that the Duke of Burgundy must by this time see that if the war goes on he will lose all Artois and perhaps Flanders, and that therefore he must make peace, and perhaps keep it until the royal army has marched away and dispersed; after that we may be sure that the crafty duke will not long remain quiet. I have a trusty emissary in Burgundy's household, and as soon as the duke comes to the conclusion that he must beg for peace I shall have intelligence of it, and shall give early news to the queen and to Aquitaine, who would hail it with gladness; for, seeing that the latter's wife is Burgundy's daughter, he does not wish to press him hard, and would gladly see peace concluded." An hour later the count rode off with his two followers, after taking an affectionate leave of his daughter, and telling her that it would not be long before he joined her--if only for a time--in England. Before he went Guy had chosen the woman who, with her two daughters, was to accompany Katarina, and had installed them in the private apartments. "What shall we do with ourselves for the day?" he asked the girl, who was, he saw, shy and ill at ease, now that her father had left. "If you are not tired we might take a ride. We have some hawks here, and now that the harvest has been gathered we shall doubtless find sport with the game-birds." "I am not at all tired," she said eagerly, "and should like it much." Calling upon Long Tom and another to accompany them, horses were brought up, and they started and remained out until supper-time, bringing home with them some seven or eight partridges that had been killed by the hawks. Guy suggested that perhaps she would prefer to have the meal served in her own apartments and to retire to bed early. She accepted the offer, and at once went to her room, which she did not leave again that evening. Guy, as he ate alone, wondered to himself at the change that some nine or ten months had made in her. "I suppose she feels strange and lonely," he said to himself. "She was merry enough when we were out hawking; but directly we got back again she seemed quite unlike herself. I suppose it is because I always used to treat her as if she were a boy, and now that she has grown up into a woman she wants to forget that time." The town of Arras resisted sturdily. The garrison made frequent sorties, took a good many prisoners, and inflicted heavy loss upon the besiegers before these could gather in sufficient numbers to drive them in again, and all assaults were repulsed with loss. The Castle of Belle Moote, near Arras, also repulsed all the efforts of the king's army to take it. Foraging parties of Orleanists committed terrible devastations in the country round, but gained no advantage in their attacks on any fortified place. On the 29th of August the Duke of Brabant arrived with some deputies from Flanders to negotiate a peace between Burgundy and the king. They were well received, and an armistice was at once arranged. The French troops were suffering severely from disease, and the failure of all their attempts to capture Arras made them ready to agree willingly upon a peace. This was accordingly concluded on the 4th of September, and the next day the royal army marched away. Three weeks after Katarina had gone to England, Sir Eustace himself, to Guy's great joy, arrived at the castle, bringing with him his esquire and eight men-at-arms, as well as the three serving-women and their escort. As soon as his pennon was seen Guy leapt on a horse that was standing saddled in the court-yard, and rode to meet them. As he came up he checked his horse in surprise, for his father was riding by the side of Sir Eustace. Recovering himself, however, he doffed his cap to his lord. "Welcome back, my lord!" he said. "I trust that our dear lady is better." "Much better, Guy. You see I have brought your father over with me." Guy bent low to his father. "I am right glad to see you," the latter said, "and to hear such good accounts of you. Dame Margaret and Mistress Agnes were never tired of singing your praises, and in truth I was not weary of hearing them." "Are you going to make a long stay, father?" "I shall stay for some little time, Guy. Our lady is going to be her own castellan for the present. And in truth things are so quiet in England that Summerley could well go on without a garrison, so Sir Eustace suggested that I should accompany him hither, where, however, just at present things have also a peaceful aspect. The young countess arrived safely, Guy, and was heartily welcomed, the more so since, as your letter told me, it is to her father that we owe it that we did not have the king's army battering our walls, or, even if they did not try that, devastating the fields and ruining the farmers." By this time they were at the gate. Long Tom had the garrison drawn up in the court-yard, and they hailed the return of their lord with hearty cheers, while the retainers of Summerley were no less pleased at seeing Sir John Aylmer. "And now, Guy," said Sir Eustace, "I will tell you why I have come hither. It is partly to see after the estate, to hear the complaints of my vassals and to do what I can for them, and in the next place I wanted to see these fortifications that you have raised, and, thirdly, I shall shortly ride to Paris in the train of the Earl of Dorset, the Lord Grey, Admiral of England, some bishops, and many other knights and nobles, amounting in the whole to 600 horse. They go to treat for the marriage of the princess of France with the English king. I had an audience with the king at Winchester as soon as we heard that the royal army was marching towards Artois, and he gave assurance that he would instruct the governor of Calais to furnish what assistance he could should the castle be attacked, and that he himself would at once on hearing of it send a remonstrance to the King of France, urging that I, as a vassal of his as well as of France, had avoided taking any part in the troubles, and had ever borne myself as a loyal vassal of his Majesty. "He was at Winchester when the young countess arrived, and I rode over to him to tell him that I had news that it was not probable that Villeroy would be attacked. It was then that his Majesty informed me that the Earl of Dorset with a large body of nobles would ere long cross the Channel for the purpose that I have named, and begged me to ride with them. The king, being disengaged at the time, talked with me long, and questioned me as to the former defence of the castle, and how Dame Margaret had fared when, as he had heard, she was obliged to go as a hostage to Paris. I told him all that had befallen her, at which he seemed greatly interested, and bade me present you to him at the first opportunity. "'He must be a lad after my own heart,' he said, 'and he shall have an opportunity of winning his spurs as soon as may be, which perchance is not so far away as some folks think.'" Guy thanked Sir Eustace for having so spoken of him to the English king, and asked: "What do you think he meant by those last words, my lord?" "That I cannot say, Guy; but it may well be that he thinks that this marriage which has been so long talked of may not take place, and that the negotiations have been continued solely for the purpose of keeping him quiet while France was busied with her own troubles. Moreover, I know that the king has been already enlisting men, that he is impatient at having been put off so often with soft words, and that embassy is intended to bring matters to a head; therefore if, as I gathered from some of my friends at his court, he is eager for fighting, it may be that his ambassadors will demand conditions which he is sure beforehand the King of France will not grant. At any rate I shall ride with Dorset to Paris; whatever the sentiments of the Burgundians or Orleanists may be towards me will matter nothing, riding as I shall do in the train of the earl. I am going to take you with me, as well as John Harpen, for I must do as well as others, and have had to lay out a goodly sum in garments fit for the occasion, for the king is bent upon his embassy making a brave show. Your father will be castellan here in my absence. I shall also take with me Long Tom and four of his archers, and five French men-at-arms. I have brought some Lincoln-green cloth to make fresh suits for the archers, and also material for those for the men-at-arms." Both Sir Eustace and Sir John Aylmer expressed great satisfaction at the manner in which the new outworks had been erected. "Assuredly it is a strong castle now, Sir Eustace," Sir John said, "and would stand a long siege even by a great army." "What is all that earth for in the corner, Guy?" Sir Eustace asked as they re-entered the castle after having made a survey of the new works. "I had that brought in, my lord, to fill sacks, of which I had three hundred made, so that if guns and battering machines were brought against us, we might cover the wall at the place they aimed at with sacks hanging closely together, and so break the force of the stones or the cannon balls." "Excellently well arranged, Guy. You thought, Sir John, that I was somewhat rash to leave the defence solely to the charge of this son of yours, but you see the lad was ready at all points, and I will warrant me that the castle would have held out under him as long a time as if you and I both had been in command of it." It was not until January, the year being 1414, that the Earl of Dorset and a great company arrived at Calais. As they passed not far from the castle they were joined by Sir Eustace and his retinue. The king's wishes had been carried out, and the knights and nobles were so grandly attired and their retinues so handsomely appointed that when they rode into Paris the people were astonished at the splendour of the spectacle. A few days after they reached the capital the king gave a great festival in honour of the visitors, and there was a grand tournament at which the king and all the princes of the blood tilted. The English ambassadors were splendidly entertained, but their proposals were considered inadmissible by the French court, for Henry demanded with Katherine the duchy of Normandy, the county of Pontieu, and the duchy of Aquitaine. No direct refusal was given, but the king said that he would shortly send over an embassy to discuss the conditions. Many handsome presents were made to all the knights and noblemen, and the embassy returned to England. Sir Eustace left them near Villeroy with his party, and stayed two days at the castle. Sir John Aylmer said that he would prefer that Guy should return home with Sir Eustace and that he himself should remain as castellan, for he thought that there was little doubt that war would soon be declared; he said that he himself was too old to take the field on active service, and preferred greatly that Guy should ride with Sir Eustace. Long Tom made a petition to his lord that he too should go to England for a time. "If there was any immediate chance of fighting here, my lord," he said, "I would most willingly remain, but seeing that at present all is quiet, I would fain return, were it but for a month; for I have a maid waiting for me, and have, methinks, kept her long enough, and would gladly go home and fetch her over here." The request was at once granted, and Sir Eustace, his two esquires, and the archer rode to Calais, and crossed with the company of the Earl of Dorset. For some months Guy remained quietly at Summerley. Agnes, though nearly sixteen, was still but a young girl, while Katarina had grown still more womanly during the last six months. The former always treated him as a brother, but the latter was changeable and capricious. Occasionally she would laugh and chat when the three were alone, as she had done of old in Paris, but more often she would tease and laugh at him, while sometimes she would be shy and silent. "I cannot make out the young countess, my lady," he said to Dame Margaret when Katarina had been teasing him even more than usual. "She was never like this in Paris, and I know not that I have done aught to offend her that she should so often pick up my words, and berate me for a meaning they never had." "You see, things have changed since then," Dame Margaret said with a smile; "'tis two years since you were in Paris, and Katarina, although but little older than Agnes, is already a young woman. You were then still under seventeen, now you are nineteen, and in growth and stature well-nigh a man. You can hardly expect her to be the same with you as when she was running about Paris in boy's attire, for then you regarded her rather as a comrade than as a girl. I think, perhaps, it is that she a little resents the fact that you knew her in that guise, and therefore feels all the less at her ease with you. Do not trouble about it, the thing will right itself in time; and besides, you will shortly be going off to the war." In fact, preparations were being already made for it. A French embassy of nobles and knights, with three hundred and fifty horsemen, had come over, and, after passing through London, had gone to Winchester, and there met the king and his great lords. The Archbishop of Bourges, who was their spokesman, at once set forth that the king could not hand over so large a portion of his kingdom, but that he would give with his daughter large estates in France, together with a great sum in ready money. This offer was refused, and preparations for war went on in both countries. France was, indeed, but in poor condition to defend itself, for the Duke of Aquitaine had seriously angered both parties. He had made a pretext to get the great lords to ride out from Paris, he being with them; but he had secretly returned, and had ordered the gates to be closed, had called the citizens to arms, and had resumed the supreme authority of the realm. Having done this, he sent his wife, Burgundy's daughter, to a castle at a distance, and surrounding himself with young nobles as reckless and dissipated as himself, led a life of disorder, squandering money on his pleasures, and heavily taxing the city for his wants. The Duke of Burgundy, indignant at the treatment of his daughter, sent an ambassador to demand that she should be taken back, and that all the persons, five hundred in number, who had been exempted from the terms of the treaty, should be allowed to return to Paris. Both requests were refused, and the consequence was that the Duke of Burgundy, with his partisans, returned to his own country in deep anger; he would take no part in the war against the English, although he permitted his vassals to do so. In July the English levies gathered at Southampton. The king was to have embarked immediately, and a great fleet had been collected for the purpose; but, as he was on the point of sailing, Henry obtained news of a plot against his life on the part of Sir Thomas Grey, Lord Scroop, and Richard, Earl of Cambridge, the king's cousin. As Scroop was in constant attendance upon the king and slept in his room, the conspirators had little doubt that their purpose could be carried out, their intention being to proclaim the Earl of March king, and to summon assistance from Scotland. The three conspirators were tried by a jury and were all found guilty. Grey was beheaded, but his companions claimed to be tried again by their peers. No time was lost in carrying out the trial; all the lords assembled at Southampton were called together, and, after hearing the evidence, at once found the two nobles guilty, and they were immediately beheaded. Orders were then given for the embarkation. Sir Eustace had brought with him thirty archers and as many men-at-arms, and, as they were waiting on the strand for the boats that were to take them out to the ships to which they had been appointed, the king, who was personally superintending the operations, rode past. Sir Eustace saluted him. "Is this your following, Sir Eustace?" the king asked. "It is, my lord king, and would that it were larger. Had we landed at Calais I should have been joined by another fifty stout Englishmen from Villeroy, and should we in our marches pass near it I will draw them to me. Your majesty asked me to present to you my esquire, Guy Aylmer, who, as I had the honour of telling you, showed himself a brave and trusty gentleman, when, during the troubles, he was in Paris with my wife. Step forward, Guy!" The latter did so, saluted the king, and stood erect in military attitude. "You have begun well," the king said graciously; "and I hereby request your lord that in the day of battle he will permit you to fight near me, and if you bear yourself as well when fighting for your king as you did when looking after your lady mistress, you shall have your share of honours as well as of blows." The king then rode on, and Sir Eustace and Guy took their places in a boat where the men had already embarked. "This is something like, Master Guy," said Long Tom, who was in command of the archers. "It was well indeed that I asked to come home to England when I did, else had I been now mewed up at Villeroy while my lord was fighting the French in the open field. Crecy was the last time an English king commanded an army in battle against France; think you that we shall do as well this time?" "I trust so, Tom; methinks we ought assuredly not to do worse. It is true that the French have been having more fighting of late than we have, but the nobles are less united now than they were then, and are likely to be just as headstrong and incautious as they were at Crecy. I doubt not that we shall be greatly outnumbered, but numbers go for little unless they are well handled. The Constable d'Albrett is a good soldier, but the nobles, who are his equals in rank, will heed his orders but little when their blood is up and they see us facing them. We may be sure, at any rate, that we shall be well led, for the king has had much experience against the Scotch and Welsh, and has shown himself a good leader as well as a brave fighter. I hope, Tom, that you have by this time come to be well accustomed to your new bow." "That have I. I have shot fourscore arrows a day with it from the time I reached home, not even omitting my wedding day, and I think that now I make as good shooting with it as I did with my old one. 'Tis a pity we are not going to Calais; if we had been joined by thirty archers there we should have made a brave show, and more than that, they would have done good service, for they are picked men. A few here may be as good, but not many. You see when we last sailed with our lord the times were peaceful, and we were able to gather the best shots for fifty miles round, but now that the king and so many of the nobles are all calling for archers we could not be so particular, and have had to take what we could get; still, I would enlist none who were not fair marksmen." This conversation took place as they were dropping down Southampton waters. Their destination was known to be Harfleur, which, as it was strongly fortified and garrisoned, was like to offer a sturdy resistance. The fleet was a great one, consisting of from twelve to fourteen hundred sail, which the king had collected from all the ports of England and Ireland, or hired from Holland and Friesland. The army consisted of six thousand five hundred horsemen and twenty-four thousand footmen of all kinds. On the 13th of August the fleet anchored in the mouth of the Seine, three miles from Harfleur. The operation of landing the great army and their horses occupied three days, the French, to the surprise of all, permitting the operation to be carried on without let or hindrance, although the ground was favourable for their attacks, As soon as the landing was effected the army took up its position so as to prevent any supplies from entering the town. They had with them an abundance of machines for battering the walls, and these were speedily planted, and they began their work. The garrison had been reinforced by four hundred knights and picked men-at-arms, and fought with great determination and valour, making several sorties from the two gates of the town. There were, however, strong bodies of troops always stationed near to guard the engines from such attacks, and the French sorties were not only repulsed, but their knights had much difficulty in winning their way back to the town. The enemy were unable to use their cannon to much effect, for a large supply of gunpowder sent by the French king was, on the day after the English landed, captured on its way into the town. The besiegers lost, however, a good many men from the crossbowmen who manned the walls, although the English archers endeavoured to keep down their shooting by a storm of arrows. The most formidable enemy, however, that the English had to contend with was dysentery, brought on by the damp and unhealthy nature of the ground upon which they were encamped. No less than two thousand men died, and a vastly larger number were so reduced by the malady that they were useless for fighting. The siege, however, was carried on uninterruptedly. The miners who had been brought over drove two galleries under the walls, and the gates were so shattered by stones and cannon-balls that they scarce hung together. The garrison surrendered after having by the permission of the English king sent a messenger to the King of France, who was at Vernon, to say that unless they were succoured within three days they must surrender, as the town was already at the mercy of the English, and received for answer that no army was as yet gathered that could relieve them. In addition to the ravages of dysentery the English army had suffered much from want of food. Large bodies of French troops were gathered at Rouen and other places, and when knights and men-at-arms went out to forage, they fell upon them and drove them back. Still a large amount of booty was gathered, together with enough provisions to afford a bare subsistence to the army. A considerable amount of booty was also obtained when Harfleur fell. The greater portion of the inhabitants of the town were forced to leave it, the breaches in the walls were repaired and new gates erected. A portion of the treasure obtained was divided by the king among the troops. The prisoners and the main portion of the booty--which, as Harfleur was the chief port of Normandy, and indeed of all the western part of France, was very great--he sent direct to England, together with the engines of war. The sick and ailing were then embarked on ships, with a considerable fighting force under the Earl of Warwick. They were ordered to touch at Calais, where the fighting-men were to be landed and the sick carried home, and Henry then prepared to march to Calais by land. CHAPTER XIX -- AGINCOURT The English king waited some time for an answer to a challenge he had sent to the Duke of Aquitaine to decide their quarrel by single combat; but Aquitaine cared more for pleasure than for fighting, and sent no answer to the cartel. It was open to Henry to have proceeded by sea to Calais, and it was the advice of his counsellors that he should do so; but the king declared that the French should never say that he was afraid to meet them, and that as the country was his by right he would march wherever he pleased across it; and so, after leaving a thousand archers and five hundred men-at-arms under the command of the Duke of Exeter, he set out on the 6th of October on his adventurous journey. Accounts differ as to the number that started with him, some French historians put it as high as 17,000, but it is certain that it could not have exceeded nine thousand men, of whom two thousand were men-at-arms and the rest archers. Now, while the siege of Harfleur had been going on, the arrangements for the embarkation of the troops and stores carried out, and the town put in a state of defence, troops had been marching from all points of France at the command of the French king to join him at Rouen, so that here and in Picardy two great armies were already assembled, the latter under the command of the constable. The English force marched by the sea-shore until it arrived at the river Somme. No great resistance was encountered, but large bodies of the enemy's horse hovered near and cut off all stragglers, and rendered it difficult to obtain food, so that sickness again broke out among the troops. On reaching the Somme Henry followed its left bank up, intending to cross at the ford of La Blanche-Tache, across which Edward the Third had carried his army before fighting at Crecy. The French, as on the previous occasion, held the ford; but they this time had erected defences on each of the banks, and had strong posts driven into the bed of the river. Still ascending along the river bank the English found every bridge broken and every ford fortified, while a great body of troops marched parallel with them on the right bank of the river. At Pont St. Remy, Ponteau de Mer, and several other points they tried in vain to force a passage. Seven days were spent in these attempts; the troops, suffering terrible hardships, were disheartened at their failure to cross the river, and at finding themselves getting farther and farther from the sea. On the morning of the 19th, however, a ford was discovered which had not been staked. The English vanguard at once made a dash across it, repulsed its defenders on the other bank, and the whole army with its baggage, which was of scanty dimensions, swarmed across the river. Sir Eustace, with his little force, now reduced to half its number, was, as it happened, in front of the army when the ford was discovered, and, followed by his two esquires and ten mounted men-at-arms, dashed into the river, while the archers, slinging their bows behind them, drew their axes and followed. For a short time there was a desperate conflict, but as reinforcements hurried across, the fight became more even and the French speedily gave way. When the king had crossed he thanked Sir Eustace for his prompt action. "Had you waited to send back for orders," he said, "the French would have come up in such numbers that the ford would not have been won without heavy loss, whereas by dashing across the moment it was discovered, you took the defenders by surprise and enabled us to get over without the loss of a single man." The constable, disconcerted at finding that all his plans for keeping the English on the left bank of the river were foiled, fell back to St. Pol in Artois. Henry followed, but without haste. His small force was greatly reduced by sickness, while by this time the whole of the royal army had marched round and joined that of the constable. On the day after the passage had been effected three heralds arrived in the English camp to acquaint the king with the resolution of the constable and of the Dukes of Orleans and Brabant to give his army battle before he reached Calais. Henry replied that fear of them would not induce him to move out of his way or to change the order of his march; he intended to go on straight by the road to Calais, and if the French attempted to stop him it would be at their peril; he accordingly continued to advance at the same rate as before. The constable fell back from St. Pol and took up his post between the villages of Ruissanville and Agincourt, where, having received all the reinforcements he expected, he determined to give battle. On the 24th the English crossed the Ternois at Blangi, and soon afterwards came in sight of the enemy's columns. These fell back as he advanced, and towards evening he halted at the village of Maisoncelles, within half a mile of the enemy's position. Fortunately provisions had been obtained during the day's march; these were cooked and served out, and the English lay down to sleep. The king sent for Sir Eustace. "You know this ground well, I suppose, Sir Eustace," he said, "for your Castle of Villeroy is not many miles distant?" "'Tis but six miles away," the knight replied. "It is a good ground to fight on, for facing it are fields, and on either flank of these are large woods, so that there will be little space for the enemy to move." "That is just what I would have," the king said. "Were they but half as strong as they are I should feel less confident that we should defeat them; their numbers will hinder them, and the deep wet ground will hamper their movements. As for ourselves, I would not have a man more with me if I could; the fewer we are the greater the glory if we conquer, while if we are defeated the less the loss to England. Does your young esquire also know the ground, Sir Eustace?" "Yes, sire; he has, I know, often ridden here when hawking." "Then let him go with four of my officers, who are about to reconnoitre the ground and see where we had best fight." Guy was accordingly called up and started with the officers. He first took them up to the wood on the right of the French division, then they moved across its front at a distance of fifty yards only from the French line. The contrast between it and the English camp was great. In the latter all was quiet. The men after a hearty meal had lain down to sleep, heeding little the wet ground and falling rain, exhausted by their long marching, and in good spirits,--desperate though the odds seemed against them,--that they were next day to meet their foes. In the French camp all was noise and confusion. Each body of troops had come on the ground under its own commander, and shouts, orders, and inquiries sounded from all quarters. Many of the Frenchmen never dismounted all the night, thinking it better to remain on horseback than to lie down on wet ground. Great fires were lighted and the soldiers gathered round these, warming themselves and drinking, and calculating the ransoms to be gained by the capture of the king and the great nobles of England. Knights and men-at-arms rode about in search of their divisions, their horses slipping and floundering in the deep clay. Passing along the line of the French army Guy and the officers proceeded to the wood on the left, and satisfied themselves that neither there nor on the other flank had any large body of men been posted. They then returned and made their report to the king. Guy wrapped himself in his cloak and lay down and slept until the moon rose at three o'clock, when the whole army awoke and prepared for the day's work. The English king ordered the trumpeters and other musicians who had been brought with the army to play merry tunes, and these during the three hours of darkness cheered the spirits of the men and helped them to resist the depressing influence of the cold night air following upon their sleep on the wet ground. The French, on the other hand, had no manner of musical instruments with their army, and all were fatigued and depressed by their long vigil. The horses had suffered as-much as the men from damp, sleeplessness, and want of forage. There was, however, no want of confidence in the French army--all regarded victory as absolutely certain. As the English had lost by sickness since they left Harfleur fully a thousand men out of the 9,000, and as against these were arrayed at least a hundred thousand--some French historians estimate them at 150,000--comprising most of the chivalry of France, the latter might well regard victory as certain. There were, however, some who were not so confident; among these was the old Duke of Berri, who had fought at Poitiers sixty years before, and remembered how confident the French were on that occasion, and how disastrous was the defeat. His counsel that the English should be allowed to march on unmolested to Calais, had been scouted by the French leaders, but he had so far prevailed that the intention that Charles should place himself at the head of the army was abandoned. "It would be better," the duke had urged, "to lose the battle than to lose the king and the battle together." As soon as day broke the English were mustered and formed up, and three masses were celebrated at different points in order that all might hear. When this was done the force was formed up into three central divisions and two wings, but the divisions were placed so close together that they practically formed but one. The whole of the archers were placed in advance of the men-at-arms. Every archer, in addition to his arms, carried a long stake sharpened at both ends, that which was to project above the ground being armed with a sharp tip of iron. When the archers had taken up their positions these stakes were driven obliquely into the ground, each being firmly thrust in with the strength of two or three men. As the archers stood many lines deep, placed in open order and so that each could shoot between the heads of the men in front of him, there were sufficient stakes in front of the line to form a thick and almost impassable _chevaux-de-frise_. The baggage and horses were sent to the rear, near the village of Maisoncelles, under a guard of archers and men-at-arms. When all the arrangements were made, the king rode along the line from rank to rank, saying a few words of encouragement to each group of men. He recounted to them the victories that had been won against odds as great as those they had to encounter, and told them that he had made up his own mind to conquer or die, for that England should never have to pay ransom for him. The archers he fired especially by reminding them that when the Orleanists had taken Soissons a few months before they had hung up like dogs three hundred English archers belonging to the garrison. He told them that they could expect no mercy, for that, as the French in other sieges had committed horrible atrocities upon their own countrymen and countrywomen, they would assuredly grant no mercy to the English; while the latter on their march had burned no town nor village, and had injured neither man nor woman, so that God would assuredly fight for them against their wicked foes. The king's manner as much as his words aroused the enthusiasm of the soldiers; his expression was calm, confident, and cheerful, he at least evidently felt no doubt of the issue. The Duke of Berri had most strongly urged on the council that the French should not begin the attack. They had done so at Crecy and Poitiers with disastrous effect, and he urged them to await the assault of the English. The latter, however, had no intention of attacking, for Henry had calculated upon the confusion that would surely arise when the immense French army, crowded up between the two woods, endeavoured to advance. The men were therefore ordered to sit down on the ground, and food and some wine were served, out to them. The constable was equally determined not to move; the French therefore also sat down, and for some hours the two armies watched each other. The constable had, however, some difficulty in maintaining his resolution. The Duke of Orleans and numbers of the hot-headed young nobles clamoured to be allowed to charge the English. He himself would gladly have waited until joined by large reinforcements under the Duke of Brittany and the Marshal de Loigny, who were both expected to arrive in the course of the day. As an excuse for the delay, rather than from any wish that his overtures should be accepted, he sent heralds to the English camp to offer Henry a free passage if he would restore Harfleur, with all the prisoners that he had made there and on his march, and resign his claims to the throne of France. Henry replied that he maintained the conditions he had laid down by his ambassadors, and that he would accept none others. He had, in fact, no wish to negotiate, for he, too, knew that the French would very shortly be largely reinforced, and that were he to delay his march, even for a day or two, his army would be starved. Perceiving at last that the constable was determined not to begin the battle, he sent off two detachments from the rear of his army, so that their movements should be concealed from the sight of the French. One of these, composed of archers, was to take post in the wood on the left hand of the French, the other was to move on through the wood, to come down in their rear, and to set on fire some barns and houses there, and so create a panic. He waited until noon, by which time he thought that both detachments would have reached the posts assigned to them, and then gave the orders for the advance. The archers were delighted when their commander, Sir Thomas Erpingham, repeated the order. None of them had put on his armour, and many had thrown off their jerkins so as to have a freer use of their arms either for bow or axe. Each man plucked up his stake, and the whole moved forward in orderly array until within bow-shot of the enemy. Then the archers again stuck their stakes into the ground, and, taking up their position as before, raised a mighty shout as they let fly a volley of arrows into the enemy. The shout was echoed from the wood on the French left, and the archers there at once plied their bows, and from both flank and front showers of arrows fell among the French. As originally formed up, the latter's van should have been covered by archers and cross-bowmen, but, from the anxiety of the knights and nobles to be first to attack, the footmen had been pushed back to the rear, a position which they were doubtless not sorry to occupy, remembering how at Crecy the cross-bowmen had been trampled down and slain by the French knights, desirous of getting through them to attack the English. Therefore, there stood none between the archers and the French array of knights, and the latter suffered heavily from the rain of arrows. Sir Clugnet de Brabant was the first to take the offensive, and with twelve hundred men-at-arms charged down upon the archers with loud shouts. The horses, however, were stiff and weary from standing so long in order; the deep and slippery ground, and the weight of their heavily-armed riders caused them to stagger and stumble, and the storm of arrows that smote them as soon as they got into motion added to the disorder. So accurate was the aim of the archers, that most of the arrows struck the knights on their helmets and vizors. Many fell shot through the brain, and so terrible was the rain of arrows that all had to bend down their heads so as to save their faces. Many of the archers, too, shot at the horses; some of these were killed and many wounded, and the latter swerving and turning aside added to the confusion. And when at length Sir Clugnet and the leaders reached the line of stakes in front of the archers, only about a hundred and fifty of the twelve hundred men were behind them. The horses drew up on reaching the hedge of stakes. Their riders could give them no guidance, for without deigning to move from their order the archers continued to keep up their storm of arrows, which at such close quarters pierced all but the very finest armour, while it was certain death to the knights to raise their heads to get a glance at the situation. The horses, maddened with the pain of the arrows, soon settled the matter. Some turned and rushed off madly, carrying confusion into the ranks of the first division, others galloped off to the right or left, and of the twelve hundred men who charged, three only broke through the line of stakes, and these were instantly killed by the bill-hooks and axes of the archers. The second line of battle was now in disorder, broken by the fugitive men and horses of Sir Clugnet's party, smitten with the arrows to which they had been exposed as that party melted away, and by those of the English archers in the wood on their flank. The confusion heightened every moment as wounded knights tried to withdraw from the fight, and others from behind struggled to take their places in front. Soon the disorder became terrible. The archers plucked up their stakes and ran forward; the French line recoiled at their approach in order to get into fairer order; and the archers, with loud shouts of victory, slung their bows behind them, dropped the stakes, and with axe and bill-hook rushed at the horsemen. These were too tightly wedged together to use their lances, and as they had retired they had come into newly-ploughed ground, which had been so soaked by the heavy rain that the horses sank in the deep mud to their knees, many almost to their bellies. Into the midst of this helpless crowd of armed men the English archers burst. Embarrassed by their struggling horses, scarcely able to wield their arms in the press, seeing but scantily, and that only in front through the narrow slits of their vizors, the chivalry of France died almost unresistingly. The Constable of France and many of the highest nobles and most distinguished knights fell, and but few of the first line made their escape: these, passing through the second division, in order to draw up behind, threw this also into some confusion. The Duke de Brabant, who had just arrived on the field, charged down upon the flank of the archers. These met him fearlessly, and he and most of those with him were killed. This fight had, however, given time to the second division to close up their ranks. The archers would have attacked them, but the king caused the signal for them to halt to be sounded, and riding up formed them in order again. The French were unable to take advantage of the moment to try and recover their lost ground, for the horses were knee-deep in the ground, upon which they had all night been trampling, and into which the weight of their own and their riders' armour sunk them deeply. "Now, my lords," the king said, turning to those around him, "our brave archers have done their share; it is our turn;" and then, as arranged, all dismounted and marched forward against the enemy. In accordance with his orders, Sir Eustace de Villeroy and Guy were posted close to the king, while John Harpen led the men-at-arms from Summerley. For a time the battle raged fiercely. In the centre fought the king with his nobles and knights; while the archers, who had most of them thrown off their shoes and were able to move lightly over the treacherous ground, threw themselves upon the enemy's flanks, and did dreadful execution there. In the centre, however, the progress of the English was slower. The French knights made the most desperate efforts to attack the king himself, and pressed forward to reach the royal banner. His brother, the Duke of Clarence, was wounded, and would have been killed had not the king himself, with a few of his knights, taken post around him, and kept off the attacks of his foes until he recovered his feet. Almost immediately afterwards a band of eighteen knights, under the banner of the Lord of Croye, who had bound themselves by an oath to take or kill the king, charged down upon him. One of them struck him so heavy a blow on the head with a mace that the king was beaten to his knee, but his knights closed in round him, and every one of his assailants was killed. The Duke of Alençon next charged down with a strong following; he cut his way to the royal standard, and struck the Duke of York dead with a blow of his battle-axe. Henry sprung forward, but Alençon's weapon again fell, and striking him on the head clipped off a portion of the crown which Henry wore round his helmet. But before the French knight could repeat the stroke Guy Aylmer sprung forward and struck so heavy a blow full on the duke's vizor that he fell from his horse dead. His fall completed the confusion and dismay among the French, and the second division of their army, which had hitherto fought gallantly, now gave way. Many were taken prisoners. The third division, although alone vastly superior in numbers to the English, seeing the destruction of the others, began to draw off. They had moved but a short distance when loud shouts were heard in the English rear. Two or three French knights, with a body of several hundred armed peasants, had suddenly fallen upon the English baggage and horses which had been left at Maisoncelles. Many of the guard had gone off to join in the battle, so that the attack was successful, a portion of the baggage, including the king's own wardrobe, and a great number of horses being captured. Ignorant of the strength of the attacking party, Henry believed that it was the reinforcements under the Duke of Brittany that had come up. At the same moment the third division of the French, whose leaders were also similarly deceived, halted and faced round. Believing that he was about to be attacked in front and rear by greatly superior forces, Henry gave the order that all prisoners should be killed, and the order was to a great extent executed before the real nature of the attack was discovered and the order countermanded. The third division of the French now continued its retreat, and the battle was over. There remained but to examine the field and see who had fallen. The king gave at once the name of Agincourt to the battle, as this village possessed a castle, and was therefore the most important of those near which the fight had taken place. Properly the name should have been Azincourt, as this was the French spelling of the village. The loss of the French was terrible, and their chivalry had suffered even more than at Poitiers. Several of the relations of the French king were killed. The Duke of Brabant, the Count de Nevers, the Duke of Bar and his two brothers, the constable, and the Duke of Alençon all perished. No less than a hundred and twenty great lords were killed, and eight thousand nobles, knights, and esquires lost their lives, with some thousands of lower degree, while the Duke of Orleans, the Duke of Bourbon, and many others were taken prisoners. The accounts of the English loss differ considerably, the highest placing it at sixteen hundred, the lowest at one-fourth of that number. The plunder taken by them in the shape of costly armour, arms, rich garments, and the trappings of horses, was great; but of food there was but little, many of the victors lay down supperless around the village of Maisoncelles. The knights who had led the peasants to the attack of the baggage-train, instead of joining in the fight, and had thereby caused the unfortunate massacre of so many prisoners, fell into great disgrace among the French for their conduct, and were imprisoned for some years by the Duke of Burgundy. That evening the English king knighted many esquires and aspirants of noble families, among them Guy Aylmer, who was indeed the first to receive the honour. "No one fought more bravely than you did, young knight," he said, as Guy rose to his feet after receiving the accolade; "I will see that you have lands to support your new dignity. Twice you were at my side when I was in the greatest danger, and none have won their spurs more fairly." John Harpen would also have been among those knighted, but he declined the honour, saying that he was not come of gentle blood, and wished for nothing better than to remain his lord's esquire so long as he had strength to follow him in the field. The next morning the army marched to Calais. The king turned aside with Sir Eustace, and with a strong party rode to Villeroy. Guy had gone on with the men-at-arms at daybreak, and a banquet had been prepared, and twenty cartloads of grain and a hundred bullocks sent off to meet the army on its march. "'Tis a fine castle, Sir Eustace," the king said as he rode in, "but truly it is perilously situated. If after this I can make good terms with France I will see that the border shall run outside your estates; but if not, methinks that it were best for you to treat with some French noble for its sale, and I will see that you are equally well bestowed in England, for in truth, after fighting for us at Agincourt, you are like to have but little peace here." "I would gladly do so, my lord king," Sir Eustace replied. "During the last three years it has been a loss rather than a gain to me. I have had to keep a large garrison here; the estate has been wasted, and the houses and barns burned. Had it not been that there was for most of the time a truce between England and France I should have fared worse. And now I may well be attacked as soon as your majesty and the army cross to England." "You will have a little breathing time," the king said; "they will have enough to do for a while to mourn their losses. I will not leave behind any of your brave fellows who have fought so hard here, but when I arrive at Calais will order two hundred men of the garrison to come over to reinforce you until you can make arrangements to get rid of the castle, if it is not to remain within my territory." Sir Eustace introduced Sir John Aylmer as the father of the newly-made knight. "You have a gallant son, Sir John," the king said, "and one who is like to make his way to high distinction. I doubt not that before we have done with the French he will have fresh opportunities of proving his valour." After the meal was over the king went round the walls. "'Tis a strong place," he said, "and yet unless aid reached you, you could not resist an army with cannon and machines." "I have long seen that, your majesty, and have felt that I should have to choose between England and France, for that, when war broke out again, I could not remain a vassal of both countries." "It shall be my duty to show you that you have not chosen wrongly, Sir Eustace. I cannot promise to maintain you here, for you might be attacked when I have no army with which I could succour you. As soon as I return home and learn which of those who have fallen have left no heirs, and whose lands therefore have come into my gift, I will then make choice of a new estate for you." The army marched slowly to Calais. It was weakened by sickness and hunger, and every man was borne down by the weight of the booty he carried. On arriving there the king held a council, and it was finally determined to return to England. The force under his command was now but the skeleton of an army. Fresh men and money were required to continue the war, and he accordingly set sail, carrying with him his long train of royal and noble prisoners. The news of the victory created the greatest enthusiasm in England. At Dover the people rushed into the sea and carried the king to shore on their shoulders. At Canterbury and the other towns through which he passed he received an enthusiastic welcome, while his entry into London was a triumph. Every house was decorated, the conduits ran with wine instead of water, and the people were wild with joy and enthusiasm. Great subsidies were granted him by Parliament, and the people in their joy would have submitted to any taxation. However, throughout his reign Henry always showed the greatest moderation; he kept well within constitutional usages, and his pleasant, affable manner secured for him throughout his reign the love and devotion of his subjects. On his arrival at Calais Guy discovered that among the prisoners was his friend Count Charles d'Estournel. "I am grieved indeed to see you in this plight," he exclaimed as he met him. "'Tis unfortunate truly, Aylmer, but it might have been worse; better a prisoner than among the dead at Agincourt," the light-hearted young count said; "but truly it has been an awful business. Who could have dreamt of it? I thought myself that the council were wrong when they refused all the offers of the towns to send bodies of footmen to fight beside us; had they been there, they might have faced those terrible archers of yours, for they at least would have been free to fight when we were all but helpless in that quagmire. I see that you have knightly spurs on, and I congratulate you." "Now, Count, what can I do to ensure your release at once? Whose prisoner are you?" "I surrendered to one John Parsons, an esquire, and I shall, of course, as soon as we get to England, send home to raise money for my ransom." "I know him well," Guy said; "his lord's tent was pitched alongside that of Sir Eustace, before Harfleur, and we saw much of each other, and often rode together on the march. If I gave him my guarantee for your ransom, I doubt not that he will take your pledge, and let you depart at once." "I should be glad indeed if you would do so, Aylmer." "At any rate he will take the guarantee of Sir Eustace," Guy said, "which will, I know, be given readily, after the service you rendered to his dame, and it may be that you will have it in your power to do him a service in return." He then told the count of the intention of Sir Eustace to sell the estate, or rather to arrange for its transfer. "It is held directly from the crown," he said, "but just at present the crown is powerless. Artois is everywhere Burgundian, and it would certainly be greatly to the advantage of Burgundy that it should be held by one of his followers, while it would be to the safety of France that it should be held by a Frenchman, rather than by one who is also a vassal of England." "I should think that that could be managed," the count said thoughtfully. "I will speak to my father. I am, as you know, his second son, but through my mother, who is a German, I have an estate on the other side of the Rhine. This I would gladly exchange--that is to say, would part with to some German baron--if I could obtain the fief of Villeroy. I have no doubt that Burgundy would not only consent, but would help, for, as you know by the manner in which your lady was made a hostage, he looked with great jealousy on this frontier fortress, which not only gives a way for the English into Artois, but which would, in the hands of an Orleanist, greatly aid an invasion of the province from Pontoise and the west. And, although the court would just at present object to give the fief to a Burgundian, it is powerless to interfere, and when the troubles are over, the duke would doubtless be able to manage it." Guy had no difficulty in arranging the matter with D'Estournel's captor, to whom Sir Eustace and he both gave their surety that his ransom should be paid; and, before sailing, Guy had the satisfaction of seeing his friend mount and ride for St. Omar with a pass through the English territory from the governor. CHAPTER XX -- PENSHURST After accompanying the king to London Sir Eustace and Guy rode to Summerley, where Long Tom and his companions had already arrived, having marched thither direct from Dover. There were great rejoicings at the castle. Not only the tenants, but people from a long way round came in to join in welcoming home two of the heroes of Agincourt. The archer had already brought news of Guy having been knighted, and he was warmly, congratulated by Dame Margaret and by Agnes, who received him with her usual sisterly affection. Katarina, also, congratulated him, but it was with less warmth of manner. In the evening, how ever, her mood changed, and she said to him: "Though I do not say much, you know that I am pleased, Sir Guy." [Illustration: "KATARINA SWEPT A DEEP CURTSEY, AND WENT OFF WITH A MERRY LAUGH."] "I am not sure, Countess Katarina--since we are to be ceremonious to each other--that I do quite know, for since I returned from France last time, I have seldom understood you; one moment you seem to me just as you used to be, at another you hold me at a distance, as if I were well-nigh a stranger." Katarina shrugged her shoulders. "What would you have, Guy? One can't be always in the same humour." "You are always in the same humour to Dame Margaret and Agnes," he said; "so far as I can see I am the only one whom you delight to tease." "Now that you are a belted knight, Sir Guy, I shall not presume to tease you any more, but shall treat you with the respect due to your dignity." Then she swept a deep curtsey, and turning, went off with a merry laugh, while Guy looked after her more puzzled than ever. That evening he received the news that during the absence of Sir Eustace and himself Sir William Bailey, a young knight whose estates lay near, had asked for the hand of Agnes, and that, although Dame Margaret had been unable to give an answer during her lord's absence, Agnes would willingly submit herself to her father's orders to wed Sir William. Guy remained for some months quietly at Summerley. The Emperor Sigismund had paid a visit to England, and then to Paris, to endeavour to reconcile the two countries. His mediation failed. Henry offered, as a final settlement, to accept the execution, on the part of France, of the treaty of Trepigny. Nothing, however, came of it, for there was no government in France capable of making a binding treaty. In spite of the disgrace and the slaughter of the nobles at Agincourt there was no abatement of the internal dissensions, and the civil war between Burgundy and Armagnac was still raging, the only change in affairs being that the vicious and incapable Duke of Aquitaine had died, and the queen had once again gone over to the Burgundian faction. Count Charles d'Estournel had carried into effect the mission with which he had charged himself. Burgundy had eagerly embraced the opportunity of attaching to his side the castle and estates of Villeroy, and he and the Count d'Estournel between them raised a sum of money which was paid to Sir Eustace for the relinquishment to Burgundy of the fief, which was then bestowed upon Count Charles. The sum in no way represented what would now be considered the value of the estate, but in those days, when fiefs reverted to the crown or other feudal superior upon the death of an owner without heirs, or were confiscated upon but slight pretence, the money value was far under the real value of the estate. Sir Eustace was well satisfied, however, with the sum paid him. Had his son Henry lived he had intended that the anomalous position of the lord of Villeroy, being also a vassal of England, should have been got rid of by one of his sons becoming its owner, and a vassal of France, while the other would inherit Summerley, and grow up a vassal of England only. Henry's death had put an end to the possibility of this arrangement, and Charlie would now become, at his father's death, Lord of Summerley and of such other English lands as could be obtained with the money paid for the surrender of the fief of Villeroy. In the first week of July there were great rejoicings at Summerley over the marriage of Agnes with Sir William Bailey. The king had not forgotten his promise to Sir Eustace, and had raised him to the title of Baron Eustace of Summerley, and had presented him with a royal manor near Winchester. Guy was summoned to court to take part in the festivities that were held during the visit of Sigismund, and the king said to him pleasantly one day: "I have not forgotten you, Sir Guy; but I have had many to reward, and you know importunate suitors, and those who have powerful connections to keep their claims ever in front, obtain an advantage over those who are content to hold themselves in the back-ground." "I am in all ways contented, your majesty. I have lived all my life in the household at Summerley, and am so much one of my lord's family that I have no desire to quit it. Moreover, my father has just returned from Villeroy with the garrison of the castle, and it is a great pleasure to me to have his society again." "I thought that some day you would have married Dame Margaret's fair daughter, after acting as their protector in the troubles in Paris, but I hear that she is betrothed to Sir William Bailey." "Such an idea never entered my mind, your majesty. She was but a child in those days, not so much in years as in thought, and brought up together as we were I have always regarded her rather in the light of a sister." Guy's quiet stay at Summerley came to an end suddenly. A fortnight after the marriage of Agnes, Harfleur was besieged by the French by land and water, and the Earl of Dorset, its governor, sent to England for aid. The king sent hasty orders to his vassals of Kent, Surrey, and Hampshire, to march with their retainers to Rye, where a fleet was to gather for their conveyance. A body of archers and men-at-arms were also sent thither by the king, and the Duke of Bedford, his brother, appointed to the command of the expedition. Sir Eustace was suffering somewhat from the effects of a fever, the seeds of which he had contracted in France, and he accordingly sent his contingent, thirty archers and as many men-at-arms, under the command of Guy. "I had hoped that we had done with Harfleur," Long Tom said as they started on their march to the seaport. "I don't mind fighting, that comes in the way of business, but to see men rotting away like sheep with disease is not to my fancy." "We shall have no fighting on land, Tom," Guy replied, "at least I expect not. When the French see that the garrison is reinforced they will probably give up the siege, though we may have a fight at sea with the French ships that are blockading the town and preventing provisions from reaching the garrison. Doubtless we shall take a good store of food with us, and the French will know well enough that as we had such hard work in capturing the town, they can have no chance whatever of taking it by assault when defended by us." Guy and his party had a small ship to themselves, with which he was well content, as, being but a newly-made knight, he would, had he been in a large ship, have been under the orders of any others who chanced to be with him; while he was now free to act as he chose. The voyage was favourable, but when the fleet arrived off the mouth of the Seine they found that the work before them was far more serious than they had expected. In addition to their own fleet, which was itself considerably stronger than the English, the besiegers had hired the aid of some great Genoese vessels, and a number of galleys, caravels, and many high-decked ships from Spain. They occupied a strong position off the town, and could be supported by some of the siege batteries. The English fleet lay to at the mouth of the Seine, and at night the captains of the troops on board the various ships were rowed to Bedford's ship, which displayed a light at the mast-head, so that the fleet could all lie in company round her. Here after much discussion a plan for the battle next day was agreed upon. The enterprise would have been a very hazardous one, but, happily, at daybreak the French ships were seen coming out to give battle. Confident in their superior numbers, and anxious to revenge their defeat at Agincourt, the French commanders were eager to reap the whole glory of victory without the assistance of their allies, whose ships remained anchored in the river. Bedford at once made the signal to attack them, and a desperate fight ensued. Great as was the slaughter in those days in battles on land, it was far greater in sea-fights. Except to knights and nobles, from whom ransom could be obtained, quarter was never given to prisoners either by land or sea, consequently as soon as soldiers in a land battle saw that fortune was going against them they fled. But on sea there was no escape; every man knew that it was either death or victory, and therefore fought with determination and obstinacy to the end. The two first French ships that arrived were speedily captured, but when the rest came up a desperate battle took place. Guy was on the point of ordering his ship to be laid alongside a French craft little larger than his own, when his eye fell upon a great ship carrying the flag of a French admiral, and at once diverting the course of his vessel, he ran alongside her. The archers were on the bow and stern castles of his ship, and as they came within a short distance of the Frenchman, they sent their arrows thick and fast into the crowded mass on her deck. Two grapnels, to each of which were attached twenty feet of chain, were thrown into the shrouds of the French vessel, and Guy shouted to the men-at-arms in the waist to keep the enemy from boarding by holding the vessels apart by thrusting out light spars and using their spears. The French had a few cross-bowmen on board, but Guy, running up on to the castle at the bow, where Long Tom himself was posted, bade him direct the fire of his men solely against them, and in a very short time the discharge of missiles from the French ship ceased. In vain the French attempted to bring the ships alongside each other by throwing grapnels; the ropes of these were cut directly they fell, and although many of the English spears were hacked in two, others were at once thrust out, and the spars, being inclined so as to meet the hull of the enemy below the water-line, could not be reached by their axes. The wind was light, and there was no great difference in point of sailing. The English sailors were vigilant, and when the Frenchman brailed up his great sail, so as to fall behind, they at once followed his example. At the end of a quarter of an hour the effect of the arrows of the thirty archers was so great that there was much confusion on board the enemy, and Guy thought that, comparatively small as his force was, an attack might be made. So the spars were suddenly drawn in and the chains hauled upon. The archers caught up their axes and joined the men-at-arms, and as the vessels came together they all leapt with a great shout upon the enemy's deck. The French knights, whose armour had protected them to some extent from the slaughter that the arrows had effected among the soldiers, fought bravely and rallied their men to resistance; but with shouts of "Agincourt!" the men-at-arms and archers, led by Guy,--who now for the first time fought in his knightly armour,--were irresistible. They had boarded at the enemy's stern so as to get all their foes in front of them, and after clearing the stern castle they poured down into the waist and gradually won their way along it. After ten minutes' hard fighting the French admiral and knights were pent up on the fore castle, and defended the ladder by which it was approached so desperately that Guy ordered Tom, with a dozen of the archers, to betake themselves to the English fore castle and to shoot from there, and in a short time the French leaders lowered their swords and surrendered. The French flag at the stern had been hauled down and that of England hoisted as soon as they boarded, and the latter was now run up to the mast-head amid the loud hurrahs of the English. The moment the French surrendered, Guy called to his men to cease from slaying and to disarm the prisoners, who were still much more numerous than themselves. The common men he told to take to their boats and row away, while the admiral and knights were conducted to the cabin, and a guard placed over them. As soon as this was done Guy looked round; the battle was still raging and many of the French ships had been captured, but others were defending themselves desperately. Twelve of Guy's men had been killed, and several of the others more or less severely wounded, and seeing that his countrymen did not need his assistance, he ordered the decks to be cleared and the dead bodies thrown overboard. In a quarter of an hour, the last French ship had been taken. There was now breathing time for half an hour, during which the Duke of Bedford, whose ship lay not far from Guy's prize, had himself rowed on board. "All have done well to-day, Sir Guy Aylmer, but assuredly the feat you have performed surpasses any of the others, seeing that you have captured this great ship with one of the smallest in our fleet. Their crew must have been three or four times as strong as yours, which was, as I know, but sixty strong. Has the Count de Valles fallen?" "No, my lord duke, he is, with six of his knights, a prisoner in the cabin." "I will see him later," the duke said; "we are now going to attack the Genoese and Spaniards. Is there aught that I can do for you?" "Some twenty of my men are dead or disabled," Guy said, "and I must leave ten in charge of this prize. I have suffered the French soldiers, after disarming them and the sailors, to leave in their boats, and ten men will therefore be sufficient to hold her. If your grace can spare me thirty men-at-arms I will go on in my own ship to attack the Genoese." "I will do so," the duke replied. "I will send ten to keep this ship, and twenty to fill the places of those of your men who have fallen. I can spare ten from my own ship and will borrow twenty from such of the others as can best spare them." In a few minutes the thirty men came on board, with a sub-officer to take charge of the prize. Guy returned with his own men and twenty new-comers to his vessel, and sailed in with the fleet to attack the great ships of the Genoese and Spaniards at their moorings. As they approached they were received with a heavy cannonade from the enemy's ships and shore batteries, but without replying they sailed on and ranged themselves alongside the enemy, their numbers permitting them to lay a vessel on each side of most of the great caravels. Their task was by no means an easy one, for the sides of these ships were fifteen feet above those of the low English vessels, and they were all crowded with men. Nevertheless, the English succeeded in boarding, forcing their way in through port-holes and windows, clambering up the bows by the carved work, or running out on their yards and swinging themselves by ropes on to the enemy's deck, while the cannon plied them with shot close to the water-line. Most of the ships were taken by boarding, some were sunk with all on board, a few only escaped by cutting their cables and running up the Seine into shallow water. The loss of life on the part of the French and their allies in this brilliant British victory was enormous. With the exception of those on board the few ships which escaped, and the men sent off in the boats by Guy, the whole of the crews of the French, Genoese, and Spaniards, save only the nobles and knights put to ransom, were killed, drowned, or taken prisoners, and during the three weeks that the English fleet remained off Harfleur, the sailors were horrified by the immense number of dead bodies that were carried up and down by the tide. Harfleur was revictualled and put into a state of defence, and the Duke of Bedford then sailed with his fleet to England, having achieved the greatest naval victory that England had ever won save when Edward the Third, with the Black Prince, completely defeated a great Spanish fleet off the coast of Sussex, with a squadron composed of ships vastly inferior both in size and number to those of the Spaniards, which contained fully ten times the number of fighting men carried by the English vessels. This great naval victory excited unbounded enthusiasm in England. The king gave a great banquet to the Duke of Bedford and his principal officers, and by the duke's orders Guy attended. Before they sat down to the table the duke presented his officers individually to the king. Guy, as the youngest knight, was the last to be introduced. "The duke has already spoken to me of the right valiant deeds that you accomplished, Sir Guy Aylmer," the king said as he bowed before him, "and that with but a small craft and only sixty men-at-arms and archers you captured the ship of the French admiral, which he estimates must have carried at least three hundred men. We hereby raise you to the rank of knight-banneret, and appoint you to the fief of Penshurst in Hampshire, now vacant by the death without heirs of the good knight Sir Richard Fulk. And we add thereto, as