THE UNIVERSITY OF 
 
 NORTH CAROLINA 
 
 LIBRARY 
 
 THE WILMER COLLECTION 
 
 OF CIVIL WAR NOVELS 
 
 PRESENTED BY 
 
 RICHARD H. WILMER, JR. 
 

 \^ <£ro, '3l^^0^^^ ^ 
 
Digitized by tlie Internet Arcliive 
 
 in 2010 witli funding from 
 
 University of Nortli Carolina at Chapel Hill 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/deserterotherstoOOfred 
 
THE DESERTER 
 
 AND OTHER STORIES 
 
 A Book of Two Wars 
 
 BY 
 
 HAROLD FREDERIC 
 
 AUTHOR OF " IN THE VALLEY," " SETH's BROTHER'S WIFE ' 
 " THE COPPERHEAD," ETC. 
 
 WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY 
 
 MERRILL, SANDHAM, GILBERT GAUL 
 AND GEORGE FOSTER BARNES 
 
 BOSTON 
 LOTHROP PUBLISHING COMPANY 
 
Copyright, 1898, 
 
 LoTHROP Publishing Company. 
 
 All rights reserved. 
 
 J. S. Cushing & Co. - Berwick & Smith 
 Norwood Mass. USA. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 THE DESERTER. 
 
 :hapter 
 
 I. Discoveries in the Barn 
 
 II. A Sudden Departure . 
 
 III. Father and Son . 
 
 IV. The "Meanest Word" 
 V. The Deputy Marshal . 
 
 VI. A Home in the Woods 
 VII. Another Chase after Mose 
 
 
 
 PAGE 
 
 
 • 
 
 3 
 
 
 
 20 
 
 
 
 42 
 
 
 
 60 
 
 
 
 80 
 
 
 
 98 
 
 
 
 117 
 
 A DAY IN THE WILDERNESS. 
 
 I. The Valley of Death 
 
 II. Lafe reconnoitres the Valley . 
 
 III. The Bounty-Jumper 
 
 IV. Red Pete in Captivity .... 
 V. Lafe rescues an Officer, and finds his 
 
 Cousin 
 
 139 
 157 
 177 
 198 
 
 216 
 
 HOW DICKON CAME BY HIS NAME. 
 
 I. The Making of a Soldier . 
 
 II. A Burst for Freedom .... 
 
 III. A Strange Christmas Eve . 
 
 IV. Up in the World .... 
 
 239 
 260 
 279 
 299 
 
iv Contents. 
 
 WHERE AVON INTO SEVERN FLOWS. 
 
 CHAPTER PAGE 
 
 I. Hugh the Writer 319 
 
 II. Sir Hereward's Ring 350 
 
 III. How Hugh met the Prince . . .381 
 
ILLUSTRATIONS. 
 
 I'll unlock it bimeby — maybe ' " 
 
 <' ' Sh-h ! Talk Lower ! ' " 
 
 '' ' Gimme that Gun ! ' " 
 
 " ' Drop it — you ! ' " . 
 
 Lafe and the Bounty-Jumper . 
 
 " ' I'm Steve Hornbeck's Son ! ' " 
 
 " Sir Watty came stalking down " 
 
 "'Whose Blood is this?'" 
 
 " He advanced and kissed the Lady's Hand " 
 
 " Two Dozen Pike-Heads clashed down as by a 
 Single Touch "... 
 
 Frontispiece 
 
 PAGE 
 27 
 
 61 
 
 249 
 285 
 
 357 
 
 385 
 
THE DESERTER. 
 
THE DESERTER. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 DISCOVERIES IN THE BARN. 
 
 TT was the coldest morning of the winter, 
 thus far, and winter is no joke on those 
 northern tablelands, where the streams still 
 run black in token of their forest origin, and 
 old men remember how the deer used to be 
 driven to their clearings for food, when the 
 snow had piled itself breast high through 
 the fastnesses of the Adirondacks. The wil- 
 derness had been chopped and burned back- 
 ward out of sight since their pioneer days, 
 but this change, if anything, served only to 
 add greater bitterness to the winter's cold. 
 
 Certainly it seemed to Job Parshall that 
 this was the coldest morning he had ever 
 known. It would be bad enough when day- 
 
 3 
 
4 TJie Deserter. 
 
 light came, but the darkness of this early 
 hour made it almost too much for flesh and 
 blood to bear. There had been a stray star 
 or two visible overhead when he first came 
 out-of-doors at half-past four, but even these 
 were missing now. 
 
 The crusted snow in the barnyard did 
 throw up a wee, faint light of its own, for all 
 the blackness of the sky, but Job carried, 
 besides a bucket, a lantern to help him in his 
 impending struggle with the pump. This 
 ancient contrivance had been ice-bound 
 every morning for a fortnight past, and one 
 needn'.t be the son of a prophet to foresee 
 that this morning it would be frozen as stiff 
 as a rock. 
 
 It did not turn out to be so prolonged 
 or so fierce a conflict as he had appre- 
 hended. He had reasoned to himself the 
 previous day that if the pump-handle were 
 propped upright with a stick overnight, 
 there would be less water remaining in the 
 cylinder to freeze, and had made the ex- 
 
 RBC 
 
 periment just before bedtime. ^^y 
 
Discoveries in the Barn. 5 
 
 It worked fairly well. There was only 
 a o-ood deal of ice to be knocked off the 
 spout with a sledge-stake, and then a 
 disheartening amount of dry pumping to 
 be done before the welcome drag of suction 
 made itself felt in the well below, like the 
 bite of a big fish in deep water. 
 
 Job filled his bucket and trudged back 
 with it to the cow-barn, stamping his feet 
 for warmth as he went. 
 
 By comparison with the numbing air 
 outside, this place was a dream of coziness. 
 Two long lines of cows, a score or more 
 on a side, faced each other in double rows 
 of stanchions. Their mere presence had 
 filled the enclosure with a steaming warmth. 
 The ends of the barn and the loft above 
 were packed close with hay, moreover, and 
 half a dozen lantern lights were gleaming 
 for the hired men to see by, in addition to 
 a reflector lamp fastened against a post. 
 
 The men did not mind the cold. They 
 had been briskly at work cleaning up the 
 stable and getting down hay and fodder, 
 
6 The Deserter. 
 
 and the exercise kept their blood running 
 and spirits light. They talked as they 
 plied shovel and pitchfork, guessing how 
 near the low-mercury mark of twenty be- 
 low zero the temperature outside had really 
 fallen, and chaffing one of their number 
 who had started out to go through the 
 winter without wearing an overcoat. 
 
 Their cheery voices, resounding through 
 the half-gloom above the soft, crackling 
 undertone of the kine munching their 
 breakfast seemed to add to the warmth of 
 the barn. 
 
 The boy Job had begun setting about a 
 task which had no element of comfort in 
 it. He got out a large sponge, took up 
 the bucket he had brought from the well, 
 and started at the end of one of the row^s 
 to wash clean the full udder of each of |5 
 the forty-odd cows in turn. In a few 
 minutes the milkers would be ready to 
 begin, and to keep ahead of them he must 
 have a clear start of a dozen cows. 
 
 When he had at last reached this point 
 
 or 
 
Discoveries in the Barn. 7 
 
 of vantage, the loud din of the streams 
 against the sides of the milkers' tin pails 
 had commenced behind him. 
 
 He rose, straightened his shoulders, and 
 shook his red, dripping hands with a groan 
 of pain. The icy water had well nigh frozen 
 them. 
 
 It was a common thing for all about the 
 barn to warm cold hands by thrusting them 
 deep down into one of the barrels of brew- 
 ers' grains which stood in a row beyond 
 the oat-bin. The damp, crushed maft gen- 
 erates within its bulk so keen a heat that 
 even when the top is frozen there will be 
 steam within. Job went over and plunged 
 his cold hands to the wrist in the smoking 
 fodder. He held them there this morning 
 for a luxurious extra minute, wondering idly 
 as he did so how the cows sustained that 
 merciless infliction of ice-water without any 
 such comforting after-resource. 
 
 Suddenly he became conscious that his 
 fingers, into which the blood was coming 
 back with a stinging glow, had hit upon 
 
8 The Deserter. 
 
 something of an unusual character in the 
 barrel. He felt of it vaguely for a moment, 
 then drew the object forth, rubbed off the 
 coating of malt, and took it over to the lamp. 
 
 It was a finger-ring carved out of a thick 
 gutta-percha button, but with more skill 
 than the schoolboys of those days used to 
 possess ; and in its outer rim had been set 
 a little octagonal silver plate, bearing some 
 roughly cut initials. 
 
 Job seemed to remember having seen the 
 ring before, and jumped to the conclusion 
 that some one of the hired men had uncon- 
 sciously slipped it off while warming his 
 hands in the grains. He went back with 
 it to the milkers, and went from one to an- 
 other, seeking an owner. 
 
 Each lifted his head from where it rested 
 against the cow's flank, glanced at the 
 trinket, and making a negative sign bent 
 down again to his work. The last one up 
 the row volunteered the added comment: 
 
 " You better hustle ahead with your 
 spongin' off; I'm just about through here!" 
 
Discoveries in the Barn. 9 
 
 The boy put the circlet in his pocket — 
 it was much too large for any of his fingers 
 — and resumed his task. The water was 
 as terribly cold as ever, and the sudden 
 change seemed to scald his skin ; but some- 
 how he gave less thought to his physical 
 discomfort than before. 
 
 It was very funny to have found a ring 
 like that. It reminded him of a story he 
 had read somewhere, and could not now 
 recall, save for the detail that in that case 
 the ring contained a priceless jewel, the 
 proceeds of which enriched the finder for 
 life. Clearly no such result was to be 
 looked for here. It was doubtful if any- 
 body would give even twenty-five cents for 
 this poor, home-made ornament. All the 
 same it was a ring, and Job had a feel- 
 ing that the manner of its discovery was 
 romantic. 
 
 Working for a milkman does not open 
 up so rich a field of romance that any hints 
 of the curious or remarkable can be suffered 
 to pass unnoticed. The boy pondered the 
 
lo The Deserter. 
 
 mystery of how the ring got into the barrel. 
 For a moment he dalHed with the notion 
 that it might belong to his employer, who 
 owned the barn- and almost all the land 
 within sight, and a prosperous milk-route 
 down in Octavius. 
 
 But no ! Elisha Teachout was not a man 
 given to rings ; and even if he were, he 
 assuredly would not have them of rubber. 
 Besides, the grains had only been carted 
 in from town two days before, and Mr. 
 Teachout had been nursing his rheumatism 
 indoors for fully a week. 
 
 It was more probable that some one down 
 in the brewery at Octavius had lost the 
 ring. When Job had been there for grains, 
 he had noticed that the workers were cheer- 
 ful and hearty fellows. No doubt they 
 might be trusted to behave handsomely 
 upon getting back a valued keepsake which 
 had been given up as forever gone. 
 
 Perhaps — who could tell? — this humble, 
 whittled-out piece of gutta-percha might be 
 prized beyond rubies on account of its 
 
Discoveries in the Barn. ii 
 
 family associations. Such things had hap- 
 pened before, according to the story-books ; 
 and forthwith the lad lost himself in a maze 
 of brilliant day-dreams, rose-tinted by this 
 possibility. 
 
 He could almost behold himself adopted 
 by the owner of the brewery — the fat, red- 
 faced Englishman with the big watch-chain, 
 whom he had seen once walking majesti- 
 ally among his vats. Perhaps, in truth, Job 
 was a trifle drowsy. 
 
 All at once he roused himself with a start, 
 and began to listen with all his ears. The 
 milkers behind him were talking about the 
 ring. They had to shout to one another 
 to overcome the fact of separation and the 
 noise in their pails, and Job could hear 
 every word. 
 
 "I tell you who had a ring like that — 
 Mose Whipple," one of them called out. 
 " Don't you remember ? He made it with 
 his jack-knife, that time he was laid up with 
 the horse kickin' him in the knee." 
 
 " Seems's if I do," said another. " He 
 
12 The Deserter. 
 
 was always whittlin' out somethin' or other 
 — a peach-stone basket, or an ox-gad, or 
 somethin'." 
 
 " Some one was tellin' me yesterday," put 
 in a third, " that old man Whipple's sick 
 abed. Nobody ain't seen him around for 
 up'ards of a fortnight. I guess this cold 
 snap'll about see the last o' him. He's been 
 poorly all the fall." 
 
 " He ain't never ben the same man since 
 Mose 'listed," remarked the first speaker; 
 " that is if you call it 'listin' when a man 
 takes his three hundred dollars to go out 
 as a substitute." 
 
 " Yes, and don't even git the money at 
 that, but jest has it applied to the interest 
 he owes on his mortgage. That's payin' 
 for a dead horse, if anything is in this 
 world ! " 
 
 " Well, Mose is the sort o' chap that 
 would be workin' to pay for some kind o' 
 dead horse all his life, anyway. If it wasn't 
 one it'd be another. Never knew a fellow 
 in all my born days with so little git-up- 
 
Discoveries in the Barn. 13 
 
 and-git about him. He might as well be 
 shoulderin' a musket as anything else, for 
 all the profit he'd git out of it." 
 
 " A chip of the old block, if there ever 
 was one. The old man always wanted to 
 do a little berryin', an' a little fishin', an' a 
 little huntin', an' keep a dozen traps or so 
 in the woods, an' he'd throw up the best- 
 payin' job in the deestrict to have a loafin' 
 spell when the fit took him — an' Mose was 
 like him as two peas in a pod. 
 
 " I remember one year, Mose an' me hired 
 out in the middle o' March, an' we hadn't 
 fairly begun early ploughin' before he said 
 he wasn't feelin' right that spring, an' give 
 up half his month's wages to go home, an' 
 then what do we see next day but him an 
 his father down by the bridge with their 
 fishpoles, before the snow-water'd begun to 
 git out o' the creek. What ki^i you do with 
 men like that } " 
 
 " Make substitutes of 'em ! " one of the 
 milkers exclaimed, and at this there was a 
 general laugh. 
 
14 The Deserter. 
 
 Every one on the farm, and for that mat- 
 ter on all the other farms for miles round, 
 knew that Elisha Teachout had been drafted 
 the previous summer, and had sent Moses 
 Whipple to the front in his place. This 
 relation between the rich man and the poor 
 man was too common a thing in those war 
 times to excite particular comment. But, 
 as Mr. Teachout was not beloved by his 
 hired men, they enjoyed a laugh whenever 
 the subject came up. 
 
 Job had gone over to the lamp, during 
 the progress of this talk, and scrutinized the 
 ring. Surely enough, the clumsily scratched 
 initials on the little silver plate, obviously 
 cut down from an old three-cent piece, were 
 an M and a W. 
 
 This made it all the more difficult to 
 puzzle out how the ring came in the barrel. 
 The lad turned the problem over in his 
 mind with increasing bewilderment. 
 
 He had known Mose Whipple all his 
 life. His own father, who died some years 
 ago, had accounted Mose among his inti- 
 
Discoveries i^i the Barn. 15 
 
 mate friends, and Job's earliest recollections 
 were of seeing the two start off together of 
 a spring morning with shot-guns on their 
 shoulders and powder-flasks hung round 
 their bodies. 
 
 They had both been poor men, and if 
 they had not cared so much for hunting — 
 at least if one of them had not — Job re- 
 flected that probably this very morning he 
 himself would be sleeping in a warm bed, 
 instead of freezing his hands in the hard 
 employ of Elisha Teachout. 
 
 It was Impossible not to associate Mose 
 with these recriminatory thoughts ; yet it 
 was equally impossible to be angry with 
 him long. The boy, indeed, found himself 
 dwelling upon the amiable side of Mose's 
 shiftless nature. He remembered how Mose 
 used to come round to their poor little place, 
 after Job's father's death, to see if he could 
 help the widow and her brood in their 
 struggle. 
 
 After Mrs. Parshall had married again, 
 and gone West, leaving Job to earn his 
 
1 6 The Deserter. 
 
 own living on the Teachout farm, Mose 
 had always kept a kindly if intermittent 
 eye on the boy. Only the previous 
 Christmas he had managed, somehow, to 
 obtain an old pair of skates as a present 
 for Job, and when he had gone to the 
 war in the following August, only the fact 
 that he had to sell his shot-gun to pay a 
 pressing debt prevented his giving that to 
 the boy for his own. 
 
 The news that old Asa Whipple was 
 ill forced its way to the top of Job's 
 thoughts. He resolved that that very day, 
 if he could squeeze in the time for it, he 
 would cut across lots on the crust to the 
 Whipple house, and see how the lonely 
 old man was. 
 
 As the milkers said, old Asa had been 
 " poorly " since his Mose went away. It 
 was only too probable that he had been 
 extremely poor as well. 
 
 Even when Mose was at home, theirs 
 was the most poverty-stricken household 
 in the township. Left to his own re- 
 
Discoveries in the Barn. 17 
 
 sources, and failing swiftly all at once in 
 health, the father had tried to earn some- 
 thing by knitting mittens and stockings. 
 
 It had looked funny enough to see this 
 big-framed, powerfully built old man fum- 
 bling at his needles like some grandmother 
 in her rocking-chair by the stove. 
 
 It occurred to Job now that there was 
 something besides humor in the picture. 
 He had been told that people were mak- 
 ing woollen mittens and stockings now, 
 like everything else, by machinery. Very 
 likely old Asa couldn't sell his things 
 after he had knit them ; and that might 
 mean starvation. 
 
 Yes, that very day, in spite of every- 
 thing, he would go over and see. 
 
 He had finished his task now. The 
 milkers had nearly finished theirs. Two 
 of the hired men were taking the cloth 
 strainers off the tops of all the cans but 
 one, and fastening on the covers instead. 
 He could hear the bells on the harness of 
 the horses outside, waiting with the big 
 
1 8 The Deserter. 
 
 sleigh to rush off to town with the milk. 
 It was still very dark out-of-doors. 
 
 Job put away his water-bucket, warmed 
 his hands once more in the grains-barrel, 
 and set about getting down a fresh supply 
 of hay for the cows. Six weeks of winter 
 had pretty well worn away the nearest 
 haymow, and the boy had to go further 
 back toward the end of the barn, into a 
 darkness which was only dimly penetrated 
 by the rays of the lantern. 
 
 Working thus, guided rather by sense 
 of touch than of sight, the boy suddenly 
 felt himself stepping on something big and 
 rounded, which had no business in a hay- 
 mow. It rolled from under his feet, and 
 threw him off his balance to his hands 
 and knees. A muttered exclamation rose 
 from just beside him, and then suddenly 
 he was gripped bodily in the clutch of a 
 strong man. 
 
 Frightened and vainly struggling, Job 
 did not cry out, but twisted his head 
 about in the effort to see who it was that 
 
Discoveries in the Barn. 19 
 
 he had thus strangely encountered. There 
 was just hght enough from the distant 
 lantern to reveal in the face so menac- 
 ingly close to his — of all unlooked-for 
 faces in the world — that of Mose 
 Whipple ! 
 
 " Why, Mose ! " he began, in bewilder- 
 ment. 
 
 "Sh-h! Keep still!" came in a fierce 
 whisper, " unless you want to see me hung 
 higher than Haman ! " 
 
CHAPTER II. 
 
 A SUDDEN DEPARTURE. 
 
 T^HE man upon whose sleeping form 
 Job had stepped in the haymow sat 
 up and looked about him in a half-puzzled 
 fashion, mechanically brushing the loose 
 particles from his hair and neck. 
 
 " I s'pose it's mornin'," he whispered, 
 after a minute's silence. " How long'U it 
 be before daylight ? " 
 
 Job, released from the other's clutch, had 
 scrambled to his feet, and stood staring 
 down in astonishment at his old friend, 
 Mose Whipple. He had regained his fork, 
 and held it up as if to repel a possible 
 second attack. 
 
 " What did you want to pitch on to me 
 that way for ? " he asked at last in displeased 
 tones. ^^y 
 
A Stidden Departure. 21 
 
 " Sh-h ! Talk lower ! " urged Mose under 
 his breath. " I didn't mean to hurt you, 
 sonny. I didn't know who you was. You 
 come tromplin' on me here when I was 
 fast asleep, and I took hold of you when I 
 wasn't hardly woke up, you see, that's all. 
 I didn't hurt you, did I } " 
 
 " No," Job admitted grudgingly. " But 
 there wasn't no need to throw me down 
 and choke me all the same." 
 
 " I thought it was somebody comin' to 
 catch me," explained the other, still in a 
 whisper. " But who else is here in the 
 barn ? What time is it gettin' to be t " 
 
 " They're just through milkin'," replied 
 the boy. " They're gettin' the cans out 
 into the sleigh. They'll all be gone in a 
 minute or two. Time } Oh, it ain't six 
 yet." 
 
 " That's all right," said Mose, with a weary 
 sigh of relief. He added, upon reflection : 
 " Say, sonny, can you manage to get me 
 something to eat ? I've gone the best part 
 of two days now without a mouthful." 
 
22 The Deserter. 
 
 " Mebbe I can," responded Job, doubt- 
 ingly. Then a sudden thought struck him. 
 " Say, Mose," he went on, " I bet I can tell 
 what you did the first thing when you came 
 into the barn here. You went and stuck 
 your hands into the grains there — that's 
 how it was." 
 
 The man displayed no curiosity as to 
 the boy's meaning. " Yes, by jiminy ! " he 
 mused aloud. " I'd 'a' liked to have got in 
 head first. I tell you, sonny, I was about 
 as near freezin' to death as they make 'em. 
 I couldn't have gone another hundred rods 
 to save my life. They'd have found me 
 froze stiff on the road, that's all." 
 
 " But what are you doing here, anyway.'* " 
 asked Job. " You ain't gone and deserted, 
 have you } " 
 
 " Well," said the other, doggedly, " you 
 can call it what you like. One thing's 
 certain — I ain't down South, be I .? " 
 
 " Something else is pretty certain, too," 
 the boy put in. " They'll hang you, sure ! " 
 
 Mose did not seem to have much doubt 
 
A Sudde7i Departure. 23 
 
 on this point. " Anyway, I'll see the old 
 man first," he said. " It's pitch dark out- 
 doors, ain't it .? " 
 
 The boy nodded. " I must git along 
 with my work," he commented, after an- 
 other little silence. " What are you fig- 
 gerin' on doin', anyway, Mose t " he asked 
 gravely. 
 
 " Well, I'm goin' to sneak out while it's 
 still dark," said the man, " and git across 
 lots to our place, and just wake up the 
 old man, and — and — well, see how he is, 
 that's all. Mebbe I can manage it so that 
 I can skip out again, and nobody be the 
 wiser. But whether or no, that's what I'm 
 bound to do. Prob'ly you've heard — is he 
 — is his health pretty middlin' good } " 
 
 " Seems to me some one was saying 
 something about his being kind o' under 
 the weather lately," replied Job, with eva- 
 sion. " I was thinkin' of goin' over this 
 afternoon myself, if I could git the time, 
 to see him. The fact is, Mose, I guess he 
 is failing some. It's been a pretty tough 
 
24 The Deserter. 
 
 winter for old folks, you know. Elisha 
 Teachout's been laid up himself with rheu- 
 matics now for more'n a fortnight, and he 
 ain't old exactly." 
 
 " He ain't had 'em half bad enough ! " 
 cried Mose, springing to his feet with sud- 
 denly revived energy. " If he's let the old 
 man suffer — if he ain't kept his word by 
 him— I'll — I'll take it out of his old hide 
 if I have to go to jail for it ! " 
 
 " You've got enough other things to go 
 to jail for, and get hung for into the bar- 
 gain, I should think," said Job. " You'd 
 better not talk so loud, either." 
 
 Surely enough, one of the hired men 
 seemed to have remained in the barn, and 
 to have caught the sound of voices — for 
 the noise of his advancing footsteps could 
 be heard on the floor between the stan- 
 chions. Mose threw himself flat, and rolled 
 under the hay as best he could. Job began 
 to sing in a low-voiced, incoherent way for 
 a moment, and then loudly. Prying up a 
 forkful of hay, he staggered under the bur- 
 
A Sudden Departure. 25 
 
 den back to the cows, singing as he came 
 toward the intruder. 
 