our own gift, the two royal manors of Stoneham and Piverley lying adjacent to it, and we enjoin you to take for your coat-of-arms a great ship. The fief of Penshurst is a sign of our royal approval of your bravery at Harfleur, the two manors are the debt we owe you for your service at Agincourt. We have ordered our chancellor to make out the deeds, and tomorrow you will receive them from him and take the oaths." Guy knelt and kissed the hand that the king held out to him, and acknowledged the royal gift in fitting words. On the following day, after taking the oaths for his new possessions, he mounted, and the next day rode into Summerley. Here to his surprise he found the Count of Montepone, who had arrived, by way of Calais and Dover, a few days previously. He was suffering from a severe wound, and when Guy entered rose feebly from a chair by the fire, for it was now October and the weather was cold. His daughter was sitting beside him, and Lady Margaret was also in the room. Lord Eustace and Sir John Aylmer had met Guy as he dismounted below. "So you have gone through another adventure and come out safely," the count said after Guy had greeted him. "Truly you have changed greatly since you left Paris, well-nigh three years ago. It was well that Maître Leroux had the armour made big for you, for I see that it is now none too large. I too, you see, have been at war; but it was one in which there was small honour, though, as you see, with some risk, for it was a private duel forced upon me by one of the Armagnac knights. Up to that time my predictions had wrought me much profit and no harm. I had told Aquitaine and other lords who consulted me that disaster would happen when the French army met the English. That much I read in the stars. And though, when Henry marched north from Harfleur with so small a following, it seemed to me that victory could scarce attend him against the host of France, I went over my calculations many times and could not find that I had made an error. It was owing greatly to my predictions that the duke readily gave way when the great lords persuaded him not to risk his life in the battle. "Others whom I had warned went to their death, in some cases because they disbelieved me, in others because they preferred death to the dishonour of drawing back. One of the latter, on the eve of the battle, confided to a hot-headed knight in his following that I had foretold his death; and instead of quarrelling with the stars, the fool seemed to think that I had controlled them, and was responsible for his lord's death. So when in Paris some months since, he publicly insulted me, and being an Italian noble as well as an astrologer, I fought him the next day. I killed him, but not before I received a wound that laid me up for months, and from which I have not yet fairly recovered. While lying in Paris I decided upon taking a step that I had for some time been meditating. I could, when Katarina left Paris with your lady, have well gone with her, with ample means to live in comfort and to furnish her with a fortune not unfitted to her rank as my daughter. "During the past three years the reputation I gained by my success in saving the lives of several persons of rank, increased so rapidly that money has flowed into my coffers beyond all belief. There was scarcely a noble of the king's party who had not consulted me, and since Agincourt the Duke of Aquitaine and many others took no step whatever without coming to me. But I am weary of the everlasting troubles of which I can see no end, and assuredly the aspect of the stars affords no ground for hope that they will terminate for years; therefore, I have determined to leave France, and to practise my art henceforth solely for my own pleasure, I shall open negotiations with friends in Mantua, to see whether, now that twelve years have elapsed since I had to fly, matters cannot be arranged with my enemies; much can often be done when there are plenty of funds wherewith to smooth away difficulties. Still, that is in the future. My first object in coming to England was to see how my daughter was faring, and to enjoy a period of rest and quiet while my wound was healing, which it has begun to do since I came here. I doubted on my journey, which has been wholly performed in a litter, whether I should arrive here alive." "And now, father," Katarina said, "let us hear what Sir Guy has been doing since he left; we have been all full of impatience since the news came four days ago that the Duke of Bedford had destroyed a great fleet of French, Spanish, and Genoese ships." "Guy has had his share of fighting, at any rate," Lord Eustace said, as he entered the room while the girl was speaking, "for fifteen of our men have fallen; and, as Long Tom tells me, they had hot work of it, and gained much credit by capturing single-handed a great French ship." "Yes, we were fortunate," Guy said, "in falling across the ship of the French admiral, Count de Valles. Our men all fought stoutly, and the archers having cleared the way for us and slain many of their crew, we captured them, and I hold the count and five French knights to ransom." "That will fill your purse rarely, Guy. But let us hear more of this fighting. De Valles's ship must have been a great one, and if you took it with but your own sixty men it must have been a brilliant action." Guy then gave a full account of the fight, and of the subsequent capture of one of the Spanish carracks with the aid of another English ship. "If the Duke of Bedford himself came on board," Lord Eustace said, "and sent you some reinforcements, he must have thought highly of the action; indeed he cannot but have done so, or he would not have come personally on board. Did he speak to the king of it?" "He did, and much more strongly, it seems to me, than the affair warranted, for at the banquet the day before yesterday his majesty was graciously pleased to appoint me a knight-banneret, and to bestow upon me the estates of Penshurst, adding thereto the royal manors of Stoneham and Piverley." "A right royal gift!" Lord Eustace said, while exclamations of pleasure broke from the others. "I congratulate you on your new honour, which you have right worthily earned. Sir John, you may well be proud of this son of yours." "I am so, indeed," Sir John Aylmer said heartily. "I had hoped well of the lad, but had not deemed that he would mount so rapidly. Sir Richard Fulk had a fine estate, and joined now to the two manors it will be as large as those of Summerley, even with its late additions." "I am very glad," Dame Margaret said, "that the king has apportioned you an estate so near us, for it is scarce fifteen miles to Penshurst, and it will be but a morning ride for you to come hither." "Methinks, wife," Lord Eustace said with a smile, "we were somewhat hasty in that matter of Sir William Bailey, for had we but waited Agnes might have done better." "She chose for herself," Dame Margaret replied with an answering smile. "I say not that in my heart I had not hoped at one time that she and Guy might have come together, for I had learnt to love him almost as if he had been my own, and would most gladly have given Agnes to him had it been your wish as well as theirs; but I have seen for some time past that it was not to be, for they were like brother and sister to each other, and neither had any thought of a still closer relation. Had it not been so I should never have favoured Sir William Bailey's suit, though indeed he is a worthy young man, and Agnes is happy with him. You have not been to your castle yet, Guy?" she asked, suddenly changing the subject. "No, indeed, Lady Margaret, I rode straight here from London, deeming this, as methinks that I shall always deem it, my home." "We must make up a party to ride over and see it to-morrow," Lord Eustace said. "We will start early, wife, and you and Katarina can ride with us. Charlie will of course go, and Sir John. We could make a horse-litter for the count, if he thinks he could bear the journey. "Methinks that I had best stay quietly here," the Italian said. "I have had enough of litters for a time, and the shaking might make my wound angry again." "Nonsense, child!" he broke off as Katarina whispered that she would stay with him; "I need no nursing now; you shall ride with the rest." Accordingly the next day the party started early. Charlie was in high spirits; he had grown into a sturdy boy, and was delighted at the good fortune that had befallen Guy, whom he had regarded with boundless admiration since the days in Paris. Katarina was in one of her silent moods, and rode close to Lady Margaret. Long Tom, who was greatly rejoiced on hearing of the honours and estates that had been bestowed on Guy, rode with two of his comrades in the rear of the party. Penshurst was a strong castle, though scarcely equal in size to Summerley; it was, however, a more comfortable habitation, having been altered by the late owner's father, who had travelled in Italy, with a view rather to the accommodation of its inmates than its defence, and had been furnished with many articles of luxury rare in England. "A comfortable abode truly, Guy!" his father said. "It was well enough two hundred years since, when the country was unsettled, for us to pen ourselves up within walls, but there is little need of it now in England, although in France, where factions are constantly fighting against each other, it is well that every man should hold himself secure from attack. But now that cannon are getting to so great a point of perfection, walls are only useful to repel sudden attacks, and soon crumble when cannon can be brought against them. Me thinks the time will come when walls will be given up altogether, especially in England, where the royal power is so strong that nobles can no longer war with each other." "However, Guy," Lord Eustace said, "'tis as well at present to have walls, and strong ones; and though I say not that this place is as strong as Villeroy, it is yet strong enough to stand a siege." Guy spent an hour with the steward, who had been in charge of the castle since the death of Sir Richard Fulk, and who had the day before heard from a royal messenger that Sir Guy had been appointed lord of the estates. The new owner learned from him much about the extent of the feu, the number of tenants, the strength that he would be called upon to furnish in case of war, and the terms on which the vassals held their tenure. "Your force will be well-nigh doubled," the steward said in conclusion, "since you tell me that the manors of Stoneham and Piverley have also fallen to you." "'Tis a fair country," Guy said as the talk ended, "and one could wish for no better. I shall return to Summerley to-day, but next Monday I will come over here and take possession, and you can bid the tenants, and those also of the two manors, to come hither and meet me at two o'clock." "Well, daughter," the Count of Montepone said to Katarina as she was sitting by his couch in the evening, "so you think that Penshurst is a comfortable abode?" "Yes, father, the rooms are brighter and lighter than these and the walls are all hung with arras and furnished far more comfortably." "Wouldst thou like to be its mistress, child?" A bright flush of colour flooded the girl's face. "Dost mean it, father?" she asked in a voice hardly above a whisper. "Why not, child? You have seen much of this brave young knight, whom, methinks, any maiden might fall in love with. Art thou not more sensible to his merits than was Mistress Agnes?" "He saved my life, father." "That did he, child, and at no small risk to his own: Then do I understand that such a marriage would be to your liking?" "Yes, father," she said frankly, "but I know not that it would be to Sir Guy's." "That is for me to find out," he said. "I asked Lady Margaret a few days ago what she thought of the young knight's inclinations, and she told me that she thought indeed he had a great liking for you, but that in truth you were so wayward that you gave him but little chance of showing it." "How could I let him see that I cared for him, father, when I knew not for certain that he thought aught of me, and moreover, I could not guess what your intentions for me might be." "I should not have sent you where you would often be in his company, Katarina, unless I had thought the matter over deeply. It was easy to foresee that after the service he had rendered you you would think well of him, and that, thrown together as you would be, it was like enough that you should come to love each other. I had cast your horoscope and his and found that you would both be married about the same time, though I could not say that it would be to each other. I saw enough of him during that time in Paris to see that he was not only brave, but prudent and discreet. I saw, too, from his affection to his mistress, that he would be loyal and honest in all he undertook, that it was likely that he would rise to honour, and that above all I could assuredly trust your happiness to him. He was but a youth and you a girl, but he was bordering upon manhood and you upon womanhood. I marked his manner with his lady's daughter and saw that she would be no rival to you. Had it been otherwise I should have yielded to your prayers, and have kept you with me in France. Matters have turned out according to my expectation. I can give you a dowry that any English noble would think an ample one with his bride; and though Guy is now himself well endowed he will doubtless not object to such an addition as may enable him, if need be, to place in the field a following as large as that which many of the great nobles are bound to furnish to their sovereign. I will speak to him on the subject to-morrow, Katarina." Accordingly, the next morning at breakfast the count told Guy that there was a matter on which he wished to consult him, and the young knight remained behind when the other members of the family left the room to carry out their avocations. "Hast thought of a mistress for your new castle, Sir Guy?" the count began abruptly. Guy started at the sudden question, and did not reply at once. "I have thought of one, Count," he said; "but although, so far, all that you told me long ago in Paris has come true, and fortune has favoured me wonderfully, in this respect she has not been kind, for the lady cares not for me, and I would not take a wife who came not to me willingly." "How know you that she cares not for you?" the count asked. "Because I have eyes and ears, Count. She thinks me but a boy, and a somewhat ill-mannered one. She mocks me when I try to talk to her, shuns being left alone with me, and in all ways shows that she has no inclination towards me, but very much the contrary." "Have you asked her straightforwardly?" the count inquired with a smile. "No, I should only be laughed at for my pains, and it would take more courage than is required to capture a great French ship for me to put the matter to her." "I fancy, Sir Guy, that you are not greatly versed in female ways. A woman defends herself like a beleaguered fortress. She makes sorties and attacks, she endeavours to hide her weakness by her bravados, and when she replies most disdainfully to a summons to capitulate, is perhaps on the eve of surrender. To come to the point, then, are you speaking of my daughter?" "I am, Sir Count," Guy said frankly. "I love her, but she loves me not, and there is an end of it. 'Tis easy to understand that, beautiful as she is, she should not give a thought to me who, at the best, can only claim to be a stout man-at-arms; as for my present promotion, I know that it goes for nothing in her eyes." "It may be as you say, Sir Guy; but tell me, as a soldier, before you gave up the siege of a fortress and retired would you not summon it to surrender?" "I should do so," Guy replied with a smile. "Then it had better be so in this case, Sir Guy. You say that you would willingly marry my daughter. I would as willingly give her to you. The difficulty then lies with the maiden herself, and it is but fair to you both that you should yourself manfully ask her decision in the matter." He went out of the room, and returned in a minute leading Katarina. "Sir Guy has a question to ask you, daughter," he said; "I pray you to answer him frankly." He then led her to a seat, placed her there and left the room. Guy felt a greater inclination to escape by another door than he had ever felt to fly in the hour of danger, but after a pause he said: "I will put the question, Katarina, since your father would have me do it, though I know well enough beforehand what the answer will be. I desire above all things to have you for a wife, and would give you a true and loyal affection were you willing that it should be so, but I feel only too well that you do not think of me as I do of you. Still, as it is your father's wish that I should take your answer from your lips, and as, above all things, I would leave it in your hands without any constraint from him, I ask you whether you love me as one should love another before plighting her faith to him?" "Why do you say that you know what my answer will be, Guy? Would you have had me show that I was ready to drop like a ripe peach into your mouth before you opened it? Why should I not love you? Did you not save my life? Were you not kind and good to me even in the days when I was more like a boy than a girl? Have you not since with my humours? I will answer your question as frankly as my father bade me." She rose now. "Take my hand, Guy, for it is yours. I love and honour you, and could wish for no better or happier lot than to be your wife. Had you asked me six months ago I should have said the same, save that I could not have given you my hand until I had my father's consent." During the next month Guy spent most of his time at Penshurst getting everything in readiness for its mistress. Lord Eustace advanced him the monies that he was to receive for the ransoms of Count de Valles and the five knights, and the week before the wedding he went up with the Count of Montepone to London, and under his advice bought many rich hangings and pieces of rare furniture to beautify the private apartments. The count laid out a still larger sum of money on Eastern carpets and other luxuries, as well as on dresses and other matters for his daughter. On jewels he spent nothing, having already, he said, "a sufficient store for the wife of a royal duke." On his return Guy called upon the king at his palace at Winchester, and Henry declared that he himself would ride to Summerley to be present at the wedding. "You stood by me," he said, "in the day of battle, it is but right that I should stand by you on your wedding-day. Her father will, of course, give her away, and it is right that he should do so, seeing that she is no ward of mine; but I will be your best man. I will bring with me but a small train, for I would not inconvenience the Baron of Summerley and his wife, and I will not sleep at the castle; though I do not say that I will not stay to tread a measure with your fair bride." Two days later a train of waggons was seen approaching Summerley; they were escorted by a body of men-at-arms with two officers of the king. Lord Eustace, in some surprise, rode out to meet them, and was informed that the king had ordered them to pitch a camp near the castle for himself and his knights, and that he intended to tarry there for the night. As soon as the waggons were unloaded the attendants and men-at-arms set to work, and in a short time the royal tent and six smaller ones were erected and fitted with their furniture. Other tents were put up a short distance away for the grooms and attendants. This greatly relieved Lady Margaret, for she had wondered where she could bestow the king and his knights if, at the last moment, he determined to sleep there. For the next three days the castle was alive with preparations. Oxen and swine were slaughtered, vast quantities of game, geese, and poultry were brought in, two stags from the royal preserves at Winchester were sent over by the king, and the rivers for miles round were netted for fish. At ten o'clock Guy rode in with fifty mounted men, the tenants of Penshurst, Stoneham, and Piverley, and these and all the tenants of Summerley rode out under Lord Eustace and Guy to meet the king. They had gone but a mile when he and his train rode up. He had with him the Earl of Dorset and five of the nobles who had fought at Agincourt and were all personally acquainted with Guy. The church at Summerley was a large one, but it was crowded as it had never been before. The king and his nobles stood on one side of the altar, while Lord Eustace, his wife, Agnes, and Charlie were on the other. Guy's tenants occupied the front seats, while the rest of the church was filled by the tenants of Summerley, their wives and daughters, and the retainers of the castle, among them Long Tom, with his pretty wife beside him. When everything was in order the Count of Montepone entered the church with his daughter, followed by the six prettiest maidens on the Summerley estate. "In truth, Sir Guy," the king whispered as the bride and her father came up the aisle, "your taste is as good in love as your arms are strong in war, for my eyes never fell on a fairer maid." After the ceremony there was a great banquet in the hall, while all the tenants, with their wives and families, sat down to long tables spread in the court-yard. After the meal was over and the tables removed, the king and the party in the banqueting-hall went out on the steps and were received with tremendous cheering. Guy first returned thanks for himself and his bride for the welcome that they had given him, and then, to the delight of the people, the king stepped forward. "Good people," he said, "among whom there are, I know, some who fought stoutly with us at Agincourt, you do well to shout loudly at the marriage of this brave young knight, who was brought up among you, and who has won by his valour great credit, and our royal favour. Methinks that he has won, also, a prize in his eyes even greater than the honours that we have bestowed upon him, and I doubt not that, should occasion occur, he will win yet higher honours in our service." A great shout of "God bless the king!" went up from the assembly. Then the party returned to the hall, while casks of wine were broached in the court-yard. As Lord Eustace had sent for a party of musicians from Winchester, first some stately dances were performed in the hall, as many as could find room being allowed to come into it to witness them. The king danced the first measure with Katarina, the Earl of Dorset led out Lady Margaret, and Guy danced with Lady Agnes, while the other nobles found partners among the ladies who had come in from the neighbourhood. After a few dances the party adjourned to the court-yard, where games of various kinds, dancing and feasting were kept up until a late hour, when the king and his companions retired to their tents. At an early hour next morning the king and his retinue rode back to Winchester. Until he signed the marriage contract before going to the church, Guy was altogether ignorant of the dowry that Katarina was to bring, and was astonished at the very large sum of money, besides the long list of jewels, entered in it. "She will have as much more at my death," the count said quietly; "there is no one else who has the slightest claim upon me." Consequently, in the course of the wars with France, Guy was able to put a contingent of men-at-arms and archers, far beyond the force his feudal obligations required, in the field. Long Tom was, at his own request, allowed by his lord to exchange his small holding for a larger one at Penshurst, and always led Guy's archers in the wars. Sir John Aylmer remained at Summerley, refusing Guy's pressing invitation to take up his abode at Penshurst. "No, lad," he said; "Lord Eustace and I have been friends and companions for many years, and Lady Margaret has been very dear to me from her childhood. Both would miss me sorely did I leave them, the more so as Agnes is now away. Moreover, it is best that you and your fair wife should be together also for a time. 'Tis best in all respects. You are but two hours' easy riding from Summerley, and I shall often be over to see you." Four years after his marriage the king promoted Guy to the rank of Baron of Penshurst, and about the same time the Count of Montepone, who had been for some months in Italy, finding that his enemies at Mantua were still so strong that he was unable to obtain a reversal of the decree of banishment that had been passed against him, returned to Penshurst. "I have had more than enough of wandering, and would fain settle down here, Guy, if you will give me a chamber for myself, and one for my instruments. I shall need them but little henceforth, but they have become a part of myself and, though no longer for gain, I love to watch the stars, and to ponder on their lessons; and when you ride to the wars I shall be company for Katarina, who has long been used to my society alone, and I promise you that I will no longer employ her as my messenger." Once established at Penshurst the count employed much of his time in beautifying the castle, spending money freely in adding to the private apartments, and decorating and furnishing them in the Italian style, until they became the wonder and admiration of all who visited them. In time he took upon himself much of the education of Katarina's children, and throughout a long life Guy never ceased to bless the day when he and Dame Margaret were in danger of their lives at the hands of the White Hoods of Paris. THE END. 
6856	----	THE GREAT RIOTS OF NEW YORK 1712 to 1873 INCLUDING A FULL AND COMPLETE ACCOUNT OF THE FOUR DAYS' DRAFT RIOT OF 1863 By HON. J.T. HEADLEY TO THE METROPOLITAN POLICE, WHOSE UNWAVERING FIDELITY AND COURAGE IN THE PAST, ARE A SURE GUARANTEE OF WHAT THEY WILL DO FOR NEW YORK CITY IN THE FUTURE, THIS WORK IS RESPECTFULLY INSCRIBED BY THE AUTHOR. LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS. 1. BURNING OF THE PROVOST-MARSHAL'S OFFICE 2. THE OLD NEW YORK HOSPITAL, SCENE OF THE DOCTORS' RIOT 3. COLORED ORPHAN ASYLUM (ERECTED SINCE THE RIOT) 4. HEADQUARTERS METROPOLITAN POLICE 5. HEADQUARTERS METROPOLITAN FIRE DEPARTMENT 6. FORT LAFAYETTE, NEW YORK HARBOR 7. FORT HAMILTON, NEW YORK HARBOR 8. SCENE IN LEXINGTON AVENUE 9. ATTACK ON THE TRIBUNE OFFICE 10. FIGHT BETWEEN RIOTERS AND MILITIA 11. HANGING AND BURNING A NEGRO IN CLARKSON STREET 12. THE DEAD SERGEANT IN TWENTY-SECOND STREET 13. DRAGGING COLONEL O'BRIEN'S BODY IN THE STREET 14. BURNING SECOND AVENUE ARMORY 15. RECEIVING DEAD BODIES AT THE MORGUE PREFACE. The materials for the descriptions of the Negro and Doctors' Riots were gathered from the Archives of the Historical Society; those of the immediately succeeding ones, from the press of the times. For the scenes and incidents that occurred on the stage and behind the curtain in the Astor-place Opera Riot, I am indebted to a pamphlet entitled "_Behind the Scenes_." The materials for the history of the Draft Riots were obtained in part from the Daily Press, and in part from the City and Military Authorities, especially Commissioner Acton, Seth Hawley, General Brown, and Colonel Frothingham, who succeeded in putting them down. Mr. David Barnes, who published, some ten years ago, a pamphlet entitled "The Metropolitan Police," kindly furnished me facts relating to the Police Department of great value, and which saved me much labor and time. Much difficulty has been encountered in gathering together, from various quarters, the facts spread over a century and a half, but it is believed that everything necessary to a complete understanding of the subjects treated of has been given, consistent with the continuity and interest of the narrative. Of course some minor riots--a collection of mobs that were easily dispersed by the police, and were characterized by no prolonged struggle or striking incidents--are not mentioned. CONTENTS. CHAPTER I. Character of a City illustrated by Riots.--New Material for History of Draft Riots.--History of the Rebellion incomplete without History of them.--The Fate of the Nation resting on the Issues of the Struggle in New York City.--The best Plan to adopt for Protection against Mobs. CHAPTER II. THE NEGRO RIOTS OF 1712-1741. Almost impossible for the present Generation to comprehend its true Character and Effect on the People.--Description of New York at that Time.--The Negro Slaves.--The Negro Riot of 1712.--Description of it.--The Winter of 1741.--Governor's House burned down.--Other Fires.--Suspicion of the People.--Arrest and Imprisonment of the Blacks.--Reward offered for the supposed Conspirators.--Alarm and Flight of the Inhabitants.--Examination and Confession of Mary Burton.--Peggy, the Newfoundland Beauty, and the Hughson Family.--The Conspiracy.--Executions.--Fast.--Hughson's Hearing.--Hung in Chains.--The Body, and that of a Negro, left to swing and rot in the Air.--Strange Change in the Appearances of the Bodies.--The People throng to look at them.--Negroes burned at the Stake.--Terrific Spectacle.--Bloody Summer.--Execution of a Catholic Priest.--Strange Scenes.--Upper Classes accused.--Executions stopped.--Reason of the Panic. CHAPTER III. THE STAMP-ACT RIOT OF 1765. Thorough Understanding of the Principles of Liberty by the People.--The Stamp Act.--How viewed by the Colonists.--Colden strengthens Fort George in Alarm.--Arrival of the Stamps.--How the News was received by the Sons of Liberty.--A Bold Placard.--Stamp Distributor frightened.--Patriotic Action of the Merchants.--Public Demonstration against the Stamp Act.--Colden takes Refuge in the Fort.--Dare not fire on the People.--The People at the Gate demand the Stamps.--Colden and Lord Bute hung in Effigy.--Colden's Coach-house broken open.--The Images placed in the Coach, and dragged with Shouts through the Streets.--Hung again in Sight of the Fort.--A Bonfire made of the Fence around Bowling Green, and the Governor's Carriages, while the Garrison look silently on.--Prejudice against Coaches.--Major James' House sacked.--Great Joy and Demonstration at the Repeal of the Stamp Act.--Celebration of the King's Birthday.--Loyalty of the People.--Mutiny Act.--A Riot becomes a Great Rebellion. CHAPTER IV. DOCTORS' RIOT, 1788. Body-snatching.--Bodies dug up by Medical Students.--Excitement of the People.--Effect of the Discovery of a human Limb from the Hospital.--Mob ransack the Building.--Destruction of Anatomical Specimens.--Arrival of Mayor, and Imprisonment of Students.--Second Day.--Examination of Columbia College and Physicians' Houses.--Appeal of the Mayor and distinguished Citizens to the Mob.--Mob attempt to break into Jail and seize the Students.--The Fight.--The Military called out.--Beaten by the Mob.--Larger Military Force called out.--Attacked by the Mob.--Deadly Firing.--Great Excitement.--Flight of Doctors and Students. CHAPTER V. SPRING ELECTION RIOTS OF 1834. Fatal Error in our Naturalization Laws.--Our Experiment of Self-government not a fair one.--Fruit of giving Foreigners the Right to Vote.--Bitter Feeling between Democrats and Whigs.--First Day of Election.--Ships "Constitution" and "Veto."--Whigs driven from the Polls.--Excitement.--Whigs determined to defend themselves.--Meeting called.--Resolutions.--Second Day's Election.--Attack on the Frigate "Constitution."--A Bloody Fight.--Mayor and Officers wounded.--Mob triumphant.--Excitement of the Whigs.--The Streets blocked by fifteen thousand enraged Whigs.--Military called out.--Occupy Arsenal and City Hall all Night.--Result of the Election.--Excitement of the Whigs.--Mass-meeting in Castle Garden. CHAPTER VI. ABOLITION RIOTS OF 1834 AND 1835. The Slavery Question agitated.--The End, Civil War.--The Results.--William Lloyd Garrison.--Feeling of the People on the Subject.--First Attempt to call a Meeting of the Abolitionists in New York.--Meeting in Chatham Street Chapel.--A Fight.--Mob take Possession of Bowery Theatre.--Sacking of Lewis Tappan's House.--Fight between Mob and Police.--Mobbing of Dr. Cox's Church, in Laight Street.--His House broken into.--Street Barricaded.--Attack on Arthur Tappan's Store.--Second Attack on Church in Laight Street.--Church sacked in Spring Street.--Arrival of the Military.--Barricades carried.--Mr. Ludlow's House entered.--Mob at Five Points.--Destruction of Houses.--The City Military called out.--Mob overawed, and Peace restored.--Five Points Riot.--Stone-cutters' Riot. CHAPTER VII. FLOUR RIOT OF 1837. Starvation will always create a Riot.--Foreign Population easily aroused against the Rich.--Severe Winter of 1836.--Scarcity of Flour.--Meeting of Citizens called without Result.--Meeting called in the Park.--Speeches.--Sacking of Hart & Co.'s Flour Store, in Washington Street.--Strange Spectacle.--National Guards called out.--Disperse the Mob.--Attack on Herrick's Flour Store.--Folly of the Riot. CHAPTER VIII. ASTOR-PLACE RIOTS, 1849. Rivalry between Forrest and Macready.--Macready's Arrival in this Country.--The Announcement of his Appearance at the Astor-place Opera House, and Forrest at the Broadway Theatre the same Night posted Side by Side.--Bowery Boys crowd the Opera House.--Anxiety of the Managers.--Consultations and Dramatic Scenes behind the Curtain.--Stamping of the People.--Scene on raising the Curtain.--Stormy Reception of Macready.--Howled down.--Mrs. Pope driven from the Stage by the Outrageous Language of the Mob.--Macready not allowed to go on.--His foolish Anger.--Flees for his Life.--His Appearance the Second Night.--Preparations to put down the Mob.--Exciting Scene in the Theatre.--Terrific Scenes without.--Military arrive.--Attacked by the Mob.--Patience of the Troops.--Effort to avoid Firing.--The Order to Fire.--Terrific Scene.--Strange Conduct of Forrest.--Unpublished Anecdote of General Scott. CHAPTER IX. POLICE RIOT--DEAD-RABBITS' RIOT--BREAD RIOT, 1857. Creation of the Metropolitan District.--Collision between Mayor Wood's Police and the Metropolitan Police.--Seventh Regiment called out.--Dead-Rabbits' Riot.--Severe Fight between the Roach Guards and Dead Rabbits.--Police driven back.--Barricades erected.--Military called out.--Killed and Wounded.--Bread Riot.--Financial Distress. CHAPTER X. DRAFT RIOTS OF 1863. Cause of the Riots.--The London _Times_.--Draft called a despotic Measure.--The despotic Power given to Washington by Congress.--Despotic Action sometimes Necessary, in order to save the Life of the Nation.--The Rights of Government.--Drafting he Legitimate Way to raise an Army--It is not Unequal or Oppressive. CHAPTER XI. Rights of Municipalities.--Interference of the Legislature with the City Government.--Conflict between the Governor and Police Commissioners.--A Wrong becomes a Practical Blessing.--Provost Marshals.--Riot not anticipated.--Bad time to commence the Draft.--Preparations of Superintendent Kennedy.--The Police System.--Attack on Provost Marshal Captain Erhardt.--Telegrams of the Police.--Kennedy starts on a Tour of Observation. CHAPTER XII. Commencement of the Mob.--Its Line of March.--Its immense Size.--Attacks a Provost-marshal's Office, in Third Avenue.--Set on Fire.--Terrible Struggle of Kennedy for his Life with the Mob.--Carried to Head-quarters unconscious.--Acton's Preparations.--The Telegraph System.--Mob cutting down Telegraph Poles.--Number of Despatches sent over the Wires during the Riot.--Superintendent of Telegraph Bureau seized and held Prisoner by the Mob. CHAPTER XIII. Soldiers beaten by the Mob.--Gallant Fight of Sergeant McCredie.--Mob Triumphant.--Beat Police Officers unmercifully.--Fearful Scenes.--Fifty thousand People block Third Avenue.--A whole Block of Houses burning.--Attack on a Gun Factory.--Defeat of the Broadway Squad.--Houses sacked in Lexington Avenue.--Telegraph Dispatches.--Bull's Head Tavern burned.--Block on Broadway burned.--Burning of the Negroes' Orphan Asylum.--Attack on Mayor Opdyke's House.--A Crisis nobly met.--Gallant Fight and Victory of Sergeant Carpenter.--A thrilling Spectacle. CHAPTER XIV. No Military in the City.--The Mayor calls on General Wool, commanding Eastern Department, for Help.--Also on General Sandford.--General Wool sends to General Brown, commanding Garrison in the Harbor, for U. S. Troops.--Marines of the States appealed to for Troops.--General Brown assumes Command.--Attack of Mob on the _Tribune_ Building.--Its severe Punishment.--Government Buildings garrisoned.--Difficulty between Generals Brown and Wool.--Head-quarters.--Police Commissioners' Office Military Head-quarters. CHAPTER XV. Telegraph Bureau.--Its Work.--Skill and Daring and Success of its Force.--Interesting Incidents.--Hairbreadth Escapes.--Detective Force.--Its arduous Labors.--Its Disguises.--Shrewdness, Tact, and Courage.--Narrow Escapes.--Hawley, the Chief Clerk.--His exhausting Labors. CHAPTER XVI. DRAFT RIOT--SECOND DAY. Appearance of the City.--Assembling of the Mob.--Fight between Rioters and the Police and Soldiers.--Storming of Houses.--Rioters hurled from the Roofs.--Soldiers fire on the People.--Awful Death of Colonel O'Brien.--Fight in Pitt Street.--Deadly Conflict for a Wire Factory.--Horrible Impaling of a Man on an Iron Picket.--Mystery attached to him.--Second Attack on Mayor Opdyke's House.--Second Fight for the Wire Factory.--Telegraphic Dispatches.--Citizens Volunteering.--Raid on the Negroes.--They are hunted to Death.--Savage Spectacle.--Negroes seek Head-quarters of Police.--Appearance and State of the City.--Colonel Nugent's House sacked.--Fight with the Mob in Third Avenue.--Battle at Gibbon's House.--Policeman Shot.--Night Attack on Brooks and Brothers' Clothing Store.--Value of the Telegraph System.--Captain Petty.--Seymour's Speech to the Mob.--Cars and Stages seized.--Barricades.--Other Fights.--Acton and his Labors. CHAPTER XVII. DRAFT RIOT--THIRD DAY. Scenes in the City and at Head-quarters.--Fight in Eighth Avenue.--Cannon sweep the Streets.--Narrow Escape of Captain Howell and Colonel Mott.--Battle for Jackson's Foundry.--Howitzers clear the Street.--State of Things shown by Telegraph Dispatches.--General Sandford sends out a Force against a Mob, at Corner of Twenty-ninth Street and Seventh Avenue.--Colonel Gardin's Fight with the Mob.--Is Wounded.--Mob Victorious.--Dead and Wounded Soldiers left in the Street.--Captain Putnam sent to bring them away.--Disperses the Mob.--Terrific Night. CHAPTER XVIII. DRAFT RIOT--FOURTH DAY. Proclamations by the Governor and Mayor.--City districted.--Appearance of the East Side of the City.--A small Squad of Soldiers chased into a Foundry by the Mob.--Fierce Fight between the Mob and Military in Twenty-ninth Street.--Soldiers driven from the Ground, leaving a dead Sergeant behind.--Captain Putnam sent to bring the Body away.--Mows down the Rioters with Canister.--Storms the Houses.--Utter Rout of the Mob.--Colored Orphans and Negroes taken by Police to Blackwell's Island.--Touching Scene.--Coming on of Night and a Thunder-storm.--Returning Regiments.--Increased Force in the City to put down Violence.--Archbishop Hughes offers to address the Irish.--Curious Account of an Interview of a Lady with him and Governor Seymour.--Strange Conduct of the Prelate. CHAPTER XIX. CLOSING SCENES. Tranquil Morning.--Proclamation of the Mayor.--Mob cowed.--Plunderers afraid of Detection.--Dirty Cellars crowded with rich Apparel, Furniture, and Works of Art.--Archbishop Hughes' Address.--Useless Efforts.--Acton's Forty-eight Hours without Sleep over.--Change in Military Commanders in the City.--General Brown relinquishes his Command.--True Words.--Noble Character and Behavior of the Troops and Police.--General Brown's invaluable Services. CHAPTER XX. Continued Tranquillity.--Strange Assortment of Plunder gathered in the Cellars and Shanties of the Rioters.--Search for it exasperates the Irish.--Noble Conduct of the Sanitary Police.--Sergeant Copeland.--Prisoners tried.--Damages claimed from the City.--Number of Police killed.--Twelve hundred Rioters killed.--The Riot Relief Fund.--List of Colored People killed.--Generals Wool and Sandford's Reports.--Their Truthfulness denied.--General Brown vindicated. CHAPTER XXI. ORANGE RIOTS OF 1870 AND 1871. Religious Toleration.--Irish Feuds.--Battle of Boyne Water.--Orangemen.--Origin and Object of the Society.--A Picnic at Elm Park.--Attacked by the Ribbonmen.--The Fight. After Scenes.--Riot of 1871.--Conspiracy of the Irish Catholics to prevent a Parade of Orangemen.--Forbidden by the City Authorities.--Indignation of the People.--Meeting in the Produce Exchange.--Governor Hoffman's Proclamation.--Morning of the 12th.--The Orangemen at Lamartine Hall.--Attack on the Armories.--The Harpers threatened.--Exciting Scenes around Lamartine Hall and at Police Head-quarters.--Hibernia Hall cleared.--Attack on an Armory.--Formation of the Procession.--Its March.--Attacked.--Firing of the Military without Orders.--Terrific Scene.--The Hospitals and Morgue.--Night Scenes.--Number of killed and wounded.--The Lesson. THE GREAT RIOTS OF NEW YORK CITY. CHAPTER I. Character of a City illustrated by Riots.--New Material for History of Draft Riots.--History of the Rebellion incomplete without History of them.--The Fate of the Nation resting on the Issues of the Struggle in New York City.--The best Plan to adopt for Protection against Mobs. The history of the riots that have taken place in a great city from its foundation, is a curious and unique one, and illustrates the peculiar changes in tone and temper that have come over it in the course of its development and growth. They exhibit also one phase of its moral character--furnish a sort of moral history of that vast, ignorant, turbulent class which is one of the distinguishing features of a great city, and at the same time the chief cause of its solicitude and anxiety, and often of dread. The immediate cause, however, of my taking up the subject, was a request from some of the chief actors in putting down the Draft Riots of 1863, to write a history of them. It was argued that it had never been written, except in a detached and fragmentary way in the daily press, which, from the hurried manner in which it was done, was necessarily incomplete, and more or less erroneous. It was also said, and truly, that those who, by their courage and energy, saved the city, and who now would aid me not only officially, but by their personal recollections and private memoranda, would soon pass away, and thus valuable material be lost. Besides these valid reasons, it was asserted that the history of the rebellion was not complete without it, and yet no historian of that most important event in our national life had given the riots the prominence they deserved, but simply referred to them as a side issue, instead of having a vital bearing on the fate of the war and the nation. On no single battle or campaign did the destiny of the country hinge as upon that short, sharp campaign carried on by General Brown and the Police Commissioners against the rioters in the streets of New York, in the second week of July, 1863. Losses and defeats in the field could be and were repaired, but defeat in New York would in all probability have ended the war. It is not necessary to refer to the immediate direct effects of such a disaster on the army in the field, although it is scarcely possible to over-estimate the calamitous results that would have followed the instantaneous stoppage, even for a short time, of the vast accumulations of provisions, ammunition, and supplies of all kinds, that were on their way to the army through New York. Nor is it necessary to speculate on the effect of the diversion of troops from the front that such an event would have compelled, in order to recover so vital a point. Washington had better be uncovered than New York be lost. One thing only is needed to show how complete and irreparable the disaster would have been; namely, the effect it would have had on the finances of the country. With the great banking-houses and moneyed institutions of New York sacked and destroyed, the financial credit of the country would have broken down utterly. The crash of falling houses all over the country that would have followed financial disaster here, would have been like that of falling trees in a forest swept by a hurricane. Had the rioters got complete possession of the city but for a single day, their first dash would have been for the treasures piled up in its moneyed institutions. Once in possession of these, they, like the mobs of Paris, would have fired the city before yielding them up. In the crisis that was then upon us, it would not have required a long stoppage in this financial centre of the country to have effected a second revolution. With no credit abroad and no money at home, the Government would have been completely paralyzed. Not long possession of the city was needed, but only swift destruction. Doubtless the disastrous effects would have been increased tenfold, if possible, by uprisings in other cities, which events showed were to follow. Even partial success developed hostile elements slumbering in various parts of the country, and running from Boston almost to the extreme West. In this view of the case, these riots assume a magnitude and importance that one cannot contemplate without a feeling of terror, and the truth of history requires that their proper place should be assigned them, and those who put them down have an honorable position beside our successful commanders and brave soldiers. It is also important, as a lesson for the future, and naturally brings up the question, what are the best measures, and what is the best policy for the city of New York to adopt, in order to protect itself from that which to-day constitutes its greatest danger--_mob violence?_ If it ever falls in ruins, the work of destruction will commence and end within its own limits. We have a police and city military which have been thought to be sufficient, but experience has shown that though this provision may be ample to restore law and order in the end, it works slowly, often unwisely, and always with an unnecessary expenditure of life. In conversing with those of largest experience and intelligence in the police department on this subject of such great and growing importance, we are convinced, from their statements and views, a vast improvement in this matter can be made, while the cost to the city, instead of being increased, will be lessened; that is, a cheaper, wiser, and more effectual plan than the present one can be adopted. Of course this does not refer to mere local disturbances, which the police force in the ordinary discharge of its duties can quell, but to those great outbreaks which make it necessary to call out the military. Not that there might not be exigencies in which it would be necessary to resort, not only to the military of the city, but to invoke the aid of neighboring States; for a riot may assume the proportions of a revolution, but for such no local permanent remedy can be furnished. The objections to relying on the military, as we invariably do in case of a large mob, are many. In the first place, it takes the best part of a day to get the troops together, so that a mob, so far as they are concerned, has time not only to waste and destroy for many hours, but increase in strength and audacity. The members of the various regiments are scattered all over the city, engaged in different occupations and employments, and without previous notice being given, it is a long and tedious process to get them to their respective headquarters and in uniform. This wastes much and most valuable time. Besides, they are compelled to reach the mustering place singly or in small groups, and hence liable to be cut off or driven back by the mob, which in most cases would know the place of rendezvous. In the second place, the members are taken out from the mass of the people, between whom there might be a strong sympathy in some particular outbreak, which would impair their efficiency, and make them hesitate to shoot down their friends and acquaintances. In the third place, in ordinary peace times, these uniformed regiments are not the steadiest or most reliable troops, as was witnessed in the riots of 1863, as well as in those of the Astor Place in 1849. They hesitate, or are apt to become hasty or disorganized in a close, confused fight, and driven back. In the commencement of a riot, a defeat of the military gives increased confidence, and indeed, power to a mob, and snakes the sacrifice of life, in the end, far greater. In the fourth place, clearing the streets does not always dissipate a mob. A whole block of houses may become a fortress, which it is necessary to storm before a permanent victory is gained. Half-disciplined men, unaccustomed, and unskilled to such work, make poor headway with their muskets through narrow halls, up stairways, and through scuttle-holes. In the fifth place, the military of the city cannot be called away from their work for two or three days, to parade the city, without a heavy expense, and hence the process is a costly one. In the last place, the firing of these troops at the best is not very judicious, and cannot be discriminating, so that those are shot down often least culpable, and of least influence in the mob--in fact, more lives usually are taken than is necessary. The simplest, most efficient, and most economical plan would be to select five hundred or more of the most courageous, experienced, and efficient men from the police department, and form them into a separate battalion, and have them drilled in such evolutions, manoeuvres, and modes of attack or defence, as would belong to the work they were set apart to do. A battery might be given them in case of certain emergencies, and a portion carefully trained in its use. At a certain signal of the bell, they should be required to hasten, without a moment's delay, to their head-quarters. A mob could hardly be gathered and commence work before this solid body of disciplined, reliable men would be upon them. These five hundred men would scatter five thousand rioters like chaff before them. It would be more efficient than two entire regiments, even if assembled, and would be worth more than the whole military of the city for the first half day. Besides, clubs are better than guns. They take no time to load--they are never discharged like muskets, leaving their owners for the time at the mercy of the mob. Their volleys are incessant and perpetual, given as long and fast as strong arms can strike. They are also more discriminating than bullets, hitting the guilty ones first. Moreover, they disable rather than kill--which is just as effectual, and far more desirable. In addition to all this, being trained to one purpose, instructed to one duty, a mob would be their natural enemies, and hence sympathy with them in any cause almost impossible. CHAPTER II. THE NEGRO RIOTS OF 1712-1741. Almost impossible for the present Generation to comprehend its true Character and Effect on the People.--Description of New York at that Time.--The Negro Slaves.--The Negro Riot of 1712.--Description of it.--The Winter of 1741.--Governor's House burned down.--Other Fires.--Suspicion of the People.--Arrest and Imprisonment of the Blacks.--Reward offered for the supposed Conspirators.--Alarm and Flight of the Inhabitants.--Examination and Confession of Mary Burton.--Peggy, the Newfoundland Beauty, and the Hughson Family.--The Conspiracy.--Executions.--Fast.--Hughson's Hearing.--Hung in Chains.--The Body, and that of a Negro, left to swing and rot in the Air.--Strange Change in the Appearances of the Bodies.--The People throng to look at them.--Negroes burned at the Stake.--Terrific Spectacle.--Bloody Summer.--Execution of a Catholic Priest.--Strange Scenes.--Upper Classes accused.--Executions stopped.--Reason of the Panic. Probably no event of comparatively modern times--certainly none in our history--has occurred so extraordinary in some of its phases, as the negro riot of 1741. We cannot fully appreciate it, not merely because of the incompleteness of some of its details, nor from the lapse of time, but because of our inability to place ourselves in the position or state of mind of the inhabitants of New York City at that period. We can no more throw ourselves into the social condition, and feel the influences of that time, than we can conceive the outward physical appearance of the embryo metropolis. It is impossible to stand amid the whirl and uproar of New York to-day, and imagine men ploughing, and sowing grain, and carting hay into barns, where the City Hall now stands. The conception of nearly all the city lying below the Park, above it farms to Canal Street, beyond that clearings where men are burning brush and logs to clear away the fallow, and still farther on, towards Central Park, an unbroken wilderness, is so dim and shadowy, that we can hardly fix its outlines. Yet it was so in 1741. Where now stands the Tombs, and cluster the crowded tenements of Five Points, was a pond or lakelet, nearly two miles in circumference and fifty feet deep, and encircled by a dense forest. Its deep, sluggish outlet into the Hudson is now Canal Street. In wet weather there was another water communication with the East River, near Peck Slip, cutting off the lower part of the island, leaving another island, containing some eight hundred acres. Through Broad Street, along which now rolls each day the stream of business, and swells the tumult of the Brokers' Board, then swept a deep stream, up which boatmen rowed their boats to sell oysters. The water that supplied these streams and ponds is now carried off through immense sewers, deep under ground, over which the unconscious population tread. Where Front and Water Streets on the east side, and West Greenwich and Washington on the west side, now stretch, were then the East and Hudson Rivers, having smooth and pebbly beaches. There was not a single sidewalk in all the city, and only some half dozen paved streets. On the Battery stood the fort, in which were the Governor's and secretary's houses, and over which floated the British flag. But all this outward appearance is no more unlike the New York of to-day than its internal condition. The population numbered only about ten thousand, one-fifth of which was negroes, who were slaves. Their education being wholly neglected, they were ignorant and debased, and addicted to almost every vice. They were, besides, restive under their bondage amid the severe punishments often inflicted on them, which caused their masters a great deal of anxiety. Not isolated as an inland plantation, but packed in a narrow space, they had easy communication with each other, and worse than all, with the reckless and depraved crews of the vessels that came into port. It is true, the most stringent measures were adopted to prevent them from assembling together; yet, in spite of every precaution, there would now and then come to light some plan or project that would fill the whites with alarm. They felt half the time as though walking on the crust of a volcano, and hence were in a state of mind to exaggerate every danger, and give credit to every sinister rumor. The experience of the past, as well as the present state of feeling among the slaves, justified this anxiety and dread; for only thirty years before occurred just such an outbreak as they now feared. On the 7th of April, in 1712, between one and two o'clock in the morning, the house of Peter Van Tilburgh was set on fire by negroes, which was evidently meant as a signal for a general revolt. The cry of fire roused the neighboring inhabitants, and they rushed out through the unpaved muddy streets, toward the blazing building. As they approached it, they saw, to their amazement, in the red light of the flames, a band of negroes standing in front, armed with guns and long knives. Before the whites could hardly comprehend what the strange apparition meant, the negroes fired, and then rushed on them with their knives, killing several on the spot. The rest, leaving the building to the mercy of the flames, ran to the fort on the Battery, and roused the Governor. Springing from his bed, he rushed out and ordered a cannon to be fired from the ramparts to alarm the town. As the heavy report boomed over the bay and shook the buildings of the town, the inhabitants leaped from their beds, and looking out of the windows, saw the sky lurid with flames. Their dread and uncertainty were increased, when they heard the heavy splash of soldiers through the mud, and the next moment saw their bayonets gleam out of the gloom, as they hurried forward towards the fire. In the meantime, other negroes had rushed to the spot, so that soon there were assembled, in proportion to the white population, what in the present population of the city would be fully 10,000 negroes. The rioters stood firm till they saw the bayonets flashing in the fire-light, and then, giving one volley, fled into the darkness northward, towards what is now Wall Street. The scattered inhabitants they met, who, roused by the cannon, were hastening to the fire, they attacked with their knives, killing and wounding several. The soldiers, firing at random into the darkness, followed after them, accompanied by a crowd of people. The negroes made for the woods and swamps near where the Park now stands, and disappearing in the heavy shadows of the forest, were lost to view. Knowing it would be vain to follow them into the thickets, the soldiers and inhabitants surrounded them and kept watch till morning. Many, of course, got off and buried themselves in the deeper, more extensive woods near Canal Street, but many others were taken prisoners. Some, finding themselves closely pressed and all avenues of escape cut off, deliberately shot themselves, preferring such a death to the one they knew awaited them. How many were killed and captured during the morning, the historian does not tell us. We can only infer that the number must have been great, from the statement he incidentally makes, that "during the day _nineteen more were_ taken, tried, and executed--some that turned State's evidence were transported." "Eight or ten whites had been murdered," and many more wounded. It was a terrible event, and remembered by the present inhabitants with horror and dismay. To the little handful occupying the point of the island, it was a tragedy as great as a riot in New York to-day would be, in which was a loss of 5,000 or more on each side. Many middle-aged men, in 1741, were young men at that time, and remembered the fearful excitement that prevailed, and it was a common topic of conversation. The state of things, therefore, which we have described, was natural. This was rendered worse by the arrival, in the winter of 1741, of a Spanish vessel, which had been captured as a prize, the crew of which was composed in part of negroes, who were sold at auction as slaves. These became very intractable, and in spite of the floggings they received, uttered threats that they knew would reach their masters' ears. Still, no evidence of any general plot against the inhabitants was suspected, and things were moving on in their usual way, when, on the 18th of March, a wild and blustering day, the Governor's house in the fort was discovered to be on fire. Fanned by a fierce south-east wind, the flames spread to the King's chapel, the secretary's house, barracks, and stables; and in spite of all efforts to save them, were totally consumed. The origin of the fire was supposed to be accidental, but a few days after, Captain Warren's house, near the fort, was found to be on fire. Two or three days later, the storehouse of Mr. Van Zandt was discovered on fire. Still, no general suspicions were aroused. Three more days passed, when a cow-stall was reported on fire, and a few hours later, the house of Mr. Thompson; the fire in the latter case originating in the room where a negro slave slept. The very next day, live coals were discovered under the stable of John Murray, on Broadway. This, evidently, was no accident, but the result of design, and the people began to be alarmed. The day following, the house of a sergeant near the fort was seen to be on fire, and soon after, flames arose from the roof of a dwelling near the Fly Market. The rumor now spread like wildfire through the town that it was the work of incendiaries. It seems to us a small foundation to base such a belief on, but it must be remembered that the public mind was in a state to believe almost anything. The alarm was increased by the statement of Mrs. Earle, who said that on Sunday, as she was looking out of her window, she saw three negroes swaggering up Broadway, engaged in earnest conversation. Suddenly she heard one of them exclaim, "Fire! fire! Scorch! scorch! a little d--n by and by!" and then throwing up his hands, laughed heartily. Coupled with the numerous fires that had occurred, and the rumors afloat, it at once excited her suspicions that this conversation had something to do with a plot to burn the city. She therefore immediately reported it to an alderman, and he, next day, to the justices. Although the number of buildings thus mysteriously set on fire was, in reality, small, yet it was as great in proportion to the town then, as three hundred would be in New York to-day. Less than that number, we imagine, would create a panic in the city, especially if the public mind was in a feverish state, as, for instance, during the recent civil war. Some thought the Spanish negroes had set the buildings on fire from revenge, especially as those of the Government were the first to suffer. Others declared that it was a plot of the entire negro population to burn down the city. This belief was strengthened by the fact that, in one of the last fires, a slave of one of the most prominent citizens was seen to leap from the window, and make off over garden fences. A shout was immediately raised by the spectators, and a pursuit commenced. The terrified fugitive made desperate efforts to escape, but being overtaken, he was seized, and, pale as death, lifted on men's shoulders and carried to jail. Added to all this, men now remembered it lacked but a few days of being the anniversary of the bloody riot of thirty years ago. They began to watch and question the negroes, and one of the Spanish sailors, on being interrogated, gave such unsatisfactory, suspicious answers, that the whole crew were arrested, and thrown into prison. But that same afternoon, while the magistrates, whom the alarming state of things had called together, were in consultation about it, the cry of "Fire!" again startled the entire community. The ringing of the alarm-bell had now become almost as terrifying as the sound of the last trumpet, and the panic became general. The first step was to ascertain if there were any strangers in town who might be concealed enemies, and a thorough search was made--the militia being ordered out, and sentries posted at the ends of all the streets, with orders to stop all persons carrying bags and bundles. This was done on the 13th of April. None being found, the conclusion became inevitable that some dark, mysterious plot lay at the bottom of it all, and the inhabitants thought the city was doomed, like Sodom. First, the more timorous packed up their valuable articles and fled into the country, up toward Canal Street. This increased the panic, which swelled until almost the entire population were seen hurrying through the streets, fleeing for their lives. The announcement of an approaching army would not have created a greater stampede. Every cart and vehicle that could be found was engaged at any price, into which whole families were piled, and hurried away to the farms beyond Chambers Street, in the neighborhood of Canal Street. It was a strange spectacle, and the farmers could hardly believe their senses, at this sudden inundation into their quiet houses of the people of the city. The town authorities were also swept away in the general excitement, and negroes of all ages and sexes were arrested by the wholesale, and hurried to prison. The Supreme Court was to sit in the latter part of April, and the interval of a few days was spent in efforts to get at the guilty parties. But nothing definite could be ascertained, as the conspirators, whoever they were, kept their own secret. At length, despairing of getting at the truth in any other way, the authorities offered a reward of a hundred pounds, and a full pardon to any one who would turn State's evidence, and reveal the names of the ringleaders. This was pretty sure to bring out the facts, if there were any to disclose, and almost equally sure to obtain a fabricated story, if there was nothing to tell. A poor, ignorant slave, shaking with terror in his cell, would hardly be proof against such an inducement as a free pardon, and to him or her an almost fabulous sum of money, if he had anything to reveal, while the temptation to invent a tale that would secure both liberty and money was equally strong. On the 21st of April the court met, Judges Philips and Horsmander presiding. A jury was impanelled, but although there was no lack of prisoners, there was almost a total want of evidence sufficient to put a single man on trial. The reward offered had not borne its legitimate fruits, and no one offered to make any revelations. Among the first brought up for examination was Mary Burton, a colored servant girl, belonging to John Hughson, the keeper of a low, dirty negro tavern over on the west side of the city, near the Hudson River. This was a place of rendezvous for the worst negroes of the town; and from some hints that Mary had dropped, it was suspected it had been the head-quarters of the conspirators. But when, brought before the Grand Jury, she refused to be sworn. They entreated her to take the oath and tell the whole truth, but she only shook her head. They then threatened her, but with no better success; they promised she should be protected from danger and shielded from prosecution, but she still maintained an obstinate silence. They then showed her the reward, and attempted to bribe her with the wealth in store for her, but she almost spat on it in her scorn. This poor negro slave showed an independence and stubbornness in the presence of the jury that astonished them. Finding all their efforts vain, they ordered her to be sent to jail. This terrified her, and she consented to be sworn. But after taking the oath, she refused to say anything about the fire. A theft had been traced to Hughson, and she told all she knew about that, but about the fires would neither deny nor affirm anything. They then appealed to her conscience painted before her the terrors of the final judgment, and the torments of hell, till at last she broke down, and proposed to make a clean breast of it. She commenced by saying that Hughson had threatened to take her life if she told, and then again hesitated. But at length, by persistent efforts, the following facts were wrenched from her by piecemeal. She said that three negroes--giving their names--had been in the habit of meeting at the tavern, and talking about burning of the fort and city and murdering the people, and that Hughson and his wife had promised to help them; after which Hughson was to be governor and Cuff Phillipse king. That the first part of the story was true, there is little doubt. How much, with the imagination and love of the marvellous peculiar to her race, she added to it, it is not easy to say. She said, moreover, that but one white person beside her master and mistress was in the conspiracy, and that was an Irish girl known as Peggy, "the Newfoundland Beauty." She had several _aliases_, and was an abandoned character, being a prostitute to the negroes, and at this time kept as a mistress by a bold, desperate negro named Caesar. This revelation of Mary's fell on the Grand Jury like a bombshell. The long-sought secret they now felt was out. They immediately informed the magistrates. Of course the greatest excitement followed. Peggy was next examined, but she denied Mary Burton's story _in toto_--swore that she knew nothing of any conspiracy or of the burning of the stores; that if she should accuse any one it would be a lie, and blacken her own soul. It is rather a severe reflection on the courts of justice of that period, or we might rather say, perhaps, a striking illustration of the madness that had seized on all, that although the law strictly forbade any slave to testify in a court of justice against a white person, yet this girl Mary Burton was not only allowed to appear as evidence against Peggy, but her oath was permitted to outweigh hers, and cause her to be sentenced to death. The latter, though an abandoned, desperate character, was seized with terror at the near approach of death, and begged to be allowed another examination, which was granted, and she professed to make a full confession. It is a little singular that while she corroborated Mary Burton's statement as to the existence of a conspiracy, she located the seat of it not in Hughson's tavern, but in a miserable shanty near the Battery, kept by John Romme, who, she said, had promised to carry them all to a new country, and give them their liberty, if they would murder the whites and bring him the plunder. Like Mary Burton's confession, if truthful at all, it evidently had a large mixture of falsehood in it. On Saturday, May 9th, Peggy was again brought in, and underwent a searching examination. Some of her statements seemed improbable, and they therefore tested them in every possible way. It lasted for several hours, and resulted in a long _detailed_ confession, in which she asserted, among other things, that it was the same plot that failed in 1712, when the negroes designed to kill all the whites, in fact, exterminate them from the island. She implicated a great many negroes in the conspiracy; and every one that she accused, as they were brought before her, she identified as being present at the meetings of the conspirators in Romme's house. The court seemed anxious to avoid any collusion between the prisoners, and therefore kept them apart, so that each story should rest on its own basis. By this course they thought they would be able to distinguish what was true and what was false. Either from conscious guilt, or from having got some inkling of the charge to be brought against him, Romme fled before he could be arrested. His wife, however, and the negroes whose names Peggy gave, were sent to jail. On the 11th of May, or twenty days after the court convened, the executions commenced. On this day, Caesar and Prince, two of the three negroes Mary Burton testified against, were hung, though not for the conspiracy, but for theft. They were abandoned men, and died recklessly. Peggy and Hughson and his wife were next condemned. The former, finding that her confession did not, as had been promised, secure her pardon, retracted all she had said, and exculpated entirely the parties whose arrest she had caused. An atmosphere of gloom now rested over the city; every face showed signs of dread. In this state of feeling the Lieutenant-governor issued a proclamation, appointing a day of fasting and humiliation, not only in view of this calamity, but on account also of the want and loss caused by the past severe winter, and the declaration of war by England against Spain. When the day arrived, every shop was closed and business of all kinds suspended, and the silence and repose of the Sabbath rested on the entire community. Without regard to sect, all repaired to the places of worship, where the services were performed amid the deepest solemnity. The day of execution appointed for Hughson, his wife, and Peggy was a solemn one, and almost the entire population turned out to witness it. The former had declared that some extraordinary appearance would take place at his execution, and every one gazed on him as he passed in a cart from the prison to the gallows. He was a tall, powerful man, being six feet high. He stood erect in the cart all the way, his piercing eye fixed steadily on the distance, and his right hand raised high as his fetters would permit, and beckoning as though he saw help coming from afar. His face was usually pale and colorless, but to-day it was noticed that two bright red spots burned on either cheek, which added to the mystery with which the superstitious spectators invested him. When the sad procession arrived at the place of execution, the prisoners were helped to the ground, and stood exposed to the gaze of the crowd. Hughson was firm and self-possessed; but Peggy, pale, and weeping, and terror-struck, begging for life; while the wife, with the rope round her neck, leaned against a tree, silent and composed, but colorless as marble. One after another they were launched into eternity, and the crowd, solemn and thoughtful, turned their steps homeward. Hughson was hung in chains; and in a few days a negro was placed beside him, and here they swung, "blind and blackening," in the April air, in full view of the tranquil bay, a ghastly spectacle to the fishermen as they plied their vocation near by. For three weeks they dangled here in sunshine and storm, a terror to the passers-by. At length a rumor passed through the town that Hughson had turned into a negro, and the negro into a white man. This was a new mystery, and day after day crowds would come and gaze on the strange transformation, some thinking it supernatural, and others trying to give an explanation. Hughson had threatened to take poison, and it was thought by many that he had, and it was the effect of this that had wrought the change in his appearance. For ten days the Battery was thronged with spectators, gazing on these bloated, decomposing bodies, many in their superstitious fears expecting some new transformation. Under the increasing heat of the sun, they soon began to drip, till at last the body of Hughson burst asunder, filling the air with such an intolerable stench that the fishermen shunned the locality. As simple hanging was soon thought not sufficient punishment, and they were left to swing, and slowly rot in chains, so this last was at length thought to be too lenient, and the convicts were condemned to be burned at the stake. Two negroes, named Quack and Cuffee, were the first doomed to this horrible death. The announcement of this sentence created the greatest excitement. It was a new thing to the colonists, this mode of torture being appropriated by the savages for prisoners taken in war. Curious crowds gathered to see the stake erected, or stare at the loads of wood as they passed along the street, and were unloaded at its base. It was a strange spectacle to behold--the workmen carefully piling up the fagots under the spring sun; the spectators looking on, some horrified, and others fierce as savages; and over all the blue sky bending, while the gentle wind stole up from the bay and whispered in the tree-tops overhead. On the day of execution an immense crowd assembled. The two negroes were brought forward, pale and terrified, and bound to the stake. As the men approached with the fire to kindle the pile, they shrieked out in terror, confessed the conspiracy, and promised, if released, to tell all about it. They were at once taken down. This was the signal for an outbreak, and shouts of "burn 'em, burn 'em" burst from the multitude. Mr. Moore then asked the sheriff to delay execution till he could see the Governor and get a reprieve. He hurried off, and soon returned with a conditional one. But, as he met the sheriff on the common, the latter told him that it would be impossible to take the criminals through the crowd without a strong guard, and before that could arrive, they would be murdered by the exasperated populace. They were then tied up again, and the torch applied. The flames arose around the unhappy victims. The curling smoke soon hid their dusky forms from view, while their shrieks and cries for mercy grew fainter and fainter, as the fierce fire shrivelled up their forms, till at last nothing but the crackling of the flames was heard, and the shouting, savage crowd grew still. As the fire subsided, the two wretched creatures, crisped to a cinder, remained to tell, for the hundredth time, to what barbarous deeds terror and passion may lead men. Some of the negroes went laughing to the place of execution, indulging in all sorts of buffoonery to the last, and mocking the crowd which surrounded them. All protested their innocence to the last, and if they had confessed previously, retracted before death their statements and accusations. But this contradiction of themselves, to-morrow denying what to-day they had solemnly sworn on the Bible to be true, instead of causing the authorities to hesitate, and consider how much terror and the hope of pardon had to do with it, convinced them still more of the strength and dangerous nature of the conspiracy, and they went to work with a determination and recklessness which made that summer the bloodiest and most terrific in the annals of New York. No lawyer was found bold enough to step forward and defend these poor wretches, but all volunteered their services to aid the Government in bringing them to punishment. The weeks now, as they rolled on, were freighted with terror and death, and stamped with scenes that made the blood run cold. This little town, on the southern part of Manhattan Island was wholly given to panic, and a nameless dread of some mysterious, awful fate, extended even to the scattered farm-houses near Canal Street. Between this and the last of August, a hundred and fifty-four negroes, exclusive of whites, were thrown into prison, till every cell was crowded and packed to suffocation with them. For three months, sentence of condemnation was on an average of one a day. The last execution was that of a Catholic priest, or rather of a schoolmaster of the city, who was charged with being one. Mary Burton, after an interval of three months, pretended to remember that he was present with the other conspirators she had first named as being in Hughson's tavern. His trial was long, and apparently without excitement. He conducted his own case with great ability, and brought many witnesses to prove his good character and orderly conduct; but he, of course, could not disprove the assertion of Mary, that she had some time or other seen him with the conspirators at Hughson's tavern--for the latter, with his wife and Peggy, and the negroes she had before named, had all been executed. Mary Burton alone was left, and her evidence being credited, no amount of testimony could avail him. Although the proceedings were all dignified and solemn, as became an English court, yet the course the trial took showed how utterly unbalanced and one-sided it had become. To add weight to Mary's evidence, many witnesses were examined to prove that Ury, though a schoolmaster, had performed the duties of a Catholic priest, as though this were an important point to establish. The attorney-general, in opening the case, drew a horrible picture of former persecutions by the Papists, and their cruelties to the Protestants, until it was apparent that all that the jury needed to indorse a verdict of guilty was evidence that he was a Catholic priest. Still it would be unfair to attribute this feeling wholly to religious intolerance or the spirit of persecution. England was at this time at war with Spain, and a report was circulated that the Spanish priests in Florida had formed a conspiracy to murder the English colonists. A letter from Ogilthorpe, in Georgia, confirmed this. Ury, who was an educated Englishman, but had led an adventurous life in different countries, could not disprove this, and he was convicted and sentenced to be hung. He met his fate with great composure and dignity, asserting his innocence to the last. He made the eighteenth victim hung, while thirteen had been burned at the stake, and seventy-one transported to various countries. At the average rate of two every week, one hanged and one burned alive, they were hurried into eternity amid prayers, and imprecations, and shrieks of agony. The hauling of wood to the stake, and the preparation of the gallows, kept the inhabitants in a state bordering on insanity. Business was suspended, and every face wore a terrified look. The voice of pity as well as justice was hushed, and one desire, that of swift vengeance, filled every heart. Had the press of to-day, with its system of interviewing, and minuteness of detail and description, existed then, there would have been handed down to us a chapter in human history that could be paralleled only in the dark ages. A swift massacre, a terrible slaughter, comes and goes like an earthquake or a tornado, and stuns rather than debases; but this long, steady succession of horrible executions and frightful scenes changed the very nature of the inhabitants, and they became a prey to a spirit demoniacal rather than human. The prayers and tears of those led forth to the stake, their heartrending cries as they were bound to it, and their shrieks of agony that were wafted out over the still waters of the bay, fell on hard and pitiless hearts. The ashes of the wood that consumed one victim would hardly grow cold before a new fire was kindled upon them, and the charred and blackened posts stood month after month, hideous monuments of what man may become when judgment and reason are surrendered to fear and passion. The spectacle was made still more revolting by the gallows standing near the stake, on which many were hung in chains, and their bodies left to swing, blacken, and rot in the summer air, a ghastly, horrible sight. Where this madness, that had swept away court, bar, and people together, would have ended, it is impossible to say, had not a new terror seized the inhabitants. Mary Burton, on whose accusation the first victims had been arrested and executed, finding herself a heroine, sought new fields in which to win notoriety. She ceased to implicate the blacks, and turned her attention to the whites, and twenty-four were arrested and thrown into prison. Elated with her success, she began to ascend in the social scale, and criminated some persons of the highest social standing in the city, whose characters were above suspicion. This was turning the tables on them in a manner the upper class did not expect, and they began to reflect what the end might be. The testimony that was sufficient to condemn the slaves was equally conclusive against them. The stake and the gallows which the court had erected for the black man, it could not pull down because a white gentleman stood under their shadow. Robespierre and his friends cut off the upper-crust of society without hesitation or remorse; but unfortunately the crust next below this became in turn the upper-crust, which also had to be removed, until at last they themselves were reached, when they paused. They had advanced up to their necks in the bloody tide of revolution, and finding that to proceed farther would take them overhead, they attempted to wade back to shore. So here, so long as the accusations were confined to the lowest class, it was all well enough, but when _they_ were being reached, it was high time to stop. The proceedings were summarily brought to a close, further examinations were deemed unnecessary, and confessions became flat and unprofitable; and this strange episode in American history ended. That there had been cause for alarm, there can be no doubt. That threats should be uttered by the slaves, is natural; for this would be in keeping with their whole history in this country. Nor is it at all improbable that a conspiracy was formed; for this, too, would only be in harmony with the conduct of slaves from time immemorial. The utter folly and hopelessness of such a one as the blacks testified to, has been urged against its existence altogether. If the argument is good for anything, it proves that the conspiracy thirty years before never existed, and that the Southampton massacre was a delusion, and John Brown never hatched his utterly insane conspiracy in Harper's Ferry. There have been a good many servile insurrections plotted in this country, not one of which was a whit more sensible or easier of execution than this, which was said to look to the complete overthrow of the little city. That the fires which first started the panic were the work of negro incendiaries, there is but little doubt; but how far they were a part of a wide-laid plan, it is impossible to determine. Unquestionably, success at the outset would have made the movement general, so that nothing but military force could have arrested it. There is one thing, however, about which there is no doubt--that a panic seized the people and the courts, and made them as unreliable as in the days of the Salem witchcraft. But these striking exhibitions of the weakness of human nature under certain circumstances have been witnessed since the world was made, and probably will continue to the end of time, or until the race enters on a new phase of existence. Panics, even among the most veteran soldiers, sometimes occur, and hence we cannot wonder they take place amid a mixed population. Popular excitements are never characterized by reason and common-sense, and never will be. In this case, there was more reason for a panic than at first sight seems to be. In the first place, the proportion of slaves to the whites was large. In the second place, they were a turbulent set, and had shown such a dangerous spirit, that the authorities became afraid to let them assemble together in meetings. This restriction they felt sorely, and it made them more restive. All were aware of this hostile state of feeling, and were constantly anticipating some outbreak or act of violence. Besides, it was but a few years since the thing they now feared did actually take place. And then, too, the point first aimed at was significant, and showed a boldness founded on conscious strength. Right inside the fort itself, and to the Governor's house, the torch was applied. It certainly looked ominous. Besides, the very wholesale manner in which the authorities thought it best to go to work increased the panic. In a very short time over a hundred persons were thrown into prison. The same proportion to the population to-day would be over ten thousand. Such a wholesale arrest would, of itself, throw New York into the wildest excitement, and conjure up all sorts of horrible shapes. Add to this, an average of two hundred burned at the stake, and two hundred hung every week, or more than fifty a day, and nearly three times that number sentenced to transportation, and one can faintly imagine what a frightful state of things would exist in the city. The very atmosphere grew stifling from the smoke of burning men and women, while the gallows groaned under its weight of humanity. Had this been the wild work of a mob it would have been terrible enough, but when it was the result of a deliberate judicial tribunal, which was supposed to do nothing except on the most conclusive evidence, the sense of danger was increased tenfold. The conclusion was inevitable, that the conspiracy embraced every black man in the city, and was thoroughly organized. In short, the whole place was, beyond doubt, resting over a concealed volcano, and the instinct of self-preservation demanded the most summary work. Let the inhabitants of any city become thoroughly possessed of such an idea, and they will act with no more prudence or reason than the people of New York at that time did. An undoubted belief in such a state of things will confuse the perceptions and unbalance the judgment of a community anywhere and everywhere on the globe. Still, consistent as it is with human history, one can hardly believe it possible, as he stands in New York to-day, that men have there been burned at the stake under the sanction of English law, or left to swing and rot in the winds of heaven, by order of the Supreme Court of the city. CHAPTER III. THE STAMP-ACT RIOT OF 1765. Thorough Understanding of the Principles of Liberty by the People.--The Stamp Act.--How viewed by the Colonists.--Colden strengthens Fort George in Alarm.--Arrival of the Stamps.--How the News was received by the Sons of Liberty.--A Bold Placard.--Stamp Distributor frightened.--Patriotic Action of the Merchants.--Public Demonstration against the Stamp Act.--Colden takes Refuge in the Fort.--Dare not fire on the People.--The People at the Gate demand the Stamps.--Colden and Lord Bute hung in Effigy.--Colden's Coach-house broken open.--The Images placed in the Coach, and dragged with Shouts through the Streets.--Hung again in Sight of the Fort.--A Bonfire made of the Fence around Bowling Green, and the Governor's Carriages, while the Garrison look silently on.--Prejudice against Coaches.--Major James' House sacked.--Great Joy and Demonstration at the Repeal of the Stamp Act.--Celebration of the King's Birthday.--Loyalty of the People.--Mutiny Act.--A Riot becomes a Great Rebellion. At the present day, when personal ambition takes the place of patriotism, and love of principle gives way to love of party; when the success of the latter is placed above constitutional obligations and popular rights, one seems, as he turns back to our early history, to be transported to another age of the world, and another race of beings. Nothing shows how thoroughly understood by the common people were the principles of liberty, and with what keen penetration they saw through all shams and specious reasoning, than the decided, nay, fierce, stand they took against the stamp act. This was nothing more than our present law requiring a governmental stamp on all public and business paper to make it valid. The only difference is, the former was levying a tax without representation--in other words, without the consent of the governed. The colonies assembled in Congress condemned it; hence the open, violent opposition to it by the people rises above the level of a common riot, and partakes more of the nature of a righteous revolution. Still, it was a riot, and exhibited the lawless features of one. The news of the determination of the English Government to pass a stamp act, raised a storm of indignation throughout the colonies, from Massachusetts to South Carolina, and it was denounced as an oppressive, unrighteous, tyrannical measure. From the wayside tavern and the pulpit alike, it was attacked with unsparing severity. The Government, however, thought it a mere ebullition of feeling, that would not dare exhibit itself in open opposition. Nor does this confidence seem strong, when we remember the weakness of the colonies on the one side, and the strength of an organized government, with the law and force both, on the other. Cadwallader Colden, a Scotchman by birth, and a clergyman by profession, was at that time acting Governor of New York; and to guard against any resort to force on the part of the people when the stamps should arrive, had Fort George, on the Battery, reinforced by a regiment from Crown Point, its magazines replenished, the ramparts strengthened, and its guns trained on the town. The people saw all this, and understood its import; but it had the opposite effect from that which was intended, for, instead of overawing the people, it exasperated them. At length, in October, 1765, a ship with the British colors flying came sailing up the bay, and anchored off Fort George. In a short time the startling tidings was circulated, that she brought a quantity of stamps. It was like sounding an alarm-bell, and the streets became thronged with excited men, while all the provincial vessels in the harbor lowered their colors to half-mast, in token of mourning. In anticipation of this event, an organization of men had been formed, called "Sons of Liberty." They at once assembled, and resolved at all hazards to get hold of those stamps. They had caused the act itself to be hawked about the streets as "the folly of England and the ruin of America," and now they determined to measure their strength with the Governor of the colony. That night, when the town was wrapped in slumber, they quietly affixed on the doors of every public office and on corners of the streets, the following placard: PRO PATRIA. _The first man that either distributes or makes use of stamped paper, let him take care of his house, person, and effects._ VOX POPULI. "WE DARE." To the stamp distributors they said, "Assure yourselves, the spirit of Brutus and Cassius is yet alive. We will not submit to the stamp act upon any account or in any instance." McEvers, the head stamp distributor, frightened by the bold, determined attitude of the people, refused to receive the stamps, and Golden had them sent for greater safety to Fort George. He had written, to the British Secretary, "_I am resolved to have the stamps distributed_." But the people were equally resolved they should not be. Still, on the 30th day of October, he and all the royal governors took the oath to carry the stamp act into effect; but they soon discovered that they could find no one bold enough to act as distributor. All along the sea-coast, in every part of the colonies, the people were aroused, and either assembling quietly, or called together by the ringing of bells and firing of cannon, presented such a united, determined front, that not one person remained duly commissioned to distribute stamps. On the last day of October, the merchants of New York came together, and bound themselves to "send no new orders for goods or merchandise, to countermand all former orders, and not even receive goods on commission, unless the stamp act be repealed"--that is, give up commerce at once, with all its wealth and benefits, rather than submit to a tax of a few shillings on paper. Friday, the 1st of November, was the day fixed upon for a public demonstration of the people throughout the colonies against it, and never dawned a morning more pregnant with the fate not only of a nation, but of the world. From New Hampshire to South Carolina it was ushered in by the tolling of muffled bells, the firing of minute-guns, and flags hung at half-mast. Eulogies were pronounced on liberty, and everywhere people left their shops and fields, and gathered in excited throngs to discuss the great question of taxation. "Even the children at their games, though hardly able to speak, caught up the general chorus, and went along the streets, merrily carolling: 'Liberty, Property, and no Stamps.'" [Footnote: Bancroft.] In New York the uprising was terrific, for the population rushed together as one man--as Gage, the commander of Fort George said, "by thousands." The sailors flocked in from the vessels, the farmers from the country, and the shouts, and ringing of bells, and firing of cannon made the city fairly tremble. Colden was terrified at the storm that was raised, and took refuge in the fort. An old man, bent and bowed with the weight of eighty years, he tottered nervously to the shelter of its guns, and ordered up a detachment of marines from a ship of war in port, for his protection. In his indignation, he wanted to fire on the people, and the black muzzles of the cannon pointing on the town had an ominous look. Whether he had threatened to do so by a message, we do not know; at any rate, the people either suspected his determination or got wind of it, for during the day an unknown person handed in at the fort-gate a note, telling him if he did, the people would hang him, like Porteus of Edinburgh, on a sign-post. He wisely forebore to give the order, for if he had not, his gray hairs would have streamed from a gibbet. At length the day of turmoil wore away, and night came on, but with it came no diminution of the excitement. Soon as it was dark, the "Sons of Liberty," numbering thousands, surged tumultuously up around the fort, and demanded that the stamps should be given up that they might be destroyed. Golden bluntly refused, when with loud, defiant shouts they left, and went up Broadway to "the field" (the present Park), where they erected a gibbet, and hanged on it Colden in effigy, and beside him a figure holding a boot; some said to represent the devil, others Lord Bute, of whom the _boot_, by a pun on his name, showed for whom the effigy was designed. The demonstration had now become a riot, and the Sons of Liberty degenerated into a mob. The feeling that had been confined to words all day must now have some outlet. A torchlight procession was formed, and the scaffold and images taken down, and borne on men's shoulders along Broadway towards the Battery. The glare of flaring lights on the buildings and faces of the excited crowd, the shouts and hurrahs that made night hideous, called out the entire population, which gazed in amazement on the strange, wild spectacle. They boldly carried the scaffold and effigies to within a few feet of the gate of the fort, and knocked audaciously for admission. Isaac Sears was the leader of these "Sons of Liberty." Finding themselves unable to gain admittance, they went to the Governor's carriage-house, and took out his elegant coach, and placing the two effigies in it, dragged it by hand around the streets by the light of torches, amid the jeers and shouts of the multitude. Becoming at last tired of this amusement, they returned towards the fort, and erected a second gallows, on which they hung the effigies the second time. All this time the cannon, shotted and primed, lay silent on their carriages, while the soldiers from the ramparts looked wonderingly, idly on. General Gage did not dare to fire on the people, fearing they would sweep like an inundation over the ramparts, when he knew a general massacre would follow. The mob now tore down, the wooden fence that surrounded Bowling Green, and piling pickets and boards together, set them on fire. As the flames crackled and roared in the darkness, they pitched on the Governor's coach, with the scaffold and effigies; then hastening to his carriage-house again, and dragging out a one-horse chaise, two sleighs, and other vehicles, hauled them to the fire, and threw them on, making a conflagration that illumined the waters of the bay and the ships riding at anchor. This was a galling spectacle to the old Governor and the British officers, but they dared not interfere. What was the particular animosity against those carriages does not appear, though it was the only property of the Governor they destroyed, unless they were a sign of that aristocratic pride which sought to enslave them. There were, at this time, not a half-dozen coaches in the city, and they naturally became the symbols of bloated pride. It is said the feeling was so strong against them, that a wealthy Quaker named Murray, who lived out of town, near where the distributing reservoir now is, kept one to ride down town in, yet dared not call it a coach, but a "_leathern convenience_." Although Sears and other leaders of the Sons of Liberty tried to restrain the mob, their blood was now up, and they were bent on destruction. Having witnessed the conflagration of the Governor's carriages, they again marched up Broadway, and some one shouting "James' house," the crowd took up the shout, and passing out of the city streamed through the open country, to where West Broadway now is, and near the corner of Anthony Street. This James was Major in the Royal Artillery, and had made himself obnoxious to the people by taking a conspicuous part in putting the fort into a state of defence. He had a beautiful residence here, which the mob completely gutted, broke up his elegant furniture, destroyed his library and works of art, and laid waste his ornamented grounds. They then dispersed, and the city became quiet. The excitement was, however, not quelled--the people had not yet got hold of the stamps, which they were determined to have. Colden, having seen enough of the spirit of the "Sons of Liberty," was afraid to risk another night, even in the fort, unless it was in some way appeased; and so the day after the riot, he had a large placard posted up, stating that he should have nothing more to do with the stamps, but would leave them with Sir Henry Moore, the newly appointed Governor, then on his way from England. This, however, did not satisfy the Sons of Liberty: they wanted the stamps themselves, and through Sears, their leader, insisted on their being given up--telling him very plainly if he did not they would storm the fort, and they were determined to do it. The Common Council of the city now became alarmed at the ungovernable, desperate spirit of the mob, which seemed bent on blood, and begged the Governor to let them be deposited in the City Hall. To this he finally though reluctantly consented, but the feeling in the city kept at fever heat, and would remain so until the act itself was repealed. Moore, the new Governor, soon arrived, and assumed the reigns of government. The corporation offered him the freedom of the city in a gold box, but he refused to receive it, unless upon stamped paper. It was evident he was determined to enforce the stamp act. But on consulting with Colden and others, and ascertaining the true state of things, he wisely abandoned his purpose, and soon made it publicly known. To appease the people still more, he dismantled the fort, which was peculiarly obnoxious to them from the threatening attitude it had been made to assume. Still, the infamous act was unrepealed, and the people refused to buy English manufactures, and commerce languished. At length, Parliament, finding that further insistance in carrying out the obnoxious act only worked mischief, had repealed it. When the news reached New York, the most unbounded joy was manifested. Bells were rung, cannon fired, and placards posted, calling on a meeting of the citizens the next day to take measures for celebrating properly the great event. At the appointed time, the people came together at Howard's Hotel, and forming a procession, marched gayly to "the field," and right where the City Hall now stands, then an open lot, a salute of twenty-one guns was fired. A grand dinner followed, at which the Sons of Liberty feasted and drank loyal toasts to his Majesty, and all went "merry as a marriage-bell." The city was illuminated, and bonfires turned the night into day. In a few weeks, the King's birthday was celebrated with great display. A huge pile of wood was erected in the Park, and an ox roasted whole for the people. Cart after cart dumped its load of beer on the ground, till twenty-five barrels, flanked by a huge hogshead of rum, lay in a row, presided over by men appointed to deal out the contents to the populace. A boisterous demonstration followed that almost drowned the roar of the twenty-one cannon that thundered forth a royal salute. As a fitting wind-up to the bacchanalian scene, at night twenty-five tar-barrels, fastened on poles, blazed over the "common," while brilliant fireworks were exhibited at Bowling Green. The feasting continued late in the night, and so delighted were the "Sons of Liberty," that they erected a mast, inscribed "to his most gracious Majesty, George the Third, Mr. Pitt, and Liberty." A petition was also signed to erect a statue to Pitt, and the people seemed determined by this excess of loyalty to atone for their previous rebellious spirit. The joy, however, was of short duration--the news of the riots caused Parliament to pass a "mutiny act," by which troops were to be quartered in America in sufficient numbers to put down any similar demonstration in future, a part of the expense of their support to be paid by the colonists themselves. This exasperated "the Sons of Liberty", and they met and resolved to resist this new act of oppression to the last. The troops arrived in due time, and of course collisions took place between them and the people. Matters now continued to grow worse and worse, until the "riot of the Sons of Liberty" became a revolution, which dismembered the British Empire, and established this great republic, the influence of which on the destiny of the world no one can predict. CHAPTER IV. DOCTORS' RIOT, 1788. Body-snatching.--Bodies dug up by Medical Students.--Excitement of the People.--Effect of the Discovery of a human Limb from the Hospital.--Mob ransack the Building.--Destruction of Anatomical Specimens.--Arrival of Mayor, and Imprisonment of Students.--Second Day.--Examination of Columbia College and Physicians' Houses.--Appeal of the Mayor and distinguished Citizens to the Mob.--Mob attempt to break into Jail and seize the Students.--The Fight.--The Military called out.--Beaten by the Mob.--Larger Military Force called out.--Attacked by the Mob.--Deadly Firing.--Great Excitement.--Flight of Doctors and Students. In former times "body-snatching," or digging up bodies for dissections, was much, more heard of than at present. The fear of it was so great, that often, in the neighborhood where medical students were pursuing their studies, persons who lost friends would have a watch kept over their graves for several nights, to prevent them from being dug up. Neither the high social position of parties nor sex was any barrier to this desecration of graves, and the public mind was often shocked by accounts of the young and beautiful being disinterred, to be cut up by medical students. In the city there was, a few years ago--and perhaps there is now--a regular commercial price for bodies. [Illustration: THE NEW YORK HOSPITAL.--Scene of the Doctors' Riot. Located formerly on Broadway at the head of Pearl Street.] [Illustration: THE COLORED ORPHAN ASYLUM 143d St. The former building destroyed during the Draft Riot of 1863.] Although it was conceded that for thorough instruction in medical science, subjects for dissection were necessary, yet no one outside of the medical profession could be found to sanction "bodysnatching." There is a sacredness attached to the grave that the most hardened feel. Whenever the earth is thrown over the body of a man, no matter how abject or sinful he may have been, the involuntary exclamation of every one is "_requiescat in pace_." When, it comes to be one of our own personal friends, a parent, sister, or child, to this feeling of sacredness is added that of affection, and no wrong is like that of invading the tomb of those we love. Shakespeare left his curse for him who should disturb his bones; and all feel like cursing those who disturb the bones of friends who are linked to them by blood and affection. In the winter of 1787 and 1788, medical students of New York City dug up bodies more frequently than usual, or were more reckless in their mode of action, for the inhabitants became greatly excited over the stories that were told of their conduct. Some of these, if true, revealed a brutality and indecency, shocking as it was unnecessary. Usually, the students had contented themselves with ripping open the graves of strangers and negroes, about whom there was little feeling; but this winter they dug up respectable people, even young women, of whom they made an indecent exposure. The stories did not lose anything by repetition, and soon the conduct of physicians and medical students became a town talk. There seemed to be no remedy for this state of things; the graveyards, which were then in the heart of the city, were easily accessible; while plenty of men could be found, who, for a small sum, would dig up any body that was desired. A mere accident caused this state of feeling to culminate and suddenly break out into action. In the spring, some boys were playing in the rear of the hospital, when a young surgeon, from a mere whim, showed an amputated arm to them. One of them, impelled by curiosity, immediately mounted a ladder that stood against the wall, used in making some repairs, when the surgeon told him to look at his mother's arm. The little fellow's mother had recently died, and filled with terror, he immediately hastened to his father, who was a mason, and working at the time in Broadway. The father at once went to his wife's grave, and had it opened. He found the body gone, and returned to his fellow-workmen with the news. They were filled with rage, and, armed with tools, and gathering a crowd as they marched, they surged up around the hospital. At first many seemed to be impelled only by curiosity, but as the throng increased, the masons became eager for decisive action. Threats and denunciations began to arise on every side, and then appeals for vengeance, till at length they rushed for the door, and pouring into the building, began the work of destruction. For a while there was a terrible rattling of bones, as they tore down, and smashed every anatomical specimen they could lay their hands on. Valuable imported ones shared the common fate. They swarmed through the building, and finally came upon fresh subjects, apparently but just dug up. This kindled their rage tenfold, and the students, who thus far had been unmolested, were in danger of being roughly handled. The news of the gathering of the crowd and its threatening aspect, had reached the Mayor, who immediately summoned the sheriff, and taking him with several prominent citizens, hastened to the spot. Finding the students in the hands of the infuriated mob, he released them, and to the satisfaction, apparently, of the rioters, sent them to jail for safe-keeping. There was now nothing left for them to do, and they dispersed, and the matter was thought to be ended. But, during the evening, knots of men were everywhere discussing the events of the day, and retailing the exciting reports that were now flying thickly around; and next morning, whether from any concert of action, or impelled by mere curiosity, is not known, crowds began to fill the street and yard in front of the city hospital. The discovery of the bodies the day before had deepened the excitement, and now a more thorough examination of the building was proposed, and also an examination of the physicians' houses. Matters were beginning to wear a serious aspect, and the Governor, Mayor, Chancellor, and some of the prominent citizens of the town, came together to consult on a course of action. It was finally resolved to resort in a body to the spot where the mob was assembled, and make a personal appeal to it. They did so, and presented an imposing appearance as they advanced up Broadway. Although representing the State and city, they did not presume on their authority, but attempted persuasion. Mounting the steps, they in turn addressed the throng, which now kept momentarily increasing, and exhorted them as law-abiding citizens to use no violence. Some made most pathetic appeals to their feelings, their pride and self-respect; indeed, begged them, by every consideration of home and justice, to desist, and retire peacefully to their homes. They solemnly promised that a most thorough investigation should be made, and they should have all the satisfaction the laws could afford. More they ought not to ask. These appeals and promises produced a favorable effect on many of the mob, and they left. But the greater part refused to be pacified. Their blood was up, and they insisted on making the examination themselves. They did not propose to commit any violence, but having begun their investigations they were determined to go through with them. The Mayor and the Governor seemed to have an unaccountable repugnance to the use of force, and let the mob depart for Columbia College without any resistance. The professors and students were amazed at this sudden inundation of the crowd, who swarmed without opposition through every part of the building. Finding nothing to confirm their suspicions, they left without doing any material injury. Still unsatisfied, however, they repaired to the houses of the neighboring physicians, and the leaders, acting as a delegation of the crowd, went through them with the same result. It was a singularly well-behaved mob, and they received the report of the self-constituted committees with apparently perfect satisfaction, and when they had made the round of the houses, gradually broke up into knots and dispersed. But the lawless spirit of a mob seldom arrests and controls itself. Having once felt its strength and power, it is never satisfied till it measures them against those of the legal authorities, and yields only when it must. Hence, as a rule, the quicker "it feels the strong hand of power" the better for all parties. Promising legal satisfaction, to law-breakers is a very unsatisfactory proceeding. Obedience first and discussion afterwards is the proper order to be observed. The Mayor had hardly time to congratulate himself on having overcome so easily a serious difficulty, before he found that he had not as yet touched it. In the afternoon, the crowd again began to assemble, and this time around the jail, with the avowed purpose of taking vengeance on the students and physicians locked up there for safe-keeping. Having asserted and exercised, against all law, the right of domiciliary visits, it was but a short and easy step to assert the right to punish also contrary to law. As they gathered in front of the jail, it was seen that a different spirit from that which they had hitherto exhibited ruled them. The tiger was unchained, and loud shouts and yells were heard. "Bring out your doctors! bring out your doctors!" arose on every side. They threatened to tear down the building unless they were given up. The inmates became thoroughly alarmed, and barricaded the doors and windows, and armed themselves the best way they could for self-defence. Attempts were made to parley with the crowd, but they would listen to nothing, and answered every appeal with loud shouts for the doctors. What they _intended_ to do with them by way of punishment was not so clear, though what their fate would have been, if once at their mercy, there was little doubt. The city authorities now became alarmed, murder was imminent, and having no police force sufficient to cope with such a formidable mob, they decided that the city was in a state of insurrection, and called out the military. About three o'clock, the force marched up the street, and passed quietly through the crowd, which opened as they advanced. As they moved past, a shower of dirt and stones followed them, accompanied with taunts, and jeers, and mocking laughter. The whole military movement was evidently intended only for intimidation--to show the rioters what could be done if they resorted to violence; for the soldiers, instead of taking up their quarters, as they should have done, in the building, having exhibited themselves, marched away. But the mob, still retaining its position and threatening attitude, another force, a little later, consisting of only twelve men, was sent up. This was worse than nothing, and as the little handful marched solemnly up, the crowd broke out into derisive laughter, and all sorts of contemptuous epithets were heaped upon them. Instead of waiting for them to come near, they rushed down, the street to meet them, and swarming like bees around them, snatched away their muskets, and broke them to pieces on the pavement. [Footnote: John Jay and Baron Steuben were both wounded in trying to allay the mob.] The soldiers, disarmed, scattered, and hustled about, were glad to escape with whole bodies. This first act of open resistance excited the rioters still more--they had passed the Rubicon, and were now ready for anything, and "to the jail! to the jail!" arose in wild yells, and the turbulent mass poured like a tumultuous sea around the building. They rushed against the doors, and with united shoulders and bodies endeavored to heave them from their hinges. But being secured with heavy bolts and bars, they resisted all their efforts. They then smashed in the windows with stones, and attempted to force an entrance through them; but the handful of men inside took possession of these, and, with such weapons as they could find, beat them back. Numbers were of no avail here, as only a few at a time could approach a window, while those within, being on the defensive, knocked them back as often as they attempted to climb in. The rioters, baffled in their attempts, would then fall back, and hurl paving-stones and bricks at the windows, when those who defended them would step one side. But the moment the former advanced again, the latter would crowd the windows with clubs and sticks. The enraged assailants tore off pickets, and advancing with these, made desperate efforts to clear the windows. But those within knew it was a matter of life and death with them, and stubbornly held their ground. The fight was thus kept up till dark, amid yells and shouts and a pandemonium of noises, and no efforts apparently were made to put an end to it, and release the inmates of the jail. But steps had been taken to organize and arm a large body of militia under an experienced officer, and now in the dim starlight their bayonets were seen gleaming, as they marched steadily forward on the dark, heaving mass that filled the street far as the eye could see. The rioters, however, instead of being intimidated at the sight, sent up a yell of defiance, and arming themselves with stones and brick-bats, hurled them in a blinding volley on the troops. So fierce was the assault, that before the latter had time to form, many were knocked down, and some badly wounded. The commanding officer, finding the fight thus forced on him, gave the order in a ringing voice, "Ready, aim, fire!" A flash broad as the street followed, lighting up the gloom, and revealing the scowling faces of the mob, the battered front of the jail, and the pale faces of those guarding the windows. They had not expected this close, point-blank volley, for the timid action of the authorities had not prepared them for it, and they stopped in amazement and hesitation. The commanding officer understood his business, and instead of waiting to see if they would disperse, poured in another volley. The rioters were confounded as they saw their comrades fall by their side, but still stood at bay; until at last, seeing the dead and wounded on every side, they could stand it no longer, but broke and fled in every direction. In a few minutes the street was clear of all but the dead and wounded, the groans of the latter loading the night air. The poor wretches were carried away, and the troops remained on the spot all night. The next day the city was in a fever of excitement. The number of killed was greatly exaggerated, and the denunciations of the butchery, as it was called, were fierce and loud. On almost every corner groups of excited men were seen in angry discussion--multitudes gathered in front of the jail, and gazed with horror on the blood-stained pavement. The soldiers who had committed the slaughter were cursed and threatened by turns, but they quietly rested on their arms, ready, it was evident, to repeat the experiment at the first open act of violence. For awhile there was danger of a general outbreak throughout the city; but the authorities had become thoroughly aroused to the danger of the situation, and seeing that the quicker they brought the conflict to a close, the better, made such a display of force, that the riotous spirit was overawed. Still, it was not entirely subdued, and it was evident that it was kept under by fear alone. The physicians of the city came in for almost as large a share of the hatred as the military. They were the original cause of the disturbance, and threats against them became so open and general, that they were in constant dread of personal violence, and many fled from the city. They scattered in every direction, and there threatened to be a general Hegira of physicians. All the medical students were secretly stowed into carriages, and hurried off into the country, where they remained till the excitement died away. It did not, however, subside readily; indeed, the danger of open revolt was so great for several days, that the military continued to keep guard at the jail. CHAPTER V. SPRING ELECTION RIOTS OF 1834. Fatal Error in our Naturalization Laws.--Our Experiment of Self government not a fair one.--Fruit of giving Foreigners the Right to Vote.--Bitter Feeling between Democrats and Whigs.--First Day of Election.--Ships "Constitution" and "Veto."--Whigs driven from the Polls.--Excitement.--Whigs determined to defend themselves.--Meeting called.--Resolutions.--Second Day's Election.--Attack on the Frigate "Constitution."--A Bloody Fight.--Mayor and Officers wounded.--Mob triumphant.--Excitement of the Whigs.--The Streets blocked by fifteen thousand enraged Whigs.--Military called out.--Occupy Arsenal and City Hall all Night.--Result of the Election.--Excitement of the Whigs.--Mass-meeting in Castle Garden. This country never committed a more fatal mistake than in making its naturalization laws so that the immense immigration from foreign countries could, after a brief sojourn, exercise the right of suffrage. Our form of government was an experiment, in the success of which not only we as a nation were interested, but the civilized world. To have it a fair one, we should have been allowed to build and perfect the structure with our own material, not pile into it such ill-formed, incongruous stuff as the despotisms of Europe chose to send us. Growing up by a natural process, educating the people to the proper exercise of their high trust, correcting mistakes, and adjusting difficulties as we progressed, the noble building would have settled into greater compactness as it arose in height, and all its various proportions been in harmony. We should have built slowly but surely. But when there was thrown upon us a mass of material wholly unfit for any political structure, and we were compelled to pile it in hap-hazard, it was not long before the goodly edifice began to show ugly seams, and the despotisms of Europe pointed to them with scorn, and asked tauntingly how the doctrine of self-government worked. They emptied their prisons and poor-houses on our shores, to be rid of a dangerous element at home, and we, with a readiness that bordered on insanity, not only took them into our bosoms, but invited them to aid us in making our laws and electing our rulers. To ask men, the greater part of whom could neither read nor write, who were ignorant of the first principles of true civil liberty, who could be bought and sold like sheep in the shambles, to assist us in founding a model republic, was a folly without a parallel in the history of the world, and one of which we have not yet begun to pay the full penalty. It was a cruel wrong, not only to ourselves, but to the oppressed masses of Europe, who turned their longing eyes on us for encouragement and the moral aid which our success would give them in their struggles against despotism. If the reason given for endowing this floating population--and dangerous element under any circumstances--with the full rights of citizens had been the true one, namely: to be just to them, and consistent with the great doctrine of equality on which our Government rested, there might be some little comfort in reflecting on the mistake we made. But this was false. The right of suffrage was given them by a party in order to secure their votes, and secure them, too, by appealing to those very passions that made them dangerous to the republic, and which the interest of all alike required should be removed instead of strengthened. All the good the Democratic party has ever done this country will hardly compensate for the evil of this one act. If our experiment shall finally prove a failure, we verily believe it will be owing to the extension of the political franchise to whites and blacks who were unfit to use it, and cared for it not because of its honor, or the good use to which it might be put, but as a piece of merchandise to be sold to the highest bidder or used as a weapon of assault against good order and righteous laws. Of course, the first pernicious effect of this transfer of power to ignorant, reckless men would be felt at the polls in New York City, where this class was in the greatest number. The elections here soon became a farce, and the boasted glory of a free ballot-box a taunt and a by-word. That gross corruption and villany practised here should eventually result in the open violation of law, as it did in the charter election of 1834, was natural. Political animosity was probably more bitter between the Democrats, under Jackson's administration, and the Whigs, than between any two political parties since the time of Federalists and Democrats, in the days of the elder Adams. In the spring of 1834 especially, party spirit ran very high in the city. As usual, for a month or more before the election, which took place on the second Tuesday in April, all kinds of accusations and rumors were afloat. There was no registry law, and comparatively few places for the polls, so that there could be little check on voting, no end to repeating, while the gathering of an immense crowd around each place of voting became inevitable. At this election, there was a split in the Democratic party, Mr. Verplanck being the candidate of the Independent Democrats, and Mr. Lawrence of the "Tammany." The most extensive preparations were made on both sides for the conflict, and it was generally expected there would be a personal collision in some of the wards. Tuesday, the 8th of April, dawned dark and stormy, and the rain began to fall heavily, at times coming down in torrents. But to such a fever heat had the public feeling been carried, that no one seemed to heed the storm. The stores were closed, business of all kinds suspended; while the streets were black with men hurrying to the polls. At twelve o'clock the American flag was hoisted on the Exchange, when the building became deserted, and all gathered at the places where the voting was going on. Men stood in long lines, extending clear out into the street, patiently enduring the pelting rain, waiting till their turn came to vote. The famous expression of Jackson, "Perish credit, perish commerce," had been taken out of the connection in which it was used, and paraded everywhere. The sailors had been enlisted in the struggle, and rigged up a beautiful little frigate in complete order, and named it the "Constitution." Mounting it on wheels, several hundred of them paraded it through the streets and past the polls. As they passed through Wall Street, thundering cheers greeted them, and the excited populace, heedless of the rain, fell into the procession, till it swelled to thousands, who, with songs and shouts, followed after. Fearful of the effect of this demonstration on the voters, the Jackson men hastily rigged out a boat, surmounted by a flag on which was painted in large characters, "Veto;" and "Constitution" and "Veto" sailed after each other through the city. This should have been prevented by the authorities, for it was impossible for these two processions to meet without a fight occurring, while it was equally certain that the Whig one would be attacked, if it attempted to pass the polls in those wards in which the roughs had the control. But the "Hickory poles" had inaugurated a new mode of carrying on political campaigns. Appeals were made to the senses, and votes obtained by outward symbols, rather than by the discussion of important political questions. This mode of electioneering culminated with the log-cabin excitement. In the Eleventh Ward, the Jackson party had two private doors through which to admit their voters to the polls, while bullies kept back from the main entrance the Independent Republicans. In most of the strong Jackson wards, where it was all on one side, the voting went on peaceably enough, but in the Sixth, it was soon evident that a storm was inevitable. Oaths and threats and yells of defiance made the polls here seem more like an object on which a mob was seeking to wreak its vengeance, than a place where freemen were depositing their votes under sanction of law. The babel of sound continued to grow worse in spite of the rain, and swelled louder and louder, till at last the Jackson roughs, headed by an ex-alderman, made a rush for the committee room where their opponents were assembled. Some of them were armed with clubs, and others with knives, which they brandished fiercely as they burst into the room. Before the members could offer any resistance, they were assailed with such fury, that in a short time nearly twenty were stretched bleeding and maimed on the floor; one so badly wounded that he was carried out lifeless, and apparently dead. It was a savage onslaught, and those who escaped injury reached the street hatless, and with coats half-torn from their backs. The mob, now being complete masters of the room, tore down all the banners, destroyed the ballots, and made a complete wreck of everything. The Whig leaders, enraged at such dastardly, insulting treatment, despatched a messenger in all haste to the Mayor for help, but he replied that he could not furnish it, as all the available force was away in other sections of the city on duty. The excitement among the Whigs now became fearful, and they determined to take the matter in their own hands. The election was to last three days, and they concluded to let the polls, when the mob entered, take care of themselves the balance of the day, and organize a plan for self-protection on the morrow. A call was at once issued for a meeting at Masonic Hall, and that night four thousand Whigs packed the building, from limit to limit. General Bogardus was called to the chair, who, after stating the object of the meeting, and describing the conduct of the mob in the Sixth Ward, offered the following resolutions: "_Whereas_, The authority of the POLICE of the city has been set at defiance by a band of _hirelings, mercenaries_, and _bullies_ in the Sixth Ward, and the LIVES of our citizens put in jeopardy. And _whereas_ it is evident that we are in a state of anarchy, which requires the prompt and efficient interposition of every friend of good order who is disposed to sustain the constitution and laws, therefore, be it "_Resolved_, That in order to preserve the _peace_ of the city, and especially of the Sixth Ward, the friends of the constitution and the liberties of the citizen will meet at this place (Masonic Hall), to-morrow (Wednesday), at half-past seven o'clock A.M., and repair to the Sixth Ward poll, for the _purpose of keeping it open to_ ALL VOTERS until such time as the official authorities may 'procure a sufficient number of special constables to keep the peace.' "_Resolved_, That while at the Sixth Ward poll, those who are not residents thereof will not take part in the election, but simply act as _conservators of the peace_, until such times as the MAJESTY OF THE LAWS shall be acknowledged and respected." These resolutions were carried with acclamations and shouts and stamping of feet. There was no bluster in these resolutions, but their meaning was apparent enough, and the city authorities understood it. From that hall, next morning, would march at least five or six thousand determined men, and if the mob rallied in force, to repeat the action of the day before, there would be one of the bloodiest fights that ever disgraced the city. It was believed that the great mass of the rioters were Irishmen, and the thought that native-born Americans should be driven from their own ballot-box by a herd of foreigners, aroused the intensest indignation. It was an insult that could not and should not be tolerated. The next morning, at half-past seven, Masonic Hall was filled to repletion. The excitement can be imagined, when such a crowd could be gathered at this early hour. In the Ninth Ward a meeting was also called, and a resolution passed, tendering a committee of one hundred to the general committee; that, with a committee of the same number from each of the fourteen wards of the city, would make a battalion eighteen hundred strong, to be ready at a moment's notice, to march to any poll "to protect the sacred right of suffrage." These measures had their desired effect. The presence of large bodies of men at the different polls, for the purpose of protecting them, overawed the unorganized mob, although in some of the wards attempts were made to get up a riot. Stones and clubs were thrown, and one man stabbed; it was thought at the time fatally. The Sixth Ward, "the Bloody Sixth," as it was called, was the point of greatest danger, and thither the Mayor repaired in person, accompanied by the sheriff and a large posse, and remained the greater part of the day. Threats and opprobrious epithets were freely used, and occasionally a paving-stone would be hurled from some one on the outskirts of the crowd; but the passage to the polls was kept open, and by one o'clock the citizens could deposit their votes without fear of personal violence. The evil of having the election continue three days now became more apparent than ever. The disorderly class, "the roughs," by their protracted drinking, became more and more maddened, and hence riper for more desperate action. This second night was spent by them in carousing, and the next morning they turned out to the polls, not only ready, but eager for a fight. Early in the forenoon, the frigate "Constitution" was again on its voyage through the streets, followed by a crowd. As it passed Masonic Hall, the head-quarters of the Whig Committee, it was saluted with cheers. This was followed by a rush upon it, on the part of the mob, who attempted to destroy it. The Whigs inside of the building, seeing the attack, poured forth with a loud cheer, and fell on the assailants with such fury, that they turned and fled. The news of what was passing, had, in the meantime, reached the Sixth Ward folks, and a shout was raised for followers. Instantly a huge crowd, composed of dirty, ragged, savage-looking men, broke away with discordant yells, and streamed up Duane Street towards the building, picking up paving-stones and brick-bats, and pulling down pickets as they ran. Coming in sight of the little frigate, they raised a shout and dashed on it. The procession had now passed the hall, but the Whigs, informed of what was going on, again sallied forth to the help of the sailors, who were fighting manfully against overwhelming odds. But they were soon overpowered, and again took refuge in the hall. This was now assailed, and stones came crashing through the windows. The Mayor was sent for, and soon appeared with the sheriff, backed by forty watchmen. Mounting the steps, he held up his staff of office, and commanded the peace. But the half-drunken mob had now got beyond the fear of the mere symbol of authority, and answered him with a shower of stones, and then charged on the force that surrounded him. A fierce and bloody fight followed. Citizens rushed out to the help of the Mayor, while the watchmen fell on the mob with their clubs. They soon stretched on the pavement more than their own number, but the odds against them was too great. The Mayor received a wound--ten or fifteen watchmen besides citizens were wounded--Captains Stewart, Munson, and Flaggs, badly injured, the latter with his skull horribly fractured, ribs broken, and face cut up. A few of the rioters were arrested, but the great mass broke through all opposition, and streaming into the hall, forced the committee to creep through back passages and windows. The news of this high-handed outrage was carried like the wind to the lower anti-Democratic wards, and the excited Whigs came streaming up, until Duane, Elm, Pearl, Cross, Augustus, and Chatham Streets, up to Broadway, were black with determined, enraged citizens. Ten or fifteen thousand were in a short time assembled, and a fearful battle seemed inevitable. In this appalling state of things, the Mayor called a consultation, and it was decided to declare the city in a state of insurrection, and call on the military for help. A messenger was immediately despatched to the Navy Yard for a company of marines. Colonel Gamble, commanding, replied that he would be glad to comply with the request, and put himself at their head, but that he had just sent them on board the "Brandywine" and "Vincennes." Application was then made to Commodore Hidgely, commander of the station; but he refused, on the ground that he had no authority to interfere. A messenger was then hurried across to Governor's Island for help, but he met with no better success. As a last resort, General Sanford was now directed to call out the city military. All this time the crowd kept increasing, while from out its bosom came an angry murmur like the moaning of the sea before a storm. The polls were deserted, and it seemed impossible that the opposing forces could be long kept apart. At length word passed through the Whigs that the mob were about to take possession of the arsenal. Instantly several hundred citizens made a dash for it, and occupied it. This was a brilliant piece of strategy, and no sooner did the rioters hear of it, than they swarmed around the building with yells and imprecations. The Whigs, however, held it, and some of them passed out arms to their friends. Three terrible hours had now passed since the first outbreak, and from the Park to Duane Street, Broadway, and the cross streets on the east side of it, were packed with excited men, their shouts, calls, and curses rising over the dwellings in tones that sent terror to the heart. But for the narrow streets, in which but few could come in contact, there would doubtless have been a collision long before. But at this critical moment a detachment of infantry and two squadrons of cavalry came marching down Broadway, and in close column. The crowd divided as they advanced, and they drew up before the arsenal. The gleaming of the bayonets and the rattle of sabres had a quieting effect on the rioters, and they began to disperse again to the polls, to watch the progress of the voting. In the meantime, the infantry took up their quarters at the arsenal, and the cavalry at the City Hall, for the night. When the polls closed at evening, the ballot-box of the Sixth Ward was taken under a strong guard to the City Hall, and locked up for the night. It was followed by four or five thousand excited men, but no violence was attempted. The election was over. For three days the city had been heaving to the tide of human passion, and trembling on the verge of a great disaster, and all because a few ruffians, not a fourth part of whom could probably read or write, chose to deny the right of suffrage to American citizens, and constitute themselves the proper representatives of the city. But the excitement did not end with the election. It was very close, and as the returns came in slowly, the people assembled in great numbers, to hear them reported. The next day, till three o'clock at night, ten or fifteen thousand people blocked Wall Street, refusing to disperse, till they knew the result. It was finally announced that Mr. Lawrence, the Democratic candidate, was elected by a small majority. The next thing was to ascertain the character of the Common Council. The same mighty throng assembled next day, forgetting everything else in the intense interest they felt in the result. It would seem impossible to get up such a state of feeling over the election of a few local officers, but the city shook from limit to limit as the slow returns came in. At last, it was announced that the Whigs had carried the Common Council by a small majority. As the news passed through the immense concourse, a shout vent up that shook Wall Street from Broadway to the East River. It rolled back and forth like redoubled thunder, till every throat was hoarse. When the crowd at last dispersed, it was only to assemble again in separate bodies in different parts of the city, and talk over the victory. Even then the excitement was not allowed to die away. The event was too great to be permitted to pass without some especial honor, and a mass-meeting was called in Castle Garden to celebrate it. Webster was sent for to make a speech, the most distinguished speakers of New York were called upon, and a day of general rejoicing followed, great as that which succeeded Lee's surrender. CHAPTER VI. ABOLITION RIOTS OF 1834 AND 1835. The Slavery Question agitated.--The End, Civil War.--The Results.--William Lloyd Garrison.--Feeling of the People on the Subject.--First Attempt to call a Meeting of the Abolitionists in New York.--Meeting in Chatham Street Chapel.--A Fight.--Mob take Possession of Bowery Theatre.--Sacking of Lewis Tappan's House.--Fight between Mob and Police.--Mobbing of Dr. Cox's Church, in Laight Street.--His House broken into.--Street Barricaded.--Attack on Arthur Tappan's Store.--Second Attack on Church in Laight Street.--Church sacked in Spring Street.--Arrival of the Military.--Barricades carried.--Mr. Ludlow's House entered.--Mob at Five Points.--Destruction of Houses.--The City Military called out.--Mob overawed, and Peace restored.--Five Points Riot.