 It was only Nelse Hornbeck, an elderly 
 and extra hand who worked at starvation 
 wages during the winter, chopping firewood 
 and doing odd chores about the house and 
 barns. When he saw Job he stopped. 
 He was in a sociable mood, and though 
 he leaned up against one of the stanchions 
 and offered no sign of going farther, dis- 
 played a depressing desire for conversation. 
 
 The boy came and went, bringing in the 
 hay and distributing it along under the 
 double row of broad pink noses on either 
 side. He made the task as lonsr as he 
 could in the hope of tiring Nelse out, but 
 without avail. 
 
 " I dunno but I'm almost sorry I didn't 
 enlist myself last fall," drawled Hornbeck, 
 settling himself in an easy posture. " So 
 far's I can make out, Mose Whipple and 
 the rest of the boys are having a great 
 sight better time of it down South, with 
 nothin' to do and plenty o' help to do it, 
 
26 The Deserter. 
 
 than we are here to hum. Why, Steve 
 Trimble's brother-in-law writes him that 
 they're havin' more fun down there than 
 you can shake a stick at ; livin' snug and 
 warm in sort o' little houses built into the 
 ground, and havin' horse-races and cock- 
 fights and so ,on every day. They ain't 
 been no fightin' since Thanksgivin', he 
 says, and they're all gittin' fat as seals." 
 
 " Well, why dont you enlist then t " de- 
 manded Job, curtly, going on with his work. 
 
 " I dunno," said the hired man in a med- 
 itative way. " I guess I'm afeard o' git- 
 tin' homesick. I'd always be hankerin' to 
 git back and see my folks, and they won't 
 let you do that, nohow. A lot of 'em tries 
 to sneak off, they say, but Steve's brother- 
 in-law says they've got cavalry-men on 
 horseback all around outside the camps, 
 and they just nail everybody that tries to 
 git out, and then they take 'em back to 
 camp and shoot 'em. That's what they 
 do — lead 'em out before breakfast and 
 shoot 'em down." 
 
# ^ 
 
 " Sh-h ! Talk Lower ! " 
 
A Sudden Departure. 29 
 
 " I thought they hung deserters," said 
 Job, pausing with his fork in air. 
 
 " Some they hang and some they shoot," 
 repUed Nelse. " I don't see as it makes 
 much difference. I'd about as Heve be 
 one as the other. I guess they make it 
 a rule to hang them that gits off into the 
 North and has to be brought way back 
 again. That's only reasonable, because 
 they've give 'em so much extry trouble." 
 
 Job was interested. " But suppose a 
 man does get up North — I guess they 
 ain't much chance of their ever findin' 
 him after that." 
 
 " Ain't they ? " exclaimed the hired man, 
 incredulously. " Why, it's a thousand to 
 one they catch him ! They've got their 
 detectives in every county just doin' 
 nothin' but watchin' for deserters. They 
 git paid for every one they catch, so much 
 a head, and that makes 'em keep their 
 eyes peeled." 
 
 " But how can you tell a deserter from 
 any other man," pursued Job, "so long as 
 
30 The Deserter. 
 
 he's got ordinary clothes on and minds 
 his own business and keeps away from 
 where he's known ? " 
 
 " Oh, they always point for home — 
 that's the thing of it. What do they 
 desert for? Because they're homesick. 
 So all the detectives have got to do is to 
 watch their place, and nab 'em when they 
 try to sneak in. It's as easy as roUin' off 
 a log. They always git caught, every 
 mother's son of 'em." 
 
 Tiresome Nelse Hornbeck was still 
 talking when Job came to the end of all 
 possible pretexts of employment in the 
 cow-barn, and was only too obviously wait- 
 ing to accompany the boy over to the 
 house to breakfast. At last Job had to 
 accept the situation and go. 
 
 The boy dared no more than steal for a 
 moment back into the hay, feel about with 
 his foot for where Mose lay hidden in the 
 dark, and drop the furtive whisper, " Going 
 to breakfast. If I can I'll bring you some." 
 
 Then, in company with Nelse, he left 
 
A Sudden Departure. 31 
 
 the barn, shutting and hooking the door 
 behind him. It occurred to him that Mose 
 must have effected an entrance by the 
 door at the other end, which was fastened 
 merely by a latch. Otherwise the dis- 
 placement of the outer hook would have 
 been noticed. 
 
 It was lucky, he thought in passing, that 
 Elisha Teachout did not have padlocks on 
 the doors of his cow-barn, as he had on 
 those which protected his horses and 
 wagons and grain. If he had, there 
 would have been the lifeless and icy body 
 of Mose, lying on the frozen roadside, to 
 be discovered by the daylight. 
 
 Poor Mose ! he had saved his life from 
 the bitterly cold night, but was it not 
 only to lose it again at the hands of the 
 hangman or the firing party .f* 
 
 Job remembered having seen, just a few 
 weeks before, a picture in one of the illus- 
 trated weeklies of a deserter sitting on his 
 own coffin, while files of soldiers were 
 being drawn up to witness his impend- 
 
32 The Deserter. 
 
 ing punishment. Although the artist had 
 given the doomed man a ver}^ bad face 
 indeed, Job had been conscious at the 
 time of feehng a certain human sympathy 
 with him. 
 
 As his memory dwelt now on the pict- 
 ure, this face of the prisoner seemed to 
 change into the freckled and happy-go- 
 lucky lineaments of Mose Whipple. 
 
 The boy took with him into the house 
 a heart as heavy as lead. 
 
 Breakfast was already well under way in 
 the big, old-fashioned, low-ceiled kitchen of 
 the Teachout homestead. Three or four 
 hired men were seated at one end of the 
 long table, making stacks of hot buckwheat 
 cakes saturated with pork fat on their plates, 
 and then devouring them in huge mouth- 
 fuls. 
 
 They had only the light of two candles 
 on the table. So long as there was any- 
 thing before them to eat, they spoke never 
 a word. The red-faced women over at the 
 stove did not talk either, but worked in 
 
A Sudden Departure. 33 
 
 anxious silence at their arduous task of 
 frying cakes fast enough to keep the plates 
 before the hungry men supplied. 
 
 For once in his life Job was not hungry. 
 He suffered Nelse Hornbeck to appro- 
 priate the entire contents of the first plate 
 of cakes which the girl brought to the 
 table, without a sign of protest. This was 
 not what usually happened, and as soon as 
 Nelse could spare the time he looked at 
 his companion in surprise. 
 
 " What ails you this mornin' .? " he asked, 
 with his spoon in the grease. " Ain't you 
 feelin' well } " 
 
 Job shook his head. " I guess I'll eat 
 some bread 'n' butter instead," he made 
 reply. He added after a pause, " Some- 
 how, I kind o' spleen against cakes this 
 mornin'," 
 
 " They ain't much good to-day, for a fact," 
 assented Nelse, when he had eaten half- 
 way through his pile. " I guess they want 
 more sody. It beats me why them women 
 can't make their cakes alike no two days 
 
34 The Deserter. 
 
 in the week. First the batter's sour, and 
 then they put in more sody ; and then it's 
 too flat, and they dump in a lot o' salt ; 
 and then they need more graham flour, and 
 then the batter's too thick, and has to be 
 thinned down with milk, and by that time 
 the whole thing's wrong, and they've got 
 to begin all over again." 
 
 Nelse chuckled, and looked up at Job, 
 who paid no attention. 
 
 " If we men fooled around with the cows' 
 fodder, every day different," Nelse went on, 
 " the way the girls here do with ours, why, 
 the whole barnful of 'em would 'a' dried 
 up before snow blew. But that's the way 
 with women ! " Mr. Hornbeck concluded 
 with a sigh, and began on the second heap 
 of cakes. 
 
 The boy had not listened. A project 
 had been gradually shaping itself in his 
 mind, until now it seemed as if he had 
 left the cow-barn with it definitely planned 
 out. As soon as the other men, who for 
 the moment were idling with their knives 
 
A Sudden Departure. 35 
 
 and forks, had been supplied with a fresh 
 batch of cakes, he would put it into execu- 
 tion. 
 
 " Why, you was feelin' first rate a few 
 minutes ago," remonstrated Nelse, between 
 mouthfuls, "singin' away for dear life." 
 
 " Remember how Mose Whipple used to 
 sing } " put in one of the others. " The' 
 was one song o' his, ' The Faded Coat o' 
 Blue ' — seems's if I could set and listen 
 to him singin' that all day long. He sung 
 it over at Steve Trimble's huskin', I re- 
 member, and Lib Truax let him see her 
 home, just on account of it. She wouldn't 
 so much as looked at him any other time. 
 She told my sister afterward that if he'd 
 'a' popped the question then, with that 
 singin' o' his in her ears, as like as not 
 she'd 'a' said yes." 
 
 " Lucky for her he didn't, then," re- 
 marked another. " I give Mose credit for 
 one thing, though. He had sense enough 
 not to orit married — and that's more'n 
 most shiftless coots like him have. He 
 
36 The Deserter. 
 
 always said that as long's the old man 
 was alive, he'd keep a roof over his head, 
 and let everything else slide. Whatever 
 else you may say, there's no denyin' Mose 
 was a good son to the old man." 
 
 " If I was old," said a third, " and was 
 dependent on my son, I'd think a good 
 deal more of him if he shinned around, 
 and worked stiddy, and put somethin' by 
 for a rainy day, even if he did marry 
 into the bargain, instid o' bein' bone-lazy 
 like Mose, and never knowin' one day 
 where the next day's breakfast was comin' 
 from." 
 
 " Not if you was old Asa Whipple," 
 rejoined the first speaker. " Mose was 
 jest after the old man's heart. I never 
 see father and son so wrapped up in 
 one another as them two was. Seems's 
 if they didn't need no other company — 
 they was company enough for themselves. 
 That's what made it so rough on the old 
 man when Mose 'listed." 
 
 *' He couldn't help himself," said Nelse 
 
A Sudden Departure. 37 
 
 Hornbeck; "there was the interest comin' 
 due on the mortgage, and how else — " 
 
 " Sh-h ! can't ye ! " muttered one of the 
 others, kicking Nelse under the table, and 
 giving a backward nod of the head toward 
 the women by the stove. " Want them to 
 tell 'Lishe Teachout you're blabbin' about 
 his affairs, you sawney ? " 
 
 Nelse bent hastily over his cakes, and 
 the others busied themselves at making 
 way with the steaming fresh supply which 
 had accumulated while they talked. 
 
 Job's opportunity had come. He rose 
 with as fine an assumption of carelessness 
 as he could manage, and walked up to the 
 other end of the table, where the big loaf 
 'of home-made bread and the butter-dish 
 were. 
 
 He cut off two thick slices ; the butter 
 which he tried to spread upon them had 
 become hard with the night's intense cold, 
 and had not been near enough to the 
 fire to be softened. So Job could only 
 distribute it in lumps over the soft surface 
 
38 The Deserter. 
 
 of one slice, and then put the other on top 
 of it. 
 
 Then, watching his chance in the dim 
 Hght, he conveyed the bread to his jacket 
 pocket. Nobody at the table had observed 
 him, he was sure. 
 
 He turned to discover that the sitting- 
 room door close at his back had been- 
 opened wide, and that Elisha Teachout 
 was standing in the doorway, looking at 
 him with all his eyes. 
 
 It was Elisha Teachout's habit to look 
 very closely at everything and everybody — 
 and his was at the best of times ■ a some- 
 what uncomfortable gaze to sustain. Job 
 felt that this was not one of the best of 
 times. 
 
 His employer was in all seasons an 
 austere and exacting man, coldly suspicious 
 of those about him, and as pitiless in his 
 treatment of his hired help's shortcomings 
 as he was vigilant in looking out for them. 
 But in the winter, when rheumatism put 
 its dread touch upon the marrow of his 
 
A Sudden Departtire. 39 
 
 bones, he was irascible as well, and led his 
 household what they used to describe out- 
 side as " a life of it." 
 
 His lean, small figure did not seem as 
 much bent as usual this morning — probably 
 he was better. Job thought — but his little 
 steel-colored eyes had an abnormally pierc- 
 ing effect. His pallid face, hairless and 
 wrinkled, with its sunken lips and sharply 
 hooked nose, was of a yellower and sourer 
 aspect than usual, too. The boy felt him- 
 self turning very red. 
 
 It turned out to be a needless alarm. 
 Mr. Teachout diverted his gaze from Job 
 to look at his old silver watch, which he 
 took from his fob, and then ostentatiously 
 held it in his hand. 
 
 " Milk late again this morning } " he de- 
 manded, raising his querulous voice with a 
 snap. 
 
 *' No, it got off in good season," replied 
 the head hired man, nonchalantly. 
 
 He had answered the same question now 
 every day for several years, and was at 
 
40 The Deserter. 
 
 home with it. As a matter of fact the 
 milk from the Teachout farm was never 
 late, but this had not prevented the mas- 
 ter's query becoming a formula. 
 
 _" Then breakfast ought to 'a' been out 
 of the way half an hour ago ! " he ex- 
 claimed, in the same high, snarling tone. 
 " If I didn't get up and come out, sick as 
 I am, I suppose you'd be settin' here gorg- 
 ing yourselves till noon! And you women, 
 you jest aid and abet 'em in their laziness 
 and gormandizing ! " 
 
 Job stayed to hear no more. Relieved 
 from his fear of detection, he had taken 
 advantage of the attack upon the others 
 to get his cap and sidle unobtrusively from 
 the room. 
 
 Once outside he scampered headlong 
 across the frozen ruts and hummocks of 
 the yard to the cow-barn. There was a 
 perilous show of pink and lemon lights in 
 the eastern sky. Very soon it would be 
 daylight. 
 
 He groped his way past between the 
 
A Sudden Departure. 41 
 
 stanchions to the hay, and began feeling 
 about with his feet. 
 
 " Here you* are, Mose ! " he called out. 
 "It's almost daylight! Here's something 
 to eat." 
 
 No answer came. The boy trampled 
 foot by foot over the whole mow in vain. 
 Mose Whipple was gone. 
 
CHAPTER III. 
 
 FATHER AND SON. 
 
 IT is* not likely that anything whatever 
 * remains standing now of the Whipple 
 house. It must be a dozen years ago that 
 I shot a black squirrel as it whisked its 
 way along over the ridge-beam which had 
 once been Asa Whipple's roof-tree ; and the 
 place then was in ruins. The rafters had 
 fallen in ; what was left of the sides were 
 dry-rotten under a mask of microscopic 
 silver-gray moss. Tangled masses of wild- 
 brier and lichens surrounded its base, and 
 pushed their way in through the open, dis- 
 mantled doorway. 
 
 Even at that time, the road which once 
 led past the house had fallen into disuse. 
 I suppose that to-day it would be as hard 
 to find the house under the briers as to 
 
 42 
 
Father and Son, 43 
 
 trace the ancient highway beneath the car- 
 pet of grass and sorrel. 
 
 Even during the war, when human be- 
 ings thought of it as a home, the Whipple 
 place was a pretty poor sort of habita- 
 tion. The lowliest of Elisha Teachout's 
 live-stock were considerably better housed 
 and better sheltered from the weather than 
 old Asa and his son Mose. 
 
 The house, as I remember it, used to 
 interest me because it was so obviously a 
 remainder from the days when the district 
 round about was still a veritable part of 
 the Adirondacks. Whether Asa built it 
 or inherited it from his father, a Revolu- 
 tionary soldier who took up his land-patent 
 in these primitive parts, I never knew. 
 It looked old enough, though, to have 
 been erected by Hendrik Hudson him- 
 self. 
 
 There must have been a sawmill on the 
 creek at the time, however, for it was not 
 a loQ[ house but a frame building:, with 
 broad planks nailed roughly to its sides, 
 
44 The Deserter. 
 
 and the joinings of these covered over 
 with weather-strips. 
 
 The frames of the door and the two 
 front windows also came from this mill, 
 wherever it was ; the window on the north 
 side was of rude construction, and was evi- 
 dently the work of some person not greatly 
 skilled in the use of carpenters' tools ; 
 perhaps it was made by old Asa himself. 
 
 There was a legend that the roof had 
 once been shingled ; in my time it was 
 made of flattened breadths of spruce bark, 
 which must have leaked sadly in rainy 
 seasons. There was no cellar under the 
 house, but a rough lean-to woodshed at 
 the back served to shelter any overflow 
 of possessions which might trouble the 
 Whipples. This lean-to was given over 
 chiefly to traps, fishpoles, netting gear, and 
 the like. 
 
 There was a barn, but it was roofless 
 and long since disused. 
 
 I dare say the original Revolutionary 
 Whipple aimed at being a farmer, like the 
 
Father and Son. 45 
 
 rest of his neighbors. Like the others, he 
 cleared his land, got in his crops, built a 
 barn for his cattle and produce, and ran 
 up rail fences. Perhaps he even prospered 
 thus, as prosperity was measured in those 
 lean, toilsome times. 
 
 But either in his day, or when his son 
 Asa was a comparatively young man, the 
 hand of fate was laid on the Whipple place. 
 The black moss came ! 
 
 Strong and intelligent farmers, with capi- 
 tal behind them, can successfully fight and 
 chase off nowadays, they say, this sinister 
 scourge of the thin-soiled northern farm 
 lands on the forest's edges. But forty 
 years ago, and even much later, it was a 
 common saying that when the moss came, 
 the man must go. 
 
 Asa Whipple did not go. He let farm- 
 ing go instead. When the moss had 
 seized upon pasture and meadow alike, 
 nothing was simpler than to sell the cows, 
 and allow the barn to fall 'to pieces. Much 
 better than taking anxious thought about 
 
46 The Deserter. 
 
 the farm, It suited Asa to turn to the 
 woods — the kindly, lazy, mysteriously 
 tempting woods. 
 
 Here were no back-aching ploughs and 
 scythes, no laborious hoeing of corn and 
 grubbing for roots, and painful wrestling 
 with rain and drought and frost — and 
 worst of all, the moss — for pitiful coppers. 
 Here instead were luscious trout for the 
 hook, and otter, mink, and even an occa- 
 sional beaver for the trap ; here in the 
 greenwood, to the trained hunter, was 
 spread a never-ending banquet of rare 
 and toothsome meats, from the game birds, 
 the raccoon, and the squirrel, up to the 
 fleet-heeled deer and the black bear, loung- 
 ing his clumsy way through the under- 
 growth. 
 
 Like father, like son. Time came, in- 
 deed, when the woods were no longer 
 what they had been, and when the influence 
 of advancing civilization compelled Mose 
 to eke out a scanty living for his father 
 and himself by hiring out a week or two 
 
Father arid Son. 47 
 
 now and then during busy seasons on the 
 farms roundabout. 
 
 He did this as seldom as he could, how- 
 ever, and he never pretended that he liked 
 to do it at all. 
 
 Of their own land, the Whipples for 
 years had cultivated only a garden-patch 
 close about the house, and this in so luke- 
 warm a fashion that the net results — some 
 potatoes, a little sweet corn, a few pump- 
 kins, and so on — never by any chance saw 
 them through the winter. 
 
 Why they did not sell this unproductive 
 land to Elisha Teachout, who evidently 
 wanted it, instead of . borrowing money 
 from him on it to pay taxes for it, I could 
 never understand. Very likely they did 
 not try to explain it to themselves. 
 
 But it was the fact, nevertheless, that in 
 July of 1863 they owed Mr. Teachout 
 something over three hundred dollars in 
 accrued interest upon the mortgages he 
 held, and that to prevent his foreclosing 
 and evicting them from the house, Mose 
 
48 The Deserter. 
 
 Whipple went to the war as Teachout's 
 substitute. 
 
 This year of 1863 had still a week of 
 life before it on the morning in question 
 — when Mose returned from the war. 
 
 He had made across the stiff-crusted 
 level wastes of snow from Teachout's 
 straight as the bee's flight, even before the 
 dawn began to break. He had heard the 
 talk in the barn about the certainty of his 
 capture, but it made little impression on 
 his mind. It did not even occur to him 
 that the matter concerned him. What had 
 stirred him was Job Parshall's roundabout 
 and reluctant admission that all was not 
 right with the old man. 
 
 He had waited only a few minutes in 
 the haymow after Job had gone to the 
 farm-house before the temptation to be off 
 again toward home mastered him. It was 
 silly to linger here for food when the goal 
 was so close at hand. 
 
 He took a couple of English turnips from 
 one of the fodder bins to eat on the way, 
 
Father and Son. 49 
 
 and let himself cautiously out by the rear 
 door of the cow-barn. 
 
 It was still quite dark and bitterly cold, 
 but he started briskly off. After he had 
 left the barnyard an idea occurred to him. 
 His father might be perishing of hunger! 
 He turned and bent his steps back across 
 the yard to the hen-house, opened the door, 
 and crept in. A cackling murmur fell upon 
 the darkened silence, rising all at once into 
 a harsh and strident squawking, then ceas- 
 ing abruptly. 
 
 Mose emerged upon the instant, shut and 
 hooked the door, and started to run, stuffing 
 a big, limp and shapeless object into his 
 coat pocket. 
 
 When he had rapped upon and rattled 
 vigorously for a third time the window on 
 the north side of the house he had jour- 
 neyed so far and risked so much to return 
 to, Mose was conscious of a heavy, sudden 
 sinking of the heart. That was the bed- 
 room window; how was it his father had 
 not heard him.? 
 
50 The Deserter. 
 
 He knocked once more, more loudly 
 than before, and bent his head to listen. 
 No answer came. 
 
 After a minute's waiting he walked 
 around to the front of the house. In the 
 broad daylight which had spread itself now 
 over the white landscape, he noticed some- 
 thing he had missed before. There had 
 been no path cut through from the house 
 to the road. The frozen drifts lay packed 
 as they had fallen upon the doorsill. There 
 was no mark of footsteps save his own. 
 The window-panes were opaque with frost. 
 
 Mose tried the latch. It yielded readily, 
 and he entered. The light inside was so 
 dim, after the morning glow on the snow 
 without, that it was hard at first to make 
 out the room, familiar as it was to him. 
 Apparently there was no one there. 
 
 A curious change of some sort there 
 had been, though. Mose shut the door 
 and walked across to the stove, instinc- 
 tively holding his hands over it. So dull 
 a semblance of warmth radiated up from 
 
Father and Son. 51 
 
 the griddles that he put a finger on the 
 metal. It was only blood-warm. 
 
 Some one had left a fire here an hour 
 ago. Where was his father.? What had 
 happened } 
 
 Then Mose saw what it was that had 
 at the outset vaguely puzzled him. The 
 straw tick had been brought from the bed 
 in the other room and spread there on 
 the floor behind the stove. It was cov- 
 ered with bedding and old clothes, and 
 under these — 
 
 In a flash Mose was on his knees beside 
 the improvised bed, and had pushed away 
 the coverings at the top. There was dis- 
 closed before him the head of a man 
 asleep — a head which he scarcely recog- 
 nized at first sight, so profuse and dishev- 
 elled were its masses of white hair and 
 beard, so pinched to ghastliness the waxen 
 features. 
 
 " He is dead ! " Mose heard himself say 
 aloud, in a voice that sounded not at all 
 his own. 
 
52 The Deserter. 
 
 But no ; there was warmth, and a fee- 
 ble flicker of pulse at the shrunken wrist 
 which he instinctively fumbled for under 
 the bedclothes. 
 
 " Father ! Father ! " Mose called, bending 
 till his lips touched the white hair. "Wake 
 up ! I've come back ! it's me — Mose ! " 
 
 The faintest stir of life passed over the 
 corpse-like face, and old Asa opened his 
 eyes. It did not seem as though he saw 
 his son, or anything else. His whitened 
 lips moved, emitting some husky, unintelli- 
 gible sounds. Mose, stooping still lower, 
 strained his ears to piece together these 
 terrible words : — 
 
 " Starved — many days — don't tell Mose !" 
 
 With a cry of rage and horror Mose 
 sprang to his feet. The things to be 
 done mapped themselves, in the stress of 
 this awful situation, with lightning swift- 
 ness before his brain. He strode to the 
 woodshed door and opened it. Two sides 
 of the old lean-to were gone, and the 
 snow was drifted thick across the floor. 
 