--Stone-cutters' Riot. Most of the riots of New York have grown out of causes more or less local, and wholly transient in their nature. Hence, the object sought to be obtained was at once secured, or abandoned altogether. But those arising from the formation of Abolition societies, and the discussion of the doctrine of immediate emancipation, were of a different character, and confined to no locality or time. The spirit that produced them developed itself in every section of the country, and the question continued to assume vaster proportions, till the Union itself was involved, and what was first only a conflict between the police of the city and a few hundred or thousands of ignorant, reckless men, grew at last into the most gigantic and terrible civil war that ever cursed the earth. The Union was rent asunder, and State arrayed against State, while the world looked on aghast at the strange and bloody spectacle. The final result has been the emancipation of the slaves, and their endowment with all the rights and privileges of American citizens. But with this has come a frightful national debt, the destruction of that feeling of common interest and patriotism, which is the strongest security of a country; a contempt for the Constitution, the concentration of power in the hands of Congress, small regard for State rights, while the controlling power in the South has passed into the hands of an ignorant, incapable, irresponsible class; and, worse than all, the people have become accustomed to the strange spectacle, so fraught with danger in a republic, of seeing the legislatures and executives of sovereign States overawed and overborne by the national troops. That frightful conflict for the slave has sown dangerous seed; what the final harvest will be, the future historian alone will be able to show. The inconsistency of having a system of slavery incorporated into a republican government was always felt by good men North and South, as well as its damaging effect on the social and political well-being of the whole community; and steps had been taken both in Virginia and Kentucky to do away with it by legislative action. Whether these incipient steps would ever have ended in relieving us of the evil, can only be conjectured. We only know that a peaceable solution of the question was rendered impossible, by the action of the Abolitionists, as they were called, who, governed by the short logic, that slavery being wrong, it could not exist a moment without sin, and therefore must be abandoned at once without regard to consequences. The system of slavery was no longer a social or political problem, calling for great wisdom, prudence, statesmanship, and patience, but a personal crime, not to be tolerated for a moment. The whole South was divided by them into two classes, the oppressor and oppressed, the kidnapper and kidnapped, the tyrant and the slave--a relationship which liberty, religion, justice, humanity, alike demanded should be severed without a moment's delay. These views, in the judgment of the press at the time, and of sound statesmen, would eventually end in civil war, if adopted by the entire North, and hence they denounced them. The Abolitionists were considered by all as enemies to the Union, whom the lower classes felt should be put down, if necessary, by violence. This feeling was increased by the action of William Lloyd Garrison, the founder of the society, who went to England, and joined with the antislavery men there in abusing this country for its inconsistency and crime. These causes produced a state of public feeling that would be very apt to exhibit itself on the first opportunity. When, therefore, in the autumn of 1833, after Garrison's return from England, a notice appeared for an antislavery meeting in Clinton Hall, some of the most respectable men in New York determined to attend, and crush out, by the weight of their influence, the dangerous movement. Another class was resolved to effect the same project in another way, and on the 2d of October the following placard was posted in naming letters all over the city: NOTICE _To all persons from the South_. All persons interested in the subject of the meeting called by J. Leavitt, W. Goodell, W. Green, J. Rankin, Lewis Tappan, At Clinton Hall, this evening, at 7 o'clock, are requested to attend at the same hour and place. MANY SOUTHERNERS. New York, _October_ 2d, 1833. N.B. All citizens who may feel disposed to manifest the _true_ feeling of the State on this subject, are requested to attend. Putting the appeal in the name of the Southerners, was an artful device to call out the people. At an early hour crowds began to assemble in front of Clinton Hall; but to their surprise they found a notice nailed on the door, that no meeting would be held. Many, seeing it, returned home; but still the crowd continued to swell to thousands, who rent the air with shouts and threats against Garrison. Determined not to be disappointed in a meeting of some kind, they forced their way upstairs, till the room in which it was to be held was crammed to suffocation. The meeting was then organized, and waited till quarter past seven, when it was moved to adjourn to Tammany Hall. There it was again organized, and a gentleman was about to address the crowd, when a man stepped forward to the president, and stated that the meeting announced to be held in Clinton Hall was at that moment under full headway in Chatham Street Chapel. Instantly several voices shouted, "Let us go there and rout them!" But the chairman said they had met to pass certain resolutions, and they should attend to this business first, and then every one could do as he liked. The resolutions were read, and after some remarks had been made upon them, adopted, and the meeting adjourned. A portion of those present, however, were not satisfied, but resolved to go to the chapel and break up the meeting there. The little handful assembled within, apprised of their approach, fled, so that when the mob arrived, the building, though the doors were open and the lights burning, was empty. It immediately took possession of the room, and giving a negro who was foremost in the sport the name of one of the Abolitionists, made him chairman. The most absurd resolutions were then offered, and carried, when the chairman returned thanks for the honor done him amid the most uproarious laughter, and what had threatened to be a serious riot ended in a wild, lawless frolic. This was the beginning of the Abolition riots in New York City, which afterwards, to a greater or less extent, prevailed for years in different parts of the Union. Next summer the excitement, which during the winter had nothing to call it forth, broke out afresh, ending in destruction of property and bloodshed, and the calling out of the military. On the evening of the 7th of July, an assembly of colored persons of both sexes occupied Chatham Street Chapel, for the purpose of listening to a sermon from a negro preacher. The New York Sacred Music Society had leased the building for certain evenings in the week, of which it was asserted this was one. Justice Lowndes, of the Police Court, was president, and Dr. Rockwell vice-president of the society, and they repaired to the building during the evening, and finding it occupied, at once claimed their right to it, and demanded that the blacks should leave. But the latter, having hired and paid for it, refused to do so, when a fight ensued, in which lamps and chairs were broken, loaded canes used freely, and some persons seriously injured. The news of the fight spread rapidly, and a dense crowd gathered around the door. But the police soon arrived, and forcing their way in, drove white and black out together, and locked up the church. The riot, however, continued for some time in the street; but the blacks, finding themselves outnumbered, fled, and peace was restored. A portion of the crowd, having recognized Lewis Tappan, one of the leading Abolitionists, followed him home with hoots and yells, and even hurled stones at his house after he had entered it. The next evening, at dusk, the crowd began again to assemble in front of the chapel. But the lessee of it had closed and locked the gates. The multitude determined, however, not to be disappointed of a meeting, and forcing open the gates, obtained entrance. The meeting was then organized, and Mr. William W. Wilder called to the chair. After making a speech, in which he showed the evil effects of a sudden abolition of slavery, by relating his experience in San Domingo, he moved an adjournment until the next meeting of the Antislavery Society. The motion was carried, and the assembly broke up. This was, however, altogether too quiet a termination for a part of the crowd, and a shout was made for the Bowery Theatre. The attacks on us by the English, for upholding slavery, and their sympathy and aid for Garrison, and co-operation with him in agitating the question of abolition in this country, had rekindled the old slumbering feeling of hostility to that country; and Mr. Farren, the stage manager of the Bowery, being an Englishman, it was transferred to him, especially as reports had been circulated that he had spoken disrespectfully of the Americans. This night having been selected to give him a benefit, his enemies had posted placards over the city, stating the fact of his hostility to this country--whether with the intention of causing a thin house, or breaking it up altogether, is not known. At all events, the mob resolved on the latter course, and streaming up the Bowery in one wild, excited mass, gathered with loud shouts in front of the theatre. The doors were closed in their faces, but pressing against them with their immense weight, they gave way, and like a dark, stormy wave, they surged up the aisles toward the foot-lights. In the garish light, faces grew pale, and turned eagerly toward the doors for a way of escape. But these were jammed with the excited, yelling mob. The play was "Metamora," and was under full headway, when this sudden inundation of the rioters took place. The actors stopped, aghast at the introduction of this new, appalling scene. Messrs. Hamlin and Forrest advanced to the front of the stage, and attempted to address them; but apologies and entreaties were alike in vain. The thundering shouts and yells that interrupted them were not those of admiration, and spectators and actors were compelled to remain silent, while this strange audience took complete possession of the house, and inaugurated a play of their own. But the police, having received information of what was going on, now arrived, and forcing their way in, drove the rioters into the street, and restored order. But the demon of lawless violence, that was now fully raised, was not to be thus laid. Some one got hold of a bell, and began to ring it violently. This increased the excitement, and suddenly the shout arose, "to Arthur Tappan's." [Footnote: A silk merchant, and one of the leading Abolitionists.] The cry was at once taken up by a thousand voices, and the crowd started down the street. But instead of going to his house, they went to that of his brother, Lewis, in Hose Street, a still more obnoxious Abolitionist. Reaching it, they staved open the doors, and smashed in the windows, and began to pitch the furniture into the street. Chairs, sofas, tables, pictures, mirrors, and bedding, went out one after another. But all at once a lull occurred in the work of destruction. In pitching the pictures out, one came across a portrait of Washington. Suddenly the cry arose, "It is Washington! For God's sake, _don't burn Washington_!" In an instant the spirit of disorder was laid, and the portrait was handed carefully from man to man, till at length the populace, bearing it aloft, carried it with shouts to a neighboring house for safety. It was one of those strange freaks or sudden changes that will sometimes come over the wildest and most brutal men, like a gleam of gentle light across a dark and stormy sea--the good in man for a moment making its voice heard above the din and strife of evil passions. This singular episode being terminated, they returned to their work of destruction. But suddenly the cry of "Watchmen!" was heard, and the next moment the police came charging down the street. The mob recoiled before it, then broke and fled, and the former took possession of the street. But the latter, coming across some piles of brick, filled their arms and hands full, and rallying, returned. Charging the watchmen in turn with a blinding shower of these, they drove them from the ground. They then kindled a fire on the pavement, and as the flames flashed up in the darkness and gained headway, they piled on bedding and furniture, till the whole street was illuminated with the costly bonfire. This caused the fire-bells to be rung, and soon the engines came thundering down the street, before which the crowd gave way. The burning furniture was then extinguished, and the house taken possession of. It was now two o'clock in the morning, and the mob dispersed. The next day nothing was talked about in the saloons, groggeries, and on the corners of the by-streets, but the events of the night before; and as evening came on, a crowd began to assemble in front of the battered, dilapidated house of Lewis Tappan. Another attack was imminent, when the police came up and dispersed them. They had not, however, abandoned the purpose for which they had assembled. The little band of Abolitionists, that the year before had been composed mostly of comparatively obscure men, had now increased both in numbers and men of influence. Persecution had produced its usual effects--advanced the cause it designed to destroy. Among other well-known citizens who had joined their ranks were the two brothers, Dr. Abraham Cox, M.D., and Dr. Samuel Cox, the latter, pastor of Laight Street Church, and one of the most popular preachers of the city. Though opposed by a large majority of his congregation, he had become known as a bold, outspoken man against slavery; and now the mob, bent on mischief, streamed across the city toward his church. It was dark, and as they gathered in a black, dense mass in front of it, suddenly, as if by a common impulse, a loud yell broke forth, and the next moment a shower of stones and brick-bats fell on the windows. Babel was now let loose, and, amid the crashing of window-glass, arose every variety of sound and all kinds of calls, interspersed with oaths and curses on "Abolitionists and niggers." Shrieks of laughter and obscene epithets helped to swell the uproar. It was evident they would not be satisfied until they left the church a ruin; but at this critical moment, the Mayor, Justice Lowndes, the District Attorney, and a posse of police officers and watchmen arrived on the ground. Expecting trouble, they had arranged to be ready at a moment's warning to hasten to any threatened point. Their unexpected presence frightened the crowd, and fearing arrest, they slunk away in squads, and the danger seemed over. But, evidently by previous arrangement, the broken fragments, arriving by different streets, came together in front of Dr. Cox's house, in Charlton Street. The doctor, however, was not at home. He had received warnings and threats from various quarters, and knowing, from the fate of Lewis Tappan's house, what that of his own would be, he had, during the day, quietly removed his furniture, and in the afternoon put his family on board of a steamboat, and left the city. The mob found the door barricaded, but they broke it open, and began to smash the windows and blinds of the lower story. Before, however, they had begun to sack the house, police-officers and watchmen, with two detachments of horse, arrived and dislodged them. They did not, however, disperse. A more dangerous and determined spirit was getting possession of them than they had before evinced. Crowding back on each other, they packed the street east, within four blocks of Broadway. Seizing some carts, they made a hasty barricade of them across the streets, while a neighboring fence supplied them with clubs. A large number were armed with paving-stones, which they would smite loudly together, saying in deep undertones, "_all together_." As they thus stood savagely at bay, a collision seemed inevitable, and had they been attacked, would doubtless have made a desperate fight. But being let alone they slowly dispersed. A portion, however, though it was now late at night, could not retire without venting a little more spite, and returning to the church, broke in some more windows. Dr. Cox came back to his house next morning, to see if it was safe. As he left the mutilated building, a crowd of boys, who were looking at the ruins, immediately gave chase to him with yells and derisive laughter, and pressed him so closely, at the same time hurling dirty missiles at him, that he was compelled to take shelter in the house of a parishioner. The crowd around the house continued to increase all the morning, but a hundred policemen arriving at one o'clock, no disturbance of the peace was attempted. In the afternoon, Mayor Lawrence issued a proclamation, denouncing the rioters, and calling on all good citizens to aid in maintaining the peace, and assuring them that he had taken ample measures to repress all attempts at violence. At the Arsenal, City Hall, and Bazaar, large bodies of troops were assembled, ready to march at a moment's notice; and it was evident that the coming night was to witness a trial of strength between the rioters and the city authorities. As soon as it was fairly dark, large crowds gathered in front of Arthur Tappan's store, and began to stone the building. Some fifteen or twenty watchmen were stationed here, and endeavored to arrest the ringleaders, when the mob turned on them, and handled them so roughly that they were compelled to take refuge in flight. Alderman Lalagh was severely wounded; but he refused to leave, and standing fiercely at bay, denounced and threatened the maddened wretches, who in turn swore they would take his life. He told them to force open the doors if they dare; that the inside was full of armed men, who were ready to blow their brains out the moment the door gave way. This frightened them, and they had to content themselves with stoning the windows, and cursing the Abolitionist who owned the building. In the meantime, Justice Lowndes came up with a strong police force, when they fled. While this was going on here, similar scenes were passing in other parts of the city. At dark, some three or four hundred gathered around Dr. Cox's church, in Laight Street, discussing the conduct of the Abolitionists, but making no outward demonstrations calling for the interference of the police, until nine o'clock, when a reinforcement came yelling down Varick Street, armed with stones and brick-bats. These charged, without halting, so furiously on the police-officers, and the few watchmen stationed there, that, bruised and bleeding, they were compelled to flee for their lives. The next moment stones rattled like hail against the church, and, in a few minutes, the remaining windows were smashed in. The police rallied when they reached Beach Street, and hurried off a messenger to the City Hall for the military. In the meantime, loud shouts were heard in the direction of Spring Street, and with answering shouts the mob left the church, and rushed yelling like Indians to the spot. A vast crowd was in front of a church there, under the care of Rev. Mr. Ludlow, another Abolitionist, and had already commenced the work of destruction. They had torn down the fence surrounding it, and were demolishing the windows. Through them they made an entrance, and tore down the pulpit, ripped up the seats, and made a wreck of everything destructible without the aid of fire. The session-room shared the same fate, and the splintered wreck of both was carried in their arms, and on their shoulders, out of doors, and piled into barricades in the street on both sides of the building, to stop the anticipated charge of cavalry. Carts, hauled furiously along by the mob, were drawn up behind this, and chained together, making a formidable obstruction. They then rung the bell furiously, in order to bring out the firemen. The watch-house bell in Prince Street gave a few answering strokes, but information being received of what was going on, it ceased, and the firemen did not come out. It was now near eleven o'clock, when, all at once, an unearthly yell arose from the immense throng. Word had passed through it that the military was approaching. Pandemonium seemed suddenly to have broken loose, and shouts, and yells, and oaths arose from five thousand throats, as the men sprung behind their barricades. It was a moonless night, but the stars were shining brightly, and, in their light, the sheen of nearly a thousand bayonets made the street look like a lane of steel. The Twenty-seventh Regiment of National Guards, led by Colonel Stevens, had been sent from the City Hall, and their regular heavy tramp sounded ominously, as they came steadily on. The church-bell was set ringing furiously by the mob and there was every appearance of a determined resistance. As Colonel Stevens approached the first barricade, he halted his regiment, and ordered his pioneer guard to advance. They promptly obeyed, armed with their axes. A shower of stones met them, while clubs were waved frantically in the air, accompanied with oaths and threats. They, however, moved firmly up to the barricade, and the shining steel of their axes, as they swung them in the air, was as terrific as the gleam of the bayonets, and the crowd retired precipitately behind the second barricade. The first was now speedily torn down, and the head of the column advanced. The second was a more formidable affair, in fact, a regular bastion, behind which were packed in one dense mass an immense body of desperate men, reaching down the street, till lost in the darkness. It seemed now that nothing but deadly volleys would answer. One of the city officers advised Colonel Stevens to retreat, but, instead of obeying, he ordered the pioneer guard to advance, and sustained it by a detachment of troops. Amid the raining missiles they moved forward, when the crowd fell back, some fleeing up the side streets. The guard then mounted the barricade, and in a short time it was scattered in every direction; and when the order "Forward" was given, the column marched straight on the mob. At this moment, Justice Lowndes, at the head of a band of watchmen, arrived on the ground, when the two forces moved forward together, clearing the street of the rioters. While the fight was going on, some of the gang remained inside the church, and kept the bell ringing violently, until Colonel Stevens ordered one of his officers to cut the rope. A portion of the mob now hurried to Thompson Street, where Mr. Ludlow resided. The family had retired for the night, but their repose was suddenly broken by loud yells and the sound of stones dashing in their windows. Jumping up in wild alarm, they saw the doors broken in, through which streamed the shouting, yelling crowd. Either from fear of the military, which they knew would soon be upon them, or some other cause, they decamped almost as suddenly as they came, and relieved the terror-stricken household of their presence. About this time, another immense mob had collected at Five Points. The rioters here seemed to be well organized, and to act in concert. Runners were kept passing between the different bodies, keeping each informed of the actions of the other, and giving notice of the approach of the police. The destruction at Five Points was on a more extensive scale, and the gatherings in this, then dangerous section of the city--the home of desperadoes and depraved beings of every kind--were of such a character, that for a time the city authorities seemed to be over-awed. The rioters had it all their own way for several hours, and the midnight heavens became lurid with burning dwellings. It somehow got round that they had resolved to attack every house not illuminated with candles, and these dirty streets soon became brilliant with the lighted windows. Five houses of ill-fame were gutted, and almost entirely demolished. St. Philip's Church, in Centre Street, occupied by a colored congregation, was broken into, and for two hours the mob continued the work of destruction unmolested. They left it a complete ruin. A house adjoining, and three houses opposite, shared the same fate. The mob was everywhere; and although the police made some arrests and had some fights, they were too weak to effect much. About one o'clock a shout arose, "away to Anthony Street!" and thither the yelling wretches repaired. The Mayor was at the City Hall all night, doing what he could; but the mob had arranged their plans to act in concert, appearing in separate bodies in different sections of the city at the same time, so that he hardly knew, with the force at his disposal, where to strike. The next morning he issued another proclamation, calling on the citizens to report to him and be organized into companies to aid the police. He called also on all the volunteer military companies of the city to rally to the support of the laws. They did so, and that (Saturday) night they, with most of the fire companies, who had offered their services, were stationed in strong bodies all over the city; and the rioters saw that their rule was ended. Beside, many of the most notorious ringleaders had been arrested and put in prison. A short fight occurred in Catharine Street between the police and mob, in which both had some of their men badly hurt; and an attempt was made to get up a riot in Reade Street, but it was promptly put down. The city was rife with rumors of bloody things which the mob had threatened to do; but, with the exception of the military in the streets, the city on Sunday presented its usual appearance. The lawless spirit was crushed out, and a hundred and fifty of the desperadoes who had been instrumental in rousing it were locked up to await their trial. In June of the summer of 1835 occurred the Five Points riot, which grew out of the feeling between Americans and foreigners. It threatened for a time to be a very serious matter, but was finally quelled by the police without the aid of the military. Dr. W. M. Caffrey was accidentally killed by one of the mob, and Justice Lowndes was dangerously wounded. In connection with the series of riots of 1834 and 1835, might be mentioned the Stonecutters' riot, though it was promptly suppressed. STONECUTTERS' RIOT. The contractors for the building of the New York University found that they could purchase dressed stone at Sing Sing, the work of the prisoners there, much cheaper than in New York, and so concluded to use it. This, the stonecutters of the city said, was taking the bread out of their mouths, and if allowed to go on would destroy their business. They held excited meetings on the subject, and finally got up a procession and paraded the streets with placards asserting their rights and denouncing the contractors. They even attacked the houses of some of the citizens, and assumed such a threatening attitude, that the Twenty-seventh Regiment, Colonel Stevens, was called out. Their steady, determined march on the rioters dispersed them and restored quiet. Apprehensions were felt, however, that they would reassemble in the night and vent their rage on the University building, and so a part of the regiment encamped in Washington Square in full view of it. They remained here four days and nights, until the excitement subsided, and the work could go on unmolested. CHAPTER VII. FLOUR RIOT OF 1837. Starvation will always create a Riot.--Foreign Population easily aroused against the Rich.--Severe Winter of 1836.--Scarcity of Flour.--Meeting of Citizens called without Result.--Meeting called in the Park.--Speeches.--Sacking of Hart & Co.'s Flour Store, in Washington Street.--Strange Spectacle.--National Guards called out.--Disperse the Mob.--Attack on Herrick's Flour Store.--Folly of the Riot. Hunger will drive any people mad, and once let there be real suffering for want of food among the lower classes, while grain is piled up in the storehouses of the rich, and riots will surely follow. In the French Revolution of 1789, there was a great scarcity of provisions, which caused frightful outbreaks. It will never do to treat with scorn the cry of millions for bread. When, amid the general suffering in Paris, one said to Foulon, the minister of state, the people are starving for bread, he replied, "Let them eat hay." The next day he was hung to a lamp-post. The tumultuous multitude marching on Versailles, shouting wildly for "bread," was a fearful spectacle. One can hardly blame starving men from seizing food by violence, if it can be got in no other way; and if ever a mob could be justifiable, it would be when they see their families suffering and perishing around them, in the very sight of well-stored granaries. In the old despotisms of Europe, the poor and oppressed attribute all their want and suffering to the rich and powerful, so that they are not held back from redressing their wrongs by ignorance of their source, but fear of the strong hand of their rulers. These men, embittered not only by their own sufferings, but by the traditions of the past, when they come to this country are easily roused to commit acts of violence by anything that reminds them of their old oppressions. They have tasted the wormwood and the gall, and refuse to have it pressed to their lips in a country where liberty is the birthright of all. This is what has made, and still makes, the foreign population among us so dangerous. The vast proportion of them are from this very class. Ignorant of everything but their wrongs, they rise in angry rebellion at any attempt, or fancied attempt, to renew them here. Unfortunately there are Americans among us, who, knowing this, work upon this sensitive, suspicious feeling, to accomplish their own ends. The politician does it to secure votes; but the worst class is composed of those who edit papers that circulate only among the scum of society, and embittered by the sight of luxuries beyond their reach, are always ready to denounce the rich and excite the lower classes against what they call the oppression of the aristocracy. It is doubtful whether the frightful riot of 1863 would ever have taken place, but for this tone assumed by many of the city papers. So of this flour riot, it probably would never have happened, but for demagogues, who lashed the ignorant foreign population into fury against their rich oppressors. Starvation, which as we said may be a justification of violence, did not exist--it was only the high price of provisions, growing out of scarcity, that caused it, but which scarcity, they were told, was created solely by the cupidity of the rich. The year in which the great fire occurred, was a disastrous one to the crops of the country. The mighty West, that great granary of the nation, was not then open as now, and the main supply of grain came from east of the Alleghanies. Hence the cause which would create a short crop in one section, would be apt to prevail more or less over all the grain region. We imported wheat at this time very largely; not only from England, but from the Black Sea. In September, flour was about seven dollars a barrel, but this, as the winter came on, went up to twelve dollars--a great rise at that time. From Virginia, a great wheat State, came disastrous tidings; not only was the crop short and the price of flour high, but it was said that the latter would probably go up to fifteen or twenty dollars a barrel. In Troy, a great depot for State flour, it was stated that there were only four thousand barrels against thirty thousand at the same time the previous year. As February came on, a report circulated in the city that there were only three or four weeks' supply on hand. This was repeated in the penny papers, with the information added, that in certain stores were hoarded vast amounts of grain and flour, kept out of the market to compel a still greater advance in the price. This was very probably true, as it is a rule with merchants, when they have a large stock of anything on hand, of which there threatens to be a scarcity, to hold on in order to make the scarcity greater--thus forcing higher prices. This will always prove a dangerous experiment in this country in the article of flour. It is the prime necessary of life, and the right to make it scarce for the sake of gain, and at the expense of human suffering, will always be questioned by the poorer classes. Although the stock of grain on hand at this time was small, there was no danger of starvation, nor was it to the instinct of self-preservation that demagogues appealed. They talked of the rich oppressing the poor by their extortions--of monopolists, caring only to increase their gains without regard to the distress they occasioned. There was, doubtless, much suffering among the poorer classes, not only on account of the high price of flour, but also of all the necessary articles of living. Meat advanced materially, while from some strange fatality, coal went up to ten dollars a ton. There seemed no reason for this, as the amount sent to market was said to be largely in excess of the previous year. In Canada, coal was so scarce, that the line of steamers between Montreal and Quebec was suspended before winter set in. This state of things excited the attention of the people generally, and in the fore-part of this month, a public meeting was called at the Tabernacle to consider what could be done. It amounted to nothing. Some speeches were made, resolutions offered, but nothing practical was proposed. The temperance people attempted to make a little capital out of it, by asserting that the high price of grain was owing to the amount used by the distilleries--rye being sold as high as one dollar and seventy cents per bushel. But a different class of people were now discussing the subject, and in a different spirit. Their attention was directed to _men_, not _theories_--the individual oppressors, not the general causes. Chief among those against whom the popular feeling was now directed, was Hart & Co., large commission merchants in Washington Street, between Dey and Cortlandt Streets. Their store was packed with flour and wheat, and every day men passed it with sinister looks. Sometimes a little knot of men would stop opposite it, and talk of the loads of grain stored up there, while their own families were pinched for bread. They would gaze savagely on its heavy iron doors, that seemed to defy the weak and helpless, and then walk on, muttering threats and curses. These signs of a gathering storm were, however, unheeded by the proprietors. Others, better informed, were not so tranquil; and by anonymous letters tried to arouse Mr. Hart to take precautionary measures. An anonymous letter addressed to Mr. W. Lenox was picked up in the Park, in which the writer stated that a conspiracy was formed for breaking open and plundering Mr. Hart's store, and gave the following plan of action. On some dark night, two alarms of fire were to be given, one near the Battery, and the other up town, in order to draw off the watchmen and police, when a large crowd already assembled in the neighborhood would make a sudden rush for the building, and sack it before help could arrive. This letter was handed to the High Constable Hays, who showed it to Hart & Co., but they seemed to regard it as an attempt to frighten them. This was followed by anonymous letters from other parties, that reached the Mayor, insisting on it that danger was hanging over this house. He sent them to Hart & Co., but they, thinking it was only a trick to put down the price of flour, paid no attention to them. They locked their three massive iron doors at night as usual, and went to their homes without fear, and the underground swell kept on increasing in volume. The first plan of operation, if it ever existed, was either abandoned by the mob or deferred till after other measures were tried. At length, on the afternoon of the 10th of February, the following placard was posted up all over the city: BREAD, MEAT, RENT, FUEL! _The voice of the people shall be heard and will prevail._ The people will meet in the PARK, _rain or shine_, at four o'clock on MONDAY AFTERNOON, to inquire into the cause of the present unexampled distress, and to devise a suitable remedy. All friends of humanity, determined to resist monopolists and extortioners, are invited to attend. Moses Jacques. Daniel Graham. Paulus Hedle. John Windt. Daniel A. Robertson. Alexander Ming, Jr. Warden Hayward. Elijah F. Crane. NEW YORK, _Feb_. 10_th_, 1837. The idle crowd had all day Sunday to talk over this call. Everywhere knots of men were seen gathered before these placards--some spelling out slowly, and with great difficulty, the words for themselves--others reading the call to those unable to read it. The groggeries were filled with excited men, talking over the meeting, and interspersing their oaths with copious draughts of liquor, and threatening openly to teach these rich oppressors a lesson they would not soon forget. There was something ominous in the hour selected for the meeting; four o'clock in February meant night, before it would get under full headway. It was evident that the leaders did not mean the meeting to be one of mere speech-making. They knew that under cover of darkness, men could be incited to do what in broad daylight they would be afraid to undertake. Before the time appointed, a crowd began to assemble, the character of which boded no good. Dirty, ragged, and rough-looking, as they flowed from different quarters together into the inclosure, those who composed it were evidently a mob already made to hand. At length, four or five thousand shivering wretches were gathered in front of the City Hall. Moses Jacques, a man who would make a good French Communist to-day, was chosen chairman. But this motley multitude had no idea or respect for order, or regular proceedings, and they broke up into different groups, each pushing forward its favorite orator. One of the strangest freaks of this meeting, was an address to a collection of Democrats by Alexander Ming, Jr. He forgot all about the object of the meeting, and being a strong Bentonian, launched out into the currency question, attributing all the evils of the Republic, past, present, and to come, to the issue of bank-notes; and advising his hearers to refuse to take the trash altogether, and receive nothing but specie. This was the more comical, as not one out of ten of the poor wretches he addressed had the chance to refuse either. Half starving, they would have been glad to receive anything in the shape of money that would help them through the hard winter. Yet when Mr. Ming offered a resolution, proposing a memorial to the Legislature, requiring a law to be passed, forbidding any bank to issue a note under the denomination of a hundred dollars, the deluded people, who had been listening with gaping mouths, rent the air with acclamations. It was a curious exhibition of the wisdom of the sovereign people--this verdict of a ragged mob on the currency question. They were so delighted with this lucid exposition of the cause of the scarcity of flour, that they seized the orator bodily, and elevating him on their shoulders, bore him across the street to Tammany Hall, where something beside specie was received from behind the bar to reward their devotion. There was, however, some excuse for him. He had been several times candidate for city register, and hence was more anxious to secure votes than flour--be a popular demagogue rather than a public benefactor. But there were other speakers who kept more directly to the point. They launched at once into a bitter tirade against landlords for their high rents, and against monopolists for holding on to flour at the expense of the poor and suffering. Knowing the character of the audience before them, and their bitter hatred of the rich that had grown with their growth, and strengthened with their strength in the old country, it was not difficult to lash them into a tempest of passion. They depicted the aristocrats around them rolling in wealth, wrung from their necessities--laughing at their sufferings while rioting in luxury--nay, hoarding up the very bread without which they must starve, in order to realize a few dollars more on a barrel of flour. Loud oaths and deep muttered curses followed these appeals, and the excited multitude became agitated with passion. One of the speakers closed his bitter harangue with "Fellow-citizens, Mr. Eli Hart has now 53,000 barrels of flour in his store; let us go and offer him eight dollars a barrel for it, and if he will not take it--" It was not difficult to know how he meant to close the sentence; but just then, a friend shrewder than he, seeing the legal consequences to themselves of an open proposition to resort to violence, touched him on the shoulder, when in a lower tone of voice he concluded: "_we shall depart in peace_." In the excitement of the moment, he had evidently forgotten the guarded language he intended to use, and was about to utter that which would have consigned him to a prisoner's cell, but checked himself in time. He was willing others should suffer the consequence of violating the law, to which his appeals urged them; but his love for the poor did not prompt him to share their fate. It was bitterly cold, and it was a wonder that the crowd had listened patiently so long. The proposition to go to Hart's store with a demand for flour, was instantly seized, and those around the speaker started off with a shout, and streaming down Broadway, poured in one dark living stream along Cortlandt Street into Washington Street. The clerks in the store heard the turmoil, and suspecting the object of the rioters, rushed to the doors and windows, and began to close and bolt them. There were three large iron doors opening on the sidewalk, and they had succeeded in bolting and barring all but one, when the mob arrived. Forcing their way through this middle door, the latter seized the barrels, and began to roll them out into the street. Mr. Hart, who, either from curiosity to hear what the meeting would propose to do, or from his suspicions being aroused from what he had previously heard, was on the spot, and as soon as he saw the crowd stream out of the Park, down Broadway, he hurried to the police, and obtaining a posse of officers, made all haste for his store. But as they were going down Dey Street, the mob, which blocked the farther end, rushed on them with such fury, that before they had time to defend themselves, their clubs, or staves as they were then called, were wrenched from their hands and broken into fragments. The crowd was not yet very great, and the disarmed officers forced their way into Washington Street and into the store. Their presence frightened the few inside, and they hastily decamped. The Mayor, who was in his room at the City Hall, had been speedily notified of the riot, and hurried to the spot. The crowd remaining in the Park had also been informed of what was going on, and dashing madly down Broadway, and through Cortlandt Street, joined with loud shouts their companions in front of the store. The Mayor mounted a flight of steps, and began to harangue the mob, urging them to desist, and warning them of the consequences of their unlawful action. He had not proceeded far, however, before brick-bats, and sticks, and pieces of ice came raining around him in such a dangerous shower, that he had to give it up, and make his way to a place of safety. The street was now black with the momentarily increasing throng, and emboldened by their numbers, they made a rush at the entrance of the store. Driving the police-officers before them, they wrenched by main force one of the heavy iron doors from its hinges. A half a score of men at once seized it, and using it as a battering-ram, hurled it with such force against the others, that after a few thundering blows, they one after another gave way, and the crowd poured in. The clerks fled, and the rioters went to work without hindrance. Mounting to the upper lofts, they first broke in all the doors and windows, and then began to roll and heave out the flour. The barrels on the ground-floor were rolled, swift as one could follow another, into the street, when they were at once seized by those waiting without, and their heads knocked in, and their contents strewn over the pavement. On the upper lofts, they were rolled to the broken windows, and lifted on to the sill, and tumbled below. Warned by their descent, the crowd backed to the farther side of the street. Part would be staved in by their fall; those that were not, were seized as they rolled off the sidewalk, and the heads knocked out. One fellow, as he stood by the window-sill and pitched the barrels below, shouted as each one went with a crash to the flagging: "_Here goes flour at eight dollars a barrel!_" The scene which now presented itself was a most strange, extraordinary one. The night was clear and cold, and the wintry moon was sailing tranquilly through the blue and starlit heavens, flooding here and there the sea of upturned faces with its mellow light, or casting the deep shadow of intervening houses over the black mass, while the street looked as if a sudden snow-storm had carpeted it with white. The men in the windows and those below were white with flour that had sifted over their garments; while, to give a still wilder aspect to the scene, women, some bareheaded, some in rags, were roaming around like camp-followers after plunder. Here a group had seized empty boxes; there others pressed forward with baskets on their arms; and others still, empty-handed, pushed along, with their aprons gathered up like a sack. These all knelt amid the flour, and scooped it up with an eagerness that contrasted strangely with the equal eagerness of those who were scattering it like sand over the street. The heavy thud of the barrels as they struck almost momentarily on the sidewalk, could be distinctly heard above the shouts of the men. Some of the mob found their way into Mr. Hart's counting-room, and tore up his papers and scattered them over the floor. It was evident they were bent on utter destruction; but when about five hundred barrels of flour had been destroyed, together with a thousand bushels of wheat in sacks, a heavy force of police came marching along the street. These were soon after followed by detachments of the National Guards from Colonel Smith's and Hele's regiments. The flashing of the moonbeams on the burnished barrels and bayonets of their muskets, struck terror into the hearts of the rioters. The cry of "The soldiers are coming!" flew from lip to lip, causing a sudden cessation of the work of destruction, and each one thought only of self-preservation. Many, however, were arrested, and sent off to Bridewell under the charge of Officer Bowyer, with a squad of police. The latter were assailed, however, on the way, by a portion of the mob that pursued them, and a fierce fight followed. In the struggle, Bowyer and his assistants had their clothes torn from their backs, and some of the prisoners were rescued. In the meantime, the military paraded the street, clearing it of the mob, and preventing their return. In front of the store, and far beyond it, the flour lay half-knee deep--a sad spectacle, in view of the daily increasing scarcity of grain. Just before the military and police reached the ground, some one in the crowd shouted "Meeches." This was another flour store at Coenties Slip, on the other side of the city, nearly opposite. A portion of the mob on the outside, that could not get to the store, and aid in the work of destruction, at once hurried away to this new field of operations. On the way over, they passed Herrick & Co.'s flour store, and stopped to demolish it. They were loaded down with brick-bats, which they hurled at the windows, smashing them in. The doors followed, and the crowd, rushing through, began to roll out the barrels of flour. But when some twenty or thirty were tumbled into the street, and about half of them staved in, they, for some cause or other, stopped. Some said that they ceased because the owner promised, if they did, he would give it all away to the poor the next day. At all events, they would soon have been compelled to abandon the work of destruction, for the police hastened to the spot, accompanied by a large body of citizens, who had volunteered their help. Some were arrested, but most of the ringleaders escaped. How many of those who attended the meeting in the Park anticipated a mob and its action, it is impossible to say; but that a great number of them did, there can be no doubt. By nine o'clock the riot was over, and those who had engaged in it were either arrested or dispersed. The next day, Mr. Hart issued a card, denying that the exorbitant price of flour was owing to his having purchased a large quantity for the sake of monopolizing it, but to its scarcity alone. It was certainly a very original way to bring down the price, by attempting to destroy all there was in the city. Complaining of suffering from the want of provisions, they attempted to relieve themselves by putting its possession out of their power altogether. With little to eat, they attempted to make it impossible to eat at all. A better illustration of the insensate character of a mob could not be given. CHAPTER VIII. ASTOR-PLACE RIOTS, 1849. Rivalry between Forrest and Macready.--Macready's Arrival in this Country.--The Announcement of his Appearance at the Astor-place Opera House, and Forrest at the Broadway Theatre the same Night posted Side by Side.--Bowery Boys crowd the Opera House.--Anxiety of the Managers.--Consultations and Dramatic Scenes behind the Curtain.--Stamping of the People.--Scene on raising the Curtain.--Stormy Reception of Macready.--Howled down.--Mrs. Pope driven from the Stage by the Outrageous Language of the Mob.--Macready not allowed to go on.--His foolish Anger.--Flees for his Life.--His Appearance the Second Night.--Preparations to put down the Mob.--Exciting Scene in the Theatre.--Terrific Scenes without.--Military arrive.--Attacked by the Mob.--Patience of the Troops.--Effort to avoid Firing.--The Order to Fire.--Terrific Scene.--Strange Conduct of Forrest.--Unpublished Anecdote of General Scott. Probably there never was a great and bloody riot, moving a mighty city to its profoundest depths, that originated in so absurd, insignificant a cause as the Astor-place riot. A personal quarrel between two men growing out of professional jealousy, neither of whom had any hold on the affections of the people, were able to create a tumult, that ended only by strewing the street with the dead and wounded. Mr. Forrest, it is true, had a certain professional popularity, but nothing to awaken a personal enthusiasm for him. Viewing the matter in this light, some have thought, there was a mysterious underground influence at work, that has never yet been discovered. But one needs not to go far to find the causes that produced it. In the first place, ever since our revolt from England, especially since the second war with her, in which the contest for the supremacy of the seas was decided, the spirit of rivalry between the two countries has been intense and often bitter. No matter what the contest was, whether between two boats, or two bullies in the ring, it at once assumed the magnitude of a national one, and no matter how conducted, the winner was always charged with unfairness. It so happened that Forrest and Macready were the two popular tragic actors on either side of the Atlantic. If they had stayed at home, nothing would have been thought of it, but each invaded the domain of the other, and laid claim to his laurels. Of course criticism followed, national prejudices were aroused, and national peculiarities ridiculed. The press took sides, and fanned the excitement. Among other things, it was currently reported that when Forrest was in London, Macready went to see him act, and publicly hissed him. This was generally believed, and of course it alone would insure the latter an unwelcome reception from Forrest's admirers here, should he ever appear on our stage. Apparently unconscious of this hostility toward him, Macready came over in the spring of 1849, and at once made an engagement at the Astor-place Opera House, corner of Eighth Street and Lafayette Place. He was to appear as Macbeth; and the play was announced sometime beforehand. Forrest at the same time had an engagement at the Broadway Theatre. On the 7th of May, the following two significant placards appeared side by side in all the streets. ASTOR PLACE OPERA HOUSE. _This evening will be performed_ MACBETH. MACBETH ... Macready. LADY MACBETH ... Mrs. Pope. BROADWAY THEATRE. _This evening will be performed_ MACBETH. MACBETH ... Mr. Forrest. LADY MACBETH ... Mrs. Wallack. This public exhibition of rivalry stimulated the hostility of those opposed to Macready, and there were some fears of disturbance; but nothing serious was anticipated--in fact, it was rather a good advertisement, and promised full houses. Niblo, one of the managers of the Opera House, unwisely gave out tickets for more people than the building would hold, and when, before evening, he found they were taken, he was alarmed. It looked as if they had been so eagerly bought up for other purposes than merely to hear Macready. He therefore went to the Chief of Police, and requested the presence of a force in case any disturbance should be attempted. It was promised, but as it turned out, most of it came too late to be of any service. A tremendous crowd assembled in front of the building long before dark, and the moment the doors were open, a rush was made, and the human tide poured in, and flowing swiftly over the house, soon filled every part of it, except the boxes. These filled up more slowly; but long before the curtain rose, the house was packed to repletion, while the amphitheatre and parquette were crowded with hard-looking men--a dense mass of bone and muscle. The fashionable portion of the audience in the boxes began to feel anxious, for not only were all the seats occupied, but all the aisles and every foot of standing room. Some were in their shirt-sleeves, others were ragged and dirty, while all had their hats on. Such an audience had never before been seen in the Opera House, and it boded no good. Still, this heterogeneous mass was orderly, but it was noticed that at short intervals telegraphic signals were made by those nearest the stage to those in the wings of the amphitheatre, and answered, indicating a thoroughly arranged plan. The time before the play was to commence passed slowly, but the hard-looking crowd seemed very patient. Occasionally, to vary the monotony, some joke would be passed around, and once a man who was above called out to those below, imitating the English pronunciation: "I say, Jim, come 'hup 'ere! 'ere's some of Macready's hangels--'haint they sweet 'uns?" If a lorgnette was levelled from one of the boxes, those noticing it below would put their thumbs to their noses and gyrate with their fingers in return. On the whole, however, the strange-looking crowd were orderly, although the quiet had an ominous look. But at half-past seven, the hour for the play to commence, that regular stamping, common to most theatres, began. But in this case, it did not continue for a little while and then die away, but beginning in a low rumble, every moment gathered strength and grew louder, till it rolled like thunder through the building, shaking the very walls, and making the glasses in the great central chandelier jingle, as though knocked together by invisible hands. As the mighty sound echoed through the recesses and dressing-rooms behind the scenes, Niblo became agitated, and stepping forward on the stage, peered behind the edge of the curtain, and surveyed the strange scene. Turning to Mr. Bowyer, of the chief's bureau, who was by his side, he said: "This looks rather dubious, Mr. Bowyer." "Yes," he replied, "the 'Boy's' are here certainly. What made you sell so many tickets? People are making a tremendous rush at the doors yet, and the house is full; over full already." Niblo then turned to his partner, and said: "What do you think, Mr. Hackett. Is there going to be a disturbance?" "I don't know," he replied; "you must ask Mr. Bowyer." The latter, putting his eye to the crack, took a careful survey of the audience, and remarked: "There is mischief in the parquette and amphitheatre, but probably no actual violence will be attempted; the 'boys' will make a noise, and endeavor to prevent the play from proceeding, but possibly they will do nothing further; they seem to be patient and good-natured, but Mr. Macready may expect a rough reception." Macready, who had been dressing, now approached and also took a peep from behind the curtain. His gaze was long and searching. The scrutiny did not satisfy him, and he turned away and began to pace backward and forward in one of the wings, moody and thoughtful. The stamping had ceased while the orchestra was playing, but it now commenced again, apparently louder than ever. Lady Macbeth in full dress now came on the stage, pale and agitated. She also took a peep from behind the curtain. The spectacle frightened her, and turning to Mr. Hackett, she whispered, rather than exclaimed, "My God! Mr. Hackett, what is the matter? Are we to be murdered to-night?" "My dear Madam," he replied, "keep calm, there is no cause for alarm; everything will go on smoothly;" but his pale face and anxious look belied his words. It seemed now as if the house would come down under the continuous, furious stamping. Hackett turned to Bowyer, and asked if the chief had come. The latter replied he did not know; and another silence followed in the group behind the curtain, while they stood and listened to the thundering tramp, tramp, that rose like muffled thunder. At length Hackett asked: "How many policemen are there in the house?" "I don't know," replied Bowyer. "But the chief should have known," retorted the former. "What do you want the police to do, Mr. Niblo?" quietly asked Bowyer. The latter hesitated a moment, when the attaches of the theatre came crowding forward in alarm, and asking by their scared looks what it all meant. Macready and Mrs. Pope, in full costume, were at this time standing apart, talking together, evidently discussing the best course to be pursued. The uproar seemed to grow louder, and prudence dictated a suspension of the play; but Macready, after a moment's hesitation, determined to risk it, and suddenly gave the signal to raise the curtain. The bell tinkled, and the curtain slowly rose, revealing the gorgeous scene and the actors standing in a blaze of light. Instantly the tumult ceased, and a deep sudden hush succeeded. Those roughs were evidently taken aback by the dazzling splendor that burst upon them. It was a new revelation to them, and for the moment they seemed to forget the object of their coming, and to be wholly absorbed in the vision before them. The first scene passed off quietly, and the fears of a disturbance were allayed. In the second, taking Duncan for Macbeth, the crowd began to hiss, but soon finding their mistake ceased. It was evident that some one better posted than the mass had control of this wild element, so eager to be let loose. At length Macbeth came on, and was received with deafening cheers by those in the boxes. As these died away, a hiss ran through the amphitheatre and parquette, followed by cat-calls, cock-crowing, and sounds of every imaginable description. Macready had hardly uttered a single sentence, before his voice was totally drowned in the uproar. Forced to stop; he quietly folded his arms and faced the storm, expecting it would soon blow over. Finding himself mistaken--that if anything it grew louder and fiercer, his disdain turned into foolish anger, and advancing to the footlights, and throwing all the contempt and scorn into his face that he was master of, he deliberately walked the entire breadth of the stage, gazing haughtily as he did so, into the faces of the roughs nearest him, who were bawling their throats hoarse. This did not mend matters any, as he easily could have foreseen, had he known this type of American character better. He then attempted to go on and outbellow, if possible, the audience. But it was like shouting amid the roar of breakers. Nobody heard a word he said, still he stuck to it till he got through that portion of the act. It was now Lady Macbeth's turn, and the appearance of a woman, it was thought, would command that respect which in America is almost always accorded to one. But her reception was worse than that of Macready, for not content with shouts and yells they heaped disgusting epithets on her, and were so vulgar in their ribaldry that she flew in affright from the stage, "blushing," it was said, "even through the rouge on her face." Macready, however, showing, if nothing else, good English pluck, determined to go on. But he had scarcely finished the first sentence, when some potatoes struck the stage at his feet; then rotten eggs, breaking and spattering their sickening contents over his royal robes; while howls that seemed to come from the lower regions arose on every side. It was Pandemonium broke loose, and those in the boxes, thoroughly alarmed, jumped to their feet and stood as if paralyzed, gazing on the strange spectacle below. Macready's passions were now thoroughly aroused, and he stubbornly stood his ground. Suddenly a chair hurled from above, and evidently aimed at his head, struck the stage at his feet and broke into fragments, followed by the shout, "Go off the stage, you English fool! Hoo! Three cheers for Ned Forrest!" which were given with a will. Then came another chair, narrowly missing Macready's head, who, now alarmed for his personal safety, fled from the stage, and the curtain fell. But the bedlam that had been let loose did not stop. Hoots, curses, threats of vengeance, and the confused sounds of a mob given wholly over to passion, struck terror into all hearts; and Macready, fearing a rush would be made for him behind the scenes, left the theatre by a private door, and jumping into a carriage was rapidly driven to his hotel. The manager, alarmed for the safety of the building, attempted to announce his departure to the audience, but in vain. They would not listen to him, and as a last resort he chalked in large letters on a board, "_Macready has left the theatre_" and hoisted it before the footlights. This had the desired effect, and the headlong crowd, with shouts and laughter, began to tumble out. Once in the street, they sent up a loud hurrah, and dispersed in groups to their various drinking places, to talk over their victory and damn all Englishmen. The fact that the mob refrained from damaging the theatre, shows that they did not desire destruction; they had only done in their rough way what other men deemed respectable, and even legislators, have often done, and almost as boisterously, to prevent an obnoxious person from being heard. They certainly had many respectable precedents for their course, and Mr. Macready should have done what others have been compelled to do--given up the attempt and waited for a more propitious time. That a man has a right to play or speak, is true; but men of all grades have always asserted the right to show their displeasure of the acting of the one or the sentiments of the other. Not that there is any excuse for such conduct as we have described, but it can be hardly called a serious riot, although by whomsoever committed is unquestionably riotous in its character. Of this contemptible, disgraceful interference of his friends in his quarrel, Forrest had nothing to say--he kept a studied silence. How a man with any self-respect could have refrained from denouncing it, and repudiating all sympathy and connection with it by a public card, it will be difficult for men of ordinary sensibility to imagine. Macready now determined to throw up his engagement altogether, but after much consultation and deliberation changed his mind. A letter was addressed to him by many of the most wealthy and prominent citizens of the city, in which they expressed their regret at the treatment he had received, and urged him not to yield to such a lawless spirit. They promised that he should be protected in his rights, and hoped he would give the city an opportunity to wipe out the stain that had been put upon its character. This he unwisely consented to do, and the next Thursday was fixed for his appearance in the same play. When the placards announcing it were pasted up, there appeared immediately alongside of them another, announcing the appearance on the same evening of Forrest, in the Broadway Theatre, in the character of the "Gladiator." In the meantime other posters appeared, and among them the following in startling capitals: "WORKINGMEN! SHALL AMERICANS OR ENGLISH RULE IN THIS CITY? The crew of the British steamer have threatened all Americans who shall dare to offer their opinions this night at the ENGLISH ARISTOCRATIC OPERA HOUSE. WORKINGMEN! FREEMEN! STAND UP TO YOUR LAWFUL RIGHTS." It will be observed, that this artful appeal was like a two-edged sword, cutting both ways. It aimed at the same time to stir up the hatred of the lower classes against the upper, by the word aristocratic; and the national hatred of the English, by calling it the _English aristocratic_ Opera House to be guarded by English sailors. Both parties now began active preparations for the eventful night--the rioters by increasing and organizing their forces, and setting on foot plans to get possession of the house; the friends of Macready, to prevent this from being done, and at the same time secure sufficient aid from the authorities to suppress all open violence. To keep the rowdies from occupying the house, tickets were sold or given away only to those known to be friendly to Macready; while to suppress violence, three hundred police were promised, to be supported if necessary by two regiments of soldiers, who were ordered to be under arms at their quarters, ready to march at a moment's notice. As the day advertised for the play approached, the excitement deepened, and serious trouble seemed unavoidable. On the appointed evening, a strong body of police was quietly placed inside of the house, with definite instructions how to act. In the meantime, an immense crowd had assembled in front of the building, and, when at last the doors opened, a rush was made for them. But the police kept the crowd back, and only those who had tickets were admitted. When the house was fairly filled, the doors were closed and fastened. In the meantime the windows had been barricaded, with the exception of one, which was overlooked. This the now disappointed rabble assailed with stones, sending them through it, in among the startled audience. They tried also to break down one of the doors, but the policemen's clubs stopped them. Then commenced a series of yells and shouts, mingled with horrid oaths and threats as the baffled wretches surged around the building. Finding nothing else to vent their rage on, they attacked the lamps in the neighborhood, breaking them to pieces, and putting out the lights. In the meantime, the play inside, with this wild accompaniment without, commenced. Notwithstanding all the care that had been taken, a large number of roughs had succeeded in procuring tickets, showing that some professedly respectable men had been in collusion with them. Although the rioters inside were in a minority, they were not daunted, and being determined that the play should not go on, commenced stamping and yelling so, that Macready's voice from the outset was completely drowned. The police in disguise had mingled all day with the rioters, and ascertained what the mode of action inside the house was to be. At a certain point in the play, a signal was to be given, on seeing which the entire body was to make a rush for the stage and seize Macready. The Chief of Police arranged his plans accordingly, and imparted them to the force under him. He therefore made no effort to stop the noise, but waited for the expected signal. At length it was given, and the entire body of rioters rose with a yell and sprang forward. But at that moment, the chief gave _his_ signal, which was lifting his hat from his head. Every eye of those determined policemen had been intently watching it, and as it now rose, they sprang with a single bound upon the astonished rowdies, and before they could recover from their surprise, most of them were outside of the building, while the ringleaders were kept back and caged inside. The play now went on, but it was a spiritless affair. Every ear was turned to hear the muffled roar of the voices outside, which every moment increased in power as the mighty multitude kept swelling in numbers. The afterpiece was omitted, and Macready escaping through a private door, hastened to his hotel. It seemed for a time that the building would be torn down; but at length, a regiment of the National Guard, preceded by a body of cavalry, was seen marching steadily up Broadway. The crowd parted as it advanced, and as it turned into Eighth Street, the sharp word of command, "right wheel," rang out distinct and clear over the uproar. The rioters, instead of being intimidated, rushed to a pile of paving-stones that unfortunately happened to be near, and arming themselves with these, began to pelt the horses, which soon became unmanageable, so that the cavalry force had to retire. The infantry then advanced, but were received with such a deluge of stones that they, too, fell back to Broadway. Here they rallied, and at the order forward, moved steadily on the mob, and forced their way to the front of the Opera House. While forming line here on the sidewalk, they were assailed so fiercely with paving-stones, that the soldiers fell rapidly. The rioters were in close quarters, and the heavy stones, hurled at such a short distance, were almost as deadly as musket-balls. Captain Pond soon fell wounded, when the second in command told the sheriff that if he did not give the order to fire, the troops would be withdrawn, for they couldn't stand it. Recorder Talmadge, unwilling to resort to such a desperate measure, attempted to harangue the mob. He begged them, in God's name, to disperse and go home--if they did not, the soldiers would certainly fire on them, etc. The only reply was hoots and yells of defiance, and paving-stones. The Recorder then forced his way up to General Hall, standing at the right of the battalion, and said: "You must order your men to fire; it is a terrible alternative, but there is no other." The General asked for the Mayor, for he was doubtful of his authority to do so, without his order. "He won't be here," replied Talmadge. General Sandford then said: "Well, the National Guards will not stand and be pounded to death with stones; nearly one-third of the force is already disabled." After a little more hurried conversation, the sheriff said, "If that be so, you have permission to fire." The uproar all this time was deafening, and the order, "Ready!" of General Sandford, could hardly be heard; but the sharp, quick rattle of steel rose distinctly over the discord. Still terribly repugnant to shoot down citizens, General Hall and Colonel Duryea made another attempt to address the crowd, and begged them to cease these attacks. "Fire and be d--ned!" shouted a burly fellow. "Fire, if you dare--take the life of a freeborn American for a bloody British actor! D--n it, you dassent fire!" and he boldly bared his breast to the levelled muskets. "Fire, will you?" yelled another, as he hurled a paving-stone at General Sandford, wounding his sword arm. "Hit 'em again!" shouted a third, who saw the well-directed aim. Still averse to shedding blood, General Hall told the soldiers to elevate their pieces over the heads of the people, and fire at the blank wall of Mr. Langton's house opposite, hoping thus to frighten the mob. But this only awakened derision, and the leaders shouted, "Come on, boys! they have blank cartridges and leather flints!" In the meantime, the police, who had mingled with the mob, and were making arrests, began to force their way out, in order to escape the fire that now seemed inevitable. The troops moved across the street, and faced toward the Bowery, obeying the word of command promptly, and marching with great steadiness, although the pelting they received was murderous. To retreat would be pusillanimous, to stand there and be pelted to death worse still; and General Hall finally gave the order to fire point blank, but to aim low, so that men would be wounded, rather than killed. The command fell clear and distinct, "Fire!" A single musket shot on the extreme left was the only response. They were too near--their muzzles almost touching the hearts of the men, and it seemed terribly murderous to fire. "Fire!" shouted General Sandford. Three more musket-shots, only, followed. "Fire!" Duryea then cried out, in ringing tones. A swift volley ran along the line, shedding a momentary glare on the wild faces of the mob, the streets, and adjoining houses, and then came the report. This time the dead in their midst told the rioters that it was child's play no longer, and they fell back. But getting a new supply of paving-stones, they rallied, and once more advanced on the troops. A second volley, more murderous than the first, sent them crowding back on each other in terror. The troops now wheeled, and formed line again in front of the Opera House. It had got to be eleven o'clock, and more troops were ordered up, with two cannon. The mob, though dismayed, still refused to retire, and hung sullen and threatening as a thunder-cloud on the skirts of the military, and a third volley was poured into them. The rioters now separated, and fell back into the darkness, when the troops were ordered to fire the fourth time, in different directions--one wing down Eighth Street, and the other into Lafayette Place. This last volley, judging from the testimony of reliable witnesses, was altogether needless. The conflict was over. A lawyer of Wall Street, noted for his philanthropy and kindness, resided in Fourth Avenue, and being informed by a friend, late in the evening, that men were lying dead and wounded in Astor Place, he hastened down to see if he could be of any assistance to the poor creatures. Reaching Lafayette Place, he saw in the dim light a line of soldiers drawn up, though he saw no mob, only a few scattered men, who seemed to be spectators. Suddenly he heard the order to fire, and the next moment came a flash and report. He could not imagine what they were firing at; but suddenly he felt his arm numb, and the next moment he grew faint and dropped on the sidewalk, his arm broken to shivers. The brother of a well-known banker was shot in Broadway by a random bullet; and a man, while stepping out of a car in Third Avenue, was shot dead. Other innocent persons fell victims, as they always must, if they will hang on the skirts of a mob from curiosity. Men anxious to witness a fight must take the chances of getting hurt. Great excitement followed; an indignation meeting was called in the Park, coroners' juries stultified themselves, and a senseless outcry was made generally. Twenty-two were killed and thirty wounded. It was a terrible sacrifice to make for a paltry quarrel between two actors about whom nobody cared; and in this light alone many viewed it, forgetting that when the public peace is broken, it matters not how great or insignificant the cause, it must be preserved; and if the police or military are called out to do it, and are attacked, they must defend themselves, and uphold the laws, or be false to their trust. The authorities have to do with riots, not their causes; put them down, not deprecate their existence, or argue their justice. If public indignation had been turned against Forrest, it would have been more sensible. He knew perfectly well that if his friends persisted in their determination to attack Macready, the second night, blood would be spilt. It was _his_ quarrel, and yet he deliberately kept his lips closed. He neither begged them for their own sake, nor for his, or as good citizens, to forbear, and let his rival alone; nor after it was known that many had been killed, did he express a single word of regret; apparently having no feeling but gratification, that even at such a fearful sacrifice his hated rival had been driven from the field. But responsibility is not so easily shaken off, and in real life as well as in tragedy, conscience will force a man to cry: "Out! damned blood spot! Out, I say!" Macready left the country, and the excitement died away; but the painful memories of this absurd yet deadly riot will remain till the present generation has passed from the stage. We cannot close this account more fitly than by relating an anecdote of General Scott connected with it, that has never been made public. He was living at the time in Second Avenue, nearly opposite Astor Place. He was occupying the upper part of the house that evening, and his wife the lower. When the first volley over the heads of the people was fired, he hastened down, and sent off a servant to ascertain what it meant. Before the latter returned, he heard a second volley. Hurrying below, he despatched a second servant to find out what was going on, and went back to his room. A third volley smote on his ear, and deeply agitated he hurried below, and began to pace the room in an excited manner. His wife, observing how much he was moved, remarked pleasantly: "Why, General, you are frightened!" This was rather a staggerer to the old hero, and he turned and exclaimed: "Am I a man to be frightened, madam? It is _volley_ firing, madam--_volley_ firing. They are shooting down American citizens!" The old chieftain had heard that firing too often on the field of battle, to be ignorant of its meaning. He had seen ranks of living men reel and fall before it; nay, stood amid the curling smoke when his staff was swept down by his side, calm and unmoved, but here he was unmanned. Over the ploughed and blood-stained field, he had moved with nerves as steady as steel, and pulse beating evenly; but now he paced his safe and quiet room with his strong nature painfully agitated, and all because American citizens were being shot down by American citizens. The fact speaks volumes for the nobleness of his nature, and that unsullied patriotism which sheds tenfold lustre on his well-earned laurels. [Illustration: HEADQUARTERS METROPOLITAN FIRE DEPARTMENT.] [Illustration: HEADQUARTERS METROPOLITAN POLICE, 300 Mulberry Street.] CHAPTER IX. POLICE RIOT--DEAD-RABBITS' RIOT--BREAD RIOT. Creation of the Metropolitan District.