Father and Son. 53 
 
 Mose realized that the shed had gone 
 for fuel, and in another minute he had 
 torn down half the roof, and was crushing 
 the boards to splinters under his heels. 
 
 With the same fierce haste he started 
 the fire blazing again ; got out an old 
 frying-pan from under the snow, and put it, 
 filled with ice to be melted into water, on 
 one of the open griddle holes; hacked the 
 remaining turnip into slices, and then be- 
 gan at the fowl, stripping the feathers off 
 in handfuls, and dismembering it as fast 
 as he cleared the skin from joint to joint, 
 filling the rusty old pan to the brim. 
 
 Even as he worked thus, and after the 
 water was steaming, and the rude stew 
 under way, he kept an eager and appre- 
 hensive eye upon the bed behind the 
 stove. No token of life was forthcoming. 
 
 He could not hear his father breathe, 
 even when he bent over him ; but no 
 doubt that was on account of the prodi- 
 gious spluttering and crackling which the 
 fire kept up. Through the other griddle 
 
54 The Deserter. 
 
 hole he continually thrust in fresh, dry- 
 kindlings to swell the blaze. 
 
 He had learned some new things about 
 cooking in the army — among others the 
 value of a pot-lid in hurrying forward the 
 stew. He looked about for a cover for 
 the frying-pan. There was no such thing 
 in the house, but he found in the shed an 
 old sheet-iron snow-shovel, and made the 
 blade of this serve, with a nail-hole 
 punched through it to let out the steam. 
 
 In his researches he was 2:lad to run 
 upon some salt, because it would help 
 toward making the mess on the stove pal- 
 atable. But it would not be easy to tell 
 with what emotions he discovered that 
 there was absolutely not another eatable 
 thing in the house. 
 
 The room had grown decently warm 
 again, under the influence of the roaring 
 fire, and now it began to be filled with what 
 Mose believed to be a most delicious odor. 
 
 The conviction, though to any one else 
 it might well have seemed unwarranted, 
 
Father and Son. 55 
 
 was pardonable in Mose perhaps, for he 
 himself had tasted his last warm meal 
 nearly sixty hours before. 
 
 He munched the turnip peelings almost 
 contentedly as he recalled this fact. Per- 
 haps there would be some of the stew left, 
 after the old man had eaten his fill. If 
 not, there were parts of the fowl which 
 could still be utilized. 
 
 An absurd sort of fantasy — a kind of 
 foolish day-dream — began all at once to 
 rise before him. He seemed to see him- 
 self eating the whole of that glorious stew, 
 lingering with all his soul over the luxury 
 of each piping-hot mouthful, and giving 
 his father none at all. 
 
 This visionary thing grew so upon him, 
 so gripped and enthralled his mind, that 
 it made him dizzy and faint to put it 
 away from him. When, a few minutes 
 later, the smell of burning warned him 
 that the cooking was done, and he lifted 
 the pan from the stove, this brutal tempta- 
 tion rushed savagely at hian again. He 
 
56 The Deserter. 
 
 set the pan on the table, and walked away, 
 not daring to lift the cover. 
 
 There were two or three old plates on 
 the shelf, and a tea-cup. Mose got them 
 all down, and arrayed them on the table, 
 with such cutlery and spoons as he could 
 find. He made a motion then to take off 
 the improvised lid from the frying-pan, but 
 once more drew back. It was as if he 
 could not trust himself. 
 
 He knelt by the bedside again, now, and 
 putting his arm under his father's neck 
 sought to raise him to a more upright 
 posture. Old Asa opened his eyes as be- 
 fore, and made an effort to whisper some- 
 thing, but he lay an almost inert weight 
 in his son's arms. 
 
 Mose swung the tick round, propped the 
 end of it up against the wall and raised his 
 father into a half-sitting posture. 
 
 In this position the old man's face took 
 on a sudden expression of interest and 
 reviving intelligence. He had begun to 
 smell the savor of the food. 
 
Father and Son. 57 
 
 Looking upon that pallid, vacant, starved 
 face, and wasted, helpless form, Mose, starv- 
 ing himself, felt strong enough to defy the 
 most appetizing stew in the world. He 
 took off the cover with decision, and 
 dipped the tea-cup up half full of the 
 smoking contents. It was too hot, evi- 
 dently, to be given to the old man at once, 
 and it was also very thick. 
 
 Mose took it out to the dismantled 
 woodshed, and spooned in snow until it 
 seemed of the right temperature and con- 
 sistency. He dipped a little finger into it 
 to further satisfy himself, but he would not 
 even lick that finger afterward. It was 
 too dangerous to think about. 
 
 Mose fed his father as a mother might 
 a baby — watching solicitously to see that 
 he did not eat too fast or choke himself. 
 After the first cupful, he brought a chair 
 to sit in, and held the tick against his 
 knee while old Asa, leaning more lightly 
 upon it, helped himself. 
 
 There was a little left at last for Mose, 
 
58 The Deserter. 
 
 and he swallowed it gravely, with a por- 
 tentous rush of sensations within, but 
 keeping up as best he could an indifferent 
 exterior. It left him still hungry, but he 
 had much more important things to dwell 
 upon than that. 
 
 The meal worked wonders upon the old 
 man. The combined influences of food 
 and warmth seemed for a few minutes to 
 send him off to sleep again. 
 
 Mose sat looking down upon him in 
 silence, and noting that something like 
 color was stealing back into his face. 
 
 All at once, however, Asa Whipple sat 
 upright, lifted his hands to brush back 
 the hair from his forehead, and, turning 
 his face up to look at his son, smiled. 
 There was no lack of comprehension in 
 his gaze. He had regained his tongue as 
 well. He patted Mose's knee as he spoke. 
 
 " Mose," he said, in a voice strangely 
 altered and aged, but clear enough, " I'm 
 kind o' 'shamed to tell it, but I'd laid 
 down here just to go to sleep for good. 
 
Father and Son. 59 
 
 I thought for quite a spell there, after you 
 come in, that I was dreaming — sort o' 
 out o' my head, you know," 
 
 " How did you come to let yourself 
 down like this, dad ? " was the only reply 
 Mose had at hand. 
 
 " Rheumatiz," Asa explained. " It laid 
 me up — I couldn't git around, an' no- 
 body come near me, I ain't seen a soul 
 since the big snowfall — up'ards of a fort- 
 night. But — but it's all right now, ain't 
 it, Mose } An' to think o' your comin' 
 home here like this, right in the nick o' 
 time. How did you come to git off, 
 Mose .? " 
 
 For answer there fell the crunchinor sound 
 of footsteps on the crusted snow outside, 
 then of a loud, peremptory knock on the 
 door. 
 
CHAPTER IV. 
 
 THE " MEANEST WORD." 
 
 JWIOSE WHIPPLE had lifted his head 
 in apprehensive inquiry at the sound 
 of the footsteps outside the door of the 
 cabin. He sprang to his feet when the 
 sharp knock on the door followed. Hold- 
 ing a hand downward with outspread fin- 
 gers as a warning to silence, he tiptoed out 
 to the middle of the room, then paused and 
 listened. 
 
 The knock came again, bolder and more 
 peremptory still. 
 
 Vague notions of resistance were shaping 
 themselves in Mose's mind. He glanced 
 up at the shot-gun hanging on the chimney 
 behind the stovepipe, and in another in- 
 stant had it down, with his thumb on the 
 hammer. 
 
 60 
 
•Gimme that Gun!" 
 
The ''Meanest Wordr 63 
 
 " Loaded ? " he asked in a whisper, test- 
 ing the percussion-cap with his nail. 
 
 The old man nodded. Then he, too, 
 laboriously rose to his feet. Bent as his 
 form was, he stood a taller man than his 
 son. He rested one hand on the table for 
 support, and stretched out the other with 
 a masterful gesture. 
 
 " Gimme that gun ! " he said, in brusque 
 command. Then covering Mose from head 
 to foot, he added, slowly, " I'd ruther have 
 starved a hundred times over than had you 
 do this sort o' thing ! " 
 
 Mose had sheepishly laid the weapon on 
 the table. He walked now with a sullen 
 air to the door, lifted the hook, and put his 
 hand on the latch. 
 
 " Let me in out of the cold, can't ye ? " a 
 shrill voice complained outside. " It's only 
 me, you gump ! " 
 
 Mose's face brightened. " Why, it's only 
 young Job Parshall, after all ! " he said, and 
 threw the door wide open. 
 
 The boy pushed past Mose without a 
 
64 The Deserter. 
 
 word, and marching across the room to the 
 stove held his red fingers over the griddles. 
 He lifted them a little for inspection after a 
 minute's silence, and screwed his shoulders 
 about in token of the pain they gave him. 
 
 " I couldn't run with my hands in my 
 pockets," he said. " I shouldn't wonder if 
 they was froze. That's just my luck." 
 
 Mose advanced to the stove, and looked 
 at Job's hands critically. " That little fin- 
 ger there is a trifle tetched, I guess," he 
 said. " It'll be sore for a day or two, that's 
 all. The rest are all right." Then he 
 added, noting the boy's crimson cheeks and 
 panting; breast, " Why, sonny, you must 'a' 
 run the whole way ! " 
 
 Job nodded assent, and turned his hands 
 palm upward. " Every inch of the way," 
 he said between heavy breaths. 
 
 Old Asa had sunk again into a chair, and 
 sat gazing in turn at Mose and the boy. 
 The fire which had glowed in his eyes 
 when he had confronted his son had died 
 away again. He was visibly striving not 
 
The ''Meanest Wordr 65 
 
 to tremble, and the glance he bent from 
 one to the other was wistful and shame- 
 faced. 
 
 " I suppose you've brought some news," 
 he remarked at last to Job. 
 
 The boy nodded again, twisting his fin- 
 gers experimentally in the heat. " When I 
 catch my breath, I'll tell ye," he said. 
 
 There was a moment's awkward silence ; 
 then Asa Whipple, speaking in low, de- 
 liberate tones, rid his mind of some of its 
 burden, 
 
 " My son Mose here," he said gravely, 
 " didn't use to be a coward. I didn't bring 
 him up to be no coward. Seems to me 
 you can bring up a boy so't he'll be honest 
 and straightforward and square right up to 
 the last minute, and then lo and behold ! 
 he cuts up some low-down, mean dido or 
 other that makes you 'shamed to look folks 
 in the face. 
 
 " My father fit in the Revolution, and so 
 did my mother's father and his brothers, ^- 
 their name was Lapham, and they lived 
 
66 The Deserter. 
 
 in Rhode Island, — and my older brother, 
 Jason, he was killed up at Sackett's Harbor 
 in the 1812 War before he come of age; 
 and they ain't one of 'em but 'ud turn in 
 his grave to think they was a coward and 
 a deserter in the family ! " 
 
 Mose stood behind the stove, stealing 
 furtive glances at the old man during this 
 harangue. Once or twice he opened his 
 lips as if to speak, but either no words 
 would come, or he thought better of it. 
 
 But Job listened with obvious impatience. 
 He had quite regained his breath. " Mose 
 ain't no coward ! " he broke in vehemently. 
 " It took a mighty sight more pluck to 
 light out there, of a night, and come way 
 off up here just to see how you were get- 
 tin' on, and have to hide for his life, than 
 it would to have stayed right still where 
 he was, with no fightin' and no work, and 
 three square meals a day." 
 
 " You might say four, a'most, countin' 
 supper," Mose suggested softly. * 
 
 Old Asa Whipple seemed impressed with 
 
The ''Meanest Word:' 67 
 
 this view of the situation, and pondered it 
 for a Httle in silence. 
 
 " What I come over to say was," remarked 
 Job, more placidly, " that they're out lookin' 
 for you, Mose. Two men drove up in a 
 cutter just after breakfast — one of 'em's 
 Norm' Hazzard, the deputy marshal down 
 at Octavius, and the other fellow's name 
 is Moak, I b'lieve, and they've stopped 
 to Teachout's to breakfast. They started 
 from Octavius before daylight, and they 
 was about froze solid by the time they got 
 to 'Lishe's. They took out their horse, 
 and they've got so much thawin' out to do 
 themselves, I reckon they ain't more'n 
 about started now, if they have that." 
 
 "You come straight?" asked Mose. 
 
 "Well, you'd better believe I did ! I 
 scooted 'cross lots like greased lightnin' the 
 minute they went in t' the house. It's a 
 good hour 'round by the road, even when 
 it's all open. It's drifted now all the way 
 from the sash factory down to Taft's place, 
 and it's slow work gettin' through the 
 
68 The Deserter. 
 
 fields. As I figure it, you've got more'n 
 an hour's leeway." 
 
 The two men looked at each other as 
 they listened, and they kept up the mutual 
 gaze after the boy had stopped. 
 
 " 'Pears to me, dad," Mose finally vent- 
 ured in a deferential way, "that you don't 
 seem to take this thing quite in the right 
 spirit. I tell you straight out, if it was 
 the last word I ever spoke, I ain't done 
 nothin' I'm ashamed of. A man can't say 
 no more'n that." 
 
 " Accordin' to the way I was brought 
 up," replied old Asa, doggedly, " they ain't 
 no other such an all-fired, pesky mean 
 name for a man in the dictionary as 
 'desarter.' " 
 
 " Well, anyway," retorted Mose, " I'd 
 ruther be called ' desarter ' myself than have 
 you be called ' starved to death.' So far's 
 I can make out, if it hadn't ben one, it 
 'ud ben t'other." 
 
 The old man's glance abruptly sought 
 the floor, and lingered there. The others, 
 
The ''Meanest Wordr 69 
 
 as they watched him, could see the muscles 
 of his down-bent face twitching, 
 
 " Besides, they didn't need me down there 
 just now," Mose went on in more voluble 
 self-defence, " no more'n a frog needs a tail. 
 An' besides that, they played it monstrous 
 low-down on me. That German fellow that 
 used to work at the tannery, he was my 
 sergeant, and he kept them big eyes of 
 his skinned for me all day long. Him 
 and me never hitched very well down at 
 the mills, you know, and he took it out 
 of me whenever he got a chance. 
 
 " He got all the officers down on me. 
 One day they'd say I'd burnt the coffee, 
 and the next day that my gun was dirty, 
 and after that that I was a 'malingerer,* 
 — that's officers' slang for a shirk, — and 
 so on ; and every time it meant that some 
 of my pay got stopped. That's why I 
 never sent you any money. 
 
 " They worked it so't I never got more'n 
 about ten shillings out of my thirteen dollars, 
 and that I owed twice over before I crot it." 
 
 o 
 
70 The Deserter. 
 
 Old Asa was looking into his son's face 
 once more, and he nodded comprehend- 
 ingly as the other paused. " We never 
 did git a fair show, like other men," he 
 remarked. 
 
 " But I could 'a' stood all that," con- 
 tinued Mose. " What riled me was when 
 Bill Rood got a letter sayin' that you was 
 poorly, and you stopped writin'; and then 
 I took pains and behaved extra well, so't 
 even the Dutchman couldn't put his finger 
 on me. And then I got a chance one 
 day, and I asked one of the lieutenants 
 that I'd kind o' curried favor with, doin' 
 odd jobs for him and so on, if he couldn't 
 git me a furlough, just to run home and 
 see how you was gittin' on." 
 
 " I reckon you never got that, Mose." 
 
 " No, dad. They was givin' 'em right 
 and left to other fellows, and the lieu- 
 tenant said he guessed he could manage 
 it. I don't know how hard he tried, but 
 a few days after that I see the Dutchman 
 grinnin' at me, and I felt in my bones 
 
The ''Meanest Word!'' 71 
 
 that the jig was up. Sure enough, they 
 wouldn't let me have a furlough because 
 I'd been euchred out of my pay. They 
 wa'n't no other reason." 
 
 "No," said the old man, "that was 
 always the way. I guess me and you 
 ought to be pretty well used to gittin' 
 the worst of it, by this time. There's a 
 text in the Bible that's our own private 
 family property, as much as if it had 
 ' Whipple ' marked on it in big letters. 
 It's that one that says that when a man 
 ain't got anything, he gits took away from 
 him even what he's got. That's me, Mose, 
 and it's you, too." 
 
 Mose had quite recovered his confidence 
 now. 
 
 " Of course, if there'd ben any fightin' 
 goin' on, it'd ben different," he explained, 
 " but right in the middle of our winnin' 
 everything along in November, after we'd 
 chased the Johnnies across the Rappahan- 
 nock and the Rapidan, and was havin' it 
 all our own way — and in spite ot the 
 
72 The Deserter. 
 
 rain freezin' as it fell, and no shelter and 
 marchin' till your feet was ready to fall 
 off, we all liked it first-rate — along come 
 orders for us to go back again to winter 
 quarters around Brandy Station. So far 
 as I could see, it was all station and no 
 brandy. And then the new drafted men, 
 they behaved like sin in camp, and orders 
 got stricter, and my Dutchman piled it onto 
 me thicker and thicker, and I got to frettin' 
 about you — and so — so I — I lit out." 
 
 " You'd better bes^in fi2:g:erin' on lio^htin' 
 out agin," said the practical Job. " I sup- 
 pose you'll take to the woods, won't you } " 
 
 Mose nodded, and reached his hand out 
 for the gun. " Yes," he said, " five minutes' 
 start'll be all I need. Once I git across 
 the creek I'm all right. One thing's lucky, 
 there's plenty of powder and shot in the 
 cupboard there, I see. I suppose, if worst 
 comes to worst, I could get through the 
 woods up to Canada. But see here, — this 
 is a good deal more important, — what are 
 you going to do, dad, after I'm gone '^ " 
 
The ''Meanest Wordy 73 
 
 Old Asa had hardly given this impor- 
 tant question a thought before. As it was 
 forced upon him now, his mind reverted 
 mechanically to that strange awakening, 
 when he lay in the starved half-stupor on 
 the very threshold of death, and Mose 
 came in, like some good angel of a dream, 
 to bring him back to life again. A rush 
 of tenderness, almost of pride, suddenly 
 suffused the old man's brain. 
 
 " Mose," he said, all at once, " t guess 
 I talked more or less like a fool, here 
 awhile back. Perhaps some folks are en- 
 titled to blame you for turnin' up here, 
 this mornin' — but I ain't one of 'em, and 
 I ought to known better. I'm stronger, 
 my boy, ever so much stronger, for seein' 
 you and — eatin' a good meal again. You'll 
 see — I'll be as sound again as a butternut. 
 I bet I could walk this minute to the 
 brids^e without a break." 
 
 " But that wouldn't feed you, after you 
 got there," objected Mose. " Of course if 
 I could hanor around in the neisrhborhood, 
 
74 The Deserter. 
 
 and drop in every now and then to keep 
 an eye on you, it 'ud be different. But 
 they're sure to watch the place, and with 
 me caught you'd be worse off than ever. 
 I'd give myself up this minute if only I 
 knew you'd be all right. But that's the 
 hang of it. There's no mistake, dad," he 
 added, with a rueful sort of grin, " the last 
 bell was a-ringin' for you when I turned 
 up here, this mornin'." 
 
 It was characteristic of these two men, 
 born and bred here in the robust air of 
 the forest's borders, that as they confronted 
 this dilemma, not the shadow of a notion 
 of that standing alternative, the county- 
 house, crossed either mind. Even if Mose 
 could have thought of it, he would never 
 have dared suggest it to Asa. 
 
 " Come, you'd better • be gittin' together 
 what you're goin' to take with you," broke 
 in Job, peremptorily. " You've got none 
 too much time to spare." 
 
 " Yes, I know," said Mose, with hesita- 
 tion ; " but the old man here — that wor- 
 ries me." 
 
The ''Meanest Word." 75 
 
 " You just 'tend to your own knittin'," 
 was the boy's reply. " Asa and me'll man- 
 age for ourselves all rio^ht." 
 
 Old Asa Whipple opened his eyes wide 
 — not at surprise at hearing his Christian 
 name fall so glibly from the boy's tongue, 
 for that is the custom of the section, but 
 with bewilderment at his meaning. 
 
 " What on earth are you drivin' at .'' " 
 demanded Mose, no whit less puzzled. 
 
 "Well," said Job, with deliberation, "I've 
 kind o' soured on that Teachout job of 
 mine. I've had it in my mind to quit all 
 along, when I got the chance, and I guess 
 this is about as good as any. I've got 
 along toward twenty dollars saved up, and 
 there's three days' work a week for me at 
 the cheese-factory whenever I want ,to take 
 it, and I could go to school the other days, 
 and both places are handier to git at from 
 here than they are from Teachout's. So 
 I'll rig up a bed and so on here, and I'll 
 look out for the old man. But do you go 
 ahead, and git out ! " 
 
76 The Deserter. 
 
 It is another custom of these parts to 
 be undemonstrative in the face of the un- 
 expected. 
 
 Mose merely clapped his hand on Job's 
 shoulder, and said, " You won't ever be 
 sorry for it, sonny," which had much more 
 of loose prediction than of pledge about 
 it, yet seemed quite sufficient for them 
 both. 
 
 The old man said nothing at all, but 
 sat bending forward in his chair, his gaze 
 fastened upon every move his son made 
 about the room. For everything Mose 
 did now spoke plainly of another parting, 
 more sombre and sinister than the last. 
 A soldier may come back, but how can 
 one hope fur the return of a deserter ? 
 
 Mose's old instincts as a woodsman rose 
 superior to the exigencies of a life and 
 death flight. He prepared as if for a holi- 
 day camping jaunt into the wilderness — 
 in a hurried manner, but forgetting noth- 
 ing. 
 
 He made a pile of things on the table 
 
The ''Meanest Wordy yj 
 
 — all the powder and shot in the house, 
 most of the salt, some old stockings, a tin 
 cup, fork and spoon, and what matches he 
 could find — and then stowed them away 
 in flasks and his pockets, along with a 
 whole tangled mass of lines, hooks and 
 catgut fishing gear. 
 
 From under the snow in the dismantled 
 shed he unearthed a smaller frying-pan 
 and two steel traps, and slung these with 
 a string through handle and chains across 
 his shoulder. Then he took up the gun 
 and was ready. 
 
 " I guess this'll see me through," he said 
 lightly. 
 
 Old Asa gazed at him through dimmed 
 eyes. " No, you must take a blanket, 
 Mose," he said. " I won't hear no for an 
 answer — you must! There's plenty more 
 for us. If they ain't, we can git more. 
 They're cheap as dirt. And Mose," the 
 old man rose from his chair as he spoke, 
 " I was a-goin' to ask you to sing for me 
 afore you went, but I — I guess we'd better 
 
78 The Deserter. 
 
 let that go till we meet again. You'll be 
 all right in the woods — " 
 
 " Why, I know twenty places," put in 
 Mose, " where I'll be as snug as a bug in 
 a rug. I'll make straight for a deer yard. 
 Mebbe " — he chuckled at the thought — 
 " I'll be bringing you in some venison 
 some o' these nights. Prob'ly I'll hang 
 it up on a tree — the old butternut by the 
 fork — so't Job can come out and git it 
 in the mornin'. And in the spring — why 
 you must come in the spring and — and 
 be with me in the woods." 
 
 The old man's strength had waned once 
 more, and he seated himself. 
 
 " Mebbe," was all he said, in a dubious 
 voice, and with his head bowed on his 
 breast. 
 
 He did not lift hfs head, when Mose 
 shook hands with him; he did not raise 
 his glance to follow him, either, when, with 
 the traps and frying-pan clattering about 
 his neck, Mose let himself out by the shed 
 door and was gone. 
 
The ''Meanest Word:' 79 
 
 He did not even seem to hear when, 
 two or three minutes later, the reverberat- 
 ing crack of revolver shots — one ! two ! 
 three ! four ! five ! — set the echoes clam- 
 oring all around the Whipple house. 
 
CHAPTER V. 
 
 THE DEPUTY MARSHAL. 
 
 A S soon as Job Parshall heard the sound 
 of firearms outside the Whipple cabin, 
 he darted to the nearer of the front win- 
 dows, scratched away some of the thick 
 frost from one of its panes, and put his 
 eye to the aperture. 
 
 A horse and cutter had come to a halt 
 on the road, a few rods short of the house. 
 The animal had been frightened by the 
 firing, and was still showing signs of ex- 
 citement, with lifted ears and stiffened 
 forelegs. 
 
 The man, whom Job understood to be 
 Moak, stood at the horse's head, holding 
 the bridle tightly, but looking intently the 
 other way across the fields in the direction 
 of his companion, the redoubtable deputy 
 marshal, who was not in sight. 
 
 80 
 
The Deputy Marshal. 8i 
 
 The boy stole to the other end of the 
 room, and cautiously opened the shed 
 door by as much as the width of his 
 face. Here he could cover at a glance 
 the flat, gently sloping waste of snow 
 which stretched unbroken backward from 
 the house to the gray fringe of woods that 
 marked the edge of the ravine. Beyond 
 that belt of timbered horizon, with its 
 shadows silvery soft in the brilliant morn- 
 ing sunlight, lay sunken in its hollow the 
 ice-bound brook. 
 
 If Mose passed this stream there was 
 before him the real forest — and safety. 
 
 The black figures of two running men 
 moved upon this broad and dazzlingly white 
 landscape. The farther of the two was 
 now so far away that he seemed a mere 
 dark speck, like the object seen from the 
 gun-line of a turkey shoot. Perhaps this 
 simile was suggested to Job by the fact 
 that the other, pausing now for a moment 
 in his race, straightened an arm and sent 
 five more shots flashing after the fugitive. 
 
82 The Deserter. 
 
 Tenfold that number of echoes came 
 rolling in upon one another's heels through 
 the nipping air as the second man started 
 again to run. He seemed not to be catch- 
 ing up with his prey — yes ! now Mose was 
 lost to sight in the woods, and his pursuer 
 was not half-way there. Yes ! and now the 
 marshal had stopped, hesitated, and turned 
 about. 
 
 The deputy marshal retraced his steps 
 over the broken crust slowly, and with an 
 air of dejection. He hung his head as he 
 walked, and it took him a long time to 
 reach the house. When he came into the 
 yard he seemed not to look toward the 
 house at all, but made his way straight 
 past as if bound for the road, with his 
 attention still steadfastly fixed on the snow 
 in front of him. 
 
 But just as Job had jumped to the con- 
 clusion that he had not been observed, the 
 deputy marshal called in a loud, peremptory 
 aside over his shoulder : — 
 
 " Come along out here, boy ! " 
 
The Deputy Marshal. 83 
 
 The lad had no course but to obey. He 
 stole a quick, backward glance to where 
 old Asa still sat motionless with bowed 
 head near the stove. Then noiselessly 
 shutting the shed door behind him, he fol- 
 lowed out into the road. 
 
 " It'll be all right," the deputy marshal 
 was saying to his companion as Job came 
 up. " He can't take a step on this crust 
 without leavin' a mark, 'specially now that 
 it's goin' to melt a little. I'll land him in 
 the stone jug before night, or you can call 
 me a Dutchman ! " 
 
 Norman Hazzard, the deputy marshal, 
 was a thin, lithe, active man, somewhere 
 in the thirties, with a long, sun-browned 
 face and a square jaw. Although his 
 keen eyes were of a light, bluish gray, 
 one thoug:ht of him as a dark-corn- 
 plexioned person. 
 
 Ever since Job could remember, this 
 man had been arresting people, first as a 
 sheriff's officer, then as an army detective. 
 Looking furtively at him now as he stood 
 
84 The Deserter. 
 
 at the horse's head, with his sharp glance 
 roving the distant landscape and his 
 under lip nursing the ends of his sparse 
 moustache in meditation, the boy felt that 
 that was what nature intended that Norm 
 Hazzard should be. 
 
 The whole country knew him by sight, 
 and talked about the risky things he had 
 done in the line of his duty, and the 
 stern, cold-blooded pluck with which he 
 had done them. 
 
 As the deputy marshal stood thus pon- 
 dering the situation, he rattled together 
 with his hand some heavy metallic objects 
 in one of his overcoat pockets. The 
 clanking sound they gave forth fascinated 
 the boy. 
 
 " I s'pose them's handcuffs you've got 
 there in your pocket } " he found himself 
 suddenly impelled to remark. It was only 
 after the words were out that he realized 
 the boldness of speaking in this fierce 
 presence without having been spoken to. 
 
 Hazzard turned his head obliquely down- 
 
The Deputy Marshal. 85 
 
 ward, and regarded Job with a sort of 
 ironical scowl. 
 
 " They ain't for you, anyway," he re- 
 marked. " I guess the horsewhip'll about 
 suit your complaint." 
 
 "No, you don't!" replied Job. "You 
 dassent lay a linger on me unless I've 
 done something — I know that much." 
 
 The deputy marshal emitted a chuclcie 
 of amused contempt. 
 
 " Why, you blamed little runt, you ! " he 
 said. " You've done mischief enouo^h this 
 mornin' to git thrashed for it within an 
 inch o' your life, and go to state's prison 
 into the bargain. You mind your p's and 
 q's now mighty sharp, or it'll be the end 
 o you ! 
 
 " I don't see, myself," put in Moak, a 
 bearded, thickset, middle-aged man, who 
 drawled his words lazily, but looked as if 
 he might be a tough customer in a fight, 
 " I don't jest make out how you're goin' 
 to catch up with him, even if he does 
 leave tracks. He's got a big start, and 
 
86 The Deserter. 
 
 has pretty good reasons for humpin' him- 
 self, and if he can keep ahead till dark, 
 he knows the woods in the night-time a 
 plaguy sight better'n any of us do." 
 
 Hazzard curled his lips in a faint, mo- 
 mentary grin of superiority. 
 
 " Can't we get snow-shoes } " he asked. 
 
 The word had an evil sound to Job's 
 ears. They would run Mose down, sure 
 enough, with those terrible aids to the 
 pursuit. 
 
 " The only question is," the deputy mar- 
 shal ruminated aloud, "where '11 be the 
 nearest place to git the shoes. We'll 
 hitch the horse here to the fence, and 
 take a look at the house. Did you ever 
 see such a tumble-down place in all your 
 life.'' Here, you boy, mog along there in 
 front o' me, and watch what you do ! Or 
 no, wait a minute ! " 
 
 The deputy marshal had led the horse 
 off the roadway toward the sprawling re- 
 mains of a rail fence at the side. He 
 paused now, communed with himself for 
 
The Deputy Marshal. %*] 
 
 an instant, then brought the horse and 
 cutter back again, and tossed the blanket 
 he had taken out" upon the seat once 
 more. 
 
 "No," he said briefly to Moak, "you 
 jump in and drive to Juno Mills as fast 
 as you can, and git two pairs of snow- 
 shoes somewhere, — you're bound to find 
 plenty of 'em ; the hotel-keeper'll know 
 who's got 'em, — and race back here again. 
 Don't whisper a word to anybody — and 
 we'll have him out in no time." 
 
 So it happened that as the cutter with 
 its jingling bells receded from vision and 
 hearing down the road. Job Parshall found 
 himself marching back in embarrassed 
 state toward the front door of the Whip- 
 ple house, with the firm tread of the dep- 
 uty marshal crunching on the snow close 
 at his heels. 
 
 He could catch the sinister rattle of 
 those handcuffs in Hazzard's pocket at 
 every stride the man took. He tried not 
 to dwell upon it in his mind, but it was 
 
88 The Deserter. 
 
 a fact that Norm Hazzard had killed two 
 men, one of them a member of a famous 
 local gang of horse-thieves, whom he had 
 shot where he was ambushed behind the 
 grain bags in his barn, the other a wife- 
 murderer, who had escaped from jail to 
 the woods. 
 
 How was it, Job wondered, that he had 
 missed all ten of his shots at Mose ? Per- 
 haps they were not all misses. Men did 
 run sometimes, it was said, after they had 
 been struck by a bullet. What if Mose, 
 after all, was lying there, somewhere in 
 the woods, wounded and helpless in the 
 bitter cold ! 
 
 The manacles behind him ground to- 
 gether with a cruel, rasping noise as this 
 picture rose in his brain. 
 
 He pushed the door wide open and 
 went in, closely followed by the other. 
 
 Old Asa sat where he had left him, his 
 tall frame settled down supinely in the 
 armchair, his head bent on his breast, mo- 
 tionless and apparently asleep. 
 
The Deputy Marshal. 89 
 
 " Here's somebody to see you, Asa," 
 Job said, as he heard the door close be- 
 hind him ; but the old man did not stir. 
 
 The deputy marshal walked forward, 
 brusquely pushing the lad aside, and laid 
 a heavy hand on Asa Whipple's shoulder. 
 He paused then, as if puzzled by what his 
 grasp felt. Then he put his other hand, 
 not so ungently, into the old man's beard 
 and lifted his head up. 
 
 " Say ! I wasn't figurin' on this ! " was 
 his bewildered exclamation. " Here, quick, 
 you ! run and bring some water. Maybe it's 
 only a faint." 
 
 This indeed it turned out to be — a deep 
 swoon, the result of long privation and 
 weakness, accented by the sudden relief 
 and the subsequent strain of excitement. 
 
 Hazzard could not rouse the old man 
 from his comatose lethargy, with all his 
 rubbing and slapping of hands, and liberal 
 use of snow upon the temple and lips. But 
 he did satisfy himself that there was no 
 imminent danger, and he went to work to 
 
90 The Deserter. 
 
 spread out the bed again behind the stove, 
 loosen old Asa's clothes, and stretch him 
 out to sleep at his ease, comfortably tucked 
 in with Hazzard's own overcoat, which the 
 marshal had stripped off for the purpose, 
 quite as if his mission in life had been to 
 nurse rather than arrest people. 
 
 He had taken out of the overcoat pocket, 
 before spreading it across the bed, a big 
 navy revolver, a parcel or two, presumably 
 of ammunition, and a couple of curious steel 
 wristlets, linked together with a chain ; Job 
 looked at these latter, as they lay on the 
 table, with profound interest. 
 
 Job had never seen handcuffs so near, 
 and he longed to ask the great man to show 
 him how they worked. Finally, after he 
 had obeyed his curt instruction to put more 
 wood on the fire, and the deputy marshal 
 had seated himself by the stove with his 
 feet balanced on a stick just inside the oven 
 door, and a pipe in his mouth. Job ventured 
 to lift the manacles from the table and 
 . inspect them. 
 
The Deputy Marshal. 91 
 
 As this passed without protest he went to 
 the length of opening one of the bands on 
 its. hinge, and then shutting it about his 
 wrist. The two parts went together with a 
 choking snap, and the boy, after a few fruit- 
 less efforts to open them or to slip his hand 
 through, began to guess that he would have 
 to ask the help of the deputy marshal to 
 release him. 
 
 He would not humble himself thus, how- 
 ever, before it was a matter of sheer neces- 
 sity; and he tugged away at the lock in 
 dogged silence, until his wrist was red and 
 sore. The consciousness that the official 
 was grinning at him only made the thing 
 worse. 
 
 " If I'd had the sense to do that myself," 
 remarked Hazzard after a time, "when I 
 first laid eyes on you this morning, and then 
 nailed the chain up to the barn door-post, 
 I'd have saved myself a heap of trouble. 
 Leave it alone, or you'll swell your wrist 
 out o' shape. I'll unlock it bimeby — 
 maybe." 
 
92 The Deserter. 
 
 He smoked silently for a minute, dividing 
 his ruminative gaze between the steaming 
 leather in the oven, and the rueful counte- 
 nance of the boy in the handcuffs. 
 
 " You're Hank Parshall's boy, ain't you ? " 
 he asked at last. 
 
 Job nodded and held his imprisoned hand 
 forth to hint, without saying, that he had 
 had enough of the handcuff. 
 
 The other paid no heed to the gesture. 
 "What's the matter with the old man, here.''" 
 he inquired with a downward nod. 
 
 " He ain't had enough to eat," said Job, 
 bluntly. " That's what's the matter with 
 him. He told me himself he laid down 
 there last night to starve to death." 
 
 Mr. Hazzard pointed a thumb to the 
 greasy frying-pan, and the remains of the 
 chicken on the table beside Job. 
 
 " People don't go to work that way to 
 starve," he commented dryly. 
 
 " Mose brought him that — I guess I 
 know pretty well where he got it, too. The 
 old man allowed that that was what saved 
 
The Deputy Marshal. ' 93 
 
 his life. They hadn't been a soul near him 
 before since the snowfall — and he laid up. 
 Oh, that reminds me ! " Job finished by tak- 
 ing the two slices of bread from his pocket, 
 and putting them on the table. 
 
 " Bring that for the old man } " queried 
 the deputy marshal. 
 
 Job shook his head. 
 
 " No, it's my own breakfast. I was goin' 
 to give it to Mose," he replied stoutly. 
 " Say, take this thing off, won't you } " 
 
 Norm Hazzard laughed outright. " No ! " 
 he said. " Guess after that I'll have to put 
 the other one onto you, too." His tone 
 lapsed to seriousness as he went on : " May- 
 be you know somethin' about it — didn't 
 I hear that this Mose Whipple went to 
 the war as substitute for your man — Teach- 
 out.?" 
 
 " Yes, sir, he did — and Teachout didn't 
 give him not a dollar, but jest let it go on 
 to the mortgage, and he promised to look 
 out for old Asa here, and he didn't — and he'd 
 begrudge him this bread here, if he knew it." 
 
94 The Deserter. 
 
 The deputy marshal nodded comprehend- 
 ingly, and blew the smoke through his pipe. 
 
 " Charged me and Moak thirty-five cents 
 apiece for our breakfasts this mornin', and 
 twenty cents for the horse," he said, in a 
 musing tone. " Reckon he's about the 
 tightest old skinflint on the whole turn- 
 pike — and that's sayin' a good deal. So 
 he got drafted, did he ? Should 'a' thought 
 he was too old." 
 
 "He ain't as old as he looks," explained 
 Job. " He's a good deal meaner, though. 
 I'm glad o' one thing, anyway. I ain't goin' 
 back there any more, except to git my 
 clothes and my money. I'm goin' to hive 
 in here with the old man, and kind o' look 
 after him. I promised — " 
 
 " Promised Mose, eh } " broke in the dep- 
 uty marshal. 
 
 "Yes — if you want to know — I did 
 promise Mose ! You can't touch me for 
 that ! " 
 
 "Why, that's skinnin' alive, that is — jest 
 for that alone," said Hazzard, with porten- 
 
The Deputy Marshal. 95 
 
 tous gravity, "to say nothin' of scootin' over 
 here to give warnin', and bringin' that bread 
 there in your pocket, and so on. Why, it'll 
 puzzle a Philadelphy lawyer to find punish- 
 ments bad enough for you." 
 
 Job looked him searchingly in the eye for 
 a full minute, then held up the fettered hand 
 again. 
 
 " Say, unlock this, will you ? " he said, 
 unabashed. " I knew you was foolin' all the 
 time," he added, as the other produced the 
 key from his pocket and turned the lock. 
 " I could tell it right from the start." 
 
 " Me } me foolin' t " asked Hazzard, with 
 simulated surprise. " Why, you're crazy, 
 boy!" 
 
 "No, I spotted it right off," Job replied, 
 eager to put into words the idea that had 
 suddenly come to him. " Why, anybody 
 could tell that. A sure-enough dead shot 
 like you wouldn't fire ten shots at a man 
 and not hit him once, if he wasn't foolin'. 
 It was as plain as the nose on your face — 
 you didn't really want to catch poor Mose. 
 
96 The Deserter. 
 
 That's what made me take a shine to you, 
 right off." 
 
 Norman Hazzard blew more smoke 
 through his pipe, and grinned to himself, 
 and even gave an abrupt little laugh aloud, 
 shifting on the instant to an air of grave 
 imperturbability. 
 
 " You mustn't talk like that — that is, out- 
 side," he said. "It might give folks wrong 
 notions. Besides, I tell you you're mistaken. 
 I never fired more to kill in all my life. But 
 of course — the old man here — p'r'aps that 
 does make it a little different." 
 
 He looked down as he spoke to where old 
 Asa lay, under the overcoat, and Job felt 
 sure that there was a change on his face — 
 a change toward kindliness. 
 
 "Well, anyway," the boy persisted, "you 
 wouldn't fire to kill now, if you was to catch 
 up to Mose, and what's more, I don't believe 
 you're goin' to try to catch up to him, 
 neither." 
 
 " I ain't, eh } " broke in the deputy mar- 
 shal. " You wait till Moak gets back with 
 
The Deputy Marshal. 97 
 
 the snow-shoes. We'll run him down in no 
 time. He ain't got no more chance than a 
 lame mud-turtle." 
 
 The words sounded savage enough, and 
 Job, scanning the lean, tanned face of the 
 speaker, found his mind conjuring up again 
 visions of those two other wrong-doers 
 whom this hunter of men had shot down. 
 
 And yet, somehow, there seemed to be a 
 sort of relenting twinkle in those sharp, 
 cold, gray eyes of his. 
 
CHAPTER VI. 
 
 A HOME IN THE WOODS. 
 
 nPHE pursuit of Mose Whipple had to 
 be postponed, as it turned out, whether 
 the deputy marshal relented or not. 
 
 It was late, for one thing, before Moak 
 returned from his quest after snow-shoes, 
 and what was worse, he came back empty- 
 handed. He had driven about, over and 
 through the drifted roads, for miles, directed 
 by local rumors and surmise, to one after 
 another of the isolated farm-houses scat- 
 tered over the district, but had found no 
 snow-shoes. 
 
 He was too cold and stiff, and too much 
 annoyed with the day's experiences, to lis- 
 ten to any further delay, but sat doggedly 
 in the sleigh, out on the road in front of 
 the Whipple house, until the deputy mar- 
 shal, followed by Job, came out to him. 
 
A Home in the Woods. 99 
 
 " No, I ain't goin' to get out again, 
 Norm," he said querulously. " I've had 
 enough of this fool's errand. I'm froze 
 solid now in one position, and I'm gittin' 
 used to it. I don't want to climb out and 
 limber up, and then have to freeze stiff all 
 over again in some new shape. Just you 
 give it up for a bad job, and come along. 
 We can get to Octavius by supper-time if 
 we look sharp." 
 
 " I never got beat like this before ! " 
 growled Norman Hazzard, kicking into 
 the crust. " I hate to give up a thing 
 this way. But," he added after a pause, 
 " I s'pose you're right. It is a fool's 
 errand, and I guess we're the fools, sure 
 enough." 
 
 With a reluctant sigh he knocked the 
 snow off his boots against the runner, as 
 he was about to step into the sleigh. He 
 seated himself beside Moak, and drew the 
 buffalo-robe up over his breast, and said, 
 " All right, go ahead ! " 
 
 Moak grinned, in spite of his ill-temper. 
 
loo The Deserter. 
 
 " I didn't think it'd be as bad as that, 
 Norm," he chuckled, "drivin' you clean out 
 of your senses. Why, man, you're goin' 
 away without your overcoat ! " 
 
 " No. You mind your own business, 
 Moak ! " rejoined the deputy marshal, get- 
 ting one of his shoulders under the robe. 
 
 " Shall I run in and get it for you ? " 
 suggested Job, half-turning to hasten on 
 the errand. 
 
 " You mind your business, too ! " said 
 Hazzard, with affected roughness, but with 
 an undertone of humane meaning which 
 both his hearers caught and comprehended. 
 "And look here, boy, if you and the old 
 man find yourselves in need of help, why, 
 you know where I'm to be found. Mean- 
 while you'd better take this." He handed 
 something to Job. 
 
 Mr. Moak cast a look of hostile sus- 
 picion at the urchin by the roadside. 
 
 " Guess he's more likely to know where 
 Mose Whipple's to be found ! " Moak said. 
 Then he drew the reins tight with a jerk. 
 
A Home in the Woods. loi 
 
 gave a loud, emphatic cluck to the horse, 
 and the sleigh went dashing southward 
 amid a defiant jingling of bells. 
 
 The boy stood watching till the vehicle 
 had become a mere dwindling point of 
 blackness on the sunlit waste of snow. 
 
 Then he turned his attention to the 
 greenback which the deputy marshal had 
 given him, and looked meditatively at the 
 big and significant " 5 " on its right-hand 
 corner. 
 
 When he lifted his eyes again the sleigh 
 had disappeared. The pursuit of poor Mose 
 was at an end. 
 
 When the spring of 1864 came slowly 
 up on the bleak tablelands skirting the 
 Adirondacks, it found the Whipple home- 
 stead undoubtedly better off than it had 
 been a year before. Neighbors from Juno 
 Mills who drove by, after the road had 
 settled into usable condition, noticed that 
 the place had been " spruced up," and 
 looked considerably more shipshape than 
 it had ever done in Mose's time. There 
 
I02 The Deserter. 
 
 was even a report down at the Corners that 
 old Asa was going to borrow Taft's two- 
 horse cultivator and put in some crops ! 
 
 People said " old Asa," but every one 
 knew that this rumor, and all other com- 
 ments upon the improved appearance and 
 prospects of the Whipple place, really re- 
 ferred to young Job. Even in this hard- 
 working and tireless region, accustomed as 
 it has always been to energetic and capable 
 boys, men talked this spring approvingly of 
 what the " Parshall youngster " had done, 
 and bragged about having predicted from 
 the start that he had the right stuff in 
 him. 
 
 When one comes to set down in words 
 what it was that Job had done, it does not 
 sound very great. He had worked three 
 days a week at the cheese factory, and gone 
 to school the other three days — that is all. 
 But the outcome of this was that April 
 found old Asa Whipple once more, to all 
 outward appearances, a hale and strong 
 man for his years, and revealed the young 
 
A Home in the Woods. 103 
 
 lad who had adopted him, so to speak, as 
 an enterprising and efficient member of 
 the sparsely settled community, who had 
 plans for doing things, and worked like a 
 beaver, and paid ready money at the Corner 
 grocery store. 
 
 When the talk of the neighborhood 
 drifted to the subject of Mose Whipple's 
 desertion and his supposed flight to Canada, 
 it ended usually in the conclusion that old 
 Asa had made a good exchange in getting 
 such an industrious and go-ahead chap as 
 Job Parshall in Mose's place. 
 
 Asa Whipple and Job were at work in 
 the field across the road from the Whipple 
 house one afternoon in mid-May. Job had 
 come back early from the factory to finish 
 a job upon which he had expended all the 
 spare labor of a week. There was a patch 
 of land, some rods square, from which he 
 had uprooted the black moss. He had 
 ploughed and fertilized it, and sown it with 
 oats. 
 
 He had resolved to put this reclaimed 
 
I04 The Deserter. 
 
 land to grass later on, and to this end was 
 now dragging across it a heavy tree bough, 
 old Asa following behind him with a bag 
 of grass seed, which he scattered over the 
 loosened earth as he walked. 
 
 Job glanced over his shoulder from 
 time to time to note the uneven way in 
 which the old man cast the flying hand- 
 fuls to one side. 
 
 " Seems to me I ain't ever goin' to make 
 a good farmer of you," he said at last, good- 
 naturedly enough, but still with a sugges- 
 tion of impatience in his tone. " You'll see 
 that grass come up all in wads and patches. 
 Open your hand more, and try and scatter 
 it regular like. Let me show you again." 
 
 The old man stopped, and submissively 
 lent himself afresh to the lesson which 
 Job sought to teach; but at the end he 
 sighed and shook his white head. 
 
 " No, I'm too old to learn. Job," he said. 
 " I never was cut out for a farmer, anyway. 
 Besides, what's the use ? The black moss'll 
 be all back agin by next spring." 
 
A Home m the Woods. 105 
 
 " By that time, if we had good luck with 
 this, we could be keepin' a cow, and p'r'aps 
 a horse to do the work," remonstrated the 
 boy. " If I had a horse, I'd knock that 
 moss endwise, or know the reason why." 
 
 A noise from the road close behind 
 them attracted their attention. They 
 turned, screening their eyes against the 
 declining sun to see who was seated in 
 the buggy which had halted there across 
 the tumble-down rail fence. Then old Asa 
 pointed a lean forefinger toward the new- 
 comer. 
 
 " That's the reason why ! " he said, 
 bitterly. 
 