--Collision between Mayor Wood's Police and the Metropolitan Police.--Seventh Regiment called out.--Dead-Rabbits' Riot.--Severe Fight between the Roach Guards and Dead Rabbits.--Police driven back.--Barricades erected.--Military called out.--Killed and Wounded.--Bread Riot.--Financial Distress. The year 1857 was a remarkable one in the history of New York City, and indeed of the whole country. The year previous had been characterized by intense political excitement, for the presidential campaign had been carried on as a sectional fight or a war between the upholders and enemies of the institution of slavery as it existed at the South. Pennsylvania alone by her vote defeated the antislavery party, and the South, seeing the danger that threatened it, had already begun to prepare for that tremendous struggle, that afterwards tested to the utmost the resources and strength of the North; while a financial storm overwhelmed the entire country in disaster. To these were added local causes, which affected New York City particularly, and made it a year of uncommon disturbance. The Republican party being largely in the ascendant in the State, determined to revolutionize the municipal government, and place the Democratic city partially under Republican rule. Many bills were passed during the session of Legislature, peculiarly obnoxious to the city authorities, but that which excited the most bitter opposition was called the Metropolitan Police Act, by which the counties of New York, Kings, Westchester, and Richmond were made one police district, to be controlled by a board of commissioners, consisting of five members appointed by the Governor and Senate, and to hold office for five years. This board having organized, proceeded to create a police department. Mayor Wood denied the constitutionality of the act and retained the old police--so that there were two police departments existing at the same time in the city. The Mayor resorted to all kinds of legal measures to defeat the action of the board, and the question was finally referred to the Court of Appeals for decision. In the mean time the death of a street commissioner left a vacancy to be filled. Governor King, acting under the recent law, appointed Daniel D. Conover to fill it, while the Mayor appointed Charles Devlin. A third claimant for the place appeared in the deputy, who asserted his right to act until the decision of the Court of Appeals was rendered. Conover had no idea of waiting for this, and proceeded to assume the duties of his office. The Mayor of course resisted, and so Conover got out a warrant from the Recorder to arrest the former on the charge of inciting a riot, and another on the charge of personal violence. Armed with these papers, and backed by fifty of the new policemen, he proceeded to the City Hall. The Mayor, aware of the movement, had packed the building with his own police, who refused him admittance. The new police attempted to force an entrance, when a fight followed, in which twelve policemen were severely injured. While things were in this critical condition, the Seventh Regiment passed down Broadway on its way to the boat for Boston, whither it was going to receive an ovation. A request for its interference was promptly granted, and marching into the Park they quickly quelled the riot, and the writs were served on the Mayor. Intense excitement followed, and so great was the fear of a terrible outbreak, that nine regiments were put under arms, ready to march at a moment's notice. But on the 1st of July the Court of Appeals decided the act to be constitutional, and the disturbance ended. But of course, while this strife was going on between the police, but little was done to arrest disorder in the city. The lawless became emboldened, and in the evening before the 4th of July a disturbance began, which for a time threatened the most serious consequences. DEAD-RABBITS' RIOT. The origin of the term "Dead Rabbits," which became so well known this year from being identified with a serious riot, is not certainly known. It is said that an organization known as the "Roach Guards," called after a liquor dealer by that name, became split into two factions, and in one of their stormy meetings some one threw a dead rabbit into the room, and one party suddenly proposed to assume the name. These two factions became bitterly hostile to each other; and on the day before the 4th of July came in collision, but finally separated without doing much damage. They were mostly young men, some of them being mere boys. The next day, the fight was renewed at Nos. 40 and 42 Bowery Street, and clubs, stones, and even pistols were freely used. The "Dead Rabbits" were beaten and retired, yelling and firing revolvers in the air, and attacking everybody that came in their way. Their uniform was a blue stripe on their pantaloons, while that of the Roach Guards was a red stripe. People in the neighborhood were frightened, and fastened their doors and windows. No serious damage was done, however. About ten o'clock, a policeman in Worth Street, while endeavoring to clear the sidewalk, was knocked down and severely beaten. At length, breaking away from his assailants, he hastened to the central office in White Street, and reported the state of things. A squad of police was immediately dispatched to arrest the ringleaders. On reaching Centre Street they found a desperate fight going on, and immediately rushed in, to put a stop to it. The belligerents at once made common cause against them. A bloody hand-to-hand conflict followed, but the police at length forced the mob to retreat. The latter, however, did not give up the contest, but mounting to the upper stories and roofs of the tenement-houses, rained down clubs and stones so fiercely, that the police were driven off with only two prisoners. Comparative quiet was now restored, though the excitement spread in every direction. It lasted, however, only an hour or two, when suddenly a loud yell was heard near the Tombs, accompanied with the report of fire-arms, and crowds of people came pouring down Baxter and Leonard Streets, to get out of the way of bullets. Some wounded men were carried by, and the utmost terror and confusion prevailed. The air was filled with flying missiles and oaths, and shouts of defiance. Now the Dead Rabbits would drive their foes before them, and again be driven back. The bloody fight thus swayed backwards and forwards through the narrow streets for a long time. At length twenty-five Metropolitan Police appeared on the scene, while fifty more were held in reserve. Though assailed at every step with clubs and stones, they marched steadily on, clearing the crowd as they advanced, and forcing the Dead Rabbits into the houses, whither they followed them, mounting even to the roof, and clubbing them at every step. After clearing the houses, they resumed their march, when they were again attacked by the increasing crowd, many of them armed with muskets and pistols. Barricades were now erected, behind which the mob rallied, and the contest assumed the aspect of a regular battle. The notorious Captain Rynders came on the ground, between six and seven o'clock, and attempted to restore quiet. Not succeeding, however, he repaired to the office of the Police Commissioners, and told Commissioner Draper, if he had not police force enough to disperse the mob, he should call out the military. The latter replied that he had made a requisition on Major-General Sandford, for three regiments, and that they would soon be on the ground. But it was nine o'clock before they made their appearance. The police then formed in two bodies of seventy-five men each, and supported, one by the Seventy-first Regiment and the other by the Eighth, marched down White and Worth Streets. This formidable display of force overawed the rioters, and they fled in every direction. This ended the riot, although the military were kept on duty during the night. At times, the fight was close and deadly, and it was reported that eight were killed and some thirty wounded. BREAD RIOT. In the autumn, there came a financial crisis, that was so wide-spread and disastrous that the lower classes suffered for want of food. Banks suspended specie payment, manufactories were forced to stop work, and paralysis fell on the whole industry of the nation. It was estimated that ten thousand persons were thrown out of employment. These soon used up their earnings, and destitution and suffering of course followed. Their condition grew worse as cold weather came on, and many actually died of starvation. At length they became goaded to desperation, and determined to help themselves to food. Gaunt men and women, clad in tatters, gathered in the Park, and that most fearful of all cries, when raised by a mob, "Bread," arose on every side. Propositions were made to break open the stores, and get what they needed. Flour was hoarded up in them because so little could be got on from the West. The granaries there were groaning with provisions; but there was no money to pay for the transportation. There was money East, but kept locked up in fear. As this became known to the mob, their exasperation increased. To know that there were both food enough and money enough, while they were starving to death, was enough to drive them mad, and there were ominous mutterings. Fortunately, the authorities saw in time the threatened danger, and warded it off. A great many were set to work on the Central Park and other public works, while soup-houses were opened throughout the city, and private associations formed to relieve the suffering; and the winter passed without any outbreak, though more than five thousand business-houses in the country failed, with liabilities reaching three hundred millions of dollars. CHAPTER X. DRAFT RIOTS OF 1863. Cause of the Riots--The London _Times_.--Draft called a despotic Measure.--The despotic Power given to Washington by Congress.--Despotic Action sometimes Necessary, in order to save the Life of the Nation.--The Rights of Government.--Drafting the Legitimate Way to raise an Army--It is not Unequal or Oppressive. The ostensible cause of the riots of 1863 was hostility to the draft, because it was a tyrannical, despotic, unjust measure--an act which has distinguished tyrants the world over, and should never be tolerated by a free people. Open hostility to oppression was more than once hinted in a portion of the press--as not only a right, but a duty. Even the London _Times_ said, "It would have been strange, indeed, if the American people had submitted to a measure which is a distinctive mark of the most despotic governments of the Continent." As if the fact that a measure, because resorted to by a despotic government, was therefore necessarily wrong. It might as well be said, that because settling national difficulties by an appeal to arms has always been a distinctive feature of despotic governments, therefore the American people should refuse to sustain the government by declaring or prosecuting any war; or that because it has always been a distinctive feature of despotic governments to have naval and military schools, to train men to the art of war, therefore the American people should not submit to either. It is not of the slightest consequence to us what despotic governments do or not do; the simple question is, whether the measure is necessary for the protection of our own government, and the welfare of the people. To leave this untouched, and talk only about despotism, the right of the people, and all that, is mere demagogism, and shows him who utters it to be unfit to control public opinion. Besides, there is a great difference between measures that are despotic, which are put forth to save the nation's life, or honor, and those put forth to destroy freedom, and for selfish ends. Not that, intrinsically, despotic measures are always not to be deprecated and avoided, if possible; for if tolerated in one case, they may be exacted in another. [Illustration: FORT LAFAYETTE, NEW YORK HARBOR.] [Illustration: FORT HAMILTON, from whence U.S. Troops were sent to aid in suppressing the Draft Riot of 1863.] Liberty can never be guarded too carefully, or the barriers erected around the rights of every individual respected too scrupulously. But everything in this world is a choice between two evils. The greatest wisdom cannot avoid _all_ evils; it can only choose the least. Sound statesmanship regards any stretch of power better than the overthrow of the nation. Probably there never was a more able and wise body of men assembled, or more jealous of any exercise of arbitrary power, than the First Congress of the United States; and yet, almost in the commencement of our struggle for independence, when events wore such a gloomy aspect that failure seemed inevitable, rising above its fears of despotic measures, in its greater fear of total defeat, it conferred on Washington powers that made him to a large extent military dictator. He was authorized to raise sixteen battalions of infantry, three thousand light-horse, three regiments of artillery, together with a corps of engineers, and _appoint the officers himself_. He had, also, full power, when he deemed it necessary, to call on the several States for the militia; to appoint throughout _the entire army all the officers under brigadiers_; fill up all vacancies; to take whatever he wanted for the use of his troops, wherever he could find it, with no other restriction than that he must pay for it, which last was nullified, because he was empowered to _seize and lock up every man who refused to receive in pay Continental money_. It would seem impossible that a body of men who were so extremely sensitive in bestowing power on a military commander, and so watchful of the rights of individuals, could have committed such an act; and yet, who does not see that, under the circumstances, it was wise. Now, granting that conscription is a despotic measure, no truthful, candid man will deny that, in case of a war, where men must be had, and can be got in no other way, that it would be the duty of government to enforce it. It is idle to reply that the supposition is absurd--that in this country such a thing can never happen; for what has been in the world can be again. Besides, this does meet the question of the _right_ of the Government, that must be settled before the emergency comes. Now, we do not believe there is sounder principle, or one that every unbiassed mind does not concede with the readiness that it does an axiom, that, if necessary to protect and save itself, a government may not only order a draft, but call out _every_ able-bodied man in the nation. If this right does not inhere in our government, it is built on a foundation of sand, and the sooner it is abandoned the better. But we go farther, and deny that a draft is a despotic measure at all, but is a just and equitable mode of raising an army. True, if troops enough can be raised on a reasonable bounty, it is more expedient to do so; but the moment that bounty becomes so exorbitant as to tempt the cupidity of those in whom neither patriotism nor sense of duty have any power, volunteering becomes an evil. We found it so in our recent war. The bounty was a little fortune to a certain class, the benefit of which they had no idea of losing by being shot, and hence they deserted, or shammed sickness, so that scarce half the men ever got to the front, while those who did being influenced by no motive higher than cupidity, became worthless soldiers. A draft takes in enough men of a higher stamp to leaven the mass. The first Napoleon, when asked what made his first "army of Italy" so resistless, replied that almost every man in it was intelligent enough to act as a clerk. The objection that a rich man, if drafted, can buy a substitute, while the poor man, with a large family depending upon him, must go, if of any weight at all, lies against the whole structure of society, which gives the rich man at every step immunities over the poor man. When pestilence sweeps through a city, the rich man can flee to a healthy locality, while the poor man must stay and die; and when the pestilence of war sweeps over the land, must one attempt to reverse all this relation between wealth and poverty? When society gets in that happy state, that the rich man has no advantages over the poor, there will be no need either of drafting or volunteering. Yet, after all, it is not so unequal as it at first sight appears. War must have money as well as men, and the former the rich have to furnish; and if they do this, it is but fair that they should be allowed to furnish with it also the men to do their fighting. Besides, there must be some rule that would exempt the men that carry on the business of the country. We have said this much, because the riots in New York, which might have ended in national destruction, were brought about by preaching views directly the opposite of these. The military spirit is so prevalent in the nation, that in any ordinary war the Government can get all the troops it wants by giving a moderate bounty, and wages but a little greater than can be secured at any ordinary business or occupation. Still, the right to raise them differently should never be denied it. When the old militia system was given up in the State, and a certain number of regiments were raised and equipped and drilled for active duty, and for which the people paid taxes, it was thought they would furnish all the quota that would ever be called for from the State--and in any ordinary war will. The crisis, however, in which we found ourselves had never been anticipated, and hence not provided against, and when Congress attempted to do it in what seemed to it the best way, an outcry was raised of injustice and oppression. It was hard, doubtless, but there are a great many hard things in the world that have been and have to be borne. The feeling of hostility unquestionably would have been less intense, had not so many of those to be drafted been bitterly opposed to the war. Believing it to have been brought about by the reckless demagogism and fanaticism of their political opponents, and levied as it was against those who had been their warm political friends, indeed, chief dependence for political success, it was asking a good deal, to require them to step to the front, and fight in such a war. Whether this feeling was right or wrong, had nothing to do with the influence it actually exerted. On this feeling was based, in fact, the real hostility to the draft, in which a portion of the press shared. But, as we said before, we having nothing to do with the justice or injustice of this belief or feeling; we only state the fact, with our denial that it furnished any excuse for the denunciations uttered against the draft as a wrong use of power, or the refusal to submit to it on that account. The Government, whether wrong or right, must be supported, or abandoned and given over to revolution. In ordinary times, denunciation of its measures, and the most strenuous opposition to them, is the right and often the duty of every conscientious man. This right, exercised by the press, is one of the most effectual checks against abuses, and the most powerful lever to work reform and changes. But in a great crisis, to set one's self against a measure on which the fate of the nation hangs, is a flagrant abuse of that right; for the effort, if successful, will not work change and an improved condition of things, but immediate, irretrievable ruin, and put the nation beyond the reach of reform. CHAPTER XI. Rights of Municipalities.--Interference of the Legislature with the City Government.--Conflict between the Governor and Police Commissioners.--A Wrong becomes a Practical Blessing.--Provost Marshals.--Riot not anticipated.--Bad time to commence the Draft.--Preparations of Superintendent Kennedy.--The Police System.--Attack on Provost Marshal Captain Erhardt.--Telegrams of the Police.--Kennedy starts on a Tour of Observation. The rights of municipalities have been conceded from the first dawn of constitutional liberty indeed municipal freedom may be said to be the first step in the onward progress of the race toward the full recognition of its rights. To interfere with a great commercial city like New York, except by general laws, is as a rule unwise, impolitic, and, indeed, unjust. Like a separate State, it had better suffer many and great evils, than to admit the right of outward power to regulate its internal affairs. To do so, in any way, is fraught with mischief; but to do so as a political party, is infinitely more pernicious. It leaves a great metropolis, on which the welfare of the commercial business of the nation mainly depends, a foot-ball for ambitious or selfish politicians to play with. But as there are exceptions to all rules, so there may be to this--still they should always be exceptions, and not claimed as a settled policy. We mention this, because the interference of the Legislature, or rather the dominant part of it, in the internal policy of New York, about the time the war commenced, was in itself a mischievous and tyrannical act, while, under the circumstances that soon after occurred, it proved of incalculable benefit. With the city stripped of its military, and the forts in the harbor of their garrisons, the police, under the old regime, during the draft riots, would have been trustless and powerless, even if the city government had attempted to uphold the national authority, which is doubtful. The Republicans established a Board of Police Commissioners, the majority of which were of their own political faith, who had the entire control of the department. Under their hands, an entire different set of men from those formerly selected, composed the force, and a regular system of drills, in fact, a thorough organization, adopted. But in 1862 the Democrats elected their governor, though they failed to secure the Legislature. Mr. Seymour, immediately on his inauguration, summoned the Commissioners to appear before him, the object of which was to change the character of the board. The latter understood it, and refused to appear. Legal proceedings were then commenced against them, but they were staved off, and in the meantime the Legislature had got to work, and took the matter in hand; and Messrs. Bowen, Acton, and Bergen, were made to constitute the board--John A. Kennedy being superintendent of police. Mr. Bowen, the president of the board, having been appointed brigadier-general, resigned, and Mr. Acton, under the law, became president. This political character of the board, so diametrically opposed to the feelings and wishes of the vast majority of the citizens, tested by the ordinary rules and principles of a Republican Government, was unjust; a palpable, deliberate encroachment on the right of self-government. But as we remarked, just now, it was fortunate for the country that such a state of things existed. In the extraordinary, not anticipated, and perilous condition in which we found ourselves, everything was changed. Neither constitutions nor laws had been framed to meet such an emergency, and both, in many cases, had to be suspended. What was right before, often became wrong now, and vice versa. The article inserted in the Constitution of the State, that the moment a bank refused specie payment, it became bankrupt, was a wise and just provision, but to enforce it now, would be financial ruin, and it was not done. This usurpation of the government of New York by the Republican party, which seemed so unjust, was, doubtless, under the circumstances, the salvation of the city. It was, moreover, highly important to the whole country, in the anomalous war which threatened our very existence, that the controlling power of the city should be in sympathy with the General Government, but it was especially, vitally so, when the latter put its provost marshals in it to enforce the draft. That this _mode_ of enforcing the draft by provost marshals, was an encroachment on the rights and powers of the separate States, there can be no doubt. It is equally clear that the proper way was to call on the separate governors for their quota, and let _them_ enforce the draft. If they refused to do it, then it was time for the General Government to take the matter in its own hand. This, however, was no encroachment on _individual_ rights. The oppressive nature of the act and the result were the same to the person, whether enforced by the State or General Government. Still it was a total departure from the practice of the General Government since its first organization, and it moreover established a dangerous precedent, which the sooner it is abandoned the better. But this had nothing to do with the opposition to the draft. That was a personal objection. With the Police Department in sympathy with the rioters, it is not difficult to see what the end would have been. We do not mean by that, that the heads of the department would not have endeavored to do their duty, but it would have been impossible to control the kind of element they would inevitably have to deal with. This even the long-tried, trusted leaders of the Democratic party acknowledged. In fact, the police force would not have been in a condition, with ever so good a will, to have acted with the skill and promptness it did. The draft riots, as they are called, were supposed by some to be the result of a deep-laid conspiracy on the part of those opposed to the war, and that the successful issue of Lee's invasion of Pennsylvania was to be the signal for open action. Whether this be so or not, it is evident that the outbreak in New York City on the 13th of July, not only from the manner of its commencement, the absence of proper organization, and almost total absence of leadership, was not the result of a general well-understood plot. It would seem from the facts that those who started the movement had no idea at the outset of proceeding to the length they did. They simply desired to break up the draft in some of the upper districts of the city, and destroy the registers in which certain names were enrolled. A general provost marshal had been appointed over the whole city, which was subdivided into various districts, in each of which was an assistant provost marshall. Although there had been no provision for a general assistant provost marshal or aid, yet Colonel Nugent acted in this capacity. The drafting was to take place in the separate districts, under the direction of the assistant provost marshals. Although there had been some rumors of resistance to it, they received very little credence, and no special provision was made for such an emergency. The city was almost denuded of the military; the regiments having been called to Pennsylvania to repel Lee's invasion; yet so little fear was entertained, that even the police department was not requested to make any special preparation. The Invalid Corps, as it was called, composed of the maimed and crippled soldiers who could no longer keep the field, were thought to be quite sufficient to preserve the peace. The draft commenced on Saturday in the Eleventh and Ninth Districts, and passed off quietly; and it was thought the same order would be maintained throughout, and if any force were necessary to repress violence, it would be when the conscripts were required to take their place in the ranks. Still Superintendent Kennedy of the Police Department feared there might be some difficulty experienced by the officers in charge of the draft, even if no serious resistance should be offered. Some of the enrolling officers, a short time previous, while taking the names of those subject to draft, had been assailed with very abusive language, or their questions received in sullen silence or answered falsely; fictitious names often being given instead of the true ones. In the Ninth District, embracing the lower part of the city, the provost marshal, Captain Joel T. Erhardt, came near losing his life in the performance of this duty. At the corner of Liberty Street and Broadway a building was being torn down, preparatory to the erection of another, and the workmen engaged in it threatened the enrolling officer who came to take down their names, with violence, and drove him off. Captain Erhardt, on the report being made to him, repaired to head-quarters, and requested of Colonel Nugent a force of soldiers to protect the officer in the discharge of his duty. But this the latter declined to do, fearing it would exasperate the men and bring on a collision, and requested the Captain to go himself, saying, if he did, there would be no difficulty. Captain Erhardt declined, on the ground that he was not an enrolling officer. But Colonel Nugent persisting, the Captain finally told him, if he ordered him, as his superior officer, to go, he would. Nugent replied that he might so consider it. Erhardt then said he would go, but only on one condition, that if he got in trouble and asked for help, he would send him troops. To this he agreed, and Captain Erhardt proceeded to the building on the corner of Broadway and Liberty Street, and stepping on a plank that led from the sidewalk to the floor, asked a man on a ladder for his name. The fellow refused to answer, when an altercation ensuing, he stepped down, and seizing an iron bar advanced on the provost marshal. The latter had nothing but a light Malacca cane in his hand, but as he saw the man meant murder he drew a pistol from his pocket, and levelled it full at his breast. This brought him to a halt; and after looking at Erhardt for awhile he dropped his bar. Erhardt then put up his pistol, and went on with his enrolling. The man was dogged and angry, and watching his opportunity, suddenly made a rush at the provost marshal. The latter had only time to deal him, as he sprang forward, one heavy blow with his cane, when they closed. In a moment both reeled from the plank and fell to the cellar beneath, the provost marshal on top. Covered with dirt, he arose and drew his pistol, and mounted to the sidewalk. The foreman sympathized with the workmen, and Erhardt could do nothing. Determined to arrest them for resisting the draft, he despatched a messenger to Colonel Nugent for the promised force. None, however, was sent. He, in the meantime, stood with drawn pistol facing the men, who dared not advance on him. Aid not arriving, he sent again, and still later a third time. He stood thus facing the workmen with his pistol for three hours, and finally had to leave without making any arrests. This failure of Colonel Nugent to fulfil his promise and perform his duty came near costing Erhardt his life, and then and there starting the riot. The next day he had the foreman arrested, and completed his work of enrolling. The time selected for commencing the draft was unfortunate. Saturday, of all days in the week, was the worst. It was a new thing, and one under any circumstances calculated to attract universal attention among the lower classes, and provoke great and angry discussion. Hence, to have the draft commence on Saturday, and allow the names to be published in the papers on Sunday morning, so that all could read them, and spend the day in talking the matter over, and lay plans for future action, was a most unwise, thoughtless procedure. If there had been any choice as to the day, one, if possible, should have been chosen that preceded the busiest day of the week. To have the list of twelve hundred names that had been drawn read over and commented on all day by men who enlivened their discussion with copious draughts of bad whiskey, especially when most of those drawn were laboring-men or poor mechanics, who were unable to hire a substitute, was like applying fire to gunpowder. If a well-known name, that of a man of wealth, was among the number, it only increased the exasperation, for the law exempted every one drawn who would pay three hundred dollars towards a substitute. This was taking practically the whole number of soldiers called for out of the laboring classes. A great proportion of these being Irish, it naturally became an Irish question, and eventually an Irish riot. It was in their eyes the game of hated England over again--oppression of Irishmen. This state of feeling could not be wholly concealed. Kennedy, aware of it, felt it necessary, on Monday morning, to take some precautionary measures. Still, in the main, only small squads of policemen were sent to the various points where the drafting was to take place, and merely to keep back the crowd and maintain order, in case a few disorderly persons should attempt to create disturbance. It was true, a rumor had been put in circulation that a body of men had planned to seize the arsenal, and Kennedy, as a matter of precaution, sent fifty policemen to occupy it. But during the morning, word was brought him that the street-contractor's men in the Nineteenth Ward were not at work. This looked ominous, and he began to fear trouble. Thinking that Provost Marshal Maniere's office, 1190 Broadway, and that of Marshal Jenkins, corner of Forty-sixth Street and Third Avenue, would be more likely to be the points attacked, he hurried off the following telegrams: July 13, 8.35 A.M. From Central Office to Seventeenth, Eighteenth, and Twenty-first Precincts: Send ten men and a sergeant forthwith to No. 677 Third Avenue, and report to Captain Porter of Nineteenth Precinct for duty. J. A. KENNEDY. July 13, 8.50 A.M. To Twenty-ninth Precinct: Place a squad of ten of your men, with a competent sergeant, at No. 1190 Broadway, during the draft--if you want more, inform me. J. A. K. 8.55 A.M. To Sixteenth and Twentieth Precincts: Send your reserve to Seventh Avenue Arsenal forthwith. J. A. K. Telegrams were now pouring in from different quarters, showing that mischief was afoot, and at nine o'clock he sent the following despatch: "To all platoons, New York and Brooklyn: Call in your reserve platoons, and hold them at the stations subject to further orders." It should be noted, that ordinarily one-half of the police of the Metropolitan District, which took in Brooklyn, is relieved from both patrol and reserve duty, from six o'clock in the morning till six in the evening. The other half is divided into two sections, which alternately perform patrol and reserve duty during the day. A relief from patrol duty of one of these sections takes place at eight o'clock A.M., when it goes to breakfast. Hence, the orders issued by the Superintendent to call in these could not reach them without a considerable delay. It now being about ten o'clock, Mr. Kennedy, having despatched an additional body of men to the Twenty-ninth Precinct, got into his light wagon, to take a drive through the districts reported to be most dangerous. He went up far as the arsenal, and giving such directions as he thought necessary, started across the town to visit Marshal Jenkins' quarters in the Twenty-ninth Precinct. CHAPTER XII. Commencement of the Mob.--Its Line of March.--Its immense Size.--Attacks a Provost-marshal's Office, in Third Avenue.--Set on Fire.--Terrible Struggle of Kennedy for his Life with the Mob.--Carried to Head-quarters unconscious.--Acton's Preparations.--The Telegraph System.--Mob cutting down Telegraph Poles.--Number of Despatches sent over the Wires during the Riot.--Superintendent of Telegraph Bureau seized and held Prisoner by the Mob. Meanwhile, events were assuming an alarming aspect in the western part of the city. Early in the morning men began to assemble here in separate groups, as if in accordance with a previous arrangement, and at last moved quietly north along the various avenues. Women, also, like camp followers, took the same direction in crowds. They were thus divided into separate gangs, apparently to take each avenue in their progress, and make a clean sweep. The factories and workshops were visited, and the men compelled to knock off work and join them, while the proprietors were threatened with the destruction of their property, if they made any opposition. The separate crowds were thus swelled at almost every step, and armed with sticks, and clubs, and every conceivable weapon they could lay hands on, they moved north towards some point which had evidently been selected as a place of rendezvous. This proved to be a vacant lot near Central Park, and soon the living streams began to flow into it, and a more wild, savage, and heterogeneous-looking mass could not be imagined. After a short consultation they again took up the line of march, and in two separate bodies, moved down Fifth and Sixth Avenues, until they reached Forty-sixth and Forty-seventh Streets, when they turned directly east. The number composing this first mob has been so differently estimated, that it would be impossible from reports merely, to approximate the truth. A pretty accurate idea, however, can be gained of its immense size, from a statement made by Mr. King, son of President King, of Columbia College. Struck by its magnitude, he had the curiosity to get some estimate of it by timing its progress, and he found that although it filled the broad street from curbstone to curbstone, and was moving rapidly, it took between twenty and twenty-five minutes for it to pass a single point. A ragged, coatless, heterogeneously weaponed army, it heaved tumultuously along toward Third Avenue. Tearing down the telegraph poles as it crossed the Harlem & New Haven Railroad track, it surged angrily up around the building where the drafting was going on. The small squad of police stationed there to repress disorder looked on bewildered, feeling they were powerless in the presence of such a host. Soon a stone went crashing through a window, which was the signal for a general assault on the doors. These giving way before the immense pressure, the foremost rushed in, followed by shouts and yells from those behind, and began to break up the furniture. The drafting officers, in an adjoining room, alarmed, fled precipitately through the rear of the building. The mob seized the wheel in which were the names, and what books, papers, and lists were left, and tore them up, and scattered them in every direction. A safe stood on one side, which was supposed to contain important papers, and on this they fell with clubs and stones, but in vain. Enraged at being thwarted, they set fire to the building, and hurried out of it. As the smoke began to ascend, the onlooking multitude without sent up a loud cheer. Though the upper part of the building was occupied by families, the rioters, thinking that the officers were concealed there, rained stones and brick-bats against the windows, sending terror into the hearts of the inmates. Deputy Provost Marshal Vanderpool, who had mingled in the crowd, fearing for the lives of the women and children, boldly stepped to the front, and tried to appease the mob, telling them the papers were all destroyed, and begged them to fall back, and let others help the inmates of the building, or take hold themselves. The reply was a heavy blow in the face. Vanderpool shoved the man who gave it aside, when he was assailed with a shower of blows and curses. Fearing for his life, he broke through the crowd, and hastened to the spot where the police were standing, wholly powerless in the midst of this vast, excited throng. In the meantime, the flames, unarrested, made rapid way, and communicating to the adjoining building, set it on fire. The volumes of smoke, rolling heavenward, and the crackling and roaring of the flames, seemed for a moment to awe the mob, and it looked silently on the ravaging of a power more terrible and destructive than its own. At this time Superintendent Kennedy was quietly making his way across the town toward the office of with a heavy club, endeavored to break in his skull, but Kennedy dodged his blows. Careful only for his head, he let them beat his body, while he made desperate efforts to break through the mass, whose demoniacal yells and oaths showed that they intended to take his life. In the struggle the whole crowd, swaying to and fro, slowly advanced toward Lexington Avenue, coming, as they did so, upon a wide mud-hole. "Drown him! drown, him!" arose at once on every side, and the next moment a heavy blow, planted under his ear, sent him headforemost into the water. Falling with his face amid the stones, he was kicked and trampled on, and pounded, till he was a mass of gore. Still struggling desperately for life, he managed to get to his feet again, and made a dash for the middle of the pond. The water was deep, and his murderers, disliking to get wet, did not follow him, but ran around to the other side, to meet him as he came out. But Kennedy was ahead of them, and springing up the bank into Lexington Avenue, saw a man whom he knew, and called out: "John Eagan, come here and save my life!" Mr. Eagan, who was a well-known and influential resident of that vicinity, immediately rushed forward to his assistance, and arrested his pursuers. But the Superintendent was so terribly bruised and mangled, that Eagan did not recognize him. He, however, succeeded in keeping the mob back, who, seeing the horrible condition their victim was in, doubtless thought they had finished him. Other citizens now coming forward, a passing feed wagon was secured, into which Kennedy was lifted, and driven to police head-quarters. Acton, who was in the street as the wagon approached, saw the mangled body within, did not dream who it was. The driver inquired where he should take him. "Around to the station," carelessly replied Acton. The driver hesitated, and inquired again, "Where to?" Acton, supposing it was some drunkard, bruised in a brawl, replied rather petulantly, "Around to the station." The man then told him it was Kennedy. Acton, scanning the features more closely, saw that it indeed was the Superintendent himself in this horrible condition. As the officers gathered around the bleeding, almost unconscious form, a murmur of wrath was heard, a sure premonition what work would be done when the hour of vengeance should come. Kennedy was carried into head-quarters, and a surgeon immediately sent for. After an examination had shown that no bones were broken, he was taken to the house of a friend, and, before the week closed, was on his feet again. Acton, now the legal head of the police force, soon showed he was the right man in the right place. Of a nervous temperament, he was quick and prompt, yet cool and decided, and relentless as death in the discharge of his duty. Holding the views of the first Napoleon respecting mobs, he did not believe in speech-making to them. His addresses were to be locust clubs and grape-shot. Taking in at once the gravity of the situation, he, after despatching such force as was immediately available to the scene of the riot, telegraphed to the different precincts to have the entire reserve force concentrated at head-quarters, which were in Mulberry Street, near Bleecker. He saw at once, to have his force effective it must be well in hand, so that he could send it out in any direction in sufficient strength to bear down all opposition. Subsequent events proved the wisdom of his policy, for we shall see, after it had been accomplished, the police never lost a battle. There being thirty-two precincts in the limits of the Metropolitan Police, a vast territory was covered. These were reached by a system of telegraph wires, called the Telegraph Bureau, of which James Crowley was superintendent and Eldred Polhamus deputy. There were three operators--Chapin, Duvall, and Lucas. A telegraph station was in each precinct--thus making thirty-two, all coming to a focus at head-quarters. These are also divided into five sections--north, south, east, west, and central. The Commissioners, therefore, sitting in the central office, can send messages almost instantaneously to every precinct of the city, and receive immediate answers. Hence, Mr. Acton was a huge Briareus, reaching out his arms to Fort Washington in the north, and Brooklyn in the south, and at the same time touching the banks of both rivers. No other system could be devised giving such tremendous power to the police--the power of instant information and rapid concentration at any desired point. That it proved itself the strong right arm of the Commissioners, it needs only to state, that during the four days of the riot, between five and six thousand messages passed over the wires, showing that they were worked to their utmost capacity, day and night. The more intelligent of the mob understood this, and hence at the outset attempted to break up this communication, by cutting down the poles on Third Avenue. This stopped all messages to and from the precincts at Fort Washington, Manhattanville, Harlem, Yorkville, and Bloomingdale, as well as with the Nineteenth Precinct. But fortunately, the orders to these had passed over the wires before the work was completed. Subsequently, the rioters cut down the poles in First Avenue, in Twenty-second Street, and Ninth Avenue, destroying communication between several other precincts. Mr. Crowley, the Superintendent of the Telegraph Bureau, was made acquainted early, Monday, by mere accident with this plan of the rioters. Coming to town in the Third Avenue cars from Yorkville, where he resided, he suddenly found the car arrested by a mob, and getting out with the other passengers, discovered men chopping furiously away at the telegraph poles; and without stopping to think, rushed up to them and ordered them to desist. One of the ruffians, looking up, cried out, "he is one of the d--d operators." Instantly yells arose, "Smash him," "Kill him," when those nearest seized him. By great adroitness he disarmed their suspicions sufficiently to prevent further violence, though they held him prisoner for an hour. At last, seeing an opportunity when more important objects attracted their attention, he quietly worked his way out and escaped. CHAPTER XIII. Soldiers beaten by the Mob.--Gallant Fight of Sergeant McCredie.--Mob Triumphant.--Beat Police Officers unmercifully.--Fearful Scenes.--Fifty thousand People block Third Avenue.--A whole Block of Houses burning.--Attack on a Gun Factory.--Defeat of the Broadway Squad.--Houses sacked in Lexington Avenue.--Telegraph Dispatches.--Bull's Head Tavern burned.--Block on Broadway burned.--Burning of the Negroes' Orphan Asylum.--Attack on Mayor Opdyke's House.--A Crisis nobly met.--Gallant Fight and Victory of Sergeant Carpenter.--A thrilling Spectacle. In the meantime, the mob that stood watching the spreading conflagration in Third Avenue increased rapidly, fed by tributaries from the tenement-houses, slums, and workshops in that vicinity. But they were soon startled from their state of comparative quietness, by the cry of "the soldiers are coming." The Invalid Corps, a small body sent from the Park, was approaching. As it came up, the soldiers fired, either blank cartridges, or over the heads of the crowd, doubtless thinking a single discharge would disperse it. The folly of such a course was instantly shown, for the mob, roused into sudden fury, dashed on the small body of soldiers before they could reload, and snatching away their muskets, pounded them over the head, and chased them like sheep for ten blocks. One soldier was left for dead on the pavement, beaten to a jelly. Another, breaking from the crowd, attempted to climb some rocks near Forty-second Street, when his pursuers grabbed him and dragged him to the top, where they tore off his uniform, and beat him till he was senseless, and then threw him down to the bottom and left him. In the meantime, Sergeant McCredie, "fighting Mac," as he was called, from the Fifteenth Precinct, Captain C. W. Caffrey, arrived on the scene with a few men. Marching down Forty-third street to Third Avenue, they looked up two blocks, and to their amazement beheld the broad avenue, as far as they could see, blocked with the mob, while before it, bearing swiftly down on them, and running for life, came the terror-stricken Invalid Corps. At this juncture, other squads sent from various precincts arrived, swelling this force to forty-four. It was a mere handful among these enraged thousands; but McCredie, who at once took command, determined to stand his ground, and meet as best he could the overwhelming numbers that came driving down like a storm, filling the air with yells and oaths, and brandishing their clubs over their heads. He thought that another police force was beyond the mob, on the north, and if he could press through and form a junction with it, the two combined would be strong enough to hold their own. He therefore quickly formed his men in line across the street, and awaited the shock. As the disorderly mass following up the fugitives drew near, McCredie ordered a charge, and this mere handful of men moved swiftly and steadily upon it. The rioters, stunned by the suddenness and strength of the blow, recoiled, and the police, following up their advantage, drove them back, step by step, as far as Forty-sixth street. Here the sergeant, instead of meeting another body of police, as he expected, met a heavier body of rioters that were blocking up Forty-sixth Street on both sides of the avenue. Backed by these, the main body rallied and charged on the exhausted police force in turn, and almost surrounded them. To render their already desperate situation hopeless, another mob suddenly closed in behind them from Forty-fifth street. Thus attacked in front and rear with clubs, iron bars, guns and pistols, and rained upon with stones and brick-bats from the roofs of the houses, they were unable longer to keep together, and broke and fled--part up the side streets, and some down the avenue--bruised, torn, and bleeding. The desperate nature of this first conflict can be imagined, when, out of the fourteen men composing Sergeant McCredie's original force, only five were left unwounded. At the very outset of the charge, the sergeant himself was struck with an iron bar on the wrist, which rendered the arm almost useless. In the retreat, four men assailed him at once. Knocking down two, he took refuge in the house of a German, when a young woman told him to jump between two mattresses. He did so, and she covered him up just as his pursuers forced their way in. Streaming through the house from cellar to garret, they came back, and demanded of the young woman where the man was hid. She quietly said he had escaped by the rear of the house. Believing she told the truth, they took their departure. Officer Bennett was knocked down three times before he ceased fighting. The last time he was supposed to be dead, when the wretches began to rob him even of his clothing, stripping him of every article except his drawers. He was soon after taken up and carried to St. Luke's Hospital, and placed in the dead-house, where he lay for several hours. When the sad news was brought to his wife, she hastened to the hospital, and fell weeping on the lifeless form of her husband. She could not believe he was dead, and laying her hand on his heart, found to her joy that it pulsated. She immediately flew to the officials of the hospital, and had him brought in, and restoratives applied. He revived, but remained unconscious for three days, while the riot raged around him. Officer Travis, in the flight down the avenue, saw, as he looked back, that his foremost pursuer had a pistol. Wheeling, he knocked him down, and seized the pistol, but before he could use it, a dozen clubs were raining blows upon him, which brought him to the ground. The infuriated men then jumped upon him, knocking out his teeth, breaking his jaw-bone and right hand, and terribly mutilating his whole body. Supposing him to be dead, they then stripped him stark naked and left him on the pavement, a ghastly spectacle to the passers-by. Officer Phillips ran the gauntlet almost unharmed, but was pursued block after block by a portion of the mob, till he reached Thirty-ninth street. Here he attempted to enter a house, but it was closed against him. As he turned down the steps, one of the pursuers, in soldier's clothes, levelled his musket at him and fired. Missing his aim, he clubbed his weapon, and dealt him a deadly blow. Phillips caught the musket as it descended, and wrenching it from his grasp, knocked the fellow down with it, and started and ran across some vacant lots to Fortieth Street. But here he was headed off by another portion of the mob, in which was a woman, who made a lunge at him with, a shoemaker's knife. The knife missed his throat, but passed through his ear. Drawing it back, she made another stab, piercing his arm. He was now bleeding profusely, and his death seemed inevitable, when a stranger, seeing his condition, sprang forward, and covering his body, declared he would kill the first man that advanced. Awed by his determined manner, the fiends sullenly withdrew. Officers Sutherland and Mingay were also badly beaten. Officer Kiernan, receiving a blow on his head with a stone, another on the back of his neck with a hay-bale rung, and two more on the knees, fell insensible, and would doubtless have been killed outright, but for the wife of Eagan, who saved Kennedy. Throwing herself over his body, she exclaimed, "for God's sake do not kill him." Seeing that they had got to attack this lady to get at Kiernan, they passed on. The scene in Third Avenue at this time was fearful and appalling. It was now noon, but the hot July sun was obscured by heavy clouds, that hung in ominous shadows over the city, while from near Cooper Institute to Forty-sixth Street, or about thirty blocks, the avenue was black with human beings,--sidewalks, house-tops, windows, and stoops all filled with rioters or spectators. Dividing it like a stream, horse-cars arrested in their course lay strung along as far as the eye could reach. As the glance ran along this mighty mass of men and women north, it rested at length on huge columns of smoke rolling heavenward from burning buildings, giving a still more fearful aspect to the scene. Many estimated the number at this time in the street at fifty thousand. In the meantime the fire-bell had brought the firemen on the ground, but the mob would not let them approach the burning houses. The flames had communicated with the adjoining block and were now making fearful headway. At length Engineer Decker addressed the mob, which by this time had grown thinner by the main mass moving farther down town, who told them that everything relating to the provost marshal's office was destroyed, and now the fire was destroying private property, some of which doubtless belonged to persons friendly to them, and finally persuaded them to let the engines work. Water was soon deluging the buildings, and the fire at length arrested, but not until four were consumed with all their contents. The drawing commenced in the Eighth District, 1190 Broadway, Captain Maniere provost marshal, on the same morning, and continued quietly until about 12 o'clock, when it was adjourned, and policemen who had been stationed there to guard it were sent over to the Ninth District, where the mob was carrying everything before it. But coming in small bodies, they were easily overcome and scattered. Sergeant Ellison, especially, got badly beaten; and Sergeant Wade, who came up soon after, and charged gallantly on the mob, shared the same fate, and had to be taken to St. Luke's Hospital. The work of destruction having commenced, it went on after this with the wild irregularity characteristic of mobs. The news of the uprising and destruction of property, as it spread through those portions of the city where the low Irish dwelt, stirred up all the inmates, and they came thronging forth, till there were incipient mobs on almost every corner. From this time no consecutive narrative can be given of the after doings. This immense mass seemed to split up into three or four sections, as different objects attracted their attention; and they came together and separated apparently without any concert of action. A shout and a cry in one direction would call off a throng, while a similar shout in another would attract a portion thither. Some feeling the need of arms, and remembering that a gun factory was at the corner of Second Avenue and Twentieth Street, called out to the crowd, and soon a large body was rushing in that direction. The Police Commissioners had also thought of this, and hastily sent off the Broadway squad to occupy it, and they succeeded, by going singly and in pairs, in reaching it--thirty-five all told. These men, selected for their size, being all six feet or upward, were ordered to hold the place at all hazards. In the meantime the mob endeavored to gain admittance, but warned off by Sergeant Burdick, left. But scarcely a quarter of an hour had elapsed, when they returned heavily reinforced, armed with all kinds of weapons, and yelling and hooting like fiends. Stones and bricks came crashing through the windows, but still the squad, though every man was armed with a carbine, did not fire. The mob then tried to set the factory on fire, but failed. Enraged at being baffled, a powerful man advanced on the door with a sledge-hammer, and began to pound against it. At length one of the panels gave way, and as a shout arose from those looking on, he boldly attempted to crawl through. The report of a solitary carbine was heard, and the brains of the man lay scattered on the floor. This staggered the mob for a moment, but soon fear gave way to rage, and shots and stones were rained against the building, smashing in the windows, and rapidly making a clean breach through the door. Burdick sent to Captain Cameron for aid, but he replied that he could not reach him. At 3:45 the following telegram was sent from the Eighteenth Precinct: "The mob have attacked the armory, Second Avenue and Twenty-first Street. There is danger of firing the building." Fifteen minutes later came: "It is impossible for us to protect the armory at Second Avenue and Twenty-first Street." _Answer_--"Draw your men off. D. C." The squad, in evacuating the building, found themselves cut off both in front and at the sides. The only mode of escape was through a hole in the rear wall, some eighteen feet from the ground, and scarcely a foot and a half in diameter. Piling up boxes to reach this aperture, these large men squeezed themselves through one by one, feet foremost, and swinging to a gutter-trough, dropped into the yard below. Climbing from thence over a wall into a stone-yard, they sped across it to the Eighteenth Precinct Station in Twenty-second Street. Here taking off their uniforms, they made their way singly, or in groups of two or three, back to the central office. No sooner did they leave the building than the mob entered it, and the work of pillage commenced. Every man armed himself with a musket. The stacks of weapons left, after they had taken all they wanted, were broken up or rendered useless. One thrown out of the window fell on a man's head in the street and killed him. While the armory was being attacked, another mob was sacking and burning houses on Lexington Avenue, near Forty-seventh Street. Within five minutes from the announcement of this fact, came from the Sixth Precinct the following dispatch: "A mob of about seven hundred attacked some colored people in Baxter Street, and then went to the saloon of Samuel Crook, in Chatham Street, and beat some colored waiters there." A few minutes later from Sixteenth came: "A crowd of about three hundred men have gone to the foot of Twenty-fourth Street, to stop men in the foundry from working." At the same time the following was received from the Twenty-first Precinct: "The mob avow their determination of burning this station. Our connection by telegram may be interrupted at any moment." Another from the Twentieth said: "A very large crowd is now going down Fifth Avenue, to attack the _Tribune_ building." As fast as the wires could work, followed "from the Twenty-fourth Precinct:" "The mob have fired the buildings corner of Broadway and Twenty-fourth Street." All this time, while new notes of alarm were sounded, and the police department was struggling to get its force in hand, the work of destruction was going on in the upper part of the city. Bull's Head Tavern, in Forty-sixth Street, attracted the attention of the mob. The sales of the immense herds of cattle in the adjoining yard had been suspended, and the hotel closed. The crowd, however, forgetting the draft, and intent only on pillage, streamed up around it, and shouted, "Fire it! fire it!" While some were calling for axes and crowbars, ten powerful men jumped on the stoop, and with a few heavy blows sent the hall door flying from its hinges. The yelling crowd then rushed in, and after helping themselves to what they wanted, applied the torch, and soon the entire building was a mass of flame. [Illustration: THE RIOT IN LEXINGTON AVENUE.] At this time another mob was sacking houses in Lexington Avenue. Elegant furniture and silver plate were borne away by the crowd, while the ladies, with their children and servants, fled in terror from the scene. The provost marshal's head-quarters were also set on fire, and the whole block on Broadway, between Twenty-eighth and Twenty-ninth Streets, was burned down, while jewelry stores and shops of all kinds were plundered and their contents carried off. A vast horde followed the rioters for the sole purpose of plunder, and loaded down with their spoils, could be seen hastening home in every direction. While these fires were under full headway, a new idea seemed to strike the mob, or at least a portion of it. Having stopped the draft in two districts, sacked and set on fire nearly a score of houses, and half killed as many men, it now, impelled by a strange logic, sought to destroy the Colored Orphan Asylum on Fifth Avenue, extending from Forty-third to Forty-fourth Street. There would have been no draft but for the war--there would have been no war but for slavery. But the slaves were black, ergo, all blacks are responsible for the war. This seemed to be the logic of the mob, and having reached the sage conclusion to which it conducted, they did not stop to consider how poor helpless orphans could be held responsible, but proceeded at once to wreak their vengeance on them. The building was four stories high, and besides the matrons and officers, contained over two hundred children, from mere infants up to twelve years of age. Around this building the rioters gathered with loud cries and oaths, sending terror into the hearts of the inmates. Superintendent William E. Davis hurriedly fastened the doors; but knowing they would furnish but a momentary resistance to the armed multitude, he, with others, collected hastily the terrified children, and carrying some in their arms, and leading others, hurried them in a confused crowd out at the rear of the building, just as the ruffians effected an entrance in front. Then the work of pillage commenced, and everything carried off that could be, even to the dresses and trinkets of the children, while heavy furniture was smashed and chopped up in the blind desire of destruction. Not satisfied with this, they piled the fragments in the different rooms, and set fire to them. At this juncture Chief Engineer Decker arrived, and determined, if possible, to save the building, addressed the crowd, as he had in the morning, hoping to induce them to forbear further violence, and let him extinguish the flames. But they had now got beyond argument of any kind, and knocking him down twice, pitched him into the street. But ten brave firemen at this juncture rushed to his side, and together fought their way through the crowd into the building, where they were joined by two assistant engineers, Lamb and Lewis. They at once began to scatter and extinguish the burning fragments, keeping back for a while, by their bold bearing, the rioters. The latter, however, soon rallied in force, and some mounting to the loft, set it on fire in every part. Decker and his few gallant allies, finding it impossible to save the building, retreated into the street, and soon the massive structure was a sheet of flame. The crowd now proceeded to Mayor Opdyke's house, and gathering in front of it, sent up shouts and calls for the Mayor. They were, however, deterred at that time from accomplishing their purpose by an appeal from Judge Barnard, who addressed them from the steps of an adjoining house. Soon after, an immense mob was reported coming down Broadway, for the purpose, some thought, of attacking the negro waiters in the Lafarge House, between Amity and Bleecker Streets, but in fact to attack police head-quarters in Mulberry Street, and break up the very centre of operations. It was a bold stroke, but the ringleaders had been drinking all day, and now, maddened by liquor, were ready for the most desperate attempts. When the news of this movement reached head-quarters, the commissioners saw that a crisis had come. The mob numbered at least five thousand, while they could not muster at that moment two hundred men. The clerk, Mr. Hawley, went to the commissioners' room, and said: "Gentlemen, the crisis has come. A battle has got to be _fought now_, _and won too_, or all is lost." They agreed with him. "But who," they asked, "will lead the comparatively small force in this fight?" He replied that he thought that Sergeant Carpenter should be selected, as one of the oldest and most experienced officers on the force. "Well," they said, "will you go down to his room and see what he says about it?" He went, and laid before him the perilous condition of things, and that an immediate and successful battle _must_ be fought. Carpenter heard him through, and taking in fully the perilous condition of things, paused a moment, and then rising to his full height and lifting his hand, said, with a terrible oath, "I'll go, and I'll win that fight, or _Daniel Carpenter will never come back a live man_." He walked out and summoned the little force, and as "Fall in, men; fall in," was repeated, they fell into line along the street. When all was ready, Acton turned to Carpenter, every lineament of whose face showed the stern purpose that mastered him, and quietly said, "_Sergeant make no arrests_." It was to be a battle in which no prisoners were to be taken. "All _right_" replied Carpenter, as he buttoned up his coat and shouted "Forward." Solid, and silent save their heavy, measured tread on the pavement, they moved down Bleecker Street towards Broadway. As they turned into the latter street, only a block and a half away, they saw the mob, which filled the entire street far as the eye could reach, moving tumultuously forward. Armed with clubs, pitchforks, iron bars, and some with guns and pistols, and most of them in their shirt-sleeves and shouting as they came, they presented a wild and savage appearance. Pedestrians fled down the side streets, stores were hastily closed, stages vanished, and they had the street to themselves. A huge board, on which was inscribed "No Draft," was borne aloft as a banner, and beside it waved the Stars and Stripes. The less than two hundred policemen, compact and firm, now halted, while Carpenter detached two companies of fifty each up the parallel streets to the right and left, as far as Fourth Street. Coming down this street from both directions, they were to strike the mob on both flanks at the same time he charged them in front. He waited till they had reached their positions, and then shouted, "_By the right flank Company front, double-quick_, CHARGE." Instantaneously every club was swung in air, and solid as a wall and swift as a wave they swept full on the astonished multitude; while at the same time, to cut the monster in two, the two companies charged in flank. Carpenter, striding several steps in advance, his face fairly blazing with excitement, dealt the first blow, stretching on the pavement a powerful ruffian, who was rushing on him with a huge club. For a few minutes nothing was heard but the heavy thud of clubs falling on human skulls, thick and fast as hailstones on windows. The mob, just before so confident and bold, quailed in terror and would have broke and fled at once, but for the mass behind which kept bearing down on them. This, however, soon gave way before the side attacks and the panic that followed. Then the confusion and uproar became terrible, and the mass surged hither and thither, now rolling up Broadway, and again borne back or shoved up against the stores, seeking madly for a way of escape. At length, breaking into fragments, they rushed down the side streets, hotly pursued by the police, whose remorseless clubs never ceased to fall as long as a fugitive was within, reach. Broadway looked like a field of battle, for the pavement was strewn thick with bleeding, prostrate forms. It was a great victory and decisive of all future contests. Having effectually dispersed them, Carpenter, with the captured flag, marched up to Mayor Opdyke's house, when, finding everything quiet, he returned to head-quarters. This successful attack of the police was received with cheers by those spectators who had witnessed it. CHAPTER XIV. No Military in the City.