 Job could make out now that it was 
 Elisha Teachout who sat in the buggy. 
 The boy had not seen him since the event- 
 ful day of Mose's return and escape, when 
 he had gone over to the big farm-house 
 toward dusk and got his clothes and the 
 money due him. This had not been so 
 easy or pleasant a task that he was re- 
 joiced now to see Mr. Teachout again. 
 
io6 The Deserter. ^ 
 
 The rich farmer, thinner and yellower 
 and more like a bird of prey than ever 
 against the reddening flare of sunlight, 
 looked over at the pair with an ugly cari- 
 cature of a smile on his hard, hairless face. 
 
 " I happened to be drivin' past," he 
 called out at last, snapping the shrill 
 words forth with a kind of malevolent en- 
 joyment, " and I jest thought I'd stop and 
 mention that I'm going to foreclose on 
 this place in four days' time. I've entered 
 judgment for one hundred and six dollars 
 and seventy-three cents, countin' interest 
 and all. I jest thought that mebbe you'd 
 like to know. The sheriff'll be on hand 
 here bright and early Monday mornin'. It 
 jest occurred to me to speak of it as I was 
 passin'." 
 
 With these mocking words still on the 
 air, Mr. Teachout turned and drove down 
 the road a few yards. A thought occurred 
 to him, and he halted long enough to call 
 out, more shrilly than before : — 
 
 " That Parshall boy needn't come back 
 
* A Home in the Woods. 107 
 
 and whine around my place to be taken 
 back! I won't hev him!" Then he put 
 whip to his horse and was off. 
 
 The two workers in the field looked each 
 other in the face for one dumb moment of 
 bewilderment. Then old Asa took the 
 seed-bag off his arm and deliberately held 
 it upside down, till the last grain had sifted 
 out to the little pile at his feet. 
 
 " I don't sow for Elisha Teachout to reap 
 — not if I know myself!" he remarked, 
 grimly. 
 
 " Can he do it } Is it as bad as all 
 that?" demanded Job. 
 
 Asa nodded his head. 
 
 " I s'pose it is," he said. " They ain't no 
 use tryin' to buck against a man like him. 
 He's got the money, and that means he's 
 got the law and the sheriff on his side. 
 No, the jig's up. They ain't nothin' for 
 it but for us to git out Monday." 
 
 Job had tossed the heavy bough to one 
 side, and walked to the fence, where he 
 was putting on his coat. 
 
io8 The Deserter. 
 
 " Oh, yes, there is," said he. 
 
 " What do you mean. Job ? " queried the 
 old man, advancing toward him, " what else 
 kin we do ? " 
 
 " Git out before Monday," answered the 
 boy, laconically. 
 
 They walked in silence across the road, 
 and through the front yard to the house, 
 without exchanffingr further words. Once 
 
 o o 
 
 indoors, they began to empty drawers, clear 
 cupboards and shelves, and gather the port- 
 able belongings of the household into a 
 heap on the table in the living-room. It 
 was not a long task, and they performed it 
 in silence. It was only when they rested 
 upon its completion that the old man said, 
 with a little quaver in his voice : — 
 
 "Almost the last words he spoke before 
 he went was, ' And in the spring you must 
 come and be with me in the woods.' Them 
 was his identical words. You remember 
 'em, don't you. Job .? " 
 
 The boy nodded assent. 
 
 " We'll kill the chickens — all five of 'em, 
 
A Home in the Woods. 109 
 
 and roast 'em to-night. They'll keep that 
 way, and they'll see us through the whole 
 tramp. If you'll see to that, I'll sort this 
 stuff over, and see how much of it we 
 really need. We can burn the rest. 
 
 " His grandfather and my father," the 
 old man went on, " started here together, 
 both poor men. He's managed it so that 
 he's got everything and I've got nothing. 
 But he can't prevent my bein' an honest 
 man, and I'll go away not beholden to 
 him for a cent. That was one of his 
 chickens that my boy brought me here, 
 when I was sick and pretty nigh starved 
 to death. Very well, I'll leave one chicken 
 in the coop when we go. It sha'n't be on 
 my mind that I owe Elisha Teachout so 
 much as a pinfeather." 
 
 Almost nothing was said between them, 
 either then or during the evening, about 
 Mose. Though they were starting to join 
 him in the morning, — turning their backs 
 upon civilization and the haunts of men, — 
 the reserve which through all these months 
 
no The Deserter. 
 
 since his disappearance they had observed 
 about him and his offence still weighed 
 upon their tongues. 
 
 But in the dead watches of the night 
 — this last night to be spent under the 
 Whipple roof — Job woke up, where he 
 lay wrapped in his blanket, and heard old 
 Asa's voice softly murmuring, whether in 
 his sleep or not the boy never knew: "In 
 the spring you must come and be with me 
 in the woods ! " 
 
 Away in the recesses of the forest prime- 
 eval, in a mountain nook linked by a spark- 
 ling band of spring-fed streams and a chain 
 of cascades to the silent thoroughfare of 
 the Raquette water, Mose Whipple had 
 chosen his hiding-place, and built for him- 
 self a log hut. Thither came to him now, 
 after a toilsome three days' journey, — by 
 creek-bed and steep, boulder-strewn ravine, 
 by lonely, placid, still water, and broad, 
 reed-grown beaver-meadow, where the deer 
 fed unalarmed on the lily pads, and the 
 great tracks of the moose lay on the black 
 mud, — old Asa and Job. 
 
A Home in the Woods. 1 1 1 
 
 There was an idyllic charm in the first 
 few weeks of this reunited life to both 
 father and son. Mose took an excited de- 
 light, after months of solitude, in this new 
 companionship, and in the splendid renewal 
 of youth and high spirits which the free 
 life and air of the wilderness brought to 
 his father. 
 
 Job showed his practical character in fix- 
 ing up a well-built lean-to at the side of 
 the shanty, putting a new roof of spruce 
 bark on the whole structure, and construct- 
 ing a fishing raft to float on the still water 
 up the outlet. 
 
 One day in early July, a chance wan- 
 derer in the forest — a Canadian who was 
 looking about with a divining rod for min- 
 erals on the mountain range, and who 
 stopped at the shanty overnight — left be- 
 hind him a month-old copy of a New York 
 weekly newspaper. In this paper, after 
 breakfast, old Asa, sitting out on a log in 
 the sunlight with his pipe, read the horri- 
 ble story of the three days' fighting — one 
 might say butchery — at Cold Harbor. 
 
112 The Deserter. 
 
 Mose and Job had already started out 
 on a fishing excursion to new waters across 
 the divide. When they returned, along 
 toward four o'clock, they found awaiting 
 them one who seemed scarcely recogniza- 
 ble for Asa, so old and bowed had he 
 once more become. 
 
 The change was apparent as they entered 
 the clearing, and beheld him seated by the 
 doorway a full hundred yards away. 
 
 " He's had a stroke or something ! " Mose 
 exclaimed, and they both started on a run 
 toward him. 
 
 As they came up, the old man lifted his 
 head and looked his son in the face, with 
 a glance which the other dimly recalled as 
 belonging to that bitter December day 
 when he had first come home. 
 
 " Mose," cried Asa, holding the paper 
 out as he spoke, " it's all wrong ! There's 
 no pretendin' it ain't ! We've been en- 
 joyin' ourselves here, foolin' ourselves into 
 forgettin', but it's all wrong ! There ain't 
 been so much as a word dropped sence the 
 
A Home in the Woods. 1 1 3 
 
 boy and me come here, about this thing, 
 and it seemed as if the whole affair had 
 just shpped our mem'ries — but it won't 
 do. I've been sittin' here ever sence you 
 went away, thinkin' it over — thinkin' hard 
 enough every minute for the whole five 
 months — and it's all wrong. Here, you 
 read this for yourself." 
 
 Mose took the paper, and spelt his way 
 through the long, blood-drenched narrative, 
 without a word. When he had finished 
 he returned his father's glance, with a look 
 of mingled comprehension and assent in 
 his eyes. . 
 
 " All right," he said simply. " I feel the 
 same as you do about it. I'll go!" 
 
 Both seemed to feel intuitively that this 
 great resolve, thus formed, could not wait 
 an instant for fulfilment. Hardly another 
 word was spoken until Mose, his pockets 
 filled for the journey and his blanket 
 strapped, stood ready in front of the cabin, 
 to say good-by. 
 
 *' It's no good waiting till to-morrow," 
 I 
 
1 1 4 The Deserter. 
 
 he said then. " The sooner it's over the 
 better. You can get along first-rate here 
 by yourselves. Job can take in skins and 
 so on, and a mess of trout now and then, 
 — he knows the way, — and bring back 
 ammunition and your tobacco and so on. 
 You'll be all right." 
 
 He paused a moment, and then took 
 from his finger the little rubber ring which 
 Job had restored to him in Teachout's cow- 
 barn months before, and handed it to Asa. 
 
 " Here," he said, " that's a kind of keep- 
 sake. Good-by, dad. Good-by, Job." 
 
 Half an hour or more had elapsed, and 
 Asa still sat on the log by the doorway, 
 his head buried in thought. He could 
 hear the strokes of Job's axe, from where 
 the boy was cutting firewood for the even- 
 ing on the edge of the clearing. As they 
 fell on the air with their sharp, metallic 
 ring, one after another, the old man's 
 fancy likened them to the deadly noises 
 of the battle-field, whither his boy was mak- 
 ing his way. 
 
A Home in the Woods. 115 
 
 But he regretted nothing — no, noth- 
 ing, save that the act of reparation, of 
 atonement, had not been made long 
 before. 
 
 There came with abrupt suddenness 
 another sound — the unfamihar sound of 
 a stranger's voice addressing him. Asa 
 looked up, rousing himself from his reverie 
 with difficulty. He saw that two men 
 with rods, and fishing baskets, and camp- 
 ing packs on their backs, were standing in 
 front of him. Their faces were in the 
 shadow, but he slowly made out the fore- 
 most one to be the deputy marshal, Nor- 
 man Hazzard. 
 
 "So here's where you moved to, eh } " 
 the deputy marshal was asking, by way of 
 not unfriendly salutation. 
 
 Asa stared hard for a minute at this 
 astonishing apparition. Then his bewil- 
 dered tongue found words. 
 
 " If you're lookin' for my son," he said 
 proudly, " he's gone back to jine his regi- 
 ment — to do his duty!" 
 
ii6 The Deserter. 
 
 Hazzard stared in turn. " Gone ! " he 
 exclaimed, " when ? " 
 
 " This very day," rejoined Asa, " not an 
 hour ago. He saw it was right, and he 
 went ! " 
 
 The deputy marshal threw up his hands 
 in a gesture of despairing amazement. 
 " Why, man alive ! " he cried, " they'll shoot 
 him like a dog ! " 
 
CHAPTER VII. 
 
 ANOTHER CHASE AFTER MOSE. 
 
 A SA WHIPPLE and the deputy mar- 
 ^^ shal gazed in a dumbfounded way at 
 each other through a cruel minute of si- 
 lence^ broken only by the echoing strokes 
 of Job's axe out in the undergrowth be- 
 yond. It was the third man who first 
 found his tongue ; and Asa, looking dumbly 
 at him, saw that he was no other than 
 Nelse Hornbeck. 
 
 " Downright cur'ous that we should 'a' 
 happened to hit on you like this, ain't it ? " 
 Nelse began. " If we'd ben tryin' to find 
 you, we'd never 'a' done it in this born 
 world ! Norm and me, you see, we've ben 
 fishin' up Panther River three days, and 
 then we followed up the South Branch 
 outlet, and I'd ben figgerin' on makin' 
 117 
 
1 1 8 The Deserter. 
 
 a camp by the lake there, an' workin* 
 down the other branch ; but the flies were 
 pretty bad, and Norm here, he took a 
 fancy to this 'ere outlet, and our oil of tar 
 was about give out, and so I — " 
 
 "Oh, shut up!" broke in the deputy 
 marshal, impatiently. " Look here, Asa 
 Whipple, is that straight what you're tell- 
 ing me — that Mose has started off to give 
 himself up ? " . 
 
 The old man rose from the log and 
 stood erect. He had never seemed so tall 
 before in his life, and he looked down 
 upon the more lithe and sinewy figure of 
 the deputy marshal almost haughtily. 
 
 '* No, not to give himself up. ' To jine 
 his regiment,' was what I said." 
 
 Norman Hazzard snorted out an angry 
 laugh. 
 
 " Were there ever two such simpletons 
 under one roof } " he cried. " ' Jine his 
 regiment ! ' Why, man, I tell you, they'll 
 simply take him and shoot him ! They 
 can't do anything else, even if they wanted 
 
Another Chase after Mose. 119 
 
 to. That's the regulations. He can't jine 
 anything, except what the newspapers call 
 the ' silent majority.' Do you mean to tell 
 me — a man of your age — you didn't know 
 that?'' 
 
 " All I know is," said Asa, doggedly, 
 " that Mose seen his duty, and he done it. 
 He left his regiment because there was 
 nothin' doin', and some mean Dutchman 
 who had a spite agin him wouldn't let him 
 git a furlough, and he was scairt to death 
 about me, — and you know as well as I 
 do that if he hadn't come just as he did 
 I'd been a gone coon, — and then he come 
 off up in here, and we follered him, and there 
 was so much to do, fixin' up this new 
 place, that we hadn't time to do much 
 thinkin' about what was right and what 
 was wrong till only this mornin' I hap- 
 pened to git hold o' that paper there, and 
 it seems the war's about ten times worse 
 than ever, and when Mose came in and I 
 showed it to him, and he read it through, 
 he jest give me a look, and says he, 
 
I20 The Deserter. 
 
 ' You're right. I ain't got no business 
 here. I'm off.' And off he went. That's 
 all ; and I'm proud of him." 
 
 The deputy marshal groaned. " Don't 
 I tell you they won't have him ? The min- 
 ute they lay eyes on him he's a dead man. 
 I don't believe the President himself could 
 save him." 
 
 "Why don't you save him yourself.'*" 
 put in a new voice, abruptly. 
 
 Mr. Hazzard turned and beheld Job, 
 who had come up with his axe and a 
 huge armful of wood. He threw, these 
 down, brushed his sleeve, and nodded to 
 the deputy marshal. 
 
 " How'd do. Norm," he said now. " Why 
 don't you go and stop him yourself ? " 
 
 Hazzard half-closed one of his eyes, and 
 contemplated Job with a quizzical expres- 
 sion. " Hello, youngster ! " he remarked. 
 " You're lookin' after these loons, heh ? 
 Well, I wonder you didn't put a veto on 
 this tomfoolery. You're the only party in 
 this camp that seems to have any sense." 
 
Another Chase after Mose. 121 
 
 " They wouldn't have listened to me," 
 rejoined Job. " They were both too red- 
 hot about the thing to listen to anybody. I 
 thought it was foolishness myself, but they 
 didn't ask me, and so I went and chopped 
 wood and minded my own business. But 
 it'd be different with you. If you could 
 manage to overtake Mose, he'd listen to 
 you. You can catch him if you run." 
 
 The deputy marshal on the instant had 
 tossed aside his rod, and was hurriedly 
 getting off his basket and pack. 
 
 " I'll have a try for it, anyway," he said. 
 " But it'd be jest like Mose to put his 
 back up and refuse to come, even after 
 I'd caught him." 
 
 " Tell him his father wants him to come 
 back," suggested Job. " That'll fetch him. 
 Here, Asa," the boy continued, "give us 
 that ring there. Norm can take that and 
 show it to him as a sign that you've 
 changed your mind. That's the way they 
 do it in the story-books. That's all rings 
 are for, accordin' to them." 
 
122 The Deserter. 
 
 " But I don't know as I hev changed 
 my mind," old Asa began hesitatingly, but 
 with his fingers on the ring. 
 
 " Well, you'll have time to do that while 
 Norm's gone," commented Job. 
 
 With grave insistence he took the old 
 rubber ornament from Asa's hand and gave 
 it to Hazzard. " Keep on this side of the 
 outlet," he added. " There's a clear path 
 most of the way. You can get down the 
 big falls by the stones if you go out close 
 to the stream. You'll catch him easy this 
 side of the Raquette." 
 
 The deputy marshal wheeled and started 
 down the clearing on a long-stride, loping 
 run, like a greyhound. Almost as they 
 looked he was lost to sight among the trees 
 beyond. 
 
 It occurred to Nelse Hornbeck now to 
 relieve himself of his pack and accoutre- 
 ments, and to make himself otherwise at 
 home. He lighted his pipe, and stretched 
 himself out comfortably on the roots of a 
 stump by the doorway. 
 
Another Chase after Mose. 123 
 
 " Well," he remarked after a little, " I 
 alius said I'd ruther have a pack of nigger 
 bloodhounds after me than Norm Hazzard 
 if I'd done anything that I wanted to git 
 away for. But of course this is different. 
 I don't know how much good he'll be 
 tryin' to catch a man that ain't done any- 
 thing. I s'pose it would be different, 
 wouldn't it? But then of course he could 
 pretend to himself that Mose had done 
 something — and for that matter, all he's 
 got to do is to play that Mose is still a 
 deserter ; and of course if you come to that, 
 why, he is a deserter." 
 
 " He ain't nothing of the kind ! " roared 
 old Asa, with vehemence. 
 
 " Well, of course, Asy, if you say so," 
 Nelse hastened to get in, with a pacific 
 wave of his pipe, " I don't pretend to be 
 no jedge myself in military affairs ; I dessay 
 you're right. Of course Mose is in one 
 place, and the army's in another, but that 
 don't prove that it wasn't the army that 
 deserted Mose, does it ? I'm a man of 
 
124 '^^^ Deserter. 
 
 peace myself, and I don't set up to be no 
 authority on these p'ints." 
 
 " Well, then, what are you talkin' about ? " 
 interposed Job, severely. " Don't you see 
 old Asa's upset and nervous about Mose ? 
 Tell us about things you know something 
 about. How's old Teachout } " 
 
 " Well, now, cur'ous enough," said Nelse, 
 thoughtfully, " that's jest one of the things 
 I don't know about at all, and nobody else 
 knows, either — that is, this side o' Jordan. 
 'Lishe Teachout's ben dead of inflamma- 
 tion o' the lungs now — le's see — up'ards 
 of a month. Why, come to think of it, 
 Asy, why, yes, he ketched his cold goin' 
 out to attend the sheriff's sale at your old 
 place, and that daughter of his that run 
 away with the lightnin'-rod agent — you 
 remember? — she's come in for the hull 
 property, and they say she's goin' to sell 
 it and live down in New York. I guess 
 she'll scatter the money right and left. And 
 'Lishe worked hard for it, too ! " 
 
 Old Asa cast a ruminant glance over the 
 
Another Chase after Mose. 125 
 
 little shanty, and the clearing full of warm 
 sunshine, and the broad belt of stately dark 
 firs beyond rustling their boughs in soft har- 
 mony with the tinkle of the stream below, 
 and swaying their tall tops gently against 
 the light of bright blue overhead. Then 
 he drew a long, restful breath. 
 
 " There's things a heap sight better than 
 money in this world," he said. 
 
 Mose had started out on his impulsive 
 errand buoyantly enough. He made his 
 way down the side hill to the outlet with 
 a light, swinging step, and pushed along 
 on the descent of the creek-bed, leaping 
 from boulder to boulder, and skirting the 
 pools with the agility of a practised woods- 
 man, almost as if his mission were a joyful 
 one. 
 
 At the outset, indeed, his ruling sensa- 
 tion was one of relief. He had had four 
 months and more of solitude here in the 
 woods, from New Year's through till the 
 weary winter broke at last, in which to 
 think over his performance. 
 
126 The Deserter. 
 
 He could not bring himself to regret 
 having come home ; the thought that it 
 had saved his father's life settled that. But 
 side by side with this conclusion had 
 grown up an intense humiliation and dis- 
 gust for the necessities which had forced 
 upon him this badge of " deserter." Granted 
 that they were necessities, the badge was 
 an itching and burning brand none the less. 
 
 The excitement and change involved in 
 the coming of Asa and Job had drawn his 
 attention away from this for a time, but 
 the sore remained unhealed. With the 
 chance occurrence of the newspaper, and 
 the sight of its effect upon his father, the 
 half -forgotten pain reasserted itself with 
 such stinging force that the one great end 
 in life seemed to be to escape from its in- 
 tolerable burden. 
 
 In this mood of shame and self-reproach, 
 
 Mose had jumped with hot eagerness at 
 
 the notion of returning to the ranks, and 
 
 .rushed with unthinking haste to put it 
 
 into effect. 
 
Another Chase after Mose. 127 
 
 As the thought came to him now that 
 perhaps this haste had also been unfeeHng, 
 he unconsciously slackened the pace at 
 which he was descending the ravine. His 
 father was once more in good health and 
 vigor, no doubt, and was as eager as he 
 himself about having the odium of deser- 
 tion washed from the family name, if not 
 more eager than he ; but Mose began to 
 wish that they had talked it over a little 
 more — that he had made his leave-taking 
 longer and less abrupt. 
 
 The war seemed to have become a much 
 bloodier and deadlier thing than he had 
 known it. That paper had spoken of a 
 full hundred thousand men having been 
 lost between the Wilderness and Cold Har- 
 bor. It was quite likely that he now, as 
 he swung along down the waterway, was 
 going to his death. In his present mood 
 this had no personal terrors for him, but 
 it did cast a chill shadow over his thoughts 
 of his father. 
 
 They two had chosen their own life to- 
 
128 The Deserter. 
 
 gether — with all the views and aims of 
 other men's lives put quite at one side. 
 Their happiness had not been in making 
 money, in getting fine clothes, or houses, 
 or lands, but just in being together, with 
 the woods and the water and the sky about 
 them. 
 
 Oddly enough, Mose remembered now, 
 for the first time almost since his escape 
 from the lines at Brandy Station, that if 
 it had not been for that wretched Teach- 
 out mortgage, he need never have gone to 
 the war at all. The draft would have ex- 
 empted him, as the only support of an 
 aged father. That seemed at first sight 
 to justify him in leaving as he did, and 
 he walked still more slowly now to think 
 this over. 
 
 But no, nothing justified him. Perhaps 
 his father's suffering condition excused him 
 in some measure — gave him the right to 
 say that under the circumstances he would 
 do the same thing again; but that wasn't 
 a justification. 
 
Another Chase after Mose. 129 
 
 So Mose worried his perplexed mind 
 with the confusing moral problems until in 
 sheer self-defence he had to shake them 
 all off, root and branch, and say to him- 
 self, " At any rate I'm on my way back ; 
 I'm started, and I'll go." 
 
 He had halted, as he grasped this solu- 
 tion of the puzzle, to draw breath and look 
 about him. He stood on a jutting spur 
 of naked granite, overhanging the steep, 
 shelving hillside, and commanding a vast 
 panorama of sloping forest reaches, with 
 broken gleams here and there of the 
 Raquette waters way below, and with range 
 upon range of fir-clad mountain cones ris- 
 ing in basins beyond. 
 
 It dawned upon him, as his glance wan- 
 dered over this stupendous prospect, that 
 he had heard at intervals a curious noise 
 in the woods over at his left, as of some 
 big body making its way through the under- 
 brush in haste. If he had had a gun with 
 him he reflected now that he might have 
 investigated the matter. 
 
130 The Deserter. 
 
 The sounds seemed more like those 
 made by a bear than by a deer — perhaps 
 more Hke a moose than either. Mose had 
 never had the fortune to see a moose. 
 It would be just his luck, he thought, with 
 a half-grin, to see one now, when he had no 
 gun, and was quitting the woods forever. 
 
 Hark ! there was the noise again, below 
 and ahead of him now, but still to the left. 
 He thought he almost saw a dark object 
 push through the bushes, hardly a dozen 
 yards away. 
 
 Mose leaped lightly down upon the moss 
 at the base of his perch, and crept cau- 
 tiously along under the ledge of rock, the 
 cover of which would protect him quite to 
 within a few feet of these bushes. Reach- 
 ing this point, he lifted his head to look. 
 
 His astonished gaze rested upon no 
 moose or bear, or other denizen of the 
 wild wood, but took in at point-blank in- 
 stead the lean and leathery countenance of 
 Deputy Marshal Norman Hazzard. It in 
 no wise lessened Mose's confusion to note 
 
Another Chase after Mose. 131 
 
 that this unlooked-for countenance wore a 
 somewhat sardonic grin. 
 
 "Well, Mose," Mr. Hazzard observed, 
 " I learnt last winter that a stern chase 
 was a long chase, and I thought this time 
 I'd make a slicker job of it by headin' 
 you off, and gittin' 'round in front. See } " 
 
 " Yes, I see," said Mose, mechanically ; but 
 in truth he felt himself quite unable to see at 
 all. This sudden intrusion of the officer of 
 the law between him and his patriotic resolve, 
 this apparition of the man who had hunted 
 him into the wintry woods with a revolver, 
 seemed to change and confuse everything. 
 
 There rose in him the impulse to throw 
 himself fiercely upon the deputy marshal ; 
 then, oddly enough, he was conscious of a 
 chuckling sense of amusement instead. 
 
 " Guess I got the laugh on you this 
 time. Norm," he said. *' You've had your 
 hull trip for nothin'. I'm on my way now, 
 of my own motion, to jine my regiment, 
 or enlist somewhere else, I don't care 
 which." 
 
132 The Deserter. 
 
 Mr. Hazzard ostentatiously drew a re- 
 volver from his pocket. 
 
 " I ain't got any handcuffs with me," he 
 remarked, " but you'll do well to bear in 
 mind that I ain't at all shy about firin' 
 this here, if there's any need for it." 
 
 " But I tell you I'm goin' of my own 
 accord ! " Mose expostulated. " If you had 
 a hull battery of twelve-pounders with you, 
 I couldn't do no more'n that, could I ? 
 You can come along down with me if you 
 like — the hull way — only there's no use 
 o' your bein' disagreeable and goin' round 
 puUin' revolvers." 
 
 The deputy marshal did not put up the 
 weapon, and the grin on his face grew 
 deeper. 
 
 " Nobody, to look at you," said he, 
 " would think you'd give an officer like me 
 more trouble than any other man in the 
 district. I had about the hottest run on 
 record to chase you safely into the woods 
 here. And now, by gum, here I've had to 
 gallop myself all out of breath, barkin' my 
 
Another Chase after Mose. 133 
 
 shins and skinnin' my elbows in a rough- 
 and-tumble scoot through .the underbrush, 
 all to keep you from makin' a fool of your- 
 self agin ! It's enough to make a man re- 
 sign office." 
 
 Mose stared at the speaker — puzzled by 
 the smile even more than by this unintel- 
 ligible talk. 
 
 " See here," Norman Hazzard went on, 
 " I represent Uncle Sam, don't I } Well, 
 then. Uncle Sam has to be pretty rough 
 on fellows that shirk, and run away, and 
 behave mean — but he's got a heart inside 
 of him all the same. He knows about 
 you, and he understands that while you 
 did a very bad thing, you did it from first- 
 rate motives. So he says to himself, ' Now 
 if that fellow Mose comes around and 
 pokes himself right under my nose, I'll be 
 obliged to shoot him jest for the effect 
 upon the others ; but if he's only got sense 
 enough to lay low, and keep on my blind 
 side, why, I won't hurt a hair of his head.' 
 Now do you secf*" 
 
134 T^^^ Deserter. 
 
 " You mean that I'm to stay here ? " asked 
 Mose, in bewilderment. 
 
 " I mean that you're a dead man if you 
 don't," replied Hazzard. " Of course my 
 business is to arrest you, and take you 
 back to be shot. But I ain't workin' at 
 my trade this week — I'm fishin'. And so 
 I tell you to come back with me, and 
 cook us some trout for supper and shut 
 up, that's all." 
 
 " But my father," stammered Mose, " he 
 was as sot on my goin' back as I was — 
 this ' deserter ' business has been a-stickin' 
 in his crop all winter." 
 
 " No, it's all right," said Hazzard. " I've 
 explained it to him. Here's the ring you 
 give him — to show that he understands 
 it. The fact is, he and you ain't got any 
 business to live outside the woods. You're 
 both too green and too soft to wrastle 
 'round down amongst folks. They cheat 
 you out of your eye-teeth, and tromple you 
 underfoot, and drive you to the poorhouse 
 or the jail. Jest you and Asa stay up here 
 
Another Chase after Mose. 135 
 
 where you belong, and don't you go down 
 any more, foolin' with that buzz-saw that 
 they call ' civilization,' " 
 
 Then the two men turned and began 
 together the ascent of the outlet. 
 
 That is the story. A good deal of it I 
 heard from Mose Whipple's own lips, at 
 different times, years after the war, when 
 we sat around the huge fire in front of 
 his shanty in the evening, with the big 
 stars gleaming overhead, and the barking 
 of the timber wolves coming to us from 
 the distant mountain side, through the 
 balmy night silence. 
 
 Generally Ex-Sheriff Norman Hazzard 
 was one of our fishing party, and he never 
 failed to joke with Mose about the time 
 when he fired ten shots at a running tar- 
 get, and missed every one. 
 
 I picked up from their numerous con- 
 versations too, — for Mose, like all the old- 
 time Adirondack guides, would rather talk 
 any time than clean fish or chop fire-wood, 
 — that Asa lived to be a very old Asa 
 
136 The Deserter. 
 
 indeed, and that young Job Parshall, whom 
 Hazzard took away with him, saw through 
 school, and then set up in business, was 
 already being talked of for supervisor in 
 his native town. 
 
A DAY IN THE WILDERNESS. 
 
9 
 
A DAY IN THE WILDERNESS. 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 THE VALLEY OF DEATH. 
 
 nPHE rising sun lifted its first curved rim 
 of dazzling light above the dark line 
 of distant treetops just as the brigade band 
 began a new tune — "The Faded Coat of 
 Blue." The musicians themselves, huddled 
 together under the shelter of a mound of 
 rocks where the road descended into the 
 ravine, did not get their share of this early 
 morning radiance, but remained in the 
 shadows. 
 
 Only a yard or two away from the out- 
 ermost drummer-boy these shadows ended, 
 and a picture began that was full of action 
 and color, and flooded with golden sunshine. 
 
 The bandsmen, as they played, observed 
 139 
 
• 
 
 ,140 A Day in the Wilderness. 
 
 this picture, and thanked their stars they 
 were no part of it. Better a whole life 
 spent in the shade, than sunlight at such 
 a price as was being paid for it out there 
 in the road ! 
 
 This road had never before been any- 
 thing but a narrow, grass-grown, out-of- 
 the-way track for mule-carts. Now it had 
 become the bed of a broad, endless, moving 
 human flood — filling it compactly from side 
 to side, with ever a fresh wave of blue- 
 coated men entering at the rear, where the 
 scrub-oak opening began, and ever a front 
 . wave gliding off downward from view with 
 that sinister slipperiness which arches the 
 brow of a cataract. 
 
 The sense of motion conveyed by these 
 thousands of passing men was at its per- 
 fection of rhythm just opposite the band. 
 They were marching in eights, so close to- 
 gether that they trod continually on any 
 lagging heel. 
 
 The ranks, when they first came in 
 view, seemed pressing forward without much 
 
The Valley of Death. 141 
 
 order. Then, as they drew close to the 
 musicians, they fell into step instinctively, 
 swung along in swaying unison for a few rods, 
 and again lapsed into jagged irregularity as 
 they swept downward behind the rock. 
 
 It was indeed only this shifting section of 
 the dozen nearest ranks that could catch 
 the strains of the band. The others, whether 
 in van or rear, moved on with their hearing 
 numbed by a ceaseless and terrible uproar 
 which came from the ravine in front, and, 
 mounting upward, seemed to shake the 
 earth on which they trod. 
 
 The musicians might blow themselves red 
 in the face, the drummers beat the strained 
 sheepskins to bursting, and make no head- 
 way against this din of cannon. 
 
 The men of Boyce's brigade, as they came 
 into the little space where they could hear 
 the music above the artillery, and caught 
 the step it was setting, hardly looked that 
 way, but pushed forward with eyes straight 
 ahead, and grave, drawn faces on which the 
 cheerful sunlight seemed a mockery. 
 
• 
 
 42 A Day in the V/ilderness. 
 
 When the band had finished " The Faded 
 Coat of Blue " the sky was still clear over- 
 head, but from the gully below a dense 
 cloud of smoke had spread upward to choke 
 the morning light. While the bandsmen 
 paused, blowing their instruments clear and 
 breathing hard, this smoke began to thicken 
 the air about the rock which sheltered them. 
 
 In a minute more the front figures of the 
 endless moving: chain before them seemed 
 to be walking of¥ into a fog, and the atmos- 
 phere was all at once heavy with the smell 
 of gunpowder. 
 
 Curiously enough, the men's faces bright- 
 ened at this. There came a block now 
 somewhere on the road ahead, and the 
 column halted. The regimental fiags, with 
 the color-guard, were just abreast of the 
 band. The serseant took out his knife to 
 
 '&' 
 
 cut one of the furling strings that was in a 
 hard knot, and untied the rest, shaking out 
 the silken folds of the banners. 
 
 " I always untie 'em when we get into 
 the smoke," he said, speaking at large. 
 
The Valley of Death. 143 
 
 The drummer-boy nearest the road moved 
 over to study the flags. He held his head 
 to one side and scrutinized them critically. 
 
 " No bullet holes in "em yet, to speak of, 
 I notice," he remarked to the sergeant, rais- 
 ing a clear, sharp young voice above the 
 universal racket. " Guess you'll get enough 
 to-day to make up ! " he added. 
 
 The old sergeant nodded his head. 
 " Something besides flags will get holes in 
 'em, too," he returned, lifting his voice also, 
 like a man talking in the teeth of a roaring 
 gale. 
 
 ' " What are you } Michiganders } " shouted 
 the boy. 
 
 " No — Ohio ! " the sergeant bawled back. 
 " When they changed the corps, they 
 brigaded us all up fresh, so that we don't 
 know our own mothers. We've got in with 
 some New Yorkers that ain't got no more 
 sense than to chew fine-cut tobacco. You 
 can't raise a plug in a whole regiment of 
 'em. Regular pumpkin-heads ! " 
 
 " They'll show you fellows the way, down 
 
144 ^ ^^y ^^^ ^^^^ Wilderness. 
 
 below there, though ! " retorted the boy, his 
 injured state pride adding shrillness to his 
 tone. " Ohio's no good, anyhow ! " 
 
 He instinctively moved beyond reach of 
 the sergeant's boot, as he passed this last 
 remark. Some of the men in the crowded 
 ranks close by laughed at his impudence, 
 and he himself was grinning with a sense 
 of successful repartee, when he felt a hand 
 laid on his shoulder. He looked up, and 
 found himself confronting a young, fair- 
 faced officer, who was regarding him with 
 gravely gentle eyes. 
 
 " Don't say that about any men who are 
 going out to die," this officer said ; and 
 though he did not seem to be speaking 
 loudly, the words fell very distinctly. " I've 
 got a brother at home about your size. 
 So have lots of the rest of us here. We 
 want to carry down there with us a pleasant 
 notion of the last boy we saw." 
 
 "I was only fooling!" the drummer-boy 
 rejoined. 
 
 There was no time for further words, as 
 
The Valley of Death. 145 
 
 the preparatory rattle on the drum-edge 
 behind warned him. In another minute he 
 was back in his place, and the band was 
 hurling forth into the general uproar the 
 strains of " The Red, White, and Blue." 
 
 The column had begun to move again. 
 The flags, the color-guard, the young officer 
 with the sad, gentle eyes, had passed down- 
 ward out of sight, and company after com- 
 pany of their regiment came pressing on- 
 ward now. 
 
 The boy, as he kept up with his part of 
 the familiar work, watched these Ohio men 
 swing past. They seemed young fellows, 
 for the most part, and their uniforms were 
 significantly new and clean. Everything 
 about them showed that they were going 
 under fire for the first time, though they 
 pushed forward as stoutly as veterans. The 
 boy found himself hoping that a good many 
 of these Ohio men would come back all 
 right — and most of all that young officer 
 who had a brother about his size. 
 
 All this while a group of field officers 
 
146 A Day in the Wilderness. 
 
 had been standing on the ridge up above 
 the rocky mound which sheltered the band. 
 Their figures, with broad liats and big-cuffed 
 gauntlets, had grown indistinct against the 
 sky as the smoke thickened. Now they 
 gave up trying to follow through their 
 glasses the movements in the vale below, 
 and turned to descend. 
 
 Their horses, which men had been hold- 
 ing near the musicians, were hastily brought 
 forward, and the general and his staff 
 sprang into the saddle and trotted over 
 toward the road. 
 
 The end of the column was in view, 
 with its disorder of servants, baggage-car- 
 riers, soldiers who had lost their places, and 
 behind, the looming canvas covers of am- 
 bulance-wagons and the train. Into the 
 thick of this straggling mass General 
 Boyce, sitting splendidly erect and with a 
 bold smile on his rosy-cheeked face, spurred 
 his way, and the staff in turn clattered 
 after him down out of sis^ht. The brigrade 
 had passed, and the band stopped playing. 
 
The Valley of Death. 147 
 
 Files of mules, heavily laden with stacks 
 of cartridge-boxes, were still pouring along 
 the road and being whacked down the 
 ravine path ; but the big wagons, as they 
 came, halted, and were drawn off into the 
 field to the left. Tall poles were taken 
 out and set up. Coils of rope were un- 
 wound, stakes driven, and huge cylinders 
 of canvas unrolled on the grass. 
 
 Soon there arose the gray outlines of 
 tents — one dominating structure fully 
 thirty yards long, and around it, like 
 little mushrooms about the parent stool, a 
 number of smaller tents, some square, 
 some conical. The drummer-boy, his task 
 ended, sauntered over with his companions 
 toward the tents. 
 
 He paused to watch the heavy folds of 
 canvas being hauled up to the ridge-pole 
 of the big one. In one way it recalled 
 those preparations on the old circus-ground 
 at home which he used to watch with 
 such zest. But in another way it was 
 strangely different. 
 
148 A Day m the Wilderness. 
 
 While some men tugged at the ropes 
 or drove in stakes for the guy-lines, others 
 were busy bringing from the wagons rolls 
 of blankets and huge trusses of straw. 
 Even before the roof was secure scores 
 of rude beds were being spread on the 
 trampled grass underneath. 
 
 Bearded and spectacled men, dressed 
 after the fashion of officers, yet clearly not 
 soldiers at all, were directing everything 
 now. Among them, here and there, flitted 
 young women, clad also in a sort of uni- 
 form, who seemed busiest of all. 
 
 No, this was decidedly different from a 
 circus tent. The thunder of the batteries 
 on the other side of the ridge was alone 
 enough to throw a solemn meaning over 
 this long, barn-like house of ropes and 
 cloths. It was the brigade hospital-tent, 
 and the hundreds of active hands at work 
 could hardly hope to have it ready before 
 it was needed. 
 
 It was the morning of the second day 
 of the Battle of the Wilderness. The 
 
The Valley of Death. 149 
 
 men of Boyce's brigade knew only vaguely, 
 by hearsay, of what had happened on that 
 terrible yesterday. They themselves, form- 
 ing the rear-guard of the great army, had 
 been nearly the last to cross the Rapidan 
 on the swinging pontoon bridge of Ger- 
 mania ford. They had had a night's 
 forced march ; a two hours' nap in the 
 open starlight; a hasty bite of rations at 
 half-past three in the morning, and now 
 this plunge in the chilly twilight of sun- 
 rise down into the unknown. 
 
 There had been, just before the general 
 advance across the Rapidan, a wholesale 
 shaking-up of army organization. Two 
 whole corps had been abolished, and their 
 strength distributed among the three re- 
 maining corps. Regiments found them- 
 selves suddenly torn from their old asso- 
 ciates, and brigaded with strangers. Their 
 pet officers disappeared, and others took 
 their places whom the men did not know 
 and were disposed to dislike. 
 
 To add to this discontent, there was an 
 
150 A Day in the Wilderness. 
 
 understanding that their leaders had been 
 entrapped into this Wilderness fighting. 
 Certainly it was no place which an invad- 
 ing army would have chosen for battle. 
 
 It was a vast, sprawling forest district, 
 densely covered with low timber, scrub- 
 oak, dwarf junipers, and tangled cedars and 
 pines, all knit together breast-high and up- 
 ward with interlacing wild vines, and foul 
 underfoot with swamp or thicket. 
 
 In this gloomy and sinister wilderness 
 men did not know where they were, nor 
 whom they were fighting. Whole com- 
 mands were lost in the impenetrable 
 woods. Mounted orderlies could not get 
 about through the underbrush, and orders 
 sent out were never delivered. 
 
 Though gulches and steep ravines 
 abounded, cutting sharp gashes through 
 the forest, there were no hills upon which 
 a general and his keen-eyed staff might 
 perch themselves and get an idea of how 
 the land about them lay. The Confeder- 
 ates had plenty of this local knowledge, 
 
The Valley of Death. 151 
 
 and used it to terrible purpose. The in- 
 vaders could only put their heads down, and 
 strive to crush their way blindly through. 
 
 After a little, the drummer-boy put his 
 snare-drurn in the wagon where the other 
 instruments were, and started off up the 
 ridge, to see what the general and his staff 
 had been observing earlier in the morning. 
 
 As he neared the summit, he noticed 
 that the roar of the cannon directly in 
 front seemed to have died down a good 
 deal. There were still angry outbursts, 
 but one had to wait for them now; and a 
 new kind of noise, made up of peal after 
 peal of crackling musketry fire, was rising 
 from the gully farther to the left. 
 
 The boy had come now to the top of 
 the ridge, only to find it crowned with a 
 thick fringe of alders which completely 
 shut out his view. From the roots of the 
 farther bushes the hillside dropped precipi- 
 tously. He worked his way along until, 
 by a cleft in the "ocks, an opening offered 
 itself. 
 
152 A Day in the Wilder^iess. 
 
 Here, stooping low and bending aside 
 the alders, he could creep out upon a big, 
 flat, moss-grown boulder, which overhung 
 the ravine like a balcony. He had not 
 thought he was so high up. The other 
 side of the gulf spread out before him 
 could not be seen for the smoke — but the 
 tops of tall pines growing on its bottom 
 were far below him. 
 
 The steepness of the descent made him 
 dizzy. The rock on which he stood seemed 
 to be suspended in mid-air. He drew 
 back a little. Then curiosity got the 
 upper hand. He laid himself face down 
 on the boulder, and edged cautiously for- 
 ward till he could peer over its front. 
 
 The fog-like smoke was so dense that 
 at first he could see nothing. Even when 
 the bearings of the land below, masked as 
 it all was under forest, began to be appar- 
 ent to him, his ears were still the best 
 guide to what was going on. The con- 
 fused sound of men's shouts and yells 
 mingled now with the intermittent volleys 
 
The Valley of Death. 153 
 
 of musketry to the left. The cannon-firing 
 had stopped altogether. 
 
 He discovered all at once that a good 
 many of the tree-tops in front of him 
 seemed to have been broken off very re- 
 cently. Some were hanging to the trunks 
 by their bark ; everywhere the splinters 
 were white and fresh. Now that he lis- 
 tened more intently, there were weird 
 whistling noises among these shattered 
 boughs and an incessant dropping of 
 leaves and twigs. 
 
 Suddenly a big branch not far away 
 shook violently, then toppled downward. 
 At the same moment a swift ring-ins: buzz 
 sounded just over his head, and a bunch 
 of alder-blossoms fell upon one of his 
 hands. He pulled himself back abruptly. 
 
 Crawling backward out through the al- 
 ders, he did not venture to lift his head 
 until there was a comfortable wall of rocks 
 between him and that murderous ravine. 
 Then, getting to his feet, he looked amazed 
 down upon the brigade camp, which he 
 
154 ^ Day in the Wilderness. 
 
 had left an hour before. The big tent, 
 and the Httle ones about it, only a while 
 ago the scene of such bustling activity, 
 were all deserted. 
 
 Some of the wagons could be seen roll- 
 ing and bumping off toward the road to 
 the left under drivers who stood up to 
 lash their teams. The white, canvas- 
 hooped tops were the centres of wild con- 
 fusion. 
 
 Other drivers were scurrying off on 
 horseback, leading with them in a frantic 
 gallop groups of the team horses, pulled 
 along by their bunched reins. The peo- 
 ple on foot — doctors, nurses, camp-guards 
 and the rest — were all racing pell-mell 
 toward the road for dear life. 
 
 Thunderstruck at the spectacle, the boy 
 turned to the ris^ht. A lons^, double line 
 of men had come out through the woods 
 in which the ridge lost itself, and were ad- 
 vancing upon the camp at a sharp run. 
 They seemed dressed in a sort of mud- 
 colored uniform, and they raised a sharp 
 
The Valley of Death. 155 
 
 whoop of triumph as they came. At the 
 farther end of the hne, some of these men 
 Hfted their guns as they ran, and fired into 
 the receding mass of fugitives. 
 
 Down in front, meantime, the foremost 
 of the advancing Hne had reached the 
 camp and entered upon possession. They 
 had begun overhauhng the captured wag- 
 ons, and were tossing out loaves of bread 
 and hardtack boxes, which their comrades, 
 fell upon eagerly. The boy reflected now 
 that he himself was hungry, and he 
 scratched his head with perplexity. 
 
 The sound of panting breath close be- 
 side him made him turn swiftly. A man 
 had clambered up the side of the ridge, 
 away from the camp, and had rushed up 
 to him, his eyes starting from his head 
 with excitement. He waved something 
 like a short stick, with wild gestures, and 
 tried to shout, but could only pant instead. 
 
 He stopped as he came up, stared at 
 the boy, then shook his head dolefully as 
 he gasped for breath. 
 
156 A Day hi the Wilderness. 
 
 " Is dot you, Lafe ? " he managed to 
 groan. "Oh, my jiminy "priest! " 
 
 "Look out!" cried the boy. "Lie down!" 
 
 Some of the men below had caught 
 sight of them, and two or three sparks 
 and jets of smoke told that they were 
 being fired at. Though they were prob- 
 ably beyond range, it was safer behind 
 the alders, so the two crawled out on the 
 .overhanging ledge. 
 
 " I say, Foldeen, have they scooped the 
 old band wagon .'* I couldn't see from 
 here," was the boy's first remark. 
 
 " Dey von't get 'em my flute, anyhow," 
 the other responded, holding proudly forth 
 the ebony stock with its silver keys, which 
 he had been waving so vehemently. "I don't 
 catch me putting him in de bant vagon." 
 
 Even as he spoke he clutched the boy 
 fiercely by the arm, with a smothered ex- 
 clamation of horror. The rock on which 
 they crouched had stirred from its founda- 
 tions, and as the two instinctively strove to 
 turn themselves, it lurched outward, and 
 went crashing down the steep declivity. 
 
CHAPTER II. 
 
 LAFE RECONNOITRES THE VALLEY. 
 
 /^~^N the river road below the tannery, 
 ^■^^ away back in New York State, there 
 stood for many years a small house, always 
 surrounded in summer by sunflowers and 
 hollyhocks and peonies that enwrapped it 
 as in a beautiful garment. It seemed that 
 flowers grew nowhere else as they did for 
 the Widow Hornbeck. 
 
 There was no other such show of lilacs 
 in Juno Mills as that which early May 
 brought for her front yard. The climbing 
 roses which covered the whole front and 
 side of the poor little house were only of 
 the simple, old sorts, — the Baltimore Belle, 
 the yellow Scotch and the ordinary pink 
 brier, — but they bore thick clusters of 
 delightful blossoms. And in the fall, when 
 
 IS7 
 
158 A Day in the Wilderness. 
 
 the frosts had nipped and blackened other 
 people's flowers, the asters and nasturtiums 
 and gladiolus in this wee patch appeared 
 unhurt by the weather. 
 
 When there was to be a wedding in the 
 village, or some celebration at the church 
 or the school-house, the children always 
 went to the Widow Hornbeck to beg for 
 flowers. Often they found her sitting out 
 in her yard among the plants she loved — 
 a mild-faced, patient little woman, with 
 thin, bent shoulders and hair whitened 
 before its time ; and she would be poring 
 through her spectacles over the same big 
 Book spread open on her knees. 
 