--The Mayor calls on General Wool, commanding Eastern Department, for Help.--Also on General Sandford.--General Wool sends to General Brown, commanding Garrison in the Harbor, for U. S. Troops.--Marines of the Navy Yard ordered up.--Eventually, West Point and several States appealed to for Troops.--General Brown assumes Command.--Attack of Mob on the _Tribune_ Building.--Its severe Punishment.--Government Buildings garrisoned.--Difficulty between Generals Brown and Wool.--Head-quarters.--Police Commissioners' Office Military Head-quarters. The terrible punishment the rioters received at the hands of Carpenter had, however, only checked their movements for a time; and, as the sun began to hang low in the summer heavens, men looked forward to the coming night with apprehension. In the meantime, however, the authorities, conscious of the perilous condition of the city, had resorted to every means of defence in their power. Unfortunately, as mentioned before, nearly the whole of its military force, on which it depended in any great emergency, was absent. Lee's brilliant flank movement around Hooker and Washington, terminating in the invasion of Pennsylvania, had filled the country with consternation. His mighty columns were moving straight on Philadelphia, and the Government at Washington, roused to the imminent danger, had called for all the troops within reach, and New York had sent forward nearly every one of her regiments. Ordinary prudence would have dictated that the draft should be postponed for a few days, till these regiments, now on their way back, or preparing to return, should arrive. It was running a needless risk to urge it in such a crisis--indeed, one of the follies of which the Administration at this time was so needlessly guilty. General Wool, at this juncture, commanded the Eastern Department, with his head-quarters at the corner of Bleecker and Greene Streets. Mayor Opdyke immediately called on him for help, and also on Major-general Sandford, commanding the few troops that were left in the city. The latter immediately issued an order requesting the Seventh Regiment to meet that evening, at their drill-rooms, at eight o'clock, to consult on the measures necessary to be taken in the present unexpected crisis, and another to the late two-years' volunteers then in the city, to report at the same hour in Grand Street, to Colonel William H. Allen, for temporary duty. General Wool, also, during the afternoon, while the rioters were having it all their own way, sent an officer to the adjutant-general of General Brown, commanding the troops in garrison in New York harbor, ordering up a force of about eighty men immediately. General Brown, on his way from his office to Fort Hamilton, was informed by Colonel Stinson, chief clerk, that a serious riot was raging in the city, and that General Wool had sent to Fort Hamilton for a detachment of some eighty men, and that a tug had gone for them. Surprised at the smallness of the number sent (he was, by special orders of the War Department, commandant of the city, and commander of all the forts and troops in the harbor except Fort Columbus), he immediately ordered the company at Fort Wood to the city, and sent a tug for it. He then made a requisition on the quartermaster for transportation of all the other companies, and proceeded without delay to Fort Hamilton. General Brown's office was close to General Wool's; but he did not think proper to consult him on the movement. General Brown, immediately on his arrival at Fort Hamilton, directed that all the troops there, as well as at Forts Lafayette and Richmond, be got in readiness to move at a moment's notice, and also that a section of artillery be organized, in case it should be wanted. Having taken these wise precautions he hastened up to the city, and reported to General Wool. The result proved the wisdom of his forecast. A new order was at once dispatched for the remaining troops, and just at twilight, Lieut. McElrath saw two steamers making directly for the fort. They were hardly fastened to the dock, when an officer stepped ashore and handed him an order from General Brown to send up at once all the efficient troops in the forts, and have their places supplied as best he could with some volunteer artillery companies. The reports coming in to police head-quarters had shown that it was no common uprising of a few disaffected men to be put down by a few squads of police or a handful of soldiers. The Mayor, after consulting with the Police Commissioners, felt that it was the beginning of a general outbreak in every part of the city, and by his representations persuaded General Wool to apply to Rear-admiral Paulding, commanding the Navy Yard, for a force of marines, and eventually to Colonel Bowman, Superintendent of West Point, and also to the authorities of Newark, and Governors of New York, New Jersey, Massachusetts, Connecticut, and Rhode Island for troops. General Brown, after reporting to General Wool, repaired to police head-quarters, which he adopted as his own, and issued the following order: "HEAD-QUARTERS, NEW YORK, July 13, 1863. "In obedience to the orders of the Major-general commanding the Eastern Department, the undersigned assumes command of the United States troops in this city. "Lieutenant-colonel Frothingham and Captain Revolle are of the staff of the undersigned, and will be obeyed accordingly. "HARVEY BROWN, "_Brevet Brigadier-general_." He also sent a dispatch to General Sandford, at the arsenal, notifying him of his action, and requesting him to come down and consult with him on the course to be pursued. General Sandford, after awhile, did come down, and, to General Brown's amazement, insisted that all the troops should be sent up to the arsenal. General Brown, seeing the utter madness of such a disposition of his force, refused decidedly to permit it to be done. This was of course denying Sandford's claim to be his superior officer. It was well for the city that he took this ground. Mayor Opdyke also issued a proclamation, calling on the rioters to disperse. But while these measures were being set on foot, the rioters were not idle. [Illustration: THE ATTACK ON THE TRIBUNE BUILDING.] All day long a crowd had been gathering in the Park around the City Hall, growing more restless as night came on. The railroad-cars passing it were searched, to see if any negroes were on board, while eyes glowered savagely on the _Tribune_ building. They had sought in an eating-house for the editor, to wreak their vengeance on him. Not finding him, they determined that the building, from which was issued the nefarious paper, should come down, but were evidently waiting for help to arrive before commencing the work of destruction. The mob, which Carpenter had so terribly punished in Broadway, were marching for it, designing to burn it after they had demolished police head-quarters. Their dispersion delayed the attack, and doubtless broke its force, by the reduction of numbers it caused. There seemed enough, however, if properly led, to effect their purpose, for the Park and Printing-house Square were black with men, who, as the darkness increased, grew more restless; and "Down with it! burn it!" mingled with oaths and curses, were heard on every side. At last came the crash of a window, as a stone went through it. Another and another followed, when suddenly a reinforcing crowd came rushing down Chatham Street. This was the signal for a general assault, and, with shouts, the rabble poured into the lower part of the building, and began to destroy everything within reach. Captain Warlow, of the First Precinct, No. 29 Broad Street, who, with his command, was in the gallant fight in Broadway, after some subsequent fighting and marching, had at length reached his head-quarters in Broad Street, where a despatch met him, to proceed at once to the _Tribune_ building. He immediately started off on the double-quick. On reaching the upper end of Nassau Street, he came to a halt, and gave the club signal on the pavement, to form column. Captain Thorne, of the City Hall, in the meantime, had joined his force to him, with the gallant Sergeant Devoursney. Everything being ready, the order to "Charge" was given, and the entire force, perhaps a hundred and fifty strong, fell in one solid mass on the mob, knocking men over right and left, and laying heads open at every blow. The panic-stricken crowd fled up Chatham Street, across the Park, and down Spruce and Frankfort Streets, punished terribly at every step. The space around the building being cleared, a portion of the police rushed inside, where the work of destruction was going on. The sight of the blue-coats in their midst, with their uplifted clubs, took the rioters by surprise, and they rushed frantically for the doors and windows, and escaped the best way they could. In the meantime, those who had taken refuge in the Park found themselves in the lion's jaws. Carpenter had hardly rested from his march up Fifth Avenue to Mayor Opdyke's house, when he, too, received orders to hasten to the protection of the _Tribune_ building. Taking one hundred of his own men, and one hundred under Inspector Folk, of Brooklyn, who had been early ordered over, and been doing good service in the city, he marched down Broadway, and was just entering the Park, when the frightened crowd came rushing pell-mell across it. Immediately forming "company front," he swept the Park like a storm, clearing everything before him. Order being restored, Folk returned with his force to Brooklyn, where things began to wear a threatening aspect, and Carpenter took up his station at City Hall for the night. This ended the heavy fighting of the day, though minor disturbances occurred at various points during the evening. Negroes had been hunted down all day, as though they were so many wild beasts, and one, after dark, was caught, and after being severely beaten and hanged to a tree, left suspended there till Acton sent a force to take the body down. Many had sought refuge in police-stations and elsewhere, and all were filled with terror. The demonstrations in the lower part of the city excited the greatest anxiety about the Government buildings in that section--the Custom House and Sub-treasury were tempting prizes to the rioters. General Sandford, commanding the city military, had sent such force as he could collect early in the day to the arsenal, to defend it; for, should the mob once get possession of the arms and ammunition stored there, no one could tell what the end would be. United States troops also were placed in Government buildings to protect them. Almost the last act of the mob this evening was the burning of Postmaster Wakeman's house, in Eighty-sixth Street. Mrs. Wakeman was noted for her kindness to the poor and wretched, who now repaid her by sacking and burning her house. The precinct station near by was also destroyed. In the meanwhile, an event happened which threatened to disarrange all the plans that had been laid. Military etiquette often overrides the public good, and here, at this critical moment, General Wool chose to consider that, as General Sandford was Major-general, though not in the United States service, he, therefore, ranked Brigadier-general Brown of the regular army, and required him to act under the other's orders. This, Brown promptly refused to do, and asked to be relieved, telling General Wool that such a proceeding was an unheard-of thing. That he was right the order below will show [Footnote: [GENERAL ORDER No. 36.] WAR DEPARTMENT, _Adjutant-general's Office, Washington_, April 7th, 1863. 6. The military commander's duties in reference to all troops and enlisted men who happen to serve within the limits of his command will be _precisely those of a commanding officer of a military post_. The duties of military commanders above defined, will devolve in the _City of New York, and the military posts in that vicinity_, on Brevet Brigadier-general H. Brown, Colonel Fifth U. S. Artillery. By order of the Secretary of War, (Signed) L. THOMAS, _Adjutant-general_.] that his troops must be under his own command, as he was responsible for their action to the Government, and Sandford was not. Wool, however, continued obstinate, and a total disruption seemed inevitable. Mayor Opdyke, President Acton, Governor Seymour, with several prominent American citizens, were present, and witnessed this disagreement with painful feelings. They knew that it would work mischief, if not paralyze the combined action they hoped to put forth in the morning. General Brown, finding Wool inflexible, turned away, determined to retire altogether. The Mayor and others followed him, and begged him not to abandon them in the desperate strait they were in--to think of nothing but saving the city. General Brown had been too hasty, sticking on a point of mere etiquette, with, perhaps, too much tenacity. True, an officer must insist on his rank as a rule, but there are emergencies when everything of a personal nature must be forgotten--crises where it may be an officer's duty to serve in any capacity, however subordinate, and trust to being righted afterwards. Luckily, General Brown, on a sober second thought, took the proper view, and returned to General Wool, and asked to be reinstated in his command, but giving him to understand that, though he would co-operate in every possible way with General Sandford, he still must retain distinct and separate command of his own troops. This was right, and whether General Wool perfectly understood the arrangement, or seeing how deeply the gentlemen present felt on the subject, chose not to press a mere point of etiquette, does not appear. We only know that if General Brown had given up the command of his troops, the results to the city would have been disastrous. While these events were passing in the St. Nicholas Hotel, the streets were comparatively quiet. It had been a hard day for the rioters, as well as for the police, and they were glad of a little rest. Besides, they had become more or less scattered by a terrific thunderstorm that broke over the city, deluging the streets with water. In the midst of it, there came a telegraphic dispatch to the commissioners, calling for assistance. The tired police were stretched around on the floor or boxes, seeking a little rest, when they were aroused, and summoned to fall in; and the next moment they plunged into the darkness and rain. They were drenched to the skin before they had gone a block, but they did not heed it--and then, as to the end, and under all circumstances, answered promptly and nobly to every call. Acton had now gathered a large force at head-quarters, and felt ready to strike at any moment. While the men flung themselves on the hard floor, like soldiers on the field of battle, ready to start on duty at the first call, Acting Superintendent Acton and his assistants never closed their eyes, but spent the night in telegraphing, organizing, and preparing for the fiercer fights of next day. Much was to be done to cover and protect a district that reached from Brooklyn to Westchester, and it was an anxious night. They had one consolation, however: though taken unawares, they had at the close of the day come out victors, which gave them confidence in the future, especially as now Brown and his trained soldiers were with them. Some fifteen or twenty policemen had been more or less severely injured, while the number of the killed and wounded of the mob was wholly unknown. Both the dead and maimed were left by the police where they fell, and were almost immediately hurried away by their friends. The destruction of property on this first day, consisted of four buildings on Third Avenue burned, also a block on Broadway between Twenty-eighth and Twenty-ninth Streets; two brown-stone dwellings in Lexington Avenue; Allerton's Hotel near Bull's Head; a cottage, corner of Forty-fifth Street and Fifth Avenue; the Colored Orphan Asylum, and the armory corner of Twenty-first Street and Second Avenue. CHAPTER XV. Telegraph Bureau.--Its Work.--Skill and Daring and Success of its Force.--Interesting Incidents.--Hairbreadth Escapes.--Detective Force.--Its arduous Labors.--Its Disguises.--Shrewdness, Tact, and Courage.--Narrow Escapes.--Hawley, the Chief Clerk.--His exhausting Labors. One thing Commissioners Acton and Bergen in their consultation settled must be done at all hazards--telegraphic communication must be kept open with the different precincts. Otherwise it would be impossible to concentrate men at any given point, quick enough to arrest the mob before they spread devastation and conflagration far and wide. Every hour gained by a mob in accumulating or organizing its forces, increases the difficulty of dispersing it. The rioters understood this partially, and had acted accordingly; but the rich spoils they had come across during the day, had driven, for the time being, all other thoughts but plunder out of their heads. Some communications had already been destroyed, and the rioters would evidently by morning have their eyes open to the importance of doing this everywhere, and their efforts must be foiled, no matter what the risk or sacrifice might be. They had already cut down over sixty poles, and rendered upwards of twelve miles of wire useless; and how much more would share the same fate the next day, no one could tell. The superintendent and deputy of the Telegraph Bureau, Messrs. Crowley and Polhamus, with the operators mentioned before, were, therefore, set at work this very evening in the storm, to restore the broken lines. This was a perilous undertaking, for if once discovered, their lives would be instantly sacrificed. The details of their operations, their disguises, ingenious contrivances, deceptions, and boldness in carrying out their object, would make an attractive chapter in itself. Often compelled to mingle with the mob, always obliged to conceal what they were about, not daring to raise a pole or handle a wire unless cautiously or secretly, they yet restored the lines in the north section by morning, and those in the south by Wednesday evening. Sometimes they were compelled to carry a wire over the top of a house, sometimes round it, through a back-yard; in short, every device and expedient was resorted to by these daring, sharp-witted men. Once Polhamus had his boots burned off in tramping through the burning ruins of a building after the wires. Once he and Mr. Crowley came near being clubbed to death by the police, who mistook them for rioters, so ingeniously and like them were they at work among the ruins. Captain Brower rescued them, or their services might have ended on the spot. This work was kept steadily up during the continuation of the riots. On one occasion, Mr. Crowley, hearing that the wires were down in the Ninth and Tenth Avenues, hastened thither alone, when he encountered a large mob. Fearing to pass through it he hesitated a moment, when he noticed a carriage driving in the direction he wished to go, in which was a Catholic priest. He immediately hailed it and was taken in. As the carriage entered the mob, the latter surrounded it, and supposing the inmates were reporters, began to yell "Down with the d--d reporters;" but the moment they recognized the priest, they allowed it to pass. Often the two would take a hack; and passing themselves off as drivers, go through infected districts, and search points to which they otherwise could not have gone. One time they were returning from an expedition through Third Avenue, and had reached Houston Street, when they were hailed by a gang of rioters, who demanded to be taken downtown. They had to comply, for the men were armed with pistols, and so took them in and kept along Houston Street, under the pretence of going down through Broadway, knowing that when they reached Mulberry Street they would be in hailing distance of the head-quarters of the police. It was just after daybreak, and Crowley and Polhamus urged on the horses, expecting in a few minutes to have their load safely locked up. The fellows evidently not liking the vicinity to which the drivers were taking them, ordered them to wheel about, which they were compelled to do, and drive under their direction to an old house in the Tenth Ward. There they got out, and offering the drivers a drink and fifty cents, let them go. On one occasion, Crowley, while examining the wires in Second Avenue, was suspected by the mob, who fell upon him, and it was only by the greatest coolness and adroitness he convinced them he was a rioter himself, and so escaped. At another time they were going along in a common wagon, when they were hemmed in by a crowd, and escaped by passing themselves off as farmers from Westchester. Had they been discovered, they would have been killed on the spot. DETECTIVE FORCE. The duties of this force are well known, but during the riots they had something more important to do than to work up individual cases. The force, with John Young as chief, and M. B. Morse as clerk, consisted in all of seventeen persons. These men are selected for their superior intelligence, shrewdness, sagacity, and undoubted courage. Full of resources, they must also be cool, collected, and fearless. During the riots they were kept at work day and night, obtaining knowledge of facts that no others could get, and thus supplying the different precincts and head-quarters with invaluable information. Their duty was a most perilous one, for it called them to go into the very heart of the turbulent districts; nay, into the very midst of the mob, where detection would have been followed by death, and that of the most horrible kind. Chief Young, with his clerk, was engaged at head-quarters, so that fifteen men had to perform the required work for the whole city. Sometimes alone, sometimes two or three together, they seemed omnipresent. In all sorts of disguises, feigning all sorts of employments and characters, sometimes on horseback and again driving an old cart or a hack, they pressed with the most imperturbable effrontery into the very vortex of danger. Ever on the watch, and accustomed to notice every expression of the countenance, they would discover at a single glance when they were suspected, and remove the suspicion at once by some clever device. Sometimes one of them, seeing himself watched, would quietly ascend the steps of a residence, and ringing the bell, make some inquiry as though he were on business, and then deliberately walk off; or if he thought it would not do to have his face too closely scanned, he would step inside and wait till the crowd moved on. Sometimes, with a stone or club in their hands, they would shout with the loudest, and engaging in conversation with the ringleaders themselves, ascertain their next move; then quietly slip away to the nearest station, and telegraph to head-quarters the information. When the telegraph had been cut off, they had to take the place of the wires, and carry through the very heart of the crowd their news to the department. On their ears again and again would ring the fearful cry, "There goes Kennedy's spies;" and it required the most consummate acting and self-possession to allay the suspicion. Often on a single word or act hinged their very lives. Some of these men were in the mob that made the first attack on Mayor Opdyke's house, and while apparently acting with it, learned of the intended movement down to police head-quarters, and at once telegraphed the fact, which enabled Carpenter to prepare for them, and give them the terrible beating we have described. At the burning and sacking of different buildings they were present, and often would follow unnoticed the ringleaders for hours, tracking them with the tireless tenacity of a sleuth hound, until they got them separate from the crowd, and then pounce suddenly upon them, and run them into the nearest station. The lawlessness that prevailed not only let loose all the thieves and burglars of the city, but attracted those from other places, who practised their vocation with impunity. To lessen this evil, the detectives one night quietly made visits to some half a dozen "lushing cribs," as they are called, in Eighth and Fourteenth Streets, and seized about thirty noted thieves, burglars, and garroters, and locked them up for safe-keeping. They also warned the negroes of threatened danger, and directed them, to places of safety; and in case of emergency acted as guides to the military in their operations. In short, they were ubiquitous, indefatigable, and of immense service. They played the part of unerring pointers to the commissioners, telling them when and where to strike; yet strange to say, such was their skill, their ingenuity, and exhaustless resources, that they all escaped being assaulted, save one named Slowly. He was passing through the very heart of the riotous district, in Second Avenue, when some one who had evidently been once in his clutches, recognized him, and pointing him out, shouted "Detective!" Instantly a rush was made for him, and he was knocked down, and kicked and stamped upon. Regaining, with a desperate effort, his feet, he sprang up the steps of a house, and fought his assailants fiercely, till the lady of the house, seeing his perilous situation, courageously opened the door and let him in, and then bolted and barred it in the face of the mob. Through some strange apprehension, the baffled wretches, though they howled, and swore, and threatened, did not force an entrance, and he escaped. In this connection, while speaking of those whose duties were uniform and running through the whole period of the riots, might be mentioned Seth C. Hawley, the chief clerk. Like Acton, he has a nervous, wiry temperament. This often makes a man rash and headlong, and hence not reliable; but when combined, as in him, with perfect self-possession and self-control, imparts enormous power. It matters not how nervous and excitable a man is, if danger and responsibility instead of confusing and unsettling him, only winds him up to a higher tension, till he becomes like a tightly-drawn steel spring. Excitement then not only steadies him, but it quickens his perceptions, clears his judgment, gives rapidity to his decisions, and terrible force to his blow. Mr. Hawley's duties were of a various and exhausting kind, so that during all the riots, he allowed himself only one hours' rest out of every twenty-four. Besides his ordinary supervisory duties over the clerks, etc., he had to see to the execution of the almost incessant orders of the commissioners, provide and issue arms, see to the refugees and prisoners, and act as commissary to over four thousand men on duty in and around head-quarters. Two men more perfectly fitted to work together in such a crisis as this, than he and Acton, could not well be found. CHAPTER XVI. SECOND DAY. Appearance of the City.--Assembling of the Mob.--Fight between Rioters and the Police and Soldiers.--Storming of Houses.--Rioters hurled from the Roofs.--Soldiers fire on the People.--Awful Death of Colonel O'Brien.--Fight in Pitt Street.--Deadly Conflict for a Wire Factory.--Horrible Impaling of a Mart on an Iron Picket.--Mystery attached to Him.--Second Attack on Mayor Opdyke's House.--Second Fight for the Wire Factory.--Telegraphic Dispatches.--Citizens Volunteering.--Raid on the Negroes.--They are hunted to Death.--Savage Spectacle.--Negroes seek Head-quarters of Police.--Appearance and State of the City.--Colonel Nugent's House sacked.--Fight with the Mob in Third Avenue.--Battle at Gibbon's House.--Policeman Shot.--Night Attack on Brooks and Brothers' Clothing Store.--Value of the Telegraph System.--Captain Petty.--Seymour's Speech to the Mob.--Cars and Stages seized.--Barricades.--Other Fights.--Acton and his Labors. The early July morning broke tranquilly over the great city, and the rattling of vehicles was heard in some of the streets, where men were going to their places of business. In a large portion of it everything wore its usual air of tranquillity, yet a close observer would notice an uneasiness resting on the countenances of men. Furtive glances were cast down side streets, and people seemed on the watch, as though in expectation of something to come, and the very atmosphere appeared laden with evil omens. Around police head-quarters, and inside the building, were large bodies of policemen and the U. S. troops under General Brown. But uptown, in the vicinity of Thirteenth Street and Second and Third Avenues, crowds of men began early to assemble, though perfectly quiet in their demeanor, while smaller knots in the adjoining wards could be seen discussing the events of the day before. In the meantime, exciting reports came from Harlem and Yorkville--as early as five o'clock, the following telegram was sent to the Twentieth Precinct: "Notify General Sandford to go immediately to Eighty-sixth Street and Harlem--mob burning." Indeed the air was charged with electricity, but the commissioners now felt ready to meet the storm whenever and wherever it should burst. A large force of special policemen had been sworn in, while General Brown had over seven hundred troops, ready to co-operate with the police. The public buildings were all well guarded--Sandford had a strong force in the arsenal, and the military and civil authorities stood waiting the next movement of the mob. Telegrams arriving, showed that the northern part of the city was alive with gathering crowds, while from Sixth Avenue on the west nearly to Second Avenue in the east, and down almost to Broome Street, the streets were black with excited men. Stores were closed, factories emptied of their hands, who voluntarily joined the rioters, or were forced into their ranks, and there was evidently a gathering of the elements in those directions for a fearful storm. Soon immense crowds began to patrol the streets in different wards, showing that simultaneous action would be required at various points. The troops were called out and marshalled in Mulberry Street, and those companies selected for immediate action drawn up in line. Colonel Frothingham, after an earnest conversation with the officers, addressed the soldiers. He told them that the fate of the city was in their hands, and everything depended on their good conduct. Knowing the temptations to disorderly conduct in the midst of the great city, he urged on them especially to obey implicitly their officers under all circumstances. His manner and words were earnest, and listened to with profound attention. Soon a company headed by Sergeant Carpenter, with a police force two hundred and fifty strong, started for Second and Third Avenues, where the greatest gatherings were reported to be. At this time the rioters seemed hesitating about their course of action. There was apparently no recognized leader, no common understanding and purpose, though all were engaged in animated discussions of some topic. Dirty, ferocious-looking women were scattered through the crowd; some of the men were armed, while all looked defiant and determined. There were doubtless many who had come from mere curiosity, and a few attempted to allay the excitement, among them a Catholic priest, who harangued them, urging them to maintain peace. His address seemed to have considerable influence on those immediately around him; but as soon as he left, his words were forgotten, and the mighty throng, estimated by some at ten thousand, began to be agitated by passion. What would have been the first act of violence, it is impossible to say, had they been left undisturbed. But at the cry of "the police and soldiers are coming," everything else was forgotten. Inspector Carpenter, coming down Twenty-first Street, struck Second Avenue, and wheeling, moved in solid column through the crowd up to Thirty-second Street. The force was assailed with hoots and yells, and all kinds of opprobrious epithets, but no violence was shown, until it had crossed Thirty-second Street. The mob not only filled the street, but numbers, with piles of stones and brick-bats, had climbed to the roofs of the houses. These deeming themselves secure, suddenly, with one accord, rained their missiles on the rear of the column. The men fell rapidly, and two were dangerously hurt. Carpenter immediately halted his command, and ordered fifty men to enter the houses, and mounting to the roof, clear them of the assailants. Barricaded doors were at once broken in, and every one that opposed their progress clubbed without mercy, as they made their way to the upper floors. Captain Mount of the Eleventh Precinct, led this storming party. Officers Watson and Cole distinguished themselves by being the first on the roof, fighting their way through a narrow scuttle. As the police, one by one, stepped on to the roof, they rushed on the desperadoes with their clubs, and felled them rapidly. Those who attempted to escape through the scuttles were met by the police in the rooms below; or if one chanced to reach the street, he was knocked down by those keeping guard there. Some dropped from second and third story windows, and met with a worse fate than those who staid behind. One huge fellow received such a tremendous blow, that he was knocked off his feet and over the edge of the roof, and fell headlong down a height of four stories to the pavement beneath. Crushed to death by the force of the fall, he lay a mangled heap at the feet of his companions. The fight was sharp and fierce, and kept up for nearly an hour, and bodies scattered around showed with what deadly force the club had been wielded. But with the clearing of the houses there came a lull in the conflict, and the immense crowd looked on in sullen silence, as the police reformed in the street, and recommenced their march. The military force that had accompanied the police, had formed on the avenue, about a block and a half above where the latter were stationed, while the detachment was clearing the houses. Two howitzers were placed in position commanding the avenue. Colonel O'Brien, of the Eleventh New York Volunteers, who was raising a regiment for the war, had gathered together, apparently on his own responsibility, about fifty men, and appearing on the field, from his superior rank, assumed command. For a short time the rioters remained quiet, but as the police marched away, they suddenly awoke out of their apparent indifference. Maddened at the sight of the mangled bodies of their friends stretched on the pavement, and enraged at their defeat by the police, they now turned on the soldiers, and began to pelt them with stones and brick-bats. O'Brien rode up and down the centre of the street a few times, evidently thinking his fearless bearing would awe the mob. But they only jeered him, and finding the attack growing hotter and more determined, he finally gave the order to fire. The howitzers belched forth on the crowd, the soldiers levelled their pieces, and the whistling of minie-balls was heard on every side. Men and women, reeled and fell on the sidewalk and in the street. One woman, with her child in her arms, fell, pierced with a bullet. The utmost consternation followed. The crowd knew from sad experience that the police would use their clubs, but they seemed to think it hardly possible that the troops would fire point-blank into their midst. But the deadly effect of the fire convinced them of their error, and they began to jostle and crowd each other in the effort to get out of its range. In a few minutes the avenue was cleared of the living, when the wounded and dead were cared for by their friends. Order had been restored, and O'Brien, with some twenty or thirty men, marched down to police head-quarters, and offered his services to Genera Brown. Colonel Frothingham thanked him, but soon saw that the Colonel was not in a fit state to have command of troops, and so reported to General Brown. O'Brien appeared to comprehend the state of things, and asked to be excused on the plea of sickness. He was excused, and rode away. Whether he disbanded his handful of men, or they disbanded themselves, was not stated, but _he_ was soon back again at the scene of the riot. His residence was close by, but had been deserted that morning by the family, which had fled in alarm to Brooklyn. Scowling visages lowered on the colonel, as he rode slowly back among the crowd, and low muttered threats were heard. Although an Irishman, and well-known in that neighborhood, his sympathy with the Government had awakened more or less hostile feeling against him, which his conduct to-day kindled into deadly hate. Apparently unconscious or reckless of this, he dismounted, and entered a neighboring drug-store or saloon. After remaining a few moments he came out, and paused as he beheld the crowd that had assembled around the door. There was little said, but dark and angry countenances were bent on him from every side, and he saw that mischief was intended. Drawing his sword, and taking a revolver in the other hand, he deliberately walked out into the street. He had taken but a few steps, when a powerful blow on the back of his head made him stagger forward. In an instant a rush was made for him, and blows were rained so fast and fierce upon him, that he was unable to defend himself. Knocked down and terribly mangled, he was dragged with savage brutality over the rough pavement, and swung from side to side like a billet of wood, till the large, powerful body was a mass of gore, and the face beaten to a pumice. The helpless but still animate form would then be left awhile in the street, while the crowd, as it swayed to and fro, gazed on it with cool indifference or curses. At length a Catholic priest, who had either been sent for, or came along to offer his services wherever they might be needed, approached the dying man and read the service of the Catholic Church over him, the crowd in the meantime remaining silent. After he had finished, he told them to leave the poor man alone, as he was fast sinking. But as soon as he had disappeared, determined to make sure work with their victim, they again began to pound and trample on the body. In the intervals of the attack, the still living man would feebly lift his head, or roll it from side to side on the stones, or heave a faint groan. The whole afternoon was spent in this fiendish work, and no attempt was made to rescue him. Towards sundown the body was dragged into his own back-yard, his regimentals all torn from him, except his pantaloons, leaving the naked body, from the waist up, a mass of mangled flesh clotted with blood. But the dying man could not be left alone in his own yard. A crowd followed him thither, among which were women, who committed the most atrocious violence on the body, until at last, with one convulsive movement of the head, and a deep groan, the strong man yielded up his life. While this tragedy was being enacted here, similar scenes were occurring all over the city. Mobs were everywhere, the spirit of pandemonium was abroad, and havoc and revenge let loose. Lieutenant Wood, whom General Brown had sent off, with a company of regulars, came in conflict with a mob, two thousand strong, in Pitt and Delancey Streets. Marching along Houston to the Bowery, he turned down the latter, and kept on to Grand. On reaching Pitt Street, he beheld the hooting, yelling crowd coming straight towards him. He immediately formed his little force of one hundred and fifty men in line across the street, and brought them to "shoulder arms." One of the ringleaders stepped forward to speak to him, when Lieutenant Wood waved him off. This was the signal for the attack, and immediately a shower of stones fell among the soldiers. The officer ordered the men to fire--it was said over the heads of the rioters--in order to disperse them. The result was scattering shots in return from the latter. Wood then ordered a point-blank volley, when men tumbled over right and left. The crowd did not wait for a second, but fled in every direction. Wood then marched back to headquarters, but on the way slipped and sprained his ankle, which caused a report that he had been wounded. A bloody conflict also took place between the police and mob in the same avenue where Colonel O'Brien fell, below Thirtieth Street. There was a wire factory here, in which several thousand carbines were stored. Of this, some of the rioters were aware, and communicated the fact to others, and a plan was formed to capture them. Having discovered from the morning's experience that the military had been called in to aid the police, arms became imperatively necessary, if they hoped to make a successful resistance. All public depositories of arms they knew were guarded, but this factory was not, and hence they resolved to capture it without delay. Swarming around it, they forced the entrance, and began to throw out the carbines to their friends. The attack, however, had been telegraphed to head-quarters, and Inspector Dilks was despatched with two hundred men to save the building, and recover any arms that might be captured. He marched rapidly up to Twenty-first Street, and down it to the avenue. Here he came suddenly upon the mob, that blocked the entire street. As the head of the force appeared, the rioters, instead of being frightened, greeted it with jeers and curses. It was two hundred against a thousand; but the inspector did not hesitate a moment on account of the inequality of numbers, but instantly formed his men and ordered a charge. The mob, instead of recoiling, closed desperately on the police, and a fierce hand-to-hand encounter took place. The clubs, however, mowed a clean swath along the street, and the compact little force pushed like a wedge into the throng, and cleared a bloody space for itself. The orders were to recapture all the arms; for this was of more vital importance than the capture of men. Wherever, therefore, a musket was seen, a man would dash for it, and, seizing it, fight his way back into line. On the pavement, the sidewalk, and in the gutters, men lay bleeding and dying, until at last, the more resolute having been knocked on the head, the vast crowd, like a herd of buffalo, broke and tore madly down the street. One of the leaders was a man of desperate courage, and led on the mob with reckless fury, though bleeding freely from the terrible punishment he received. As his comrades turned to flee, leaving him alone, a fearful blow sent him reeling and staggering towards the sidewalk. As he reached it, he fell heavily over against the iron railing, and his chin striking one of the iron pickets, the sharp point entered it and penetrated through to the roof of his mouth. No one noticed him, or if they did, paid no attention to him in the headlong flight on the one hand, and swift pursuit on the other. Thus horridly impaled, his body hanging down along the sidewalk, the wretched man was left to die. At length Captain Hedden noticed him, and lifting up the corpse, laid it down on the sidewalk. It was found, to the surprise of all, to be that of a young man of delicate features and white, fair skin. "Although dressed as a laborer, in dirty overalls and filthy shirt, underneath these were fine cassimere pants, handsome, rich vest, and fine linen shirt." [Footnote: D.M. Barnes.] He was evidently a man in position far above the rough villains he led on, but had disguised himself so, as not to be known. He never was known. The corpse, during the fight that followed, disappeared with the bodies of many others. The street being cleared, Dilks turned his attention to the factory, which was filled with armed rioters, who were determined to defend it to the last. Detaching a portion of his force, he ordered it to take the building by storm. Dashing over all obstacles, the men won the stairway step by step, and entering the main room on the second story, felled a man at almost every blow. Those who succeeded in escaping down-stairs were knocked on the head by the force in the street, and soon no rioters were left but the dead and dying. How many fell in this fight it is impossible to tell; but one physician alone dressed the wounds of twenty-one desperately wounded men. Taking what guns they could find and had captured in the street, the force marched triumphantly back, cheered on their way by the spectators. In the meantime, Mayor Opdyke's house in Fifth Avenue had again been attacked and partially sacked. Captain Maniere, one of the provost marshals, however, assembled a small force, and drove out the rioters, who were mostly young men and boys, before the work of destruction was complete. The news of this attack had been telegraphed to head-quarters of the police, and Captain Helme, of the Twenty-seventh Precinct, despatched to its defence. At his approach the rioters dispersed. Soon after, he was ordered with his command over to the Second Avenue, accompanied by a detachment of troops under Captain Franklin. This was in the afternoon--the mob had reassembled, and reinforced by those who had been dispersed at Thirty-fourth Street, where Colonel O'Brien fell, had overcome the small body of police at the wire factory, and again taken possession of it. They had found some boxes of guns that had been overlooked by Dilks, and having armed themselves, determined to hold it. Even women joined in the defence. As the force approached, it was greeted with shouts of defiance and missiles of every kind. An immense crowd was gathered outside, while the windows of the five-story building were filled with angry, excited faces, and arms wildly gesticulating. Charging on this dense mass, and clubbing their way to the building, the police entered it, and streaming up the stairways, cleared it floor by floor, some being knocked senseless, others leaping from windows, to be killed by the fall, and others escaping down-stairs, to be met by the force in the street. A thorough search was now made for arms, and the building emptied of them. Taking possession of these, the police and military took up their line of march for head-quarters. They had not proceeded far, however, before the mob that had scattered in every direction began to pour back again into the avenue, and close on the military that were bringing up the rear. Following them with hoots and yells that were unheeded, they became emboldened, and pressing nearer, began to hurl stones and bricks, and everything they could lay their hands on, against the soldiers. The latter bore it for awhile patiently; but this only made the wretches more fierce and daring. Seeing there was but one way to end this, Captain Franklin ordered his men to "About face;" and "ready, aim, fire," fell in quick succession. The yelling, shouting crowd were in point-blank range, and the volley told with deadly effect. The street was strewed with dead and dying, while the living fled down the avenue. In the meantime, mobs had sprung up in every part of the city; some larger and some smaller; some after negroes, others firing buildings or sacking them. Some idea of the pressure on the Police Commissioners during this forenoon, and the condition the city was in, may be gathered from the following despatches, which are only a small portion of those received and answered in two hours: 10.20. From Thirteenth. Send military here immediately. 10.22. To Seventh. Find military and send them to Thirteenth Street forthwith. 10.45. From Sixteenth. A mob has just attacked Jones' soap factory; stores all closed. 10.50. To Twenty-sixth. Tell Inspector Leonard to send one hundred men here forthwith. 10.55. To Twentieth. From General Brown. Send to arsenal and say a heavy battle is going on. Captain Wilkins and company of regulars will report to me here at once. 11.18. From Sixteenth. Mob is coming down to station-house; we have no men. 11.20. From Eighteenth. The mob is very wild, corner Twenty-second Street and Second Avenue. They have attacked the Union steam factory. 11.35. To Twenty-sixth. Send another one hundred men here forthwith. 11.35. From Twentieth. Send one hundred men to disperse mob assailing Mayor Opdyke's house. 11.38. To Twenty-first. Can you send a few men here? 11.40. From Twenty-second. The mob has gone to Mr. Higgins' factory, foot of Forty-third Street, to burn it. 11.45. From Eighteenth. What shall we do? The mob is about 4,500 strong. _Answer_. Clear them down, if you can. 11.50. From Eighteenth. We must leave; the mob is here with guns. 11.50. From Twentieth. Mob tearing up track on Eleventh Avenue. 11.58. The mob have just sacked a large gun-store in Grand Street, and are armed, and are on the way to attack us. 12.10. To Fifteenth. Send your men here forthwith. 12.35. From Twentieth. Send two hundred men forthwith to Thirty-fifth Street arsenal. 12.36. From Twenty-first. The mob have just broken open a gun-store on Third Avenue, between Thirty-sixth and Thirty-seventh Streets, and are arming. 12.40. From Twenty-first. Send help--the crowd is desperate. And so on. Between these rapid telegrams asking for help, were others making and answering inquiries. And so it was kept up from daylight till midnight for three days in succession. These urgent calls for help coming from every quarter at the same time, would have thrown into inextricable confusion a less clear head than Acton's. It was a terrible strain on him, and had it continued a little longer, would have cost him his life. In the midst of it all he received anonymous letters, telling him he had but one more day to live. But while the police head-quarters were thus crowded with business, and the commissioners were straining every nerve to meet the frightful state of things in the city, other means were being taken to add to their efficiency. Governor Seymour had reached the city, and after being closeted with Mayor Opdyke, had issued a proclamation, calling on the rioters to disperse, and saying that they would be put down at all hazards. At a meeting of the merchants and bankers in Wall Street, it was resolved to close up business, and form volunteer companies of a hundred men each, to serve under the military. General Wetmore was one of the first to offer his services. The high-spirited citizen, William E. Dodge, was among the most prominent advocates of the measure, and soon found himself a captain under orders. The steamboat of the harbor police was busy in bringing troops and cannon from Riker's and Governor's Island, and rapidly steaming from point to point on the river, to prevent destruction around the docks. Around the arsenal cannon were placed. At the city armory, corner of White and Elm Streets, were a company of the Eighty-fourth New York Militia, and some of the Zouaves and other troops. The Sub-treasury and Custom House were defended by the Tenth National Zouaves and a hundred and fifty armed citizens. In front of the Government stores in Worth and White streets, the Invalid Corps and a company of marines patrolled, while howitzers loaded with grape and canister, stood on the corner of the street. Nearly four hundred citizens had been sworn in at police head-quarters as special policemen, and had been furnished with clubs and badges. All this time the fight was going on in every direction, while the fire-bells continually ringing increased the terror that every hour became more wide-spread. Especially was this true of the negro population. From the outset, they had felt they were to be objects of vengeance, and all day Monday and to-day those who could leave, fled into the country. They crowded the ferry-boats in every direction, fleeing for life. But old men and women, and poor families, were compelled to stay behind, and meet the fury of the mob, and to-day it became a regular hunt for them. A sight of one in the streets would call forth a halloo, as when, a fox breaks cover, and away would dash a half a dozen men in pursuit. Sometimes a whole crowd streamed after with shouts and curses, that struck deadly terror to the heart of the fugitive. If overtaken, he was pounded to death at once; if he escaped into a negro house for safety, it was set on fire, and the inmates made to share a common fate. Deeds were done and sights witnessed that one would not have dreamed of, except among savage tribes. At one time there lay at the corner of Twenty seventh-Street and Seventh Avenue the dead body of a negro, stripped nearly naked, and around it a collection of Irishmen, absolutely dancing or shouting like wild Indians. Sullivan and Roosevelt Streets are great negro quarters, and here a negro was afraid to be seen in the street. If in want of something from a grocery, he would carefully open the door, and look up and down to see if any one was watching, and then steal cautiously forth, and hurry home on his errand. Two boarding-houses here were surrounded by a mob, but the lodgers, seeing the coming storm, fled. The desperadoes, finding only the owner left behind, wreaked their vengeance on him, and after beating him unmercifully, broke up the furniture, and then fired the buildings. A German store near by, because it was patronized extensively by negroes, shared the same fate, after its contents had been distributed among themselves. A negro barber's shop was next attacked, and the torch applied to it. A negro lodging-house in the same street next received the visit of these furies, and was soon a mass of ruins. Old men, seventy years of age, and young children, too young to comprehend what it all meant, were cruelly beaten and killed. The spirit of hell seemed to have entered the hearts of these men, and helpless womanhood was no protection against their rage. Sometimes a stalwart negro would break away from his murderers, and run for his life. With no place of safety to which he could flee, he would be headed off in every direction, and forced towards the river. Driven at last to the end of a pier, he would leap off, preferring to take his chances in the water rather than among these bloody men. If bruised and beaten in his desperate struggle for life, he would soon sink exhausted with his efforts. Sometimes he would strike out for a ship, but more often dive under the piers, and hold on to a timber for safety, until his yelling pursuers had disappeared, when he would crawl stealthily out, and with terrified face peer in every direction to see if they had gone. Two were thus run off together into the East River. It was a strange spectacle to see a hundred Irishmen pour along the streets after a poor negro. If he could reach a police station he felt safe; but, alas! if the force happened to be away on duty, he could not stay even there. Whenever the police could strike the track of the mad hunt, they stopped it summarily, and the pursuers became the pursued, and received the punishment they had designed for the negro. All this was in the nineteenth century, and in the metropolis of the freest and most enlightened nation on earth. [Image: Hanging and burning a negro in Clarkson Street.] The hunt for these poor creatures became so fearful, and the utter impossibility to protect them in their scattered localities so apparent, that they were received into the police stations. But these soon proved inadequate, and they were taken to head-quarters and the arsenal, where they could be protected against the mob. Here the poor creatures were gathered by hundreds, and slept on the floor, and were regularly fed by the authorities. It is impossible to give a detailed account of what transpired in every part of the city. If there had been a single band of rioters, no matter how large, a force of military and police, properly armed, could have been concentrated to have dispersed it. But bodies of men, larger or smaller, bent on violence and devastation, were everywhere; even out at Harlem eight buildings were burned, and the lower end of Westchester was in a state of agitation and alarm. A mob of thousands would be scattered, only to come together at other points. A body of police and military plunging through the heaving multitude, acted often only as a stone flung into the water, making but a momentary vacuum. Or, if they did not come together again, they swung off only to fall in, and be absorbed by a crowd collected in another part of the city. The alarm of Monday had only been partial, but to-day it culminated. Families, husbands, and sons left their business, and with arms patrolled the streets. Stores were shut up, stages and cars stopped running, and all business was suspended. The blood flowing through the thousand arteries of this great mart seemed suddenly frozen in its channels, and its mighty pulsations to stop at the mandate of lawless men. The city held its breath in dread, but there were firm hearts at police head-quarters. Acton never flinched, and in General Brown he found a soldier that knew his duty, and would do it at all hazards. Still, the uprising kept swelling into vaster proportions, embracing a still larger territory. Broadway was deserted. A few hacks could be seen, but with very different occupants than those which they ordinarily contained. The iron shutters were closed on the Fifth Avenue Hotel, and a stack of arms stood in the hall-way. Crowds of respectable citizens, not on duty, were making all haste toward railroad depots and steamboat landings. Every boat, as it swung from the dock, was loaded to its utmost capacity with people leaving a city that seemed doomed to destruction; going, many knew not where, only out of New York. Cars were packed, and long trains were made up to carry the crowds in haste to get away. But travel on the Hudson River Road was soon stopped by the mob, that tore up the track to prevent communication with other parts of the State, and the arrival of troops. The Harlem and Third Avenue tracks were also torn up, as the rioters were determined to isolate the great city, which they had doomed to destruction. Passing from one object to another, now acting as if from plan, and now intent only on destruction and plunder, the crowd streamed from point to point with shouts and yells, that sent terror through the adjoining streets. Suddenly, some one remembered that they were in the vicinity of Colonel Nugent's house, in Yorkville, the assistant provost marshal general, and shouting out the news, a rush was made for it, and it was sacked from top to bottom. As the police were gathered together either at the precinct stations or head-quarters, ordinary patrol duty was out of the question; hence, many isolated, acts of violence could be committed with impunity. This freedom from close surveillance, coupled with the contagion of the lawless spirit which was abroad, made every section of the city where the lower classes lived more or less restless. It was impossible for the police to divide itself up so to furnish protection in individual cases, and yet be in sufficient force to cope with the mobs, that numbered by thousands. Although the whole city was heaving like a troubled sea, yet the main gathering this day had been in the upper part and on both sides of it. The terrific contests we described farther back were in the Second Avenue, on the east side, but, nearly opposite, in the Sixth Avenue, crowds had been gathering since early in the forenoon. For a long time they swayed backward and forward, apparently without any definite purpose, and moved only by the spirit of disorder that had taken possession of the city. But about two o'clock, these various bodies began by mutual attraction to flow together, and soon became one immense mass, and impelled by some information or other, gathered threateningly around a large mansion on the corner of Forty-sixth Street and Fifth Avenue. They had supplied themselves with all sorts of weapons, revolvers, old muskets, stones, clubs, barrel-staves--in short, everything that could be found, that might be of service in a fight--and soon commenced plundering the residence. But their movements had been telegraphed to head-quarters, and Captain Walling, of the Twentieth Precinct, was dispatched thither, with a company of regulars under Captain Putnam, a descendant of "Old Put." The report soon spread through the crowd, that bayonets could be seen coming up the avenue. Marching up to Forty-sixth Street, the force turned into it, towards the Fifth Avenue; and breaking into the charge step, with the order "no prisoners" ringing in their ears, struck the mob almost in the centre, cutting it in two, like a mighty cleaver. There was no need of bayonets--the police, at the head of the military, went right through it, and scattered the men in every direction. The force then divided into squads, and each one taking a section of the mob, followed it up on a swift run, and smote them right and left for several blocks. The larger portion went down Sixth Avenue, and seeing only a portion of the police pursuing, turned and showed fight, when the leader received a bullet in the head and fell. Seeing their leader fall, the mob wheeled and took to their heels. Captain Walling in one instance saw a crowd with fire-arms standing in an alley-way. Just then a fire-engine and company came down the street, and he with his small force got behind it, and kept concealed until opposite the unsuspecting crowd, when, with a shout, they dashed on it. A volley received them,--with answering volley, the police charged into the narrow opening. The rioters fled into a tenement-house, from which came yells and screams of terrified women and children. Walling had some sharpshooters with him, to pick off those beyond the reach of the clubs. One fellow, armed, was seen astraddle of the ridge pole of a house. The next moment a sharpshooter covered him, and he tumbled headlong to the ground. The same afternoon he saw some twenty or thirty men attempting to stave in a hardware store, evidently after pistols. Walling charged on them alone, and with one terrible blow, his club sent the leader to the pavement with his brains oozing out. Although the draft was almost forgotten by the rioters, in the thirst for plunder and blood, still men in the streets and some of the papers talked of its being unconstitutional, and to be contested in the courts--others that it had been and would be suspended, as though any disposal of it now could affect the conduct of the rioters. Force was the only argument they would listen to. The riot had almost ceased to wear any political aspect since the attack on the _Tribune_ office, the day before, had been defeated. An occasional shout or the sight of a negro might now and then remind one of its origin, but devastation and plunder were the great objects that urged on the excited masses. The sacking of Opdyke's house was done chiefly by a few youngsters, who were simply following the example set them the day before; while the burning of negro buildings, the chasing and killing of negroes, seemed to have only a remote connection with the draft, and was simply the indulgence of a hatred they were hitherto afraid to gratify. So the setting fire to the Weehawken ferry afterwards, could be made to grow out of politics only so far as a man who kept a liquor saloon there was a known Republican. This seemed a weak inducement to draw a crowd so far, when more distinguished victims were all around them. It is more probable that some personal enemy of parties in the vicinity, finding the mob ready to follow any cry, led them thither; for one man seemed to be the leader, who, mounted on a fine cavalry horse, and brandishing a sword, galloped backwards and forwards through the crowd, giving his orders like a field officer. Mobs springing up everywhere, and flowing together often apparently by accident, each pursuing a different object: one chasing negroes and firing their dwellings; others only sacking; a house, and others still, wreaking their vengeance on station-houses, while scores, the moment they got loaded down with plunder, hastened away to conceal it--all showed that the original cause of the uprising had been forgotten. A strong uncertainty seemed at times to keep them swaying backwards and forwards, as though seeking a definite object, or waiting for an appointed signal to move, and then at some shout would rush for a building, a negro, or station-house. The mob was a huge monster--frightful both in proportions and appearance, yet not knowing where or how to use its strength. The attack on Mr. Gibbon's house at Twenty-ninth Street and Eighth Avenue, during this afternoon, was attributed to the fact that he was Mr. Greeley's cousin, and that the former sometimes slept there--rather a far-fetched inference, as though a mob would be aware of a fact that probably not a dozen immediate neighbors knew. Some one person might have raised a cry of "Greeley's house," which would have been sufficient to insure its destruction. The police being notified of this attack, sent a squad of men with a military force to disperse the mob. Captain Ryer formed his troops in front of the house, and Sergeant Devoursney did the same with a part of his men, while the other portion was sent into the building, that was filled with men, women, and children, loading themselves down with the spoils. The appearance of the caps and clubs in the rooms created a consternation that would have been ludicrous, but for the serious work that followed. No defence was made, except by a few persons singly. One fellow advanced to the door with a pistol in his hand, and fired, sending a ball through Officer Hill's thigh. The next instant the latter felled him to the floor with his club, and before he could even attempt to rise he was riddled with balls. Some of the women fell on their knees, and shrieked for mercy; while one strong Irish woman refused to yield her plunder, and fought like a tigress. She seized an officer by the throat, and trying to strangle and bite him, would not let go till a blow sobered her into submission. Some were loaded with shawls and dresses, and one burly, ferocious-looking Irishman carried under his arm a huge bundle of select music. As the police chased the plunderers down-stairs, and out into the street, in some unaccountable way the troops got so confused that they fired a volley that swept the police as well as the rioters. Officer Dipple was so severely wounded that he died the following Sunday, while Officers Hodson and Robinson both received flesh wounds. In the upper part of the city, few buildings, except those too near police and army head-quarters, or too well defended, offered much spoil except private houses, and these had been the chief objects of attack. But Brooks and Brothers' clothing store in Catharine Street, situated in a part of the city thickly populated with the very class mobs are made of, became toward evening an object of great attraction to groups of hard-looking men and women. As night settled down, the heavens being overcast, it became very dark; for in all the neighboring houses the lights were extinguished by the inmates, who were terribly alarmed at the rapidly increasing crowd in the street. To deepen and complete the gloom the rioters turned off the gas. Officer Bryan, of the Fourth Ward, telegraphed to head-quarters the threatening appearance of things, and a force of fifty or sixty men were at once despatched to the spot. In the mean time Sergeant