 The spectacle of Mrs. Hornbeck and her 
 family Bible, framed like a picture in 
 vines and flowering shrubs, grew pleas- 
 antly familiar to everybody in the district. 
 Strangers driving past used to stop their 
 buggies and admire the place ; and they, 
 too, seeing the white-haired owner sitting 
 there, would feel that her presence added 
 to the charm of the scene 
 
Lafe reconnoitres the Valley. 159 
 
 The widow died suddenly one day in 
 the autumn of 1863. She was found quite 
 hfeless, seated as of old in the garden, with 
 the old patient, wistful half-smile on her 
 face, and the old Book spread open in her 
 lap. 
 
 The village was sad for a day or two, 
 and gently touched for a fortnight. Then 
 the widow had been forgotten, and the 
 family Bible had vanished. The cottage 
 was taken for the mortgage upon it, and 
 its meagre contents went the way of humble, 
 ownerless thino^s. Mrs. Hornbeck had been 
 very poor, and nothing was left for her son. 
 
 In that family Bible had been written 
 the names of some score of Hornbecks. 
 Aorainst all these names but two a date of 
 death had also been inscribed. One of 
 these two names, the last in the list, was 
 that of the boy, now made an orphan, the 
 Benjamin of the widow's flock. He was 
 described on the yellowed page, in his 
 mother's scrawling hand, as "Washington 
 Lafayette Hornbeck, born April 30, 1850." 
 
i6o A Day in the Wilderness. 
 
 In real life he had always been known as 
 "Lafe." 
 
 He grew up a brown-skinned, hardy sort 
 of ordinary boy, whose face might suggest 
 some acuteness and more resolution, but 
 whom nobody thought of calling good- 
 looking. 
 
 He turned out to be the best wrestler 
 among the village lads of his age, and he 
 was also the strongest swimmer of all the 
 lot who used to go down, of a summer 
 evening, to dive off the spring-board into 
 the deep pool below the mill-dam. This 
 raised him a good deal in the esteem of 
 the boys, but somehow their elders were 
 not so much impressed by " Lafe's " 
 qualities. 
 
 He had to work, and he did work, but 
 always at some new job — now berry-pick- 
 ing, now stripping willows for the basket 
 factory, now packing " heave-powders " for 
 the local horse-doctor. He had been em- 
 ployed in the mills and m the tannery, and 
 he had once travelled for a month as the 
 
Lafe reconnoitres the Valley. i6i 
 
 assistant of a tin-peddler, not to mention 
 various experiments in general farm-work. 
 
 People hardly blamed Lafe for this lack 
 of steadiness in employment. They said 
 it was in his blood. All the Hornbecks 
 since any one, could remember had been 
 musicians — playing the fiddle or whatever 
 else you liked at country dances, and some 
 of them even journeying to distant parts as 
 members of circus or minstrel bands. 
 
 It was felt that a boy from such a roving 
 stock could scarcely be expected to tie 
 himself down to regular work. 
 
 Doubtless Lafe felt this, too, for as soon 
 as he began thinking what he should do, 
 after the shock of his mother's death, he 
 found himself wishing to be a drummer- 
 boy. The notion struck all the neighbors 
 as quite appropriate. Lafe was a capital 
 drummer. Kind old Doctor Peabody went 
 with him to Tecumseh, saw the head re- 
 cruiting officer at the big barracks there, 
 and arranged matters for him. 
 
 Lafe was sent forward to New York, and 
 
1 62 A Day in the Wilderness. 
 
 thence to headquarters at the front. Men 
 liked him, and his* lifelong familiarity with 
 instruments made him a handy boy to have 
 about. Before long he was taken out of 
 the little company drum-corps, and pro- 
 moted to the big brigade band. 
 
 This very morning, when he went up 
 from the hospital camp to the ridge where 
 he hoped to see the fighting beyond, he 
 had been thinking whether this promotion 
 had been what he wanted. 
 
 All his dreams had been of action — of 
 brave drummer-boys who went into battle 
 with the fifes, and stood through it all by 
 the side of the file-leader, valiantly pound- 
 ing their sheep-skins as the shot and shell 
 screamed past, and men pitched headlong, 
 and officers were hurled from their horses, 
 and the fight was lost or won. 
 
 Alas ! a brigade band never got so 
 much as a whiff of actual warfare, but 
 tamely stayed about in camp, playing selec- 
 tions outside the general's headquarters 
 while he ate his dinner, or contributing its 
 
Lafe reconnoitres the Valley. 163 
 
 quota to the ceremonial of a Sunday dress- 
 parade. 
 
 Perhaps nothing more was to be looked 
 for during the long winter in peaceful 
 quarters at Brandy Station ; but now that 
 spring had come, and the grand advance 
 was begun, and battles were in the air all 
 about them — even now the bandsmen 
 merely gave the warriors a tune or two 
 to start them off, and then ingloriously 
 loafed around the camp till they returned, 
 or did not return, as the case might be. 
 One might almost as well have stayed at 
 home in Juno Mills! 
 
 The great rock on which Lafe and the 
 German flute-player Foldeen had taken 
 their station gave way beneath them, as 
 was stated in the last chapter, and smashed 
 its way down the steep hillside, crushing 
 the brush and rooting up vines as it went, 
 snapping saplings like pipestems, and bowl- 
 ing over even trees of a larger growth. It 
 brought up almost at the bottom of the hill, 
 in the heart of a clump of sturdy cedars. 
 
164 A Day in the Wilderness. 
 
 A long gash of earth laid bare and of 
 foliage ripped and strewn aside stretched 
 up the incline to mark the track of the 
 fallen boulder. Half-way up this pathway 
 of devastation a boy presently appeared. 
 
 Lafe had crawled up out of the debris of 
 saplings, boughs, and tangled creepers into 
 which he had been hurled, and clambered 
 over now to the open space. Then he 
 stood looking up and down ih a puzzled 
 way, rubbing his head. His clothes were 
 torn a good deal, he had lost his cap, and 
 he was conscious of numerous bruises 
 under these damaged clothes of his. 
 
 There was blood on the palm of his 
 hand, which had come from his head. So 
 far as feeling could guide him, this, how- 
 ever, was nothing but a scalp scratch. He 
 cared more about the tremendous bark 
 one of his shins had got, close up under 
 his knee. When he took his first aimless 
 steps, this had already stiffened, and was 
 hurting him. 
 
 Suddenly he remembered that he had 
 
Lafe reconnoitres the Valley. 165 
 
 not been alone on the rock. Foldeen 
 Schell had been with him, and had 
 grabbed his arm just as everything gave 
 way under them. His wits were still wool- 
 gathering under the combined scare and 
 tumble, and he began mechanically poking 
 about among the underbrush at his feet, as 
 if the missing flute-player might be hidden 
 there. Or was he hunting for his cap ? 
 For a dazed minute or two he hardly 
 knew. 
 
 Then the sense of bewilderment lifted 
 itself, and was gone. Lafe straightened 
 himself, and looked comprehensively about 
 him. 
 
 " Foldeen ! " he shouted shrilly, and then 
 bent all his powers of hearing for a reply. 
 There came no answering call. 
 
 The air was full of other sounds — the 
 rattling echoes of musketry-firing and the 
 boom of bigger guns, some far off, others 
 seemingly near, all mingling here among the 
 thicket recesses in a subdued, continuous 
 clamor. Perhaps shouting was of no use. 
 
1 66 A Day in the Wilderness. 
 
 Lafe climbed up the hill a dozen yards or 
 so, to a point where he could go no farther, 
 and scrutinized his surroundings carefully. 
 The impenetrable wall of foliage shut out 
 the valley from him even more completely 
 than when he was on the ridge. He called 
 again and again, and explored the bushes on 
 either side, to no purpose. 
 
 Limping slowly down the track cleared 
 by the passing rock, he continued his search 
 to the right and left. He knew so little 
 of how he himself had escaped death that 
 there was nothing to help him guess how it 
 had fared with his companion. 
 
 He had not known much about this 
 missing bandsman heretofore, save that he 
 seemed to be the best fellow amono^ the 
 three or four German musicians which the 
 band contained. The boy, like the rest, 
 spoke and thought of all these alien com- 
 rades as " Dutchmen," and he was far from 
 comprehending that that outlandish name 
 " Foldeen " was only a corruption of " Val- 
 entine." But a common misfortune binds 
 
Lafe reconnoitres the Valley. 167 
 
 swift ties, and Lafe, as he kept up his quest, 
 began to think of Schell quite affectionately. 
 
 He recalled how good-tempered he had 
 always been ; how he alone had made jokes 
 on the long march, when the cold and driv- 
 ing rain had soured every one else, and 
 empty stomachs grumbled to keep company 
 with aching bones. 
 
 Reflecting upon this, Lafe realized that 
 he was very fond of the " Dutchman," and 
 would be in despair if he had come to grief. 
 
 " Foldeen ! " he yelled out again. 
 
 " Sh ! sh ! geeb guiet ! " came a guttural 
 reply, from somewhere near by. 
 
 The boy's heart lightened on the instant. 
 He looked hastily about him with a cheerful 
 eye, trying to trace the direction of the 
 voice. " Where are you ? " he demanded, 
 in a lower tone. 
 
 For answer, the blue-coated German rose 
 from a cover of brush, away down the hill, 
 and beckoned him, enforcing at the same 
 time by emphatic gestures the importance 
 of coming noiselessly. 
 
1 68 A Day in the Wilderness. 
 
 Lafe stole down furtively, and in a minute 
 was bending close beside Foldeen in shrubby 
 shelter. 
 
 " Get hurt any ? " Lafe asked, subduing 
 his voice almost to a whisper in deference to 
 the other's visible anxiety. 
 
 Foldeen shook his head. " It is much 
 worse," he murmured back. " I have my 
 flute lost." 
 
 The boy could not but smile. " We can 
 thank our stars we weren't both smashed to 
 atoms," he observed. 
 
 " Sh-h ! don't talk ! " Foldeen adjured him, 
 and indicated with a sidewise nod of the 
 head that special reasons for silence lay in 
 that direction. 
 
 Lafe edged himself forward, and looked 
 out through the bushes. They were on the 
 crest of a little mound which jutted out 
 slightly from the descending face of the 
 hillside. The bottom of the ravine lay only 
 thirty feet or so below them. 
 
 Save for scattered clumps of dwarf firs, 
 hardly higher than the mullein stalks about 
 
Lafe reconnoitres the Valley. 169 
 
 them, the ground was clear, and the short 
 grass told Lafe's practised eye that it was 
 pasture land. Beyond, there was the grav-* 
 elled bed of a stream, along which a small 
 rivulet wandered from side to side. 
 
 At the first glance his eye had taken in 
 various splashes of color dotting the grass, 
 which suggested bluebells. He saw now 
 that these were made by the uniforms of 
 men, who lay sprawled in various unnatural 
 postures, flat on the green earth. Most of 
 them were on their faces, and not one of 
 them stirred. Lafe moved his head about 
 among the screening bushes, and was able to 
 count twenty-six of these motionless figures. 
 
 The boy had seen such sights before, and 
 had even helped bring in the wounded from 
 the field of Payne's Farm during the most of 
 a long, cold night in the previous November. 
 This experience guided him now to remark 
 a curious thing. No muskets, knapsacks, or 
 canteens were scattered about beside these 
 fallen men. And another odd detail — they 
 were all barefooted. 
 
lyo A Day in the Wilderness. 
 
 " Some one's been along, after the fight- 
 ing was over, and skinned everything 
 clean," he muttered to his companion. 
 
 Foldeen nodded again, and once more 
 held up a warning hand. He himself was 
 intently watching something beneath, from 
 his side of the leafy cover. The boy 
 shifted his position, and craning his * neck 
 over the other's shoulder, saw that just 
 below them, where the ascent began, there 
 stretched a rough, newly made ridge of 
 sods, fence rails and tree-tops, which had 
 evidently been used as a breastwork. 
 
 Behind this there were other human 
 forms, also lying prone, but clad in gray 
 or butternut instead of blue. Here, too, 
 there was no sign of life, but only that 
 fixed absence of motion to which the 
 remote thunder of gun-fire gave such a 
 bitter meaning. 
 
 " Anybody there ? " whispered the boy. 
 
 " I dink so," returned Foldeen, under his 
 breath. " Dere is some, what you call it, 
 hanky-banky, goes on here. Look your- 
 self!" 
 
Lafe reconnoitres the Valley. 171 
 
 He moved aside, and Lafe crowded into 
 his place, and put his head out cautiously 
 through the bushes. In one corner of the 
 breastwork there was to be seen a big 
 pile of accoutrements — knapsacks, muskets, 
 swords, water-bottles, and the like, as well 
 as a heap of old boots and miscellaneous 
 foot-gear. 
 
 " Veil, how you make it out } " asked 
 Foldeen. 
 
 Lafe drew in his head. " The way I 
 figure it," he whispered, " is first, that they 
 held this place against our men, and drove 
 'em off. Then they went out, and gathered 
 up these traps, and brought 'em in there. 
 Then some more of our men came along, 
 and chased them out. That's what it looks 
 like." 
 
 " Well, den, vare is gone dem second 
 men of ours } " the German demanded. 
 
 " They've gone after 'em, up the valley, 
 there." 
 
 Foldeen shook his head. " Dey don't do 
 such foolishness," he objected. " Ven dey 
 
172 A Day in the Wilderness. 
 
 take some place like dis, den dey shtick 
 to him. I know so much, if I do blay 
 mid the band." 
 
 " There'd be rations in the knapsacks," 
 mused Lafe, after a pause. He had never 
 been so hungry before in his life. 
 
 " What do you say to sneaking down 
 there, and trying to find something to 
 eat? " he suggested. "Come on!" he added 
 persuasively. " There's nobody down there 
 that — nobody that we need be afraid of." 
 
 " Veil, I am afraid, dot's all," responded 
 Foldeen. 
 
 " They can't do more than make us pris- 
 oners," urged the boy, "and that's better 
 than starving to death. Come on ! I'm 
 going to make a try." 
 
 The German took his companion by the 
 arm. " See here," he explained ; " ven dey 
 catch you, dot's all right. You are 
 prisoner; dot's all. Ven dey catch me, 
 den it goes one, two, dree — bang, und den 
 Foldeen Schell addends his own funeral. 
 Dot's the difference by you und me." 
 
Lafe reconnoitres the Valley. 173 
 
 " Nonsense ! " said Lafe. " They don't 
 shoot anybody in the band." 
 
 " Anyhow, dey shoot me out of de band," 
 persisted Foldeen, gloomily. " I was in dot 
 oder army myself, sometimes." 
 
 The boy drew a long breath of en- 
 lightened surprise, which was almost a 
 whistle. 
 
 " Well, then, you stay here," he said, after 
 a little, " and I'll take a look at the thing 
 by myself." 
 
 Suiting the action to the word, Lafe laid 
 hold of the stoutest saplings, and lowered 
 himself down by his arms to the ledge 
 below. The footing was not quite easy ; 
 but by hanging to the vines he managed 
 to work his way obliquely across the face 
 of the declivity, and yet keep pretty well 
 under cover of the bushes. 
 
 Suddenly, emerging from the thicket, he 
 found himself quite inside the breastwork, 
 which he had entered from the open rear. 
 The more terrible signs of the conflict 
 which had been waQ-ed here a few hours 
 
174 -^ Day in the Wilderness. 
 
 before forced themselves upon his atten- 
 tion, first of all. 
 
 He braced himself to walk past them, 
 and to go straight to the heap of knap- 
 sacks piled up among the branches in the 
 corner. 
 
 Lifting one of the haversacks, he opened 
 it. There was a tin cup on top, and some 
 woollen things which might be socks. 
 Pushing his hand under these, he came 
 upon some bread, and paused to express 
 his content by a smile. 
 
 " Drop it — you ! " 
 
 A loud, peremptory voice close at his 
 shoulder caused the boy to turn with 
 alarmed abruptness. A burly man, with 
 a rough, sandy stubble of beard about his 
 face, had come into the breastwork — or. 
 perhaps had been hidden there all the while. 
 
 Lafe's first impulse was one of satisfaction 
 at noting that the stranger wore the blue 
 Union uniform. 
 
 Then he looked into the man's face, and 
 the instinct of pleasure died suddenly away. 
 
CHAPTER III. 
 
 THE BOUNTY-JUMPER. 
 
 '\A7'HEN Lafe Hornbeck looked into the 
 countenance of the strange man who 
 appeared thus unexpectedly before him in 
 the deserted breastwork, it needed no 
 second glance to tell him that he had to 
 deal with a scoundrel. A threateninor and 
 formidable scoundrel he seemed, too, with 
 his heavy, slouching shoulders, his long 
 arms ending in huge, hairy hands, and the 
 surly scowl on his low-browed, frowzy face. 
 He wore the dark-blue jacket and light- 
 blue trousers of the Federal infantry, and 
 their relative newness showed that he was 
 a fresh recruit. His badge was the Maltese 
 cross of the Fifth Corps, and its color, red, 
 indicated the First Division. This was the 
 corps and division of Boyce's brigade. 
 
 N 177 
 
178 A Day in the Wilderness. 
 
 Even in the first minute of surprised 
 scrutiny of the fellow Lafe found himself 
 thinking that he probably belonged to that 
 Ohio regiment which he had seen bringing 
 up the rear of the line forming for battle. 
 
 " Drop it, I say ! " the man repeated, 
 harshly. 
 
 Lafe drew his hand from the haversack 
 slowly and reluctantly, 
 
 " There's enough more of 'em here," he 
 protested, nodding at the pile in the corner 
 of the earthwork. " I haven't had a mouth- 
 ful since before sunrise, and I'm hungry." 
 
 " Where 'd you come from, anyway, and 
 what business have you got here ? " the 
 other demanded, with an oath and a for- 
 ward step. 
 
 " I'm Fifth Corps, same as you are," re- 
 plied Lafe, making an effort to keep his 
 voice bold and firm, " and I came here by 
 tumbling head over heels down that hill 
 there, right spang from top to bottom." 
 He took courage from the indecision ap- 
 parent in the man's eyes to add, " And 
 
The Bounty-j2iinper. 1 79 
 
 that's why I'm going to have something 
 to eat." 
 
 The stranger gave a grunt, which, bad- 
 tempered though it was, did not seem to 
 forbid the action, and Lafe drew forth the 
 bread again. It was dry and tasteless 
 enough, but he almost forgot to look at 
 his unwelcome companion in the satisfac- 
 tion which he had in gulping down the food. 
 
 The man lounged over to the pile of hav- 
 ersacks, muskets, and clothing, and seemed 
 to be trying to make out whether any- 
 thing was missing. He grunted again, and 
 turned to Lafe just as the last crust was 
 disappearing. 
 
 " You're a drummer, ain't you } " he said 
 roughly. " Where do you belong } " 
 
 Lafe held up his hand to signify that 
 his mouth was too full to talk. " Boyce's 
 brigade," he explained, after a little. 
 
 " That ain't what I asked. What's your 
 regiment ? " 
 
 " Haven't got any regiment," replied Lafe. 
 *' I'm in the brisfade band." 
 
 o 
 
i8o A Day in the Wilderness. 
 
 " Oh ! " growled the man, and turned on 
 his heel. The information seemed to re- 
 lieve his mind, for when he had taken a 
 few loitering steps about the enclosure, and 
 confronted Lafe again, his tone was less 
 quarrelsome. " Left the hospital camp up 
 there, eh '^. " he asked, with a sidelong 
 nod of his head toward the top of the 
 hill. 
 
 " Well, yes — and no," responded the boy. 
 " It was there when I left it, but it ain't 
 there now. Or rather, it is there, but we 
 ain't there." 
 
 " What are you driving at ? " the man 
 demanded, once more in a rougher voice. 
 
 " The rebs have gobbled it," said Lafe. 
 " Our folks were skedaddling and the rebs 
 were coming in the last I saw." 
 
 The man gave a low whistle of surprise 
 and interest. He began walking about 
 again, bending his ugly brows in thought 
 meanwhile. From time to time he paused 
 to ask other questions, as to which way 
 the people of the brigade camp had fled, 
 
The Botinty-Jumper. i8l 
 
 how large was the force which had capt- 
 ured the camp, and the Hke. 
 
 The news evidently impressed him a 
 good deal. Lafe got the idea that some- 
 how it changed his plans. What were 
 these plans .f* the boy wondered. The 
 whole thing was very hard to make out. 
 More than once he had had it in mind to 
 say that he had left another member of 
 the band, a very nice fellow indeed, up on 
 the side-hill above them, who must also 
 be hungry, and to suggest that he should 
 call him down. 
 
 But every time, when this rose to his 
 tongue, a glance at the evil face of the 
 man restrained him. He could not but 
 remember what Foldeen had hinted, that 
 there was some " deviltry " going on down 
 below here. What was it.'^ 
 
 " There must have been some pretty 
 tough fighting right here," he ventured to 
 remark, after a while. 
 
 " You bet there was ! " the other as- 
 sented. He seemed not averse to a little 
 
1 82 A Day in the Wilderness. 
 
 talk, though his mind was still on other 
 things. 
 
 " I don't quite figure it out," the boy 
 went on, cautiously. " Of course, wrast- 
 ling round in the woods like this, you 
 can't make head nor tail of how thinors 
 go, or who's on top, or where — but how 
 does it stand — right here, I mean.? We're 
 in our own lines here, ain't we t " 
 
 The stranger fixed a long, inquiring 
 glance upon the boy's face. Lafe returned 
 the gaze with all the calmness he could 
 muster. He could not help feeling that 
 there was a good deal of stupidity in the 
 stare under which he bore up. The man 
 was not quick-minded ; that was clear 
 enough. But it was also plain that he 
 was both a stubborn and a brutal creature. 
 
 " Yes," he growled, after he had stared 
 Lafe out of countenance, " yes, these are 
 our own lines." 
 
 The phrase seemed to tickle his fancy, 
 for something like the beginning of a grin 
 stirred on the stubbly surface about his 
 
The Bounty- Jumper. 183 
 
 mouth. "Yes — our own lines," he re- 
 peated. How strange it was ! All at 
 once, like a flash, Lafe remembered having 
 seen this man before. That slow, sulky 
 wavering of a grimace on his lips be- 
 trayed him. Swiftly pursuing the clue, the 
 boy reconstructed in his mind a scene in 
 which this man had played the chief part. 
 
 It must have been in the early part of 
 the previous December — just after the 
 army went into winter quarters behind the 
 line of the Orange railroad, cooped up in 
 its earth-huts all the way from Culpeper 
 Court House to Brandy Station. Lafe had 
 gone over on leave one afternoon to the 
 corps headquarters — it must have been of 
 a Thursday, because there was to be a 
 military execution the next day, and these 
 were always fixed for Friday. 
 
 The army was then receiving almost 
 weekly large batches of raw recruits, sent 
 from the big cities, some the product of 
 the draft, others forwarded by the enlist- 
 ment bureaus. Among these new-comers 
 
184 A Day m the Wilderness. 
 
 were many good citizens and patriots; but 
 there were also a great many cowards and 
 a considerable number of scoundrels who 
 made a business of enlisting to get the 
 bounty, deserting as soon as they could, 
 and enlisting again from some other point. 
 
 To prevent wholesale desertions, both 
 of the cowards and the " bounty-jumpers," 
 the utmost vigilance was needed. Their 
 best chance to run away was offered by 
 picket duty, when they found themselves 
 posted out in comparative solitude, in the 
 dark, on the very outskirts of the army 
 line. 
 
 To checkmate this, a cordon of cavalry 
 had to be drawn still farther out than the 
 pickets — cavalry-men who slept all day, 
 and at night patrolled the uttermost con- 
 fines of the great camp, watching with all 
 their eyes and ears, ready on the instant 
 to clap spurs and ride down any skulking 
 wretch who could be discovered attempt- 
 ing his escape. 
 
 Even in the teeth of this precaution, 
 
The Bounty- Jumper. 185 
 
 the attempts were continually made, and 
 it was the rarest event for a Friday to 
 pass without the spectacle of summary 
 punishment being meted out to some capt- 
 ured deserter on the corps' shooting- 
 ground. Often there were more than one 
 of these victims to martial law. 
 