Finney, with Platt and Kennedy, stood at the entrance to defend the building till the police could arrive. For awhile the three determined police officers, standing silent in the darkness, overawed the leaders. But soon from the crowd arose shouts, amid which were heard the shrill voices of women, crying, "Break open the store." This was full of choice goods, and contained clothing enough to keep the mob supplied for years. As the shouts increased, those behind began to push forward those in front, till the vast multitude swung heavily towards the three police officers. Seeing this movement, the latter advanced with their clubs to keep them back. At this, the shouts and yells redoubled, and the crowd rushed forward, crushing down the officers by mere weight. They fought gallantly for a few minutes; but, overborne by numbers, they soon became nearly helpless, and were terribly beaten and wounded, and with the utmost exertions were barely able to escape, and make their way back to the station. The mob now had it all its own way, and rushing against the doors, burst bolts and bars asunder, and streamed in. But it was dark as midnight inside, and they could not distinguish one thing from another; not even the passage-ways to the upper rooms of the building, which was five stories high. They therefore lighted the gas, and broke out the windows. In a few minutes the vast edifice was a blaze of light, looking more brilliant from the midnight blackness that surrounded it. The upturned faces of the excited, squalid throng below presented a wild and savage spectacle in the flickering light. Men and women kept pouring in and out, the latter loaded with booty, making their way home into the adjacent streets, and the former rushing after their portion of the spoils. Coats and pantaloons, and clothing of every description, were rapidly borne away; and it was evident, give them time enough, the crowd would all disappear, and there would be scarcely enough left to finish the work of destruction. Thinking only of the rich prize they had gained, they seemed to forget that retribution was possible, when suddenly the cry of "Police! police!" sent a thrill of terror through them. Sergeant Delaney, at the head of his command, marched swiftly down the street, until close upon the mob, when the order, "Double-quick," was given, and they burst with a run upon them. For a moment, the solid mass, by mere weight, bore up against the shock; but the clubs soon made a lane through it broad as the street. Just then a pistol-shot rung from a house, almost over their heads. Many of the rioters were armed with muskets, and the comparatively small police force, seeing that firearms were to be used, now drew their revolvers, and poured a deadly volley right into their midst. Several fell at the first discharge; and immediately terror seized that portion of the multitude nearest the police, especially the women, and many fell on their knees, crying for mercy. Others forced their way recklessly over their companions, to get out of reach. As the police made their way to the front of the store, they formed line, while Sergeant Matthew, of the First Precinct, with his men, entered the building. The scene here became more frightful than the one without. The rioters on the first floor made but little resistance, and, thinking only of escape, leaped from the windows, and rushed out of doors like mad creatures. But as they attempted to flee, those without knocked them over with their clubs. Having cleared this story, the police mounted to the second, where the rioters, being more closely penned, showed fight. Pistol-shots rang out, and some of the police officers had narrow escapes. One powerful bully fought like a tiger, till two policemen fell upon him with their clubs, and soon left him stark and stiff. At last they drove the whole crowd into a rear building, and kept them there till they had time to secure them. Just as the store was cleared, Sergeant Carpenter, who had been sent as a reinforcement in case of need, came up with a hundred and fifty men, and charging on the crowd, sent them flying down the narrow streets. After quiet had been restored, a military force arrived and took possession of the building. Just previous to this, another attempt was made to burn the _Tribune_ building, but was easily repelled. The _Times_ office, near by, warned by the fate of its neighbor the night before, had established a regular garrison inside, while it brilliantly illuminated the open space all around it, in the circle of which the rioters did not care to come. The invaluable service of the telegraph was tested to-day, not merely in enabling General Brown and the commissioners to despatch men quickly to a threatened point, but to keep a force moving from one ward to another, as messages came in, announcing the incipient gathering in different districts. Word sent to the station in the neighborhood where they were acting, would instantly change their route; and knots of men, which if left alone would soon have swelled into formidable mobs, were broken up, for they found military and police force marching down on them before they could form a plan of action. Nor was this all. A force sent to a certain point, after dispersing the mob, would be directed to make a tour through the disaffected districts--all the time keeping up its communication with head-quarters, so that if any serious demonstration was made in that section of the city, it could be ordered there at once, thus saving half the time it would take to march from head-quarters. Thus, for instance, Captain Petty was ordered this morning to head-quarters from the City Hall, where he had passed the night, and directed to take two hundred men (including his own precinct force), and go to the protection of a soap factory in Sixteenth Street, Eighth and Ninth Avenues. He moved off his command, marching rapidly up Broadway and down Sixteenth Street. The mob saw it coming two blocks off, and immediately scattered in every direction, which awakened the supreme contempt of the captain. He now marched backward and forward, and through the cross streets, up as far as Nineteenth Street, scattering every fragment of the mob that attempted to hold together, and finally returned to head-quarters. This was a long march, but the men had scarcely rested, when the captain was hurried off to aid in the protection at the wire factory in Second Avenue. In the fierce fight that followed, he, with ten men at his back, charged up the broad stairway, fighting his way step by step to the fifth story. Caught up here at the top of the building, the rioters were clubbed without mercy. Some, to escape the terrible punishment, plunged down the hatchway; others attempted to dash past the men, and escape down the stairs. At one time eight bodies lay in the door-way, blocking it up. He then marched back to head-quarters. He had been marching and fighting all day. Similar exhausting duties were performed by other commands, both police and military. Inspector Dilks, with his force gathered from various precincts, passed the entire day in marching and fighting. The men, weary and hungry, would reach head-quarters or certain points, hoping to get a little rest and refreshment, when the hurried order would come to repair to a point a mile off, where the mob was firing and sacking houses, and off they would start on the double-quick. Uncomplaining and fearless of danger, and never counting numbers, both police and soldiers were everywhere all this day, and proved themselves as reliable, gallant, and noble a set of men as ever formed or acted as the police force of any city in the world. In the meantime, Governor Seymour and the Mayor of the city were not idle. The latter at the City Hall, fearing an attack, asked Acton for a guard of protection, and fifty men were sent him. Report of the mob assembled there, reached Governor Seymour, at the St. Nicholas, and he immediately hastened thither, and addressed the crowd from the steps, which allayed excitement for the time. This speech was variously commented upon. Some of the criticisms were frivolous, and revealed the partisan, rather than the honest man. If the Governor had not previously issued a proclamation to the whole city, in which he declared without reservation that the mobs should be put down at all hazards--if this speech had been his only utterance, then the bitter denunciations against him would have been deserved. It would have been pusillanimous, cowardly, and unworthy the Governor of the State. But he spoke in his official capacity, not only firmly, emphatically, and in no ambiguous terms, but he had hurried up the military, and used every means in his power to accumulate and concentrate the forces under his control to put down the riot. No faint-heartedness or sentimental qualmishness marked any of his official acts. Prompt, energetic, and determined, he placed no conditions on his subordinates in the manner of putting down the mob, and restoring the supremacy of the law. But here in this address he was speaking to men who, as a body at least, had as yet committed no overt act; and many doubtless were assembled expecting some public declaration from the City Hall. He was not addressing the plunderers and rioters that were firing houses and killing negroes, but a mixed assembly, the excitement of which he thought best to allay, if possible. Some said he began his address with "My friends;" others, "Fellow-citizens." Whether he did one, or the other, or neither, is of no consequence and meant nothing. To have commenced, "Ye villains and cut-throats, disperse at once, or I'll mow you down with grape-shot!" might have sounded very brave, but if that was all he was going to say, he had better kept his room. A _proclamation_ like this address would have been infamous. Here is where the mistake was made in the criticisms heaped upon it. His official acts were all such as became the Chief Magistrate of New York. The speech, therefore, must be judged rather by the rules of taste and propriety, than, by those which apply to him officially. If a man's official acts are all right, it is unjust to let them go for nothing, and bring into prominence a short address made without premeditation in the front of an excited, promiscuous assembly, moved by different motives. That it was open to criticism in some respects, is true. It should have been imbued more with the spirit of determination to maintain order and suppress violence, and less been said of the measures that had or would be taken to test the constitutionality of the draft, and of his purpose, if it were decided in the courts to be wrong, to oppose it. Such talk had better be deferred till after order is restored. When men begin to burn and plunder dwellings, attack station-houses, hang negroes, and shoot down policemen, it is too late to attempt to restore peace by talking about the constitutionality of laws. The upholding of laws about the constitutionality of which there is no doubt, is the only thing deserving of consideration. The Common Council of the city exhibited in this respect a most pusillanimous spirit, by offering resolutions to have the constitutionality of the law tested, when, the entire constitution and laws of the State were being subverted! Unquestionably, some charity should be extended to men who are pleading for those whose votes elevated them to office. Brutuses are rare nowadays; and politicians do not like to shoot down their own voters--they would much rather make more voters out of men no more fit to exercise the right of suffrage than horses and mules. Governed by a similar spirit, Archbishop Hughes, although he had yielded to the pressure made on him and issued an address to the Irish, calling on them to abstain from violence, yet accompanied it with a letter to Horace Grreeley, directly calculated to awaken or intensify, rather than allay their passions. He more than intimated that they had been abused and oppressed, and thought it high time the war was ended. The proclamation was short, but the letter was a long one, full of a vindictive spirit, and showing unmistakably with whom his sympathies were. Towards evening a mob assembled over in Ninth Avenue, and went to work with some system and forethought. Instead of wandering round, firing and plundering as the whim seized them, they began to throw up barricades, behind which they could rally when the military and police came to attack them. Indeed, the same thing had been done on the east side of the city; while railroads had been torn up, and stages stopped, to keep them from carrying policemen, rapidly from one quarter to another. During the day, Colonel Frothingham had stood in Third Avenue, and stopped and emptied every car as it approached, and filled it with soldiers, to be carried to the upper part of the city. Acton, too, had sent round to collect all the stages still running in Broadway and the Bowery, and in a short time they came rumbling into Mulberry Street, forming a long line in front of head-quarters. A telegram from Second Avenue demanded immediate help, and the police were bundled into them and hurried off. One driver refused to stir, saying, roughly, he was not hired to carry policemen. Acton had no time to argue the case, and quickly turning to a policeman, he said: "Put that man in cell Number 92." In a twinkling he was jerked from his seat and hurried away. Turning to another policeman, he said: "Mount that box and drive." The next moment the stage, with a long string of others, loaded inside and out with the bluecoats, was whirling through the streets. He had done the same with the Sixth Avenue cars. The son-in-law of George Law remonstrated, saying that it would provoke the mob to tear down the railroad buildings. There was no time to stand on ceremony; the cars were seized, and the company, to save their property, paid a large sum to the ringleaders of the rioters. In fact, a great many factories and buildings were bought off in the same way; so that the leaders drove quite a thriving business. But, as before remarked, the commencement of barricades to obstruct the movements of the police and military, after the Parisian fashion, was a serious thing, and must be nipped in the bud; and Captain Walling, of the Twentieth Precinct, who had been busy in this part of the city all the afternoon in dispersing the mob, sent to head-quarters for a military force to help remove them. He also sent to General Sandford, at the arsenal, for a company of soldiers, which was promised, but never sent. At six o'clock a force of regulars arrived from General Brown, and repaired to the Precinct station-house. Captain Slott, of the Twentieth Precinct, took command of the police force detailed to cooperate with the troops, but delayed action till the arrival of the company promised from the arsenal. Meanwhile, the rioters kept strengthening the barricades between Thirty-seventh and Forty-third Streets, in Eighth Avenue, by lashing carts, wagons, and telegraph poles together with wire stripped from the latter. The cross streets were also barricaded. Time passed on, and yet the bayonets of he expected reinforcement from the arsenal did not appear. The two commanding officers now began to grow anxious; it would not do to defer the attack till after dark, for such work as was before them required daylight. At length, as the sun stooped to the western horizon, it was resolved to wait no longer, and the order to move forward was given. As they approached the first barricade, by Thirty-seventh Street, a volley as poured into them from behind it, followed by stones and brick-bats. The police now fell back to the left, and the regulars advancing, returned the fire. The rioters, however, stood their ground, and for a time nothing was heard but the rapid roll of musketry. But the steady, well-directed fire of the troops, at length began to tell on the mob, and they at last broke, and fled to the next barricade. The police then advanced, and tore down the barricade, when the whole force moved on to the next. Here the fight was renewed, but the close and rapid volley of the troops soon scattered the wretches, when this also was removed. They kept on in this way, till the last barricade was abandoned, when the uncovered crowd broke and fled in wild disorder. The soldiers pressed after, breaking up into squads, and chasing and firing into the disjointed fragments as they drifted down the various streets. There was more or less disturbance in this section, however, till midnight. At nine o'clock, an attack was made on a gun and hardware store, in Thirty-seventh Street, between Eighth and Ninth Avenues, but Sergeant Petty was sent thither with a small force, and scattered them at the first charge. At midnight, an attempt was made to destroy the colored church in Thirtieth Street, between Seventh and Eighth Avenues; but before the rioters had accomplished their work, Captain Walling, with his entire force and the regulars, came up, and though met with a volley, fell on them in such a headlong charge, that they scattered down the street. All this time the arsenal presented the appearance of a regular camp; videttes were kept out, sentries established, howitzers commanded the streets, and everything wore the look of a besieged fortress. Sandford, whom Wool wished to take command of all the troops, evidently thought that he had as much as he could do to hold that building, without doing anything to quell the riot in the city. One of the first companies that came up from the forts the day before, and hence belonged to General Brown's force, got, no one could hardly tell how, into the arsenal, and were there cooped up as useless as though in garrison--for if seven hundred men with cannon sweeping every approach could not hold it, seven thousand could not. General Brown and Acton needed this company badly, but how to get it was the question. Governor Seymour held no direct communication with the Police Commissioners; for they were not on friendly terms, as they were holding their places in defiance of him, he having removed them some time before. Mr. Hawley, the chief clerk, who knew the Governor personally, acted, therefore, as the channel of communication between them. He now went to him, and asked him how things were at the arsenal. He replied, he did not know--no report had been sent him. Hawley then asked him to send an officer and ascertain, and get back the company belonging to General Brown's command. He replied he had no one to send. Hawley then offered to go himself, if he would give an order to this company of United States troops to report at once to General Brown at police head-quarters. He did so, and Hawley, reaching the arsenal in safety, gave the order to the adjutant-general, before calling on Sandford, so as to be sure it was obeyed. On the northern limits of the city, serious disturbances had occurred during the day, especially in Yorkville, to which Acton was compelled to send a strong force. The mob also attempted to burn Harlem bridge, but the heavy rain of the night before had made it so wet that it would not ignite. Down town, likewise, mobs had assembled before the Western Hotel and other places, but were dispersed before they had inflicted any damage. Almost the last act in the evening was an attack on the house of Mr. Sinclair, one of the owners of the _Tribune_. But rioters must eat and sleep like other people, and though knots of them could be seen in various parts of the city, the main portion seemed to have retired soon after midnight. In the police head-quarters, men were lying around on the floor in the warm July night, snatching, as best they could, a little repose. General Brown and staff, in their chairs or stretched on a settee, nodded in this lull of the storm, though ready at a moment's notice to do their duty. But there was no rest for Acton. He had not closed his eyes for nearly forty hours, and he was not to close them for more than forty to come. With his nerves strung to their utmost tension, and resolved to put down that mob though the streets ran blood, he gave his whole soul to the work before him. He infused his determined, fearless spirit into every one who approached him. Anonymous letters, telling him he had not another day to live, he flung aside with a scornful smile, to attend to the telegraph dispatches from the different precincts. Troops and men were stationed at various points, and gunboats were patrolling the rivers, and he must be on the alert every moment. The fate of a great city lay on his heart, and he could not sleep. [Illustration: THE DEAD SERGEANT IN 22d STREET] CHAPTER XVII. DRAFT RIOT--THIRD DAY. Scenes in the City and at Head-quarters.--Fight in Eighth Avenue.--Cannon sweep the Streets.--Narrow Escape of Captain Howell and Colonel Mott.--Battle for Jackson's Foundry.--Howitzers clear the Street.--State of Things shown by Telegraph Despatches.--General Sandford sends out a Force against a Mob, at Corner of Twenty-ninth Street and Seventh Avenue.--Colonel Gardin's Fight with the Mob.--Is Wounded.--Mob Victorious.--Dead and Wounded Soldiers left in the Street.--Captain Putnam sent to bring them away.--Disperses the Mob.--Terrific Night. Tuesday had been a day of constant success to the police and military, and many thought that the rioters were thoroughly disheartened, and but little more hard fighting would be done. There had been two days of exhausting work, and both parties were well tired out. The commissioners, certainly, could not stand this terrible strain much longer. Forty-eight hours without sleep or rest, and all the time under the intensest mental strain, was telling on even the wiry Acton, though he would confess to no fatigue. To one who could take in all that was passing in New York on this morning, the city would have presented a strange appearance. The magnitude and demonstrations of the mob had aroused great fear for the Navy Yard and the naval property of the Government, and the marine company that had been on duty with the police was recalled by Admiral Paulding for their protection; and this morning six war-vessels, carrying in all over ninety guns, shotted and trained, could be seen drawn up, so as to command every avenue to the yard, while the iron-clad battery _Passaic_ and a gun-boat lay off the Battery to protect Fort Columbus during the absence of its garrison. Marines armed to the teeth, and howitzers, guarded all the entrances to the Navy Yard. Broadway was almost deserted--no stages were running, street-cars had disappeared--only here and there shutters were taken down from the stores, and it looked like Sabbath day in the city. But at police head-quarters all was activity. The African church nearly opposite was filled with soldiers stretched on the seats and floor of the building. Another house, a few doors from the police building, was also crowded with soldiers. The owner of this empty house, having sent a flat refusal to Acton's request for the use of it, the latter quietly told the policemen to stave in the door. It took but a few minutes to send it from its hinges; and now the troops were quartered in it also; for all those in the service of the United States, under General Brown, had their head-quarters here. In the basement of the police building was the telegraph, with the wires running like nerves to every part of the city, over which inquiries and answers were continually passing. Rooms all around were filled with rations obtained from a neighboring grocery and meatmarket, taken with or without leave. On the main floor, on one side, in their office sat the weary commissioners; on the other, were Inspectors Carpenter, Dilks, and Leonard, fit, each one to be a general, while scattered around were police captains, detectives, and patrolmen. On the second story were the clerks, copyists, etc.; while the top floor was crowded with colored refugees, who had fled thither for protection. Some were standing and conversing, others sitting in groups on boxes, or walking from room to room; many of these sad and serious, as they thought of missing relatives and friends, while the colored man placed over them, with his shirt sleeves rolled up, was, with his assistants, dealing out provisions. But soon it was announced that a vast crowd, numbering some five thousand, was assembled near Eighth Avenue and Thirty-second Street, sacking houses and hanging negroes. General Dodge and Colonel Mott, with Captain Howell, commanding Eighth Regiment Artillery, were at once despatched thither. As they marched up the avenue, they saw three negroes hanging dead, while the crowd around filled the air with fiendish shouts. As the firm, compact head of the column moved forward, the mob fell back, but did not scatter. Colonel Mott dashed forward on horseback and cut down one of the negroes with his sword. This seemed to be the signal for the mob to commence the attack, and the next moment they rushed forward on the soldiers with stones, brick-bats, and slung-shots. Colonel Mott then told Captain Howell to bring two pieces into battery on the corner of Thirty-second Street and Seventh Avenue, so as to sweep the streets; but he could not get through the dense crowd to do so. The infantry and cavalry were then ordered up and told to clear the way. The former, with level bayonets, and the latter with drawn sabres, charged on the mass, which parted and fell back some distance, and then halted. Captain Howell then advanced alone, and ordered the rioters to disperse, or he should fire on them. To this they replied in sullen silence. The apparent unwillingness of the captain to fire emboldened them to believe that he would not fire at all. Although they refused to disperse, the officers, as long as they made no assault, declined to give the word to fire. This delay encouraged the rioters still more; and either believing the guns, whose muzzles pointed so threateningly on them, were loaded with blank cartridges, or grown desperate and reckless with rage, they suddenly, as though moved by a common impulse, rushed forward and rained stones and missiles of every kind on the soldiers. Seeing that their object was to seize the guns and turn them on the troops, the word to fire was given. The next moment a puff of smoke rolled out, followed with a report that shook the buildings. As the murderous shot tore through the crowded mass, they stopped, and swayed heavily back for a moment, when the pieces were quickly reloaded, and again sent their deadly contents into their midst, strewing the pavements with the dead and dying. Those, however, in the rear, being protected by the mass in front, refused to give way, and it was not till five or six rounds had been fired that they finally broke and fled down the side streets. The military then broke into columns and marched up and down the streets, scattering everything before them, and arresting many of the rioters. Having finished their work, they returned to head-quarters. As they left the district, the mob, or a portion of it, gathered together again, and strung up afresh the lifeless bodies of the negroes. A few hours later, Captain Brower, with a police force, was sent thither, to take down and remove the bodies of any negroes that might be still hanging. He did so without molestation. Captain Howell's murderous fire on the mob came very near causing his death two days after. Having the curiosity to witness the scene of his struggle with the mob, he took his carriage, and drove over to it. A gang of seven or eight ruffians, seeing his uniform, cried out, "There's the man who fired on us here--let us hang him." Their shouts called others to the spot, and almost before the captain was aware of his danger, some fifty men were assembled, and at once made a dash at the driver, and ordered him to stop. Captain Howell, quickly drawing his revolver, pointed it at the driver, and ordered him to turn down Thirty-first Street, and give his horses the whip, or he would shoot him on the spot. The man obeying, lashed his horses into a run. At this moment the crowd was all around the carriage, and one man was climbing up behind, when he fell and was run over. A shower of stones and brick-bats followed, breaking in the panels of the carriage, and narrowly missing the captain's head. One stone struck an old wound in his side, and for a moment paralyzed his arm. The crowd with yells and shouts followed after, when he turned and emptied his revolver at them through the back window, which brought them to a halt. Colonel Mott had a similar escape the day before. Passing down one of the avenues in a carriage, he was recognized by some of the rioters, who immediately assailed him with stones, and fired at him. One of the bullets passed through the cushion on which he was sitting. Soon after this affair in Seventh Avenue, word was telegraphed that Jackson's foundry, corner of Twenty-eighth Street, First and Second Avenues, was threatened. A military force was despatched forthwith to it, piloted by four policemen. At Twenty-first Street and First Avenue, they were fired on by the mob. The attack was continued through the street to Second Avenue, and up this to Twenty-fifth Street, without any notice being taken of it by the troops. Made reckless by this forbearance, the rioters began to close up in more dangerous proximity, when the howitzer was unlimbered and pointed down the avenue. The mob not liking the looks of this, scattered, when the column resumed its march. The mob then rallied, and followed after, with shouts and distant shots, till the foundry on Twenty-eighth Street was reached. Here another mob came up from First Avenue, and the two made a simultaneous attack. The command was then given to fire, and a volley was poured into the crowd. Rapidly loading and firing, the troops soon stretched so many on the pavement, that the rest broke and fled. The military then entered the building and held it. The mob gathered around it, threatening to storm it, but could not pluck up courage to make the attempt. They seemed especially exasperated against the policemen, and had the effrontery to send a committee to the officer in command, demanding their surrender. If their request was refused, they declared they would storm the building at all hazards; but if complied with, they would disperse. The committee had to shout out their demands from the street. In reply, the officer told them if they did not take themselves off instantly, he would fire upon them; upon which they incontinently took to their heels. As the day wore on, things began to wear a still more threatening aspect. Despatches came in from every quarter, announcing the activity of the mob. To a question sent to the Thirteenth Precinct, a little past twelve, inquiring how things were going on in Grand Street, was returned the following reply: "Lively; store-keepers have fired into the mob; no force there yet." 12.20. From Twenty-first. Building corner Thirty-third Street, Second Avenue, is set on fire by the mob. 12.50. From Fifteenth. Send assistance to Twenty-first Precinct; they are about attacking it. 12.55. From Twenty-sixth. It is reported that Government stores in Greenwich, near Liberty, are on fire; fired by mob. 1.10. From Twenty-seventh. Send more men here forthwith. 1.25. From Fourth. Fire corner of Catharine Street and East Broadway. 1.45. A man just in from Eleventh Precinct, reports a number of bands of robbers, numbering from fifty to one hundred each, breaking into stores in Houston, near Attorney Street. 1.47 P.M. From Twenty-ninth. The mob have cleared Twenty-first Precinct station-house. 2 P.M. From Twenty-ninth. A large mob surrounded Captain Green's house, Twenty-eighth Street, Third Avenue. He escaped out of the back window; they threatened to hang him. 3.10 P.M. To Eleventh. Send to foot of Fourteenth Street, East River, and if military is there, send word here forthwith. 3.15. From Twenty-fourth. Mob are firing the building on Second Avenue, near Twenty-eighth Street. Immediate assistance is required. Houses occupied by negroes, who are fleeing for their lives. 3.25. From Twentieth. The mob are sacking houses at Twenty-seventh Street and Seventh Avenue. We have no force to send. 3.30. From Twenty-first. There is an attack on the colored people in Second Avenue, between Twenty-eighth and Twenty-ninth Streets. 3.40. From Eleventh. Send to 242 Stanton Street, and take possession of cavalry swords forthwith. There were five thousand cavalry swords there, and the mob were assembling to capture them; and the telegram announcing the fact, and the one ordering a force to seize them, were received and answered the same minute. 3.55. To Twenty-first. How do things look? _Ans_. Very bad; large crowd in Thirty-fifth Street, near Third Avenue, and no assistance from adjoining precinct. 4 o'clock. To Twenty-first. What is going on? _Ans_. The mob have captured some five or six negroes, and are preparing to hang them; be quick with reinforcements. 4.43. From Twentieth. News have just come in that the mob are about to attack the Twenty-second Precinct station-house. 5.15. From Sixteenth. Send us one hundred special shields and clubs; the citizens are arming up well. 5.15. From Twenty-ninth. Who feeds the special men? _Ans_. You must, far as able. _Reply_. No money. _Ans_. It makes no difference; they must be fed; we are responsible. 5.20. From Twenty-ninth. The rioters are now on Seventh Avenue and Twenty-eighth Street. They have just killed a negro; say they are going to cut off the Croton; they have pickaxes and crowbars; and also say they will cut off the gas; so reported by one of our men, who has been in the crowd; they were about to fire corner of Twenty-eighth Street and Seventh Avenue, when he came away. To have cut off the water and extinguished the gas, would have been master-strokes; but the military arrived in time to prevent it. 5.25. From First. Riot at Pier 4, North River; they have killed negroes there. Thus, at the same moment, from the two extreme ends of the city, came the news of riots and calls for help. From points five miles apart, the wires would bring simultaneously tidings that showed the mob omnipresent. In the midst of all these incessant exhausting labors, the following telegram came from the Twentieth Precinct: "General Sandford says he has so many negroes at the arsenal, that he must get rid of them." Acton's answer was characteristic. He had no time for formalities or courteous exchange of views. In an instant there flashed back over the wires the curt reply: "Tell General Sandford he must do the best he can with them there." General Sandford had at this time about the same number of men under his command at the arsenal that General Brown had at police head-quarters; yet the former, up to this morning, had not sent out a single company to assist the police to arrest the devastations of the mob. He apparently did not know what was going on, had hardly kept up any communication with the Police Commissioners or Governor Seymour, but now begs the former to relieve him of some colored refugees, as if the overworked commissioners had not enough on their hands already. This request is especially noteworthy, when taken in connection with his after report, in which he states that on this morning the riot was substantially over; so much so, at least, that the police could do all that was necessary without the aid of the military. It would seem that if he really thought that the rest of the work should be left to them, he might have sent off some of his troops, and made room for the negroes in the arsenal. At about two o'clock in the afternoon word was received that a large number of muskets were secreted in a store on Broadway, near Thirty-third Street; and Colonel Meyer was ordered to proceed thither, with thirty-three soldiers belonging to Hawkins' Zouaves, and take possession of them. Reaching the place, he found a large mob gathered, which was momentarily increasing. He, however, succeeded in entering the building, and brought out the arms. An Irishman happening to pass by in his cart, the colonel seized it, and pitching in the guns, closed around it, and moved off. Citizens offering their services were coming in all day, and a company was formed and placed under the command of Charles A. Lamont, and did good service. Others also were enrolled and placed on duty. Colonel Sherwood's battery of rifled cannon arrived in the afternoon, and was put in position in front of the arsenal, where the firing of pickets all day would indicate that an attack was momentarily expected. This did not look as if General Sandford thought the riot substantially over. At about five o'clock, it was ordered by Sandford, with an infantry force of one hundred and fifty, to corner of Twenty-seventh Street and Seventh Avenue, to quell a mob assembled in large numbers at that point, and which were gutting, and plundering, and firing houses. As they approached, they saw flames bursting from windows, while, to complete the terror of the scene, the body of a negro hung suspended from a lamp-post, his last struggle just ended. At the same time that the military arrived, firemen, who had come to put out the fire, reached the spot in another direction. One portion of the mob immediately took shelter behind the latter, so that the troops dared not fire and clear the streets, while another ran up to the house-tops, armed with guns and pistols, for the purpose of firing into the ranks below. The colonel told his men to keep a sharp lookout, and at the first shot fire. Scores of guns were immediately pointed towards the roofs of the houses. In the meantime, from some cause not fully explained, the imposing force, after this demonstration, marched away, leaving the mob in full possession of the field. It had hardly reached the protection of the arsenal again, when the plundering and violence recommenced; and in a short time two more negroes were amusing the spectators with their death throes, as they hung by the neck from lamp-posts. This was the second expedition sent out by Sandford, the commander-in-chief of the military, during the riot. Towards evening word was brought to the Seventh Regiment armory that the mob had gathered in great force in First Avenue, between Eighteenth and Nineteenth Streets. Colonel Winston, in command, immediately ordered out a force, composed in part of the military, and in part of enrolled citizens, and with a battery of two howitzers, under command of Colonel Jardine, of Hawkins' Zouaves, marched rapidly to the scene of disturbance. Passing down Nineteenth Street to the avenue, it halted, and unlimbering the pieces, trained them so as to command the avenue, while the infantry formed in line to support them. As soon as the rioters saw the guns bearing on them, they dodged into basements, and mounted to the windows and roofs of the tenement buildings that abounded in that vicinity. A number of them armed with muskets and pistols, and the rest with stones and brick-bats, began a fierce and determined attack on the troops. The howitzers, loaded with grape and canister, at once swept the street. After the first discharge, but few ventured to show themselves in the avenue, until after they heard the report, when they would dodge from behind corners and fire back. But from the tops of the houses an incessant fusillade was kept up. The soldiers endeavored to pick them off, but the rioters presented a small mark compared to that which the troops, massed in the open streets, furnished; and it was soon apparent that the fight was unequal. If they had only had a police force to enter the buildings, and hunt the men from the roofs, the fight would soon have been over. But the commander, thinking he could not spare a sufficient number to do this work, or that the soldiers, cumbered with their muskets, which, after the first discharge, would have to be clubbed, could make no headway in such a hand-to-hand fight, made no effort to dislodge the wretches, who loaded and fired with the most imperturbable coolness. One man was seen to step round the corner, after the discharge of the battery, and resting his gun on the shoulder of a fellow-rioter, take as deliberate aim at Colonel Jardine as he would at a squirrel on the limb of a tree, and fire. The ball struck the colonel in the thigh, and brought him to the pavement. Other officers shared his fate, while at every discharge, men would drop in the ranks. The howitzers rattled their shot on the deserted pavements and walls of the houses, but did no damage to the only portion of the enemy they had to fear, while the fight between the infantry and the rioters was like that between soldiers in the open field and Indians in ambush. Colonel Winston soon saw that it was madness to keep his men there, to be picked off in detail, and ordered a retreat. At the first sign of a retrograde movement, a cry rang along the avenue; and from the side streets, and basements, and houses, the mob swarmed forth so furiously, that it assumed huge proportions at once, and chased the retiring soldiers with yells and taunts, and pressed them so hotly that they could not bring off all their killed and wounded. Among those left behind was Colonel Jardine. He took refuge in a basement, where the mob found him, and would have killed him on the spot, had not one of them recognized him as an old acquaintance, and for some reason or other protected him from further violence; and he was eventually carried to the house of a surgeon near by. The mob were left masters of the field, and soon began their depredations. The state of things was at length reported to police head-quarters, and General Brown sent off Captain Putman, with Captain Shelby and a hundred and fifty regulars and two field-pieces, to disperse the mob and bring away the dead and wounded of Winston's force that might remain. They reached the spot between ten and eleven o'clock at night. The dimly lighted streets were black with men, while many, apprised of the approach of the military, mounted again to the roofs as before. Putnam immediately charged on the crowd in the street, scattering them like a whirlwind. He then turned his guns on the buildings, and opened such a deadly fire on them that they were soon cleared. Having restored order, he halted his command, and remained on the ground till half-past twelve. At the same time a mob was pulling down the negro houses in York Street, which they soon left a heap of ruins. Houses plundered or set on fire in various parts of the city, combined with the ringing of fire-bells, thunder of cannon, and marching of troops, made this night like its predecessor--one of horror. There was also a disturbance in Brooklyn. Shaw's and Fancher's elevators, and Wheeler's store on the docks, were set on fire, and a force ordered to put them out. The illumination of the windows from the _Times_ building this evening shed a brilliant glow over Printing-house Square, and flooded the Park to the City Hall with light, while an armed force within was ready to fire on any mob that should dare expose itself in the circle of its influence. At 12.15 the following telegram was sent: "To all stations. How are things in your precinct?" _Answer_. "All quiet." Thus the third night of this terrible riot passed away still unsubdued, and still Acton sat at his post, awake, while others slept, and kept feeling through the telegraph wires the pulse of the huge, fevered city. The regiments coming back from Pennsylvania might arrive at any time, and he was anxious to know the moment they reached the New York docks. The Seventh Regiment, especially, he knew was expected to reach the city that night by special train. Policemen were therefore kept on the watch; but the regiment did not arrive till after daylight. About half-past four in the morning, the steady ranks were seen marching along Canal Street towards Broadway, and soon drew up in front of St. Nicholas Hotel. CHAPTER XVIII. FOURTH DAY. Proclamations by the Governor and Mayor.--City districted.--Appearance of the East Side of the City.--A small Squad of Soldiers chased into a Foundry by the Mob.--Fierce Fight between the Mob and Military in Twenty-ninth Street.--Soldiers driven from the Ground, leaving a dead Sergeant behind.--Captain Putnam sent to bring the Body away.--Mows down the Rioters with Canister.--Storms the Houses.--Utter Rout of the Mob.--Colored Orphans and Negroes taken by Police to Blackwell's Island.--Touching Scene.--Coming on of Night and a Thunderstorm.--Returning Regiments.--Increased Force in the City to put down Violence.--Archbishop Hughes offers to address the Irish.--Curious Account of an Interview of a Lady with him and Governor Seymour.--Strange Conduct of the Prelate. Only the principal disturbances of the third day were given, and of these the accounts were very succinct. The movements of the mobs and the conflicts with them were so similar in character, that a detailed description of them would be a mere repetition of what had gone before. After the police force, and the troops under General Brown had become organized so as to move and act together, each fight with the rioters was almost a repetition of its predecessor. Having adopted a plan of procedure, they seldom deviated from it, and the story of one fight became the story of all--a short struggle and a quick victory. It was hoped this morning that the rioters would conclude that they could not carry out their mad designs; for the enrolment of large bodies of citizens, and the announcement of the speedy return of several regiments, showed that all the force necessary to subdue them was, or soon would be, on hand. The day before, the Governor had issued a proclamation, declaring the city to be in a state of insurrection; but this morning appeared a proclamation from Mayor Opdyke, announcing that the insurrection was practically ended. It is true he called on the citizens to form voluntary associations, with competent leaders, to patrol their separate districts, to protect themselves from roaming gangs of plunderers, and so spare the exhausted police and military. Yet he called on the citizens to resume their usual avocations, and directed the railroad and stage lines to resume their routes. This opinion of the Mayor was strengthened by the positive announcement that the draft had been suspended, and the passage of an ordinance by the City Council, appropriating $2,500,000 towards paying $300 exemption money to the poor who might be drafted. It was plain, if the draft was the cause of the continued riot, it would now cease. But in spite of all this, bad news came from Harlem, and Yorkville, and other sections. In fact, it was evident that the Police Commissioners did not share fully in the pleasant anticipations of the Mayor. Having ascertained that the leaders of the mob, learning from experience, had organized more intelligently, and designed to act in several distinct and separate bodies in different sections, they, with General Brown, divided the city into four districts, in each one of which were to be stationed strong bodies of the police and military, so that they could act with more expedition and efficiency than if they were sent out from the common head-quarters in Mulberry Street. It would, beside, save the fatigue of long marches. Those separate stations were in Harlem, Eighteenth, Twenty-ninth, and Twenty-sixth Precincts. A good deal was also expected by an invitation given by Archbishop Hughes, that appeared in the morning papers, to the Irish to meet him next day in front of his house, where, though crippled from rheumatism, he would address them from the balcony. The Eighth Avenue cars had been started, as well as those of the Third; and many stores were opened. Still, on the east side of the city, in the neighborhood of First Avenue, most of the shops were closed. It should be here remarked to the credit of the German population, which were very numerous in certain localities on this side of the city, that they had no sympathy with the rioters; on the contrary, sent word to the Police Commissioners not to be concerned about their locality; they had organized, and would see that order was maintained there. No better title to American citizenship than this could be shown. [Illustration: THE RIOTERS DRAGGING COL. O'BRIEN'S BODY THROUGH THE STREET.] Though early in the morning, it was comparatively quiet on the east side of the city; yet near First Avenue knots of men could be seen here and there, engaged in loud and angry conversation. They looked exhausted and haggard, but talked defiant as ever, swearing terrible vengeance against the military; for, though hidden from sight, in the miserable tenement-houses near by, lay their dead, dying, and wounded friends by scores. Near Nineteenth Street, the scene of the conflict the evening previous, there were stones, brick-bats, shivered awning-posts, and other wrecks of the fight. The grog-shops were open, in which men with bloody noses, and bruised and battered faces, obtained the necessary stimulus to continue the desperate struggle. Dirty, slovenly-dressed women stood in the door-ways or on the steps, swearing and denouncing both police and military in the coarsest language. Though the immense gatherings of the preceding days were not witnessed, yet there was a ground-swell of passion that showed the lawless spirit was not subdued, though overawed. But the Police Commissioners were now prepared for whatever might occur. The Seventh Regiment had been stationed on the west side of the city, with a wide district to keep in order, thus enabling them to concentrate larger forces in other directions. But, although everything wore this favorable aspect to the authorities, it was evident towards noon, from the steadily increasing size of the groups observed in the morning, that they had resolved to try again their strength with the military. The state of things was telegraphed to police head-quarters, but the report making the mob not formidable, only a company of about twenty-five men were sent out. Finding the rioters numbered about two hundred or more, and not daring to fire their howitzer, lest, before it could be reloaded, the former would rush forward and seize it, they concluded to retire. The mob at once set furiously on them, and forced them to take refuge in Jackson's foundry. The following telegram to head-quarters announced the fact: "1.25. From Twenty-first. The mob has charged our military, about twenty-five in number, and driven them into Jackson's foundry, First Avenue and Twenty-eighth Street. The mob are armed, and every time a regular shows himself they fire. A few good skirmishers would pick off these riflemen and relieve the military." This was soon succeeded by the following: "1.54. From Twenty-first. Send military assistance immediately to First Avenue and Twenty-eighth Street. The mob increases, and will murder the military force." _Ans_. "They are on their way up." They soon arrived, and were at once furiously attacked by the mob. The soldiers fired into them, but they boldly held their ground, and were evidently bent on a desperate fight. The former now took up their stations at the junction of the streets, and were about to sweep them with canister, when from some cause a delay was ordered. This increased the boldness of the mob, and they taunted and derided the soldiers. But in a few minutes a reinforcement of regulars arrived on the ground and charged bayonets. The rioters fell back, but rallying, forced the soldiers to retire in turn. The latter, however, returned to the charge, when the mob again gave way, but still stubbornly refused to disperse. News of the magnitude of the struggle reached the Seventh Regiment, and they rapidly marched to the spot. Their steady tramp along the pavement, and well-set ranks, discouraged the crowd, and they marched and counter-marched through the streets without molestation. The mob, however, dispersed only to reassemble again in Twenty-ninth Street, and began to plunder the stores in the vicinity, and spread devastation on every side. This being reported to head-quarters, a military force was despatched to disperse them. The rioters, however, instead of retreating, attacked them with the greatest fury. Almost every house was filled with them, and they lined the roofs with muskets and pistols, from which they poured down a deadly fire. For nearly a half an hour the fire was kept up without cessation, and many were killed. A sergeant was knocked down by a brick-bat, and then seized and beaten to death. The troops finding themselves unable to dislodge the assailants, retreated, leaving the body of the sergeant in the street, where it lay for three hours. General Brown not having a sufficient number of troops on hand, the mob all this time had it their own way. It was nine o'clock before he could despatch Captain Putnam with a strong force to put an end to the disgraceful scene. Arriving on the spot, the latter addressed the crowd, saying that he had come to carry away the dead body of the sergeant, and should do it at all hazards. But he had hardly placed it in a wagon, when the crowd began to assail his troops. He immediately unlimbered his pieces, when it scattered in every direction. But the rioters came together again at the corner of Thirty-first Street and Second Avenue, where they were met by reinforcements, and made a stand. They filled the houses, and mounted to the roofs, armed with muskets and revolvers, and as Putnam appeared, commenced a rapid fire. Placing his pieces in position, this gallant officer swept the street with canister, which soon cleared it. Eleven of the ringleaders were shot down, and bodies lay thick on the pavement. But this did not intimidate those in the windows, or on the roofs, and they kept up a steady fire. Putnam, who showed by his cool courage that the fighting stock from which he came had not degenerated, now ordered his men to turn their fire on the buildings. At each discharge, the heavy volleys brought down many of the wretches, some pitching headlong from the roof, and dashing out their brains on the pavement and flagging below. But the fight was very unequal, for the assailants would expose their bodies as little as possible; Putnam saw that the houses must be stormed, and gave the order to do it. The fight was now transferred to the inside, and became close and murderous. In the narrow halls and on the stairways, numbers were of no avail, and the rioters fought with a desperation they had not before exhibited. There was no way of escape, and they seemed to prefer death to being taken prisoners, and for a half an hour maintained the conflict in the darkened rooms and passages with a ferocity that was appalling. At last, however, with their numbers sadly thinned, they were forced to yield, and took refuge in flight. Many, unable to get away, hid under beds and in closets, but the soldiers ferreted them out, and carried them to police head-quarters. The arsenal had not been attacked, as Sandford seemed every day to think it would be. Many colored people, as before stated, took refuge in it; and about noon on this day, a body of police arrived before it, with the children of the Colored Orphan Asylum that had been burned on Monday, in charge. They had since that time been scattered round in station-houses, but were now to be escorted to Blackwell's Island, for better security. It was an impressive spectacle this army of children presented, as they drew up in line in front of the arsenal to wait for those within to join them. The block was filled with them. The frightened little fugitives, fleeing from they scarce knew what, looked bewildered at their novel position. It seemed impossible that they ever could have been the objects of any one's vengeance. With a strong body of police in front and rear, and a detachment of soldiers on either side, they toddled slowly down to the foot of Thirty-fifth Street, from whence they were taken by boats to the Island. The Sixty-fifth New York Regiment arrived from Harrisburg in the afternoon, and just before midnight the One Hundred and Fifty-second also reached the city, and marched up Broadway to police head-quarters, where they were stowed away to get some rest. A heavy storm that set in during the evening, helped to scatter the crowd that would otherwise have gathered on this warm July night, but it at the same time gave a sombre aspect to the city. The crescent moon was veiled in black, and thunderous clouds that swept heavily over the city, deepened the gloom, and seemed portentous of greater evil. The closing of all the stores and shop-windows at nightfall, through fear, left the streets lighted only by the scattering lamps. This unusual stretch of blank dead walls, emitting no ray of light, rendered the darkness made by the overhanging storm still more impenetrable. Flashes of lightning would reveal small groups of men bent on plunder, in sections where the military and police were not stationed, but no open violence was attempted. In other directions, the bayonets of the soldiers would gleam out of the dense shadows, as they silently held the posts assigned them, ready to march at a moment's notice. This was the fourth night, and the cannon planted in the streets, and the increased military force, showed that peace was not yet fully restored. The Seventh Regiment was quartered in Thirty-fourth Street, part of the soldiers within a building, and crowding every window to catch the first sign of disturbance, and part stationed below, or marching back and forth in the street. Other troops and policemen were massed at head-quarters, ready to move, at the word of command, to any point threatened by the mob. The fourth night was passing away, and still Acton clung to his post, and refused to take even a moment's rest. His whole nature had been keyed up to meet the grave responsibilities that lay upon him, and through the wires he still watched every threatened point in the city, with sleepless vigilance. In the meantime, over a thousand special policemen had been sworn in, and five hundred or more citizens had voluntered their services, while the steady arrival of returning regiments swelled the military force into formidable proportions. During the day, Senators Connolly and O'Brien had waited on General Brown, and asked him to remove the military from their ward, as their presence excited the people. The General very bluntly refused, saying he should not permit his troops to retire from before an armed mob. He was asked also to order the troops to leave Jackson's foundry for the same reason, and gave an equally emphatic refusal. There was now to be no compromise with the rioters, no agreement entered into. They had got beyond the character of citizens with rights to be respected--they were assassins and murderers, to whom was submitted the simple question of subjection to law and authority, or death. The fighting through the day had been severe, but the disturbance had not been so wide-spread and general. Outside of the city, there had been threatening rumors. It was reported that there was danger of an uprising in Westchester, where some leading Democrats had taken open opposition to the draft, and a gun-boat had gone up as far as Tarrytown; but nothing serious occurred. The rioters being almost exclusively Irish, it was thought that an address from Archbishop Hughes would go far to quiet the ringleaders, and he had therefore issued the following call, already referred to: To the men of New York, who are now called in many of the papers rioters. MEN! I am not able, owing to rheumatism in my limbs, to visit you, but that is not a reason why you should not pay me a visit in your whole strength. Come, then, tomorrow (Friday) at two o'clock, to my residence, north-west corner of Madison Avenue and Thirty-sixth street. There is abundant space for the meeting, around my house. I can address you from the corner of the balcony. If I should not be able to stand during its delivery, you will permit me to address you sitting; my voice is much stronger than my limbs. I take upon myself the responsibility of assuring you, that in paying me this visit or in retiring from it, you shall not be disturbed by any exhibition of municipal or military presence. You who are Catholics, or as many of you as are, have a right to visit your bishop without molestation. JOHN HUGHES, Archbishop of New York. NEW YORK, _July_ 16, 1863. A curious incident was related subsequently in one of the New York papers, respecting the manner in which an interview was brought about between him and Governor Seymour, and which resulted in the resolution of the Archbishop to address the rioters. The substance of the account was, that a young widow of high culture, formerly the wife of a well-known lawyer of this city--a woman living in an atmosphere of art, and refinement, and spending her time in study, became so excited over the violence and bloodshed that the authorities seemed unable to suppress, and finding that the Irish were at the bottom of the trouble, determined to appeal to Archbishop Hughes personally, to use his high authority and influence to bring these terrible scenes to a close. Acting on this determination, she set out this morning for the Archbishop's residence, but on arriving was told that he was at the residence of Vicar-general Starrs, in Mulberry Street. Hastening thither, she asked for an interview. Her request was denied, when she repeated it; and though again refused, would not be repelled, and sent word that her business was urgent, and that she would not detain him ten minutes. The Archbishop finally consented to see her. As she entered the library, her manner and bearing--both said to be remarkably impressive--arrested the attention of the prelate. Without any explanation or apology, she told him at once her errand--that it was one of mercy and charity. She had been educated in a Roman Catholic convent herself, in which her father was a professor, and she urged him, in the name of God, to get on horseback, and go forth into the streets and quell the excitement of his flock. She told him he must, like Mark Antony, address the people; and in rescuing this great metropolis from vandalism, would become a second Constantine, an immortal hero. It was his duty, she boldly declared; and though she did not profess to be a Jeanne d'Arc or Madame Roland, but a plain woman of the present day, she would ride fearlessly by his side, and if he were threatened, would place her body between him and danger, and take the blow aimed at him. The cautious and crafty prelate was almost carried away by the impassioned and dramatic force of this woman, but he told her it would be presumption in him to do so; in fact, impossible, as he was so crippled with rheumatism and gout, that he could not walk. She then asked him to call the crowd, and address them from the balcony of his house. He replied that he was just then busy in writing an answer to an attack on him in the _Tribune_. She assured him that such a controversy was worse than useless--that another and higher duty rested on him. She pressed him with such importunity and enthusiasm, that he finally consented; but as a last effort to get rid of her, said he feared the military would interfere and attack the mob. She assured him they would not, and hurried off to the St. Nicholas to see Governor Seymour about it. She found the ante-room filled with officials and other personages on important business, waiting their turn to be admitted. But her determined, earnest manner so impressed every one with the importance of her mission, that precedence was granted her, and she found herself at once beside the astonished Governor. Without any preliminaries, she told him she had just come from the head of the church, and wanted his excellency to visit him immediately. No business was of such vital importance as this. The self-possessed Governor coolly replied that he should be glad to see the Archbishop, but business was too pressing to allow him to be absent even a half an hour from his duties. She hastened back to Archbishop Hughes, and prevailed on him to write a note to Governor Seymour, asking him to call and see him, as he was unable to get out. Fortified with this, she now took a priest with her, and providing herself with a carriage, returned to head-quarters, and absolutely forced, by her energy and determination and persuasive manner, the Governor to leave his business, and go to the Archbishop's. The invitation to the Irish to meet him was the result of this interview. Why Archbishop Hughes took no more active part than he did in quelling this insurrection, when there was scarcely a man in it except members of his own flock, seems strange. It is true he had published an address to them, urging them to keep the peace; but it was prefaced by a long, undignified, and angry attack on Mr. Greeley, of the _Tribune_, and showed that he was in sympathy with the rioters, at least in their condemnation of the draft. The pretence that it would be unsafe for him to pass through the streets, is absurd; for on three different occasions common priests had mingled with the mob, not only with impunity, but with good effect. He could not, therefore, have thought himself to be in any great danger. One thing, at any rate, is evident: had an Irish mob threatened to burn down a Roman Catholic church, or a Roman Catholic orphan asylum, or threatened any of the institutions or property of the Roman Church, he would have shown no such backwardness or fear. The mob would have been confronted with the most terrible anathemas of the church, and those lawless bands quailed before the maledictions of the representative of "God's vicegerent on earth." It is unjust to suppose that he wished this plunder and robbery to continue, or desired to see Irishmen shot down in the streets; it must, therefore, be left to conjecture, why he could not be moved to any interference except by outside pressure, and then show so much lukewarmness in his manner--in fact, condemning their opponents almost as much as themselves. The excitement consequent on the draft, exhibited in outbreaks in various parts of the country, and in the vicinity of New York, was increased by the reports of violence and fighting in the latter city. In Troy there was a riot, and the mob, imitating the insane conduct of the rioters in New York, proceeded to attack an African church. But a priest, more bold or more patriotic than Archbishop Hughes, interfered and saved it. That the latter, armed with nothing but the crucifix, could have effected as much as the police and military together, there can be but little doubt. This open and decided sympathy with law and order, and bitter anathemas against the vandals who sought the destruction of the city, were the more demanded, as such a large proportion of the police force were Roman Catholics, and in their noble devotion to duty, even to shooting down their own countrymen and men of a similar faith, deserved this encouragement from the head of the church. [Illustration: BURNING OF THE SECOND AVENUE ARMORY.] CHAPTER XIX. CLOSING SCENES. Tranquil Morning.--Proclamation of the Mayor.--Mob cowed.--Plunderers afraid of Detection.--Dirty Cellars crowded with rich Apparel, Furniture, and Works of Art.--Archbishop Hughes' Address.--Useless Efforts.--Acton's Forty-eight Hours without Sleep over.--Change in Military Commanders in the City.--General Brown relinquishes his Command.--True Words.--Noble Character and Behavior of the Troops and Police.--General Brown's invaluable Services. This week of horrors--a week unparalleled in the history of New York--was drawing to a close. It had been one of terror and dismay to the inhabitants, who thought only of the immediate effects on themselves of the triumph of the mob. A great city laid in ashes, given, up to robbers and cut-throats, is at any time a terrible spectacle; but New York in ruins at this time was a republic gone--a nation, uncrowned and left desolate; but the battle, both for the nation and city, had been nobly fought and won; and Friday, the fifth day of this protracted struggle, dawned bright and tranquil. The storm of the night before had passed away, and the streets, thoroughly washed by the drenching rain, stretched clean and quiet between the long rows of buildings, emblematic of the tranquillity that had returned to the city. The cars were seen once more speeding down to the business centres, loaded with passengers. Broadway shook to the rumbling of the heavy omnibuses; shutters were taken down, and the windows again shone with their rich adornments. The anxious look had departed from the pedestrians, for the heavy cloud, so full of present woe and future forebodings, had lifted and passed away. The following proclamation of Mayor Opdyke will show the true state of things on this morning, and what the people had most to fear: "The riotous assemblages have been dispersed. Business is running in its usual channels. The various lines of omnibuses, railway, and telegraph have resumed their ordinary operations. Few symptoms of disorder remain, except in a small district in the eastern part of the city, comprising a part of the Eighteenth and Twenty-first Wards. The police is everywhere alert. A sufficient military force is now here to suppress any illegal movement, however formidable. "Let me exhort you, therefore, to pursue your ordinary business. Avoid especially all crowds. Remain quietly at your homes, except when engaged in business, or assisting the authorities in some organized force. When the military appear in the street, do not gather about it, being sure that it is doing its duty in obedience to orders from superior authority. Your homes and your places of business you have a right to defend, and it is your duty to defend them, at all hazards. Yield to no intimidation, and to no demand for money as the price of your safety. If any person warns you to desist from your accustomed business, give no heed to the warning, but arrest him and bring him to the nearest station-house as a conspirator. "Be assured that the public authorities have the ability and the will to protect you from those who have conspired alike against your peace, against the government of your choice, and against the laws which your representatives have enacted. "GEORGE OPDYKE, Mayor." Down-town there was scarcely anything to show that New York had for nearly a week been swept by one of the most frightful storms that ever desolated a city. Even in the disaffected districts, no crowds were assembled. In the corner groggeries, small groups of men might be seen, discussing the past, and uttering curses and threats; and ruined houses and battered walls and hanging blinds here and there arrested the eye, showing what wild work had been wrought; but it was evident that the struggle was over. The mob was thoroughly subdued, and the law-breakers now thought more of escaping future punishment than of further acts of violence. Bruised heads and battered forms were scattered through the low tenement-houses in every direction, which friends were anxious to keep concealed from the notice of the authorities. In dirty cellars and squalid apartments were piled away the richest stuffs--brocaded silks, cashmere shawls, elegant chairs, vases, bronzes, and articles of virtu, huddled promiscuously together, damning evidences of guilt, which were sure not to escape, in the end, the searching eye of the police, who had already begun to gather up the plunder. Thus the objects mostly coveted but a few hours ago now awakened the greatest solicitude and fear. Even if the military under General Brown and the police had not shown the mob that they were its masters, the arrival of so many regiments, occupying all the infected districts, was overwhelming evidence that the day of lawless triumph was over, and that of retribution had come. Some acts of individual hostility were witnessed, but nothing more. Archbishop Hughes had his meeting, and some five thousand assembled to hear him. They were on the whole a peaceable-looking crowd, and it was evidently composed chiefly, if not wholly, of those who had taken no part in the riot. None of the bloody heads and gashed faces, of which there were so many at that moment in the city, appeared. The address was well enough, but it came too late to be of any service. It might have saved many lives and much destruction, had it been delivered two days before, but now it was like the bombardment of a fortress after it had surrendered--a mere waste of ammunition. The fight was over, and to use his own not very refined illustration, he "spak' too late." The reports that came in to Acton from all the precincts convinced him of this, and he began to think of rest. The strain was off, and overtasked nature made her demand, and he was compelled to yield to it. The tremendous work that had been laid upon him had been right nobly accomplished. Had he been a weak and vacillating man, the rioters would have acquired a headway that could not have been stopped, without a more terrible sacrifice of life and property--perhaps even of half the city. Comprehending intuitively the gravity of the situation, and the danger of procrastination or temporizing, he sprang at once for the enemy's throat, and never ceased his hold until he had strangled him to death. If he had waited to consult authorities about the legality of his action, or listened to the voice of pity, or yielded to the clamors of leading politicians or threats of enemies, both he and the city, in all human probability, would have been swept away in the hurricane of popular fury. On this day a most remarkable announcement was published: that a sudden change had been made in the military command of the troops of the city and harbor. General Dix superseded General Wool, and Canby, General Brown. That Wool should have been removed at any time, might have been expected; not from incapacity, but on account of his age, and because any one could perform the mere nominal duties that devolved on him. But why General Brown should have been removed at this critical moment, when he and the Police Commissioners were performing their herculean task so faithfully and well, is not so plain; unless it was the result of one of those freaks of passion or despotic impulse, for which the Secretary of War was so ignobly distinguished. But unlike many other blunders which the War Department committed at this time, it did not result in any evil consequences, for the fight was over. But of this fact the Secretary of War was ignorant when he made out the order. General Brown, in relinquishing his command, spoke warmly of the noble behavior of the troops during the riots, saying: "Engaged night and day in constant conflict with the mob, they have in some fifteen or twenty severe contests--in most of them outnumbered more than ten to one, many of the mob being armed--whipped and effectually dispersed them, and have been uniformly successful. In not a single instance has assistance been required by the police, when it has not been promptly rendered; and all property, public and private, which has been under their protection, has been perfectly and efficiently protected; and with pride he desires to record, that in this city, surrounded by grog-shops, but one single instance of drunkenness has fallen under his observation. "To Lieutenant-colonel Frothingham, his able and efficient adjutant-general, he tenders his thanks for his untiring assistance. "Having during the present insurrection been in immediate and constant co-operation with police department of this city, he desires the privilege of expressing his unbounded admiration of it. Never in civil or military life has he seen such untiring devotion and such efficient service. "To President Acton and Commissioner Bergen he offers his thanks for their courtesy to him and their kindness to his command. "HARVEY BROWN, _Brigadier-general_." The praise he bestows both on the police and soldiers was richly deserved; and he may well say that "with pride he desires to record that in this city, surrounded with grog-shops, but one single instance of drunkenness has fallen under his observation." With all a soldier's tendency to indulge in spirituous liquor, to be thrown right amid drinking-places, which by harboring rioters had lost all claim to protection--part of the time suffering from want of food, and often drenched to the skin, and weary from hard fighting and want of sleep--not to step away occasionally in the confusion and darkness of night, and solace himself with stimulating drinks, was something marvellous. After hard fighting, and long marching, and short rations, a soldier feels he has a right to indulge in liquor, if he can get it; and their abstinence from it in such lawless times, not only speaks well for their discipline, but their character. A single instance shows under what perfect control the troops were. One day Colonel Ladue, seeing that his men were exhausted and hungry, desired to let them have a little beer to refresh them, and the following telegram was sent from the precinct where they were on duty: "5.45 P.M. From 9th. Colonel Ladue wishes his men allowed to have beer in station-house." _Answer_. "Mr. Acton says he is opposed to beer, but the colonel can give his men as much as he pleases." "Acton is opposed to beer," but the troops are not under his command, and he has no heart to deny the poor fellows the station-house in which to refresh themselves after their hard day's work. This incident also shows the strict discipline maintained in the police department. General Brown had done a noble work. Taking his place beside the Police Commissioners, he bent all his energies to the single task of carrying out their plans, and save the city from the hands of the rioters. He never thought what deference might be due him on the score of etiquette, or on account of his military rank; he thought only of putting down the mob at all hazards. His refusal, at first, to serve under General Sandford was not merely that it was an improper thing to place a general of the regular army under the orders of a mere militia general, [Footnote: Because he was especially assigned to the command of the city by the Secretary of War.] having no rank whatever in the United States army, but he knew it would paralyze his influence, and in all human probability result in the useless sacrifice of his troops. The absurdity of not moving until he received orders from his superior officer, cooped up in the arsenal, where he remained practically in a state of siege, was so apparent that he refused to countenance it. He was willing that President Acton should be his superior officer, and give his orders, and he would carry them out; for thus he could act efficiently and make his disciplined battalion tell in the struggle; but for the sake of his own reputation and that of his troops, he would not consent to hold a position that would only bring disgrace on both. His views are clearly expressed in his reply to a highly complimentary letter addressed to him by the mayor and a large number of prominent citizens, for the signal services he had rendered. He says: "I never for a moment forgot that to the police was confided the conservation of the peace of the city; and that only in conjunction with the city authorities, and on their requisition, could the United States forces be lawfully and properly employed in suppressing the riot, and in restoring that peace and good order which had been so lawlessly broken. Acting in accordance with this principle, and as aids to the gallant city police, the officers and soldiers of my command performed the most unpleasant and arduous duty, with that prompt energy and fearless patriotism which may ever be expected from the soldiers of the Republic." CHAPTER XX. Continued Tranquillity.--Strange Assortment of Plunder gathered in the Cellars and Shanties of the Rioters.--Search for it exasperates the Irish.--Noble Conduct of the Sanitary Police.--Sergeant Copeland.--Prisoners tried.--Damages claimed from the City.--Number of Police killed.--Twelve hundred Rioters killed.--The Riot Relief Fund.--List of Colored People killed.--Generals Wool and Sandford's Reports.--Their Truthfulness denied.--General Brown vindicated. On Saturday morning it was announced that the authorities at Washington had resolved to enforce the draft. It had been repeatedly asserted during the riot that it was abandoned, and the report received very general credence. Still, the official denial of it produced no disturbance. The spirit of insurrection was effectually laid. It is a little singular, that, in all these tremendous gatherings and movements, no prominent recognized leaders could be found. A man by the name of Andrews had been arrested and imprisoned as one, but the charge rested wholly on some exciting harangues he had made, not from any _active_ leadership he had assumed. There were, perhaps, in the city this morning not far from ten thousand troops--quite enough to preserve the peace, if the riot should break out afresh; and orders therefore were given to arrest the march of regiments hastening from various sections to the city, under the requisition of the Governor. Still, the terror that had taken possession of men could not be allayed in an hour, and although the police had resumed their patrols, and dared to be seen alone in the streets, there was constant dread of personal violence among the citizens. Especially was this true of the negro population. Although many sought their ruined homes, yet aware of the intense hatred entertained toward them by the mob, they felt unsafe, and began to organize in self-defence. But the day wore away without disturbance, and the Sabbath dawned peaceably, and order reigned from the Battery to Harlem. The military did not show themselves in the street, and thousands thronged without fear the avenues in which the fighting had taken place, to look at the ruins it had left behind. On Monday there was more or less rebellious feeling exhibited by the rioters, on account of the general search of the police for stolen goods, and the arrest of suspected persons. It exhibited itself, however, only in threats and curses--not a policemen was assaulted. It was amusing, sometimes, to see what strange articles the poor wretches had stowed away in their dirty cellars. There was everything from barrels of sugar and starch to tobacco and bird-seed. Said a morning paper: "Mahogany and rosewood chairs with brocade upholstering, marble-top tables and stands, costly paintings, and hundreds of delicate and valuable mantel ornaments, are daily found in low hovels up-town. Every person in whose possession these articles are discovered disclaims all knowledge of the same, except that they found them in the street, and took them in to prevent them being burned. The entire city will be searched, and it is expected that the greatest portion of the property taken from the buildings sacked by the mob will be recovered." The rivers and outlets to the city were closely watched, to prevent its being carried off. In the meantime, arrests were constantly made. It would be invidious to single out any portion of the police for special commendation, where all did their duty so nobly; but it is not improper to speak of the sanitary police, whose specific duties do not lead them to take part in quelling mobs. They have to report all nuisances, examine tenement-houses and unsafe buildings, look after the public schools, but more especially examine steam-boilers, and license persons qualified to run steam-engines. Hence, it is composed of men of considerable scientific knowledge. But all such business being suspended during the riot, they at once, with their Captain, B. G. Lord, assumed the duties of the common policemen, and from Monday night till order was restored, were on constant duty, participating in the fights, and enduring the fatigues with unflinching firmness, and did not return to their regular duties till Monday morning. The drill-officer also, Sergeant T. S. Copeland, became, instead of a drill-officer, a gallant, active leader of his men in some of the most desperate fights that occurred. His military knowledge enabled him to form commands ordered hastily off, with great despatch. But not content with this, he led them, when formed, to the charge, and gave such lessons in drill, in the midst of the fight, as the police will never forget. With the details of what followed we have nothing to do. The Grand Jury indicted many of the prisoners, and in the term of the court that met the 3d of August, twenty were tried and nineteen convicted, and sentenced to a longer or shorter term of imprisonment. Of course a large number on preliminary examinations got off, sometimes from want of sufficient evidence, and sometimes from the venality of the judges before whom they were brought. Claims for damages were brought in, the examination of which was long and tedious. The details are published in two large volumes, and the entire cost to the city was probably three millions of dollars. Some of the claims went before the courts, where they lingered along indefinitely. The number of rioters killed, or died from the effects of their wounds, was put down by the Police Commissioners at about twelve hundred. Of course this estimate is not made up from any detailed reports. The dead and wounded were hurried away, even in the midst of the fight, and hidden in obscure streets, or taken out of the city for fear of future arrests or complications. Hence there was no direct way of getting at the exact number of those who fell victims to the riot. The loss of life, therefore, could only be approximated by taking the regular report of the number of deaths in the city for a few weeks before the riots, and that for the same length of time after. As there was no epidemic, or any report of increased sickness from any disease, the inference naturally was, that the excess for the period after the riots was owing to the victims of them. Many of these were reported as sunstrokes, owing to men exposing themselves to the sun with pounded and battered heads. The Police Commissioners took great care to keep all the wounded policemen indoors until perfectly cured. Only one ventured to neglect their orders, and he died of a sunstroke. The difference of mortality in the city for the month previous to the riots, and the month during and subsequent, was about twelve hundred, which excess Mr. Acton thought should be put down to the deaths caused directly and indirectly by the riots. Although many policemen were wounded, only three were killed or died from the injuries they received. Immediately after the riot, Mr. Leonard W. Jerome and others interested themselves in raising a fund for the relief of members of the Police, Militia, and Fire Departments who had sustained injuries in the discharge of their duty in suppressing the riots. Subscriptions to the amount of $54,980 were paid in, and $22,721.53 distributed by the Trustees of the Riot Relief Fund, in sums from $50 to $1,000, each, through Isaac Bell, Treasurer, to 101 policemen, 16 militiamen, and 7 firemen. The balance was securely invested, to meet future emergencies, a portion of which was paid to sufferers by the Orange Riot of 1871. The following is the list of colored people known to be killed by the mob, together with the circumstances attending their murder, as given by David Barnes, in his Metropolitan record, to which reference has heretofore been made. COLORED VICTIMS OF THE RIOT. WILLIAM HENRY NICHOLS (colored). Nichols resided at No. 147 East Twenty-eighth Street. Mrs. Staat, his mother, was visiting him. On Wednesday, July 15th, at 3 o'clock, the house was attacked by a mob with showers of bricks and stones. In one of the rooms was a woman with a child but three days old. The rioters broke open the door with axes and rushed in. Nichols and his mother fled to the basement; in a few moments the babe referred to was dashed by the rioters from the upper window to the yard, and instantly killed. The mob cut the waterpipes above, and the basement was being deluged; ten persons, mostly women and children, were there, and they fled to the yard; in attempting to climb the fence, Mrs. Staat fell back from exhaustion; the rioters were instantly upon her; her son sprang to her rescue, exclaiming, "Save my mother, if you kill me." Two ruffians instantly seized him, each taking hold of an arm, while a third, armed with a crowbar, calling upon them to hold his arms apart, deliberately struck him a savage blow on the head, felling him like a bullock. He died in the N. Y. Hospital two days after. JAMES COSTELLO (colored).--James Costello, No. 97 West Thirty-third Street, killed on Tuesday morning, July 14th. Costello was a shoemaker, an active man in his business, industrious and sober. He went out early in the morning upon an errand, was accosted, and finally was pursued by a powerful man. He ran down the street; endeavored to make his escape; was nearly overtaken by his pursuer; in self-defence he turned and shot the rioter with a revolver. The shot proved to be mortal; he died two days after. Costello was immediately set upon by the mob. They first mangled his body, then hanged it. They then cut down his body and dragged it through the gutters, smashing it with stones, and finally burnt it. The mob then attempted to kill Mrs. Costello and her children, but she escaped by climbing fences and taking refuge in a police station-house. ABRAHAM FRANKLIN (colored).--This young man, who was murdered by the mob on the corner of Twenty-seventh Street and Seventh Avenue, was a quiet, inoffensive man, of unexceptionable character. He was a cripple, but supported himself and his mother, being employed as a coachman. A short time previous to the assault, he called upon his mother to see if anything could be done by him for her safety. The old lady said she considered herself perfectly safe; but if her time to die had come, she was ready to die. Her son then knelt down by her side, and implored the protection of Heaven in behalf of his mother. The old lady said that it seemed to her that good angels were present in the room. Scarcely had the supplicant risen from his knees, when the mob broke down the door, seized him, beat him over the head and face with fists and clubs, and then hanged him in the presence of his parent. While they were thus engaged, the military came and drove them away, cutting down the body of Franklin, who raised his arm once slightly and gave a few signs of life. The military then moved on to quell other riots, when the mob returned and again suspended the now probably lifeless body of Franklin, cutting out pieces of flesh, and otherwise shockingly mutilating it. AUGUSTUS STUART (colored).--Died at Hospital, Blackwell's Island, July 22, from the effects of a blow received at the hands of the mob, on Wednesday evening of the Riot Week. He had been badly beaten previously by a band of rioters, and was frightened and insane from the effects of the blows which he had received. He was running toward the arsenal (State), Seventh Avenue and Thirty-seventh Street, for safety, when he was overtaken by the mob, from whom he received his death-blow. PETER HEUSTON.--Peter Heuston, sixty-three years of age, a Mohawk Indian, dark complexion, but straight hair, and for several years a resident of New York, proved a victim to the riots. Heuston served with the New York Volunteers in the Mexican war. He was brutally attacked and shockingly beaten, on the 13th of July, by a gang of ruffians, who thought him to be of the African race because of his dark complexion. He died within four days, at Bellevue Hospital, from his injuries. JEREMIAH ROBINSON (colored).--He was killed in Madison near Catharine Street. His widow stated that her husband, in order to escape, dressed himself in some of her clothes, and, in company with herself and one other woman, left their residence and went toward one of the Brooklyn ferries. Robinson wore a hood, which failed to hide his beard. Some boys, seeing his beard, lifted up the skirts of his dress, which exposed his heavy boots. Immediately the mob set upon him, and the atrocities they perpetrated are so revolting that they are unfit for publication. They finally killed him and threw his body into the river. His wife and her companion ran up Madison Street, and escaped across the Grand Street Ferry to Brooklyn. WILLIAM JONES (colored).--A crowd of rioters in Clarkson Street, in pursuit of a negro, who in self-defence had fired on some rowdies, met an inoffensive colored man returning from a bakery with a loaf of bread under his arm. They instantly set upon and beat him and, after nearly killing him, hung him to a lamppost. His body was left suspended for several hours. A fire was made underneath him, and he was literally roasted as he hung, the mob revelling in their demoniac act. Recognition of the remains, on their being recovered, was impossible; and two women, mourned for upwards of two weeks, in the case of this man, for the loss of their husbands. At the end of that time, the husband of one of the mourners, to her great joy, returned like one recovered from the grave. The principal evidence which the widow, Mary Jones, had to identify the murdered man as her husband, was the fact of his having a loaf of bread under his arm, he having left the house to get a loaf of bread a few minutes before the attack. JOSEPH REED (colored).--This was a lad of seven years of age, residing at No. 147 East Twenty-eighth Street, with an aged grandmother and widowed mother. On Wednesday morning of the fearful week, a crowd of ruffians gathered in the neighborhood, determined on a week of plunder and death. They attacked the house, stole everything they could carry with them, and, after threatening the inmates, set fire to it. The colored people who had the sole occupancy of the building, fled in confusion into the midst of the gathering crowd. And then the child was separated from his guardians. His youth and evident illness, even from the devils around him, it would be thought, should have insured his safety. But no sooner did they see his unprotected, defenceless condition, than a gang of fiendish men seized him, beat him with sticks, and bruised him with heavy cobblestones. But one, tenfold more the servant of Satan than the rest, rushed at the child, and with the stock of a pistol struck him on the temple and felled him to the ground. A noble young fireman, by the name of John F. Govern, of No. 39 Hose Company, instantly came to the rescue, and, single-handed, held the crowd at bay. Taking the wounded and unconscious boy in his arms, he carried him to a place of safety. The terrible beating and the great fright the poor lad had undergone was too much for his feeble frame; he died on the following Tuesday. JOSEPH JACKSON (colored), aged nineteen years, living in West Fifty-third Street, near Sixth Avenue, was in the industrious pursuit of his humble occupation of gathering provender for a herd of cattle, and when near the foot of Thirty-fourth Street, East River, July 15, was set upon by the mob, killed, and his body thrown into the river. SAMUEL JOHNSON (colored).--On Tuesday night Johnson was attacked near Fulton Ferry by a gang who mercilessly beat and left him for dead. A proposition was made to throw him into the river, but for some reason the murderers took fright and fled. He was taken by some citizens to his home, and died the next day. ---- WILLIAMS (colored).--He was attacked on the corner of Le Roy and Washington Streets, on Tuesday morning, July 14th, knocked down, a number of men jumped upon, kicked, and stamped upon him until insensible. One of the murderers knelt on the body and drove a knife into it; the blade being too small, he threw it away and resorted to his fists. Another seized a huge stone, weighing near twenty pounds, and deliberately crushed it again and again on to the victim. A force of police, under Captain Dickson, arrived and rescued the man, who was conveyed to the New York Hospital. He was only able to articulate "Williams" in response to a question as to his name, and remained insensible thereafter, dying in a few days. ANN DERRICKSON.--This was a white woman, the wife of a colored man, and lived at No. 11 York Street. On Wednesday, July 15th, the rioters seized a son of deceased, a lad of about twelve years, saturated his clothes and hair with camphene, and then procuring a rope, fastened one end to a lamp-post, the other around his neck, and were about to set him on fire, and hang him; they were interfered with by some citizens and by the police of the First Ward, and their diabolical attempt at murder frustrated. While Mrs. Derrickson was attempting to save the life of her son she was horribly bruised and beaten, with a cart-rung. The victim, after lingering three or four weeks, died from the effects of her injuries. Reports from the captains of the several precincts, with all the details of their operations, were made out--also from the subordinate military officers to their immediate superiors. The final reports of General Wool, commanding the Eastern Department, and Major-general Sandford, commanding the city troops, caused much remark in the city papers, and called forth a reply from General Brown, who considered himself unjustly assailed in them. Explanation of the disagreement between him and General Wool having been fully given, it is not necessary to repeat it here. The same may be said of the statement of General Wool, regarding his orders on Monday the 13th, respecting the troops in the harbor. But in this report of General Wool to Governor Seymour, there are other statements which General Brown felt it his duty to correct. General Wool says, that finding there was a want of harmony between Generals Sandford and Brown in the disposition of troops, he issued the following order: MAJOR-GENERAL SANDFORD, BREVET BRIGADIER-GENERAL BROWN. GENTLEMEN:--It is indispensable to collect your troops not stationed, and have them divided into suitable parties, with a due proportion of police to each, and to patrol in such parts of the city as may be in the greatest danger from the rioters. This ought to be done as soon as practicable. JOHN E. WOOL, _Major-general_. After this had been issued, General Sandford reporting to me that his orders were not obeyed by General Brown, I issued the following order: "All the troops called out for the protection of the city are placed under the command of General Sandford." General Brown in his reply says, that he "_never saw or heard of this first order_." The only explanation of this, consistent with the character of both, is that General Wool sent this order to General Sandford alone--either forgetting to transmit it to General Brown, or expecting General Sandford to do it. At all events, sent or not, it was a foolish order. One would infer from it that the whole task of putting down the riots belonged to the military, the commanders of which were to order out what co-operating force of police they deemed necessary and march up and down the disaffected districts, trampling out the lawlessness according to rule. This might be all well enough, but the question was, how were these troops, strangers to the city, to find out where "_such parts of the city_" were in which was "_the greatest danger from the rioters_?" It showed a lamentable ignorance of mobs; they don't stay in one spot and fight it out, nor keep in one mass, nor give notice beforehand where they will strike next. Such knowledge could only be obtained from police head-quarters, the focus of the telegraph system, and _there_ the troops should have been ordered to concentrate at once, and put themselves under the direction of the Police Commissioners. Again, General Wool says he issued the following order to General Brown, on Tuesday: "SIR:--It is reported that the rioters have already recommenced their work of destruction. To-day there must be no child's play. Some of the troops under your command should be sent immediately to attack and stop those who have commenced their infernal rascality in Yorkville and Harlem." This order, too, General Brown says he never received. Thinking it strange, he addressed a note to General Wool's assistant adjutant-general, respecting both these orders, which had thus strangely wandered out of the way. The latter, Major Christensen, replied as follows: "The orders of General Wool published in his report to Governor Seymour, viz.: 'That patrols of military and police should be sent through the disaffected districts;' and the one July 14th, 'To-day there must be no child's play,' etc., were not issued by me, and I cannot therefore say whether copies were sent to you or not. They were certainly _not_ sent by me. "C.F. CHRISTENSEN, "Major, Assistant Adjutant-general." We have explained how the error may have occurred with regard to the first order. But there is no explanation of this, except on the ground that General Wool perhaps sketched out this order, without sending it, and afterwards seeing it amid his papers, thought it was a copy of one he had sent. He was well advanced in years, and might easily fall into some such error. It is not necessary to go into detailed account of all the statements contained in General Wool's letter which General Brown emphatically denies; but the following is worthy of notice. He says that General Brown issued orders that General Sandford countermanded, and that General Brown acted through the riots under his (Wool's) orders; whereas the latter says, he never received but three orders from Wool during the whole time, and only _one_ of those referred to any action towards the rioters, and that was to bring off some killed and wounded men left by a military force sent out either by Sandford or Wool, and which had been chased from the field by the mob. But the statements of General Wool are entirely thrown into the shade by the following assertion of General Sandford, in his report. He says: "With the remnant of the [his] division (left in the city), and the first reinforcements from General Wool, detachments were sent to all parts of the city, and the rioters everywhere beaten and dispersed on Monday afternoon, Monday night, and Tuesday morning. In a few hours, but for the interference of Brigadier-general Brown, who, in disobedience of orders," etc. The perfect gravity with which this assertion is made is something marvellous. One would infer that the police was of no account, except to maintain order after it was fully restored by the military on Tuesday morning. General Sandford might well be ignorant of the state of things in the city, for he was cooped up in the arsenal, intent only on holding his fortress. So far as he was concerned, the whole city might have been burned up before Tuesday noon, and he would scarcely have known it, except as he saw the smoke and flames from the roof of the arsenal. He never sent out a detachment until after the Tuesday afternoon, when, as he says, but for General Brown's action, the riot would have been virtually over. The simple truth is, these reports of Generals Wool and Sandford are both mere after-thoughts, growing out of the annoyance they felt on knowing that their _martinetism_ was a total failure, and the whole work had been done by General Brown and the Police Commissioners from their head-quarters in Mulberry Street. Acton and Brown had no time to grumble or dispute about etiquette. They had something more serious on hand, and they bent their entire energies to their accomplishment. General Sandford held the arsenal, an important point, indeed a vital one, and let him claim and receive all the credit due that achievement; but to assume any special merit in quelling the riots in the streets is simply ridiculous. That was the work of the police and the military under the commissioners and General Brown. The statement of the Police Commissioners, Acton and Bergen, on this point is conclusive. They say that General Sandford's error consisted in "not choosing to be in close communication with this department, when alone through the police telegraph, and other certain means, trustworthy information of the movements of the mob could be promptly had." That single statement is enough to overthrow all of General Sandford's assertions about the riot. It was hardly necessary for them to declare further in their letter to General Brown: "So far from your action having had the effect supposed by General Sandford, we are of the opinion, already expressed in our address to the police force, that through your prompt, vigorous, and intelligent action, the intrepidity and steady valor of the small military force under you, acting with the police force, the riotous proceedings were arrested on Thursday night, and that without such aid mob violence would have continued much longer." WELL-EARNED PRAISE. On the week after the riot the Board of Police Commissioners issued the following address to the force, in which a well-earned tribute is paid to the military: _To the Metropolitan Police Force._ On the morning of Monday, the 13th inst., the peace and good order of the city were broken by a mob collected in several quarters of the city, for the avowed purpose of resisting the process of drafting names to recruit the armies of the Union. Vast crowds of men collected and fired the offices where drafting was in progress, beating and driving the officers from duty. From the beginning, these violent proceedings were accompanied by arson, robbery, and murder. Private property, unofficial persons of all ages, sexes, and conditions, were indiscriminately assailed--none were spared, except those who were supposed by the mob to sympathize with their proceedings. Early in the day the Superintendent was assaulted, cruelly beaten, robbed, and disabled by the mob which was engaged in burning the provost marshal's office in Third Avenue, thus in a manner disarranging the organization at the Central Department, throwing new, unwonted, and responsible duties upon the Board. At this juncture the telegraph wires of the department were cut, and the movement of the railroads and stages violently interrupted, interfering seriously with our accustomed means of transmitting orders and concentrating forces. The militia of the city were absent at the seat of war, fighting the battles of the nation against treason and secession, and there was no adequate force in the city for the first twelve hours to resist at all points the vast and infuriated mob. The police force was not strong enough in any precinct to make head, unaided, against the overwhelming force. No course was left but to concentrate the whole force at the Central Department, and thence send detachments able to encounter and conquer the rioters. This course was promptly adopted on Monday morning. The military were called upon to act in aid of the civil force to subdue the treasonable mob, protect life and property, and restore public order. Under such, adverse circumstances you were called upon to encounter a mob of such strength as have never before been seen, in this country. The force of militia under General Sandford, who were called into service by the authority of this Board, were concentrated by him at and held the arsenal in Seventh Avenue, throughout the contest. The military forces in command of Brevet Brigadier-general Harvey Brown reported at the Central Department, and there General Brown established his head-quarters, and from there expeditions, combined of police and military force, were sent out that in all cases conquered, defeated, or dispersed the mob force, and subjected them to severe chastisement. In no instance did these detachments from the Central Department, whether of police alone or police and military combined, meet with defeat or serious check. In all cases they achieved prompt and decisive victories. The contest continued through Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, and till 11 o'clock on Thursday night, like a continuous battle, when it ended by a total and sanguinary rout of the insurgents. During the whole of those anxious days and nights, Brigadier-general Brown remained at the Central Department, ordering the movements of the military in carefully considered combinations with the police force, and throughout the struggle, and until its close, commanded the admiration and gratitude of the Police Department and all who witnessed his firm intelligence and soldierly conduct. It is understood that he had at no time under his immediate command more than three hundred troops, but they were of the highest order, and were commanded by officers of courage and ability. They cordially acted with, supported, and were supported by, the police, and victory in every contest against fearful odds, was the result of brave fighting and intelligent command. In the judgment of this Board, the escape of the city from the power of an infuriated mob is due to the aid furnished the police by Brigadier-general Brown and the small military force under his command. No one can doubt, who saw him, as we did, that during those anxious and eventful days and nights Brigadier-general Harvey Brown was equal to the situation, and was the right man in the right place. We avail ourselves of this occasion to tender to him, in the most earnest and public manner, the thanks of the department and our own. To the soldiers under his command we are grateful as to brave men who perilled all to save the city from a reign of terror. To Captains Putnam, Franklin, and Shelley, Lieutenant Ryer, and Lieutenant-colonel Berens, officers of corps under the command of Brigadier-general Brown, we are especially indebted, and we only discharge a duty when we commend them to their superiors in rank and to the War Department for their courageous and effective service. Of the Inspectors, Captains, and Sergeants of police who led parties in the fearful contest, we are proud to say that none faltered or failed. Each was equal to the hour and the emergency. Not one failed to overcome the danger, however imminent, or to defeat the enemy, however numerous. Especial commendation is due to Drill-sergeant Copeland for his most valuable aid in commanding the movements of larger detachments of the police. The patrolmen who were on duty fought through the numerous and fierce conflicts with the steady courage of veteran soldiers, and have won, as they deserve, the highest commendations from the public and from this Board. In their ranks there was neither faltering nor straggling. Devotion to duty and courage in the performance of it were universal. The public and the department owe a debt of gratitude to the citizens who voluntarily became special patrolmen, some three thousand of whom, for several days and nights, did regular patrolmen's duty with great effect. In the name of the public, and of the department in which they were volunteers, we thank them. Mr. Crowley, the superintendent of the police telegraph, and the attaches of his department, by untiring and sleepless vigilance in transmitting information by telegraph unceasingly through more than ten days and nights, have more than sustained the high reputation they have always possessed. Through all these bloody contests, through all the wearing fatigue and wasting labor, you have demeaned yourselves like worthy members of the Metropolitan Police. The public judgment will commend and reward you. A kind Providence has permitted you to escape with less casualties than could have been expected. You have lost one comrade, whom you have buried with honor. Your wounded will, it is hoped, all recover, to join you and share honor. It is hoped that the severe but just chastisement which has been inflicted upon those guilty of riot, pillage, arson, and murder, will deter further attempts of that character. But if, arising out of political or other causes, there should be another attempt to interrupt public order, we shall call on you again to crush its authors, confident that you will respond like brave men, as you ever have, to the calls of duty; and in future, whenever the attempt may be made, you will have to aid you large forces of military, ably commanded, and thus be enabled to crush in the bud any attempted riot or revolution. To General Canby, who, on the morning of Friday, the 17th inst., took command of the military, relieving Brigadier-general Brown, and to Gen. Dix, who succeeded General Wool, the public are indebted for prompt, vigorous, and willing aid to the police force in all the expeditions which have been called for since they assumed their commands. Charged particularly with the protection of the immense amount of Federal property and interests in the Metropolitan district, and the police force charged with the maintenance of public order, the duties of the two forces are always coincident. Whatever menaces or disturbs one equally menaces and disturbs the other. We are happy to know that at all times the several authorities have co-operated with that concert and harmony which is necessary to secure vigor and efficiency in action. Sergeant Young, of the detective force, aided by Mr. Newcomb and other special patrolmen, rendered most effective service in arranging the commissary supplies for the large number of police, military, special patrolmen, and destitute colored refugees, whose subsistence was thrown unexpectedly on the department. The duty was arduous and responsible, and was performed with vigor and fidelity. All the clerks of the department, each in his sphere, performed a manly share of the heavy duties growing out of these extraordinary circumstances. The Central Department became a home of refuge for large numbers of poor, persecuted colored men, women, and children, many of whom were wounded and sick, and all of whom were helpless, exposed, and poor. Mr. John H. Keyser, with his accustomed philanthropy, volunteered, and was appointed to superintend these wretched victims of violence and prejudice, and has devoted unwearied days to the duty. The pitiable condition of these poor people appeals in the strongest terms to the Christian charity of the benevolent and humane. The members of the force will do an acceptable service by calling the attention to their condition of those who are able and willing to contribute in charity to their relief. CHAPTER XXI. ORANGE RIOTS OF 1870 AND 1871. Religious Toleration.--Irish Feuds.--Battle of Boyne Water.--Orangemen.--Origin and Object of the Society.--A Picnic at Elm Park.--Attacked by the Ribbonmen.--The Fight.--After Scenes.--Riot of 1871.--Conspiracy of the Irish Catholics to prevent a Parade of Orangemen.--Forbidden by the City Authorities.--Indignation of the People.--Meeting in the Produce Exchange.--Governor Hoffman's Proclamation.--Morning of the 12th.--The Orangemen at Lamartine Hall.--Attack on the Armories.--The Harpers threatened.--Exciting Scenes around Lamartine Hall and at Police Head-quarters.--Hibernia Hall cleared.--Attack on an Armory.--Formation of the Procession.--Its March.--Attacked.--Firing of the Military without Orders.--Terrific Scene.--The Hospitals and Morgue.--Night Scenes.--Number of killed and wounded.--The Lesson. In a free country like ours, where toleration of all religions alike is one of the fundamental principles of the Government, one would naturally think that open persecution of any sect or body of religionists was impossible. But the Irish, unfortunately, have brought with them to this country not merely many of their old customs and national fetes, but their old religions feuds. Nearly two hundred years ago, William of Nassau, Prince of Orange, or William the Third, a Protestant, met the Catholic King, James the Second, of England, In deadly battle, in the vales of Meath, through which the Boyne River flows, and utterly routed him, and compelled him to flee to the Continent for safety. According to old style, this was on the first day of July, as the old ballad says: "'Twas bright July's first morning clear, Of unforgotten glory, That made this stream, through ages dear, Renowned in song and story." According to new style, however, this has become the twelfth of the month. The Ulster Protestant Society, known as Orangemen, was founded in 1795. It was a secret political organization, founded, it is said, to counteract the Ribbonmen, or Protectors, as they were called. Its object in this country, it is asserted, is entirely different, and more in harmony with other societies that have their annual celebration in New York City and other places. It is not necessary to go over the bitter feuds between these and the Catholic Irish in the old country. The hates they engendered were brought here, but kept from any great outward manifestation, because the Orangemen indulged in no public displays. We believe that there had been only one procession previous to this. In this year, however, an imposing display was resolved upon, but no trouble was anticipated, and no precautions taken by the police. It was not proposed to parade the streets, but to form, and march in procession up Eighth Avenue, to Elm Park, corner of Ninetieth Street and Eighth Avenue, and have a picnic, and wind up with a dance. As the procession passed Fourth Street, in full Orange regalia, and about twenty-five hundred strong (men, women, and children), playing "Boyne Water," "Derry," and other tunes obnoxious to the Catholics, some two hundred Irishmen followed it with curses and threats. Violence was, however, not feared, and the procession continued on, and at length reached the new Boulevard road, where a large body of Irishmen were at work. Beyond, however, the interchange of some words, nothing transpired, and it entered the park, and began the festivities of the day. In the meanwhile, however, the rabble that had followed them came upon the Ribbonmen at work on the Boulevard road, and persuaded them to throw up work and join them, and the whole crowd, numbering probably about five hundred, started for the park. The foreman of the gang of three hundred workmen saw at once the danger, and hurried to the Thirty-first Precinct station, corner of One Hundredth Street and Ninth Avenue, and told Captain Helme of the state of things. The latter immediately thought of the picnic, and, anticipating trouble, telegraphed to Jourdan for reinforcements. In the meanwhile, the mob, loaded with stones, advanced tumultuously towards the park, within which the unsuspecting Orangemen were giving themselves up to enjoyment. Suddenly a shower of stones fell among them, knocking over women and children, and sending consternation through the crowd. Shouts and curses followed, and the Orangemen, rallying, rushed out and fell furiously on their assailants. Shovels, clubs, and stones were freely used, and a scene of terrific confusion followed. The fight was close and bloody, and continued for nearly half an hour, when Sergeant John Kelly, with a force of sixteen men, arrived, and rushing in between the combatants, separated them, and drove the Orangemen back into the park. The mob then divided into two portions, of between two and three hundred each. One party went by way of Ninth Avenue, and, breaking down the fence on that side, entered the park, and fell with brutal fury on men, women, and children alike. A terrible fight followed, and amid the shouts and oaths of the men and screams of the women and children, occasional pistol-shots were heard, showing that murder was being done. The enraged, unarmed Orangemen, wrenched hand rails from the fence, tore up small trees, and seized anything and everything that would serve for a weapon, and maintained the fight for a half an hour, before the police arrived. The second portion went by Eighth Avenue, and intercepted a large body of Orangemen that had retreated from the woods, and a desperate battle followed. There were only two policemen here, and of course could do nothing but stand and look on the murderous conflict. In the meantime, the force telegraphed for by Captain. Helme arrived. It consisted of twenty men, to which Captain Helme added the reserve force, with a sergeant from the Eighth, Ninth, Fifteenth, Sixteenth, and Nineteenth Precincts, making in all some fifty men. These he divided into two portions, one of which he sent over to Eighth Avenue to protect the cars, into which the fugitives were crowding, while the other dashed furiously into the park, and fell on the combatants with their clubs. They soon cleared a lane between them, when turning on the Ribbonmen, they drove them out of the park. They then formed the Orangemen into a procession, and escorted them down the city. A portion, however, had fled for the Eighth Avenue cars; but a party of Ribbonmen were lying in wait here, and another fight followed. Huge stones were thrown through the windows of the cars, the sides broken in, over the wreck of which the mob rushed, knocking down men, women, and children alike, whose shouts, and oaths, and screams could be heard blocks off. The scene was terrific, until the arrival of the police put an end to it, and bore the dead and wounded away. About seven o'clock, Superintendent Jourdan arrived in the precinct, accompanied by Inspectors Dilks and Walling, and Detectives Farley and Avery. In the basement of the Thirty-first Precinct station, on a low trestle bed, three bloody corpses were stretched, while the neighboring precincts were filled with the wounded. Two more died before morning. The street near each station was crowded with Orangemen inquiring after friends. Although no more outbreaks occurred, the most intense excitement prevailed among the Irish population of the city, and it was evident that it needed only a suitable occasion to bring on another conflict. THE RIOT OF 1871. When the next anniversary of the Orangemen came round, it was discovered that a conspiracy had been formed by a large body of the Catholic population to prevent its public celebration. The air was full of rumors, while the city authorities were in possession of the fullest evidence that if the Orangemen paraded, they would be attacked, and probably many lives be lost. They were in great dilemma as to what course to pursue. If they allowed the procession to take place, they would be compelled to protect it, and shoot down the men whose votes helped largely to place them in power. If they forbade it, they feared the public indignation that would be aroused against such a truckling, unjust course. As the day drew near, however, and the extensive preparations of the Irish Catholics became more apparent, they finally determined to risk the latter course, and it was decided that Superintendent Kelso should issue an order forbidding the Orangemen to parade. This ludicrous attempt on the part of the Mayor to shift the responsibility from his own shoulders, awakened only scorn, and the appearance of the order was followed by a storm of indignation that was appalling. The leading papers, without regard to politics, opened on him and his advisers, with such a torrent of denunciations that they quailed before it. Processions of all kinds and nationalities were allowed on the streets, and to forbid only one, and that because it was _Protestant_, was an insult to every American citizen. Even Wall Street forgot its usual excitement, and leading men were heard violently denouncing this cowardly surrender of Mayor Hall to the threats of a mob. An impromptu meeting was called in the Produce Exchange, and a petition drawn up, asking the president to call a formal meeting, and excited men stood in line two hours, waiting their turn to sign it. The building was thronged, and the vice-president called the meeting to order, and informed it that the rules required twenty-four hours' notice for such a meeting. The members, however, would listen to no delay, and with an unanimous and thundering vote, declared the rules suspended. The action of the city authorities was denounced in withering terms, and a committee of leading men appointed to wait on them, and remonstrate with the Mayor. One could scarcely have dreamed that this order would stir New York so profoundly. But the people, peculiarly sensitive to any attack on religious freedom, were the more fiercely aroused, that in this case it was a Catholic mob using the city authority to strike down Protestantism. The Mayor and his subordinates were appalled at the tempest they had raised, and calling a council, resolved to revoke the order. In the meantime, Governor Hoffman was telegraphed to from Albany. Hastening to the city, he, after a consultation with Mayor Hall, decided to issue the following proclamation: "Having been only this day apprised, while at the capital, of the actual condition of things here, with reference to proposed processions to-morrow, and having, in the belief that my presence was needed, repaired hither immediately, I do make this proclamation: "The order heretofore issued by the police authorities, in reference to said processions, being duly revoked, I hereby give notice that any and all bodies of men desiring to assemble in peaceable procession to-morrow, the 12th inst., will be permitted to do so. They will be protected to the fullest extent possible by the military and police authorities. A police and military escort will be furnished to any body of men desiring it, on application to me at my head-quarters (which will be at police head-quarters in this city) at any time during the day. I warn all persons to abstain from interference with any such assembly or procession, except by authority from me; and I give notice that all the powers of my command, civil and military, will be used to preserve the public peace, and put down at all hazards, every attempt at disturbances; and I call upon all citizens, of every race and religion, to unite with me and the local authorities in this determination, to preserve the peace and honor of the city and State." Dated at New York, this eleventh day of July, A. D. 1871. JOHN T. HOFFMAN. It was thought by many that this would counteract the effects of the cowardly order of the police superintendent. But whatever its effect might have been, had it been issued earlier, it now came too late to do any good. The preparations of the Roman Catholics were all made. A secret circular had fallen into the hands of the police, showing that the organization of the rioters was complete-the watchwords and signals all arranged, and even the points designated where the attacks on the procession were to be made. Arms had been collected and transported to certain localities, and everything betokened a stormy morrow. Consequently, General Shaler issued orders to the commanders of the several regiments of militia, directing them to have their men in readiness at their respective armories at 7 o'clock next morning, prepared to march at a moment's warning. His head-quarters, like those of General Brown in the draft riots, were at the police head-quarters, so as to have the use of the police telegraph, in conveying orders to different sections of the city. Meanwhile, detachments were placed on guard at the different armories, to frustrate any attempt on the part of the mob to seize arms. The night, however, wore quietly away, and in the morning the Governor's proclamation appeared in the morning papers, showing the rioters the nature of the work before them, if they undertook to carry out their infamous plans. It seemed to have no effect, however. Early in the morning sullen groups of Irishmen gathered on the corners of the streets, where the Irish resided in greatest numbers, among which were women, gesticulating and talking violently, apparently wholly unaware that the authorities had any power, or, at least, thought they dared not use it. Other groups traversed the streets, while at the several rendezvous of the Hibernians, many carried muskets or rifles without any attempt at concealment. In the upper part of the city, a body of rioters began to move southward, compelling all the workmen on their way to leave work and join them. One or two armories were attacked, but the rioters were easily repulsed. The demonstrations at length became so threatening, that by ten o'clock the police seized Hibernia Hall. About the same time, the Orangemen--who on the issue of Kelso's order had determined not to parade but on the appearance of the Governor's proclamation changed their mind--began to assemble at Lamartine Hall, on the corner of Eighth Avenue and Twenty-ninth Street. Their room was in the fourth story, and the delegates from the various lodges brought with them their badges and banners, which they displayed from the windows. This brought a crowd in front of the building, curious to know what was going on in the lodge room. Soon five hundred policemen, ten or fifteen of them on horseback, appeared under the command of Inspectors Walling and Jamieson, and occupied both sides of Twenty-ninth Street, between Eighth and Ninth Avenues. Several policemen also stood on Eighth Avenue, while the door of the hall was guarded by others. Inside the hall there were probably some seventy-five or a hundred Orangemen, discussing the parade. Some stated that a great many, concluding there would be none, had gone to their usual work, while others, alarmed at the threats of the Hibernians, would not join it. But after some discussion, it was resolved, that although the number would be small, they would parade at all hazards; and at eleven o'clock the door was thrown open, and the Orangemen, wearing orange colors, were admitted, amid the wildest cheering. An invitation was sent to the lodges of Jersey City to join them, but they declined, preferring to celebrate the day at home. Two o'clock was the hour fixed upon for the parade to begin, and the authorities at police head-quarters were so advised. In the meantime a banner had been prepared on which was inscribed in large letters, "AMERICANS! FREEMEN!! FALL IN!!!" in order to get accessions from outsiders, but without success. The line of march finally resolved upon was down Eighth Avenue to Twenty-third Street, and up it to Fifth Avenue, down Fifth Avenue to Fourteenth Street, along it to Union Square, saluting the Lincoln and Washington statues as they passed, and then down Fourth Avenue to Cooper Institute, where the procession would break up. About one o'clock, a party of men came rushing down Eighth Avenue, opposite Lamartine Hall, cheering and shouting, led by a man waving a sword cane. As he swung it above his head it parted, disclosing a long dirk. The police immediately advanced and swept the street. Eighth Avenue was cleared from Thirtieth Street to Twenty-eighth Street, and the police formed several deep, leaving only room enough for the cars to pass. In the meantime, around police head-quarters, in Mott Street, things wore a serious aspect. From six o'clock in the morning, the various detachments of police kept arriving until Bleecker, Houston, Mulberry, and Mott Streets were dark with the massed battalions, ready to move at a moment's notice. Rations were served out to them standing. Early in the day, Governor Hoffman and staff arrived, and were quartered in the Superintendent's room, while General Shaler and staff were quartered in the fire marshal's office. Commissioners Manierre, Smith, and Barr were in their own rooms, receiving reports from the various precincts over the wires. A little after nine a dispatch came, stating that the quarrymen near Central Park had quitted work, and were gathering in excited groups, swearing that the Orangemen should not parade. Immediately Inspector Jamieson, with two hundred and fifty policemen, was despatched in stages to Forty-seventh Street and Eighth Avenue, to watch the course of events. Another dispatch stated that an attack was threatened on Harper's building, in Franklin Square, and Captain Allaire, of the Seventh Precinct, was hurried off with fifty men to protect it. A little later came the news that the Orangemen had determined to parade at two o'clock, and a police force of five hundred, as we have already stated, were massed in Eighth Avenue, opposite Lamartine Hall. About noon, a body of rioters made an attack on the armory, No. 19 Avenue A, in which were a hundred and thirty-eight stands of arms. Fortunately, the janitor of the building saw them in time to fasten the doors before they reached it, and then ran to the nearest police-station for help, from which a dispatch was sent to head-quarters. Captain Mount, with a hundred policemen, was hurried off to the threatened point. He arrived, before the doors were broken in, and falling on the rioters with clubs, drove them in all directions. During the forenoon, Drill-captain Copeland was given five Companies, and told to seize Hibernia Hall, where arms were being distributed. As he approached, he ordered the mob to disperse, but was answered with taunts and curses, while the women hurled stones at his face. He then gave the order to charge, when the men fell on the crowd with such fury, that they broke and fled in wild confusion. Meanwhile, the detectives had been busy, and secured eighteen of the ring-leaders, whom they marched to police head-quarters. As the hour for the procession to form drew near, the most intense excitement prevailed at police head-quarters, and the telegraph was watched with anxious solicitude. The terrible punishment inflicted on the rioters in 1863 seemed to have been forgotten by the mob, and it had evidently resolved to try once more its strength with the city authorities. Around the Orange head-quarters a still deeper excitement prevailed. The hum of the vast multitude seemed like the first murmurings of the coming storm, and many a face turned pale as the Orangemen, with their banners and badges, only ninety in all, passed out of the door into the street. John Johnston, their marshal, mounted on a spirited horse, placed himself at their head. In a few minutes, the bayonets of the military force designed to act as an escort could be seen flashing in the sun, as the troops with measured tread moved steadily forward. Crowds followed them on the sidewalks, or hung from windows and house-tops, while low curses could be heard on every side, especially when the Twenty-second Regiment deliberately loaded their pieces with ball and cartridge. The little band of Orangemen looked serious but firm, while the military officers showed by their preparations and order that they expected bloody work. The Orangemen formed line in Twenty-ninth Street, close to the Eighth Avenue, and flung their banners to the breeze. A half an hour later, they were ready to march, and at the order wheeled into Eighth Avenue. At that instant a single shot rang out but a few rods distant. Heads were turned anxiously to see who was hit. More was expected as the procession moved on. A strong body of police marched in advance. Next came the Ninth Regiment, followed at a short interval by the Sixth. Then came more police, followed by the little band of Orangemen, flanked on either side, so as fully to protect them, by the Twenty-second and Eighty-fourth Regiments. To these succeeded more police. The imposing column was closed up by the Seventh Regiment, arresting all eyes by its even tread and martial bearing. The sidewalks, doorsteps, windows, and roofs were black with people. The band struck up a martial air, and the procession moved on towards Twenty-eighth Street. Just before they reached it, another shot rang clear and sharp above the music. No one was seen to fall, and the march continued. At the corner of Twenty-seventh Street, a group of desperate-looking fellows were assembled on a wooden shed that projected over the sidewalk. Warned to get down and go away, they hesitated, when a company of soldiers levelled their pieces at them. Uttering defiant threats, they hurried down and disappeared. As the next corner was reached, another shot was fired, followed by a shower of stones. A scene of confusion now ensued. The police fell on the bystanders occupying the sidewalks, and clubbed them right and left without distinction, and the order rolled down the line to the inmates of the houses to shut their windows. Terror now took the place of curiosity; heads disappeared, and the quick, fierce slamming of blinds was heard above the uproar blocks away. The procession kept on till it reached Twenty-fourth Street, when a halt was ordered. The next moment a shot was fired from the second-story windows of a house on the north-east corner. It struck the Eighty-fourth Regiment, and in an instant a line of muskets was pointed at the spot, as though the order to fire was expected. One gun went off, when, without orders, a sudden, unexpected volley rolled down the line of the Sixth, Ninth, and Eighty-fourth Regiments. The officers were wholly taken by surprise at this unprecedented conduct; but, recovering themselves, rushed among the ranks and shouted out their orders to cease firing. But the work was done; and as the smoke slowly lifted in the hot atmosphere, a scene of indescribable confusion presented itself. Men, women, and children, screaming in wild terror, were fleeing in every direction; the strong trampling down the weak, while eleven corpses lay stretched on the sidewalk, some piled across each other. A pause of a few minutes now followed, while the troops reloaded their guns. A new attack was momentarily expected, and no one moved from the ranks to succor the wounded or lift up the dead. Here a dead woman lay across a dead man; there a man streaming with blood was creeping painfully up a doorstep, while crouching, bleeding forms appeared in every direction. Women from the windows looked down on the ghastly spectacle, gesticulating wildly. The police now cleared the avenue and side streets, when, the dead and wounded were attended to, and the order to move on was given. General Varian, indignant at the conduct of the Eighty-fourth in firing first without orders, sent it to the rear, and replaced it on the flank of the Orangemen with a portion of the Ninth. The procession, as it now resumed its march and moved through Twenty-fourth Street, was a sad and mournful one. The windows were filled with spectators, and crowds lined the sidewalks, but all were silent and serious. Not till it reached Fifth Avenue Hotel were there any greetings of welcome. Here some three thousand people were assembled, who rent the air with cheers. No more attacks were made, and it reached Cooper Institute and disbanded without any further incident. In the meantime, the scene at the Bellevue Hospital was a sad and painful one. The ambulances kept discharging their bloody loads at the door, and groans of distress and shrieks of pain filled the air. Long rows of cots, filled with mangled forms, were stretched on every side, while the tables were covered with bodies, held down, as the surgeons dressed their wounds. The dead were carried to the Morgue, around which, as night came on, a clamorous crowd was gathered, seeking admission, to look after their dead friends. A similar crowd gathered at the door of the Mount Sinai Hospital, filling the air with cries and lamentations. As darkness settled over the city, wild, rough-looking men from the lowest ranks of society gathered in the street where the slaughter took place, among whom were seen bare-headed women roaming about, making night hideous with their curses. A pile of dead men's hats stood on the corner of Eighth Avenue and Twenty-fifth Street untouched, and pale faces stooped over pools of blood on the pavement. The stores were all shut; and everything wore a gloomy aspect. The police stood near, revealed in the lamplight, but made no effort to clear the street. It seemed at one time that a serious outbreak would take place, but the night passed off quietly, and the riot was ended, and the mob once more taught the terrible lesson it is so apt to forget. Two of the police and military were killed, and twenty-four wounded; while of the rioters thirty-one were killed, and sixty-seven wounded--making in all one hundred and twenty-eight victims. There was much indignation expressed at the troops for firing without orders, and firing so wildly as to shoot some of their own men. It was, of course, deserving the deepest condemnation, yet it may have saved greater bloodshed. The fight evidently did not occur at the expected point, and doubtless the result here, prevented one where the mob was better organized, and would have made a more stubborn resistance. That innocent persons were killed is true; but if they will mingle in with a mob, they must expect to share its fate, and alone must bear the blame. Troops are called out to fire on the people if they persist in violation of the peace and rights of the community. Of this all are fully aware, and hence take the risk of being shot. Soldiers cannot be expected to discriminate in a mob. If the military are not to fire on a crowd of rioters until no women and children, can be seen in it, they had better stay at home. To a casual observer, this calling out of seven hundred policemen and several regiments of soldiers, in order to let ninety men take a foolish promenade through a few streets, would seem a very absurd and useless display of the power of the city; and the killing of sixty or seventy men a heavy price to pay for such an amusement. But it was not ninety Orangemen only that those policemen and soldiers enclosed and shielded. They had in their keeping the laws and authority of the city, set at defiance by a mob, and also the principle of religious toleration and of equal rights, which were of more consequence than the lives of ten thousand men. The day when New York City allows itself to be dictated to by a mob, and Protestants not be permitted to march as such quietly through the streets, her prosperity and greatness will come to an end. The taking of life is a serious thing, but it is not to weigh a moment against the preservation of authority and the supremacy of the law. One thing should not be overlooked--the almost universal faithfulness of the Roman Catholic Irish police to their duty. In this, as well as in the draft riots, they have left a record of which, any city might be proud. To defend Protestant Irishmen against Roman Catholic friends and perhaps relatives, is a severe test of fidelity; but the Irish police have stood it nobly, and won the regard of all good citizens. [Footnote: Twenty-four pages are here added to correct the omission in paging the engravings.] [Illustration: RECEIVING AND REMOVING DEAD BODIES IN THE MORGUE.]