 Lafe now remembered how, with a boy's 
 curiosity, he had prowled about the provost 
 marshal's guard quarters, fascinated by the 
 idea tliat inside the log shanty, where the 
 two sentinels with fixed bayonets walked 
 constantly up and down, there were men 
 condemned to be shot at six the following 
 
 o 
 
 morning. 
 
 Standing around, and gossiping amiably 
 with these sentinels, who shared the com- 
 mon feeling of the army in making pets 
 of the drummer-boys, he had managed at 
 last to get a glimpse at one of these fated 
 prisoners. 
 
 A face had appeared at the little win- 
 dow, square-cut in the logs. It was a bad, 
 unkempt face, with a reddish stubble of 
 
1 86 A Day in the Wilderness. 
 
 beard on jaws and cheek. There may have 
 been some rough jest passed by the other 
 prisoners inside the hut, for as the boy 
 watched this face, a grim, mean sort of smile 
 flickered momentarily over it. 
 
 Then the face itself disappeared, and left 
 the boy marvelling that a man could grin 
 in presence of the fact that he was to be 
 shot on the morrow. 
 
 The smile, and the countenance it played 
 upon for that instant of time, burned' them- 
 selves into his memory. Lafe racked his 
 brain now for some recollection of having 
 heard that these particular prisoners were 
 reprieved, or had succeeded in escaping 
 from their log jail. His memory was a 
 blank on the subject. Yet he felt sure 
 that the face he had seen at that window 
 was the identical face he now saw before 
 him. 
 
 For the life of him, he could not resist 
 the temptation to venture upon this dan- 
 gerous topic. 
 
 " You're one of the new regiments 
 
The Bounty-Jumper. 187 
 
 brought over to us from the old First 
 Corps, ain't you ? " he asked, with an effort 
 at an ingratiating tone. 
 
 The man nodded his head in indifferent 
 assent. He seemed to be Hstening intently 
 to the sounds of battle in the air. These 
 were reduced now to faint, far-away crack- 
 lings of rifle-firing, as if only distant sharp- 
 shooters were engaged. 
 
 " Suppose this is about the first time 
 you've been under fire, then," Lafe re- 
 marked. He added, with a bragging air: 
 " I was all through the Payne's Farm and 
 Mine Run racket last November ! That 
 was hot enough, I tell you ! " 
 
 The man made that inarticulate grunt 
 of contempt which we try to convey by 
 the word humph ! " So was I," he growled, 
 " and plenty more fights worse than them." 
 
 " Oh, got your discharge and 'listed 
 again t " commented the boy. 
 
 Again the stranger turned upon him that 
 steady, dull stare of inquiry — like the gaze 
 of a vicious ox. He seemed satisfied at 
 
1 88 A Day in the Wilderness. 
 
 length with the artlessness of Lafe's coun- 
 tenance, but did not trouble himself to 
 answer his suggestion. 
 
 " What do you figure on doin' with your- 
 self ? " he abruptly asked the boy, after a 
 pause. 
 
 " How do I know ? " retorted Lafe. " I'd 
 try and join brigade headquarters, if I knew 
 where they were, but I don't. The next 
 best thing is to try and find some other 
 brigade's headquarters. It's all clear enough 
 outside here now. I guess I'll take some 
 bread with me, and make a break through 
 the woods down the run there. I'll fetch 
 up somewhere, all right." 
 
 He bent over the pile of knapsacks, as if 
 to pick one of them up. 
 
 " No," the man called out. " Leave 'em 
 alone! You can't take no more of them 
 rations, and you can't go down the run. 
 You can't go anywhere." 
 
 Lafe straightened himself. " Why not } " 
 he asked, with an assumption of boldness. 
 
 " Because you can't," the other retorted 
 curtly. 
 
The Bounty -Jumper. 189 
 
 " What can I do, then ? " Lafe inquired 
 defiantly. 
 
 The man looked him over. " You can 
 turn up your toes to the daisies in about 
 another minute, if you don't mind your own 
 business. That's what you can do," he re- 
 marked, with an ugly frown. 
 
 "What's the use of talking that way.?" 
 said Lafe. " I haven't done you any harm, 
 have I.?" 
 
 " No — and you ain't going to, either," 
 was the reply. 
 
 The stranger, as he spoke, took a two- 
 barrelled pistol from his inside jacket-pocket. 
 It was a beautiful weapon, ornamented with 
 a good deal of chased silver. Lafe had seen 
 pistols like this before, in the possession of 
 officers, and knew that they were called 
 Derringers. Private soldiers were not likely 
 to carry weapons of that sort. 
 
 He was sure that this man must have 
 stolen the pistol, and the conviction did 
 not assist Lafe to calmness, as he observed 
 the man push one of the hammers back 
 
190 A Day in the Wilderness. 
 
 with his thumb to full-cock. It is as bad 
 to be shot by stolen firearms as by those 
 which have been bought and paid for. 
 
 The stranger drew from another pocket 
 a gold watch, with a long loop of broad 
 black silk braid hanging from its ring. 
 He held it in the palm of his free hand, 
 and glanced at its open face. 
 
 " It must be getting along toward noon," 
 Lafe had the temerity to remark. There 
 were cold shivers through his veins, but 
 he managed to keep his tongue steady. 
 If "cheek" could not help him, nothing 
 could. 
 
 " About as nigh noon as you're ever likely 
 to git," said the other, making a pretence of 
 again consulting the watch. 
 
 Instinct told the lad with a flashlight 
 swiftness that this looking at the watch 
 was buncombe. Men who really meant to 
 kill did not parade timepieces like that. 
 
 " I haven't got anything on me that 
 would be of any use to you," he said, 
 with an immense effort at unconcern. 
 
The Bounty -Jumper. 191 
 
 " Even if I had, you wouldn't need a gun 
 to take it away from me." 
 
 " You've got a mouth on you," said the 
 man, eying him, " and it'll be of use to 
 me to shut it up." 
 
 He lifted the pistol as he spoke, and 
 Lafe instinctively closed his eyes, with a 
 confused rush of thoughts in which he 
 seemed to see his old mother sitting in 
 the garden with the Book on her knees, 
 and also the young Ohio officer, who some- 
 how came in among the tall flowers beside 
 her, and these flowers themselves were the 
 regimental flags which the color-sergeant 
 was unfurling. 
 
 Then, as nothing happened, the boy 
 opened his eyes again, and found himself 
 able to look into the two black disks of 
 the Derrinojer's muzzle without flinchins:. 
 
 He could even look beyond the muzzle, 
 as the barrels sloped downward toward 
 him, and he now saw distinctly that the 
 two little upright steel nipples bore no 
 caps. The discovery made him annoyed 
 
192 A Day in the Wilderness. 
 
 at his own cowardice. It was easier now 
 to be bold. 
 
 " What's your idea, anyway } " he asked 
 the man, with an added effrontery in his 
 tone. " If you'd been going to shoot, you'd 
 have done it long ago. This thing doesn't 
 scare me at all, and I don't see how it 
 does you any good. What are you getting 
 at, anyhow 1 " 
 
 "I'd as soon shoot you as look at you!" 
 the other declared with angry emphasis, 
 but lowering the weapon. 
 
 " Yes, but seeing you ain't going to shoot, 
 what are you going to do } " Lafe put in. 
 
 The rufifian eyed him again. " If I agree 
 not to hurt you, will you do what I tell 
 you ? " he demanded. 
 
 " W^ell, maybe I will," replied the boy. 
 His spirits rose as his contempt for this 
 slow and shilly-shallying sort of scoundrel 
 increased. " What is it you want me to 
 do } " 
 
 " I want you to help me carry some things 
 I've got together over there, on the other 
 
The Bounty-Jumper. 193 
 
 side of the creek. We'll go over now, and 
 bring 'em back here." 
 
 " I'll take another bite of bread, first," it 
 occurred to the boy to say. He lifted a 
 haversack, and shoved in one hand to 
 burrow among its contents, while with his 
 foot, as if by accident, he pushed one of 
 the muskets lengthwise so that he might 
 grab it the more readily if occasion required. 
 
 Biting in leisurely fashion on the new 
 crust he had found, Lafe felt emboldened 
 to make the conversation personal. 
 
 " That's a mighty fine watch you've got 
 there," he remarked, affably. " I suppose 
 it went with the pistol — sort o' thrown in, 
 like." 
 
 The man put the watch back into his 
 trousers pocket. He seemed for a moment 
 disposed to annoyance. Then the furtive, 
 mean grin curled over the lower part of 
 his face. " Yes — it was thrown in," he 
 replied, almost with a chuckle. " Come 
 on," he added. " You can chew that bread 
 as you go along." 
 
194 ^ Z?<2y in the Wilderness. 
 
 " But what am I to get ? " the boy querier^, 
 slowly turning the crust over to select a 
 place for the next bite. " Do I come in 
 for any watches and silver-mounted Der- 
 ringers, too ? " 
 
 " You jest help me for all you're worth," 
 replied the man, after a moment's pause, 
 " and I'll see to it you git something worth 
 your while." 
 
 " It's got to be something pretty good," 
 said Lafe, meditatively chewing on the 
 hard bread. " A fellow can't be expected 
 to risk the chance of being shot for noth- 
 ing." 
 
 " There ain't no danger of gittin' shot," 
 the other replied. 
 
 "Well, hung, then," Lafe said impudently. 
 
 " What's that you say t " the man growled, 
 with reawakened suspicion. " Who said 
 anything about hangin' } What kind o' 
 nonsense are you talkin', anyway } " 
 
 It might.be a desperately foolish thing 
 to do, but Lafe could not hold himself from 
 doing it — and for that matter didn't try. 
 
Lafe and thp: Bounty-Jumper. 
 
The Bounty-Jumper. 197 
 
 " Why, they hang men caught robbing 
 the dead on battle-fields, don't they — spe- 
 cially when they're bounty-jumpers to begin 
 with ? " 
 
 He had called this out as swiftly as he 
 could, holding himself in readiness as he 
 spoke, and now he pounced downward, and 
 clutching the musket, lifted it for defence. 
 
 The man sjDrang forward with a quicker 
 motion than the boy had counted upon, and 
 before Lafe had got erect he felt the stifling 
 grasp of big, hard fingers around his throat. 
 
CHAPTER IV. 
 
 RED PETE IN CAPTIVITY. 
 
 THINGS grew black before Lafe's eyes 
 as the iron clutch about his throat 
 tightened. He strove desperately to twist 
 himself loose, using in a frantic way the 
 wrestling tricks he knew; but the grip of 
 the bounty-jumper was too powerful. Lafe's 
 head seemed swelling in the effort to burst, 
 and feeling in all his body below that fatal 
 circlet became numb. There was room for 
 but a single thought — this was what being 
 choked to death meant ! 
 
 Afterward it never seemed to the boy 
 that he entirely lost consciousness. He 
 could remember that there was a violent 
 sidewise jerk at his neck, and then the 
 sense of intolerable squeezing there ceased. 
 
 But there was still an awful buzzing in- 
 
Red Pete in Captivity. 199 
 
 side his head, and midnight blackness, shot 
 with interlacing lines of crazy light, spread 
 itself indefinitely about him. 
 
 Gradually he perceived that he was 
 breathing again, and that he could feel 
 his arms and legs once more to be parts 
 of him. He knew that he was exceedingly 
 tired and sleepy, and felt only that the one 
 desirable thing was to lie still, just as he 
 was. He mentally resolved that he would 
 not stir nor open his eyes for anybody. 
 "■How vas it mit you, Lafe?'" 
 The words were undoubtedly in the air. 
 He realized that, and lay very still, lazily 
 confident that he would hear them ao^ain. 
 Things began to assort themselves in 
 his brain. Foldeen and he had been on a 
 big, overhanging rock, which had tumbled 
 with them, and by some chance they hadn't 
 both been killed, and now Foldeen was 
 looking for him. But he would lie still 
 and rest. 
 
 " Vake up ! Lafe ! Vake up ! " 
 
 The boy heard these words, too. The 
 
200 A Day in the Wilderness. 
 
 heavy drowsiness upon him seemed to be 
 hfting, and he felt some one fumbHng at 
 Ms breast, inside his shirt. On the instant 
 he was awake and sitting up, wonderingly 
 staring. 
 
 A tall figure had risen away from him as 
 he opened his eyes. The sun had come 
 out, and was falling warm and full upon 
 the mass of young green which covered 
 the hillside. This erect standing figure 
 w^as for a moment or two very indistinct 
 against the dazzling light. Then Lafe 
 made out that this was Foldeen. 
 
 Almost in the same glance he saw that 
 he was sitting among the heap of knap- 
 sacks and battle-field debris in the corner 
 of the breastwork. Close beside him — so 
 near that he felt he must have been lying 
 upon him when he recovered consciousness 
 — sprawled the burly figure of the bounty- 
 jumper, face downward, and quite still. 
 
 Lafe was so contented with the spectacle 
 on which his eyes rested that it did not occur 
 to him to ask what had happened. 
 
Red Pete m Captivity. 201 
 
 It was pleasanter to look at Foldeen's 
 honest face, beaming satisfaction back into 
 the boy's slow and inquiring regard. The 
 German said nothing, but just smiled at 
 Lafe. 
 
 As the boy's memory cleared itself, the 
 fact that Foldeen had had no breakfast, and 
 that he had left him in his covert on the 
 hillside with very little compunction, rose 
 above everything else. 
 
 Lafe pointed to the knapsacks, and at- 
 tempted to speak. His throat and windpipe, 
 the roots of his tongue and everything else 
 involved in vocal sounds, seemed at the 
 effort to shrivel up in pain. At first he 
 thought he could not manage to utter a syl- 
 lable. Then, at the cost of some suffering, 
 he forced out the words, " Bread — there." 
 They sounded quite strange in his ears. 
 
 Foldeen nodded his head, still with the 
 jubilant grin on his round, kindly face. 
 " Ya vole," he said, in a matter-of-fact way. 
 " But first I fix me up dis fellow dight." 
 
 He sorted out of the pile of stolen property 
 
202 A Day in the Wilderness. 
 
 two officers' sashes of knitted crimson silk, 
 and kneeling down beside the outstretched 
 form of the bounty-jumper, proceeded calmly 
 to bind his legs together at the ankles with 
 one of them. 
 
 Then, with some roughness, he dragged 
 the prostrate man's arms together till their 
 wrists met on the small of his back, and 
 there tied them securely. 
 
 " He ain't dead, then ? " commented Lafe, 
 his throat feelinsf easier. 
 
 " Veil, maybe he is," said Foldeen. " I 
 hit him shtraight by the top of his head mit 
 dot gun-barrel, und he vent down like if he 
 vas a tousand bricks. But it makes nod- 
 ding. Ven he is dead, den he is good tied 
 up. Ven he is alife, den he is much better 
 tied up. Now ve eat us our breakfast in 
 kviet. Bread, you say ? Show me dot bread." 
 
 Foldeen needed no showing, but was on the 
 instant wolfing huge mouthfuls from the half- 
 loaf which the nearest haversack furnished. 
 Lafe leaned back and watched him, his mind 
 filled with formless emotions of thanksgiving. 
 
Red Pete in Captivity. 203 
 
 In such intervals as he could spare from 
 the bread, Foldeen lightly told what had 
 happened. From his perch up on the hill- 
 side he had seen everything, and though 
 beyond earshot, had been able to follow 
 pretty well what was going on. 
 
 When the rascal drew the pistol, Foldeen 
 slipped out from his hiding-place, and began 
 letting himself noiselessly down the hill. 
 He had entered the breastwork just at the 
 critical moment, and had dealt Lafe's assail- 
 ant a crushing blow on the skull with a 
 gun he picked up. That was all. It was 
 very simple. 
 
 " And mighty lucky for me, too ! " was the 
 boy's heartfelt comment. " Foldeen, do you 
 know what this fellow here's been doine?" 
 
 " I haf some brains on my head. I haf 
 seen his business. He is a dief." 
 
 " He got these things together here," said 
 Lafe, " and he told me there was a lot more 
 over on the other side of the creek. He 
 was going to make me help him bring them 
 here. That was what he had the pistol out 
 
204 A Day in the Wilderness. 
 
 for. But what beats me is, what did he 
 expect to do with them ? A man can't get 
 out of the Hues with a load of traps hke 
 this, even if he could carry em." 
 
 For answer Foldeen rose, and turned the 
 sprawling, inert form of his captive over on 
 its back. The pallor of the thief's face, con- 
 trasted with the coarse, sandy hair and stub- 
 ble of beard, made it seem more repellent 
 than ever. 
 
 The German bent over to examine this 
 countenance more carefully. 
 
 " By jiminy priest ! I bet me anydings I 
 know dot man ! " he exclaimed, staring 
 downward intently. " Vake up dere, you ! " 
 he called out, pushing the recumbent figure 
 with his foot. " I know you. Red Pete ! 
 Dot's no use, your making out you vas 
 asleep ! Vake up, kvick now ! " and he 
 stirred him with his boot again. 
 
 " I bet he's dead," said Lafe. 
 
 No ! The man half opened his eyes and 
 moved his head restlessly. The color came 
 back into his face, the muscles of which 
 
Red Pete i7i Captivity. 205 
 
 were drawn now into an angry scowl by 
 pain. He fell back helpless after an instinc- 
 tive effort to lift himself to a sitting posture. 
 Then, shifting his head, he discovered the 
 two friends, and fixed upon them a stolid, 
 half-stupefied stare. 
 
 " How you like him, dot Red Pete, eh ? " 
 Foldeen burst forth, with exultation, never 
 taking his jubilant glance from the face of 
 the wretch on the ground. " Dot's a beauty, 
 ain'd it 1 Dot's a first-glass Christmas bres- 
 ent, eh, to find in your shtocking ! Or no, 
 he is too big. Ve hang him on a dree, eh } 
 A nize Ghristmas-dree, all by ourselves, eh } 
 O Red Pete, you vas git the best place by 
 dot dree, right in front, on the biggest 
 branch ! " 
 
 The man on the ground had been staring 
 upward at the speaker in a puzzled fashion. 
 He had slowly taken in the situation that he 
 was disabled, bound hand and foot, and at 
 the German's mercy. At last he seemed to 
 recall who it was who was talking to him. 
 
 " I never done you no harm ! " he growled. 
 
2o6 A Day in the Wilderness. 
 
 " So-o ! " ejaculated Foldeen, with loud 
 sarcasm. " Dot vas no harm, eh, dot vas 
 only some little fun, eh, to make me on fire 
 und burn me up mit the rest in dot shteam- 
 boat ? Just some funny joke, eh ? Veil, den, 
 now I will haf me my funny liddle jokes 
 mit you." 
 
 Speaking with such swift volubility that 
 Lafe followed with difficulty the thread of 
 his narrative, Foldeen unfolded a curious 
 tale. Before the war he had drifted about 
 in the South a good deal, playing in 
 orchestras in New Orleans some of the 
 time, and then for whole seasons travelling 
 up and down the Mississippi in the bands 
 of the old passenger steamers. 
 
 This man, Red Pete, was a well-known 
 character on the river, too well known all 
 the way from Cairo- to the last levee. 
 Sometimes he was in charge of a squad 
 of slaves, sometimes travelling on his own 
 account as a gambler, slave-buyer, or even 
 for a trip as minor boat officer — but 
 always an evil-minded scoundrel. 
 
Red Pete in Captivity. 207 
 
 One night, when they were lying at the 
 wharf under the bluff at Natchez, the 
 cabins of the steamer had been robbed, 
 and fire set to the boat in several places. 
 Those on board barely escaped with their 
 lives, and when they found that Red Pete 
 was missing, every one knew well enough 
 that he was the thief and would-be mur- 
 derer. 
 
 Foldeen believed there had been some 
 search for him, but those were rou^h 
 times, and he was never tracked down. 
 Then the war came, and Foldeen perforce 
 •went into the band of an Arkansas regi- 
 ment — until the opportunity of making 
 his escape to the Union lines occurred. 
 
 During that period of reluctant service 
 with the band which played " Dixie " and 
 " The Bonnie Blue Flag," he had more 
 than once heard of Red Pete as a sort of 
 unattached guerilla, who, like many other 
 river ruffians, played for his own hand 
 between the lines. 
 
 " Und now it looks like dot game of his 
 
2o8 A Day in the Wilderness. 
 
 vas pretty near blayed out, eh ? " Foldeen 
 concluded with a chuckle. 
 
 Lafe gazed down with loathing upon 
 this burly and powerful desperado, lying in 
 such utter helplessness. He told Foldeen 
 in turn how he had seen this very man 
 in the Fifth Corps " quod " only last win- 
 ter, condemned to death. 
 
 " So-o ! " exclaimed the German. "I 
 remember dot. All five deserters und 
 bounty-chumpers dug deir vay out, und 
 gilled a sentinel, und skipped in the night. 
 So-o ! Ve don't have us dot private 
 Ghristmas-dree, after all. Ve make Red 
 Pete a bresent to Cheneral Boyce, instead." 
 
 " Yes, but where shall we find General 
 Boyce .? " Lafe put in. 
 
 Moved by a common impulse, the two 
 turned their backs on their prisoner, and 
 went outside the earthwork. 
 
 The sky was overcast with shifting 
 clouds again, and gave no hint as to the 
 points of compass. The little valley, 
 strewn with motionless, blue-clad figures, 
 
Red Pete in Captivity. 209 
 
 lay wrapped in such silence that they 
 could hear the murmur of the rivulet 
 beyond. On both sides the hills rose 
 steeply, covered with thick, tangled 
 verdure. 
 
 Behind and before them the valley lost 
 itself a hundred yards away in dense 
 thickets. A sharp wind had risen, under 
 which the tree-tops moaned. Above the 
 noises of the gathering gale, faint sounds 
 of distant firing could be heard. 
 
 " We'd better stay where we are," the 
 boy suggested. " There's been rough-and- 
 tumble fighting all around here, and there's 
 no way of figuring out where our people 
 are. I guess they don't know themselves. 
 If we go hunting round, we're as likely as 
 not to walk into a hornets' nest. I tell 
 you what we'll do. If we can find a piece 
 of white cloth, we'll put it up on a pole 
 out here, and we'll bury these men of ours. 
 Nobody'll touch us, if they come along and 
 find us doing that. Besides, it's the right 
 thing to do." 
 
2IO A Day iji the Wilderness. 
 
 They turned back into the breastwork, 
 and Lafe, rummaging among the knap- 
 sacks, speedily found a roll of bandage- 
 linen which would serve his purpose. He 
 got out more bread as well, and found a 
 scrap of fried bacon. The two ate stand- 
 ing; now that they had a plan, they were 
 all eagerness to put it into operation. 
 
 Red Pete had closed his eyes again, and 
 was lying perfectly still. The excitement 
 of his capture having died away, they now 
 scarcely gave him a glance. 
 
 " I wonder what time it's got to be," 
 Lafe remarked, as they were finishing the 
 last mouthful. "Oh, I forgot — he's got a 
 gold watch in his pocket, and I think it's 
 going." 
 
 Foldeen knelt, and feeling about for it, 
 drew the watch from Red Pete's trousers 
 pocket. " By jiminy priest ! it's near four 
 o'clock!" he exclaimed. Then rising, he 
 looked more attentively at the watch, turn- 
 ing it over in his hand admiringly, and pry- 
 ing open the back of the case with his nail. 
 
Red Pete in Captivity, 211 
 
 There seemed to be an inscription on 
 the inside of the cover, and Foldeen held 
 the watch sidewise to decipher this more 
 readily, while Lafe peered over his shoulder 
 to look. 
 
 " It's in writing," he said ; " let me take 
 it. I can make it out easier, perhaps." 
 
 The legend inside the gold case was 
 delicately engraved in small running script. 
 Lafe, reading with increasing surprise, dis- 
 covered it to be this: — 
 
 Pi-esented to 
 
 Lieut. Lyman Hornbeck, 
 
 Jamcary 22, 1864, 
 
 by his friends and admirers 
 
 Of St. Mark's Church, 
 
 Cleveland. 
 
 " Say, Foldeen," Lafe burst forth, " I bet 
 that's a relation of mine. I've got an 
 uncle — " 
 
 " So everybody has got some ungles," 
 put in the musician. 
 
 " No, but look here," the boy insisted. 
 " That says 'Lyman Hornbeck.' Well, my 
 
212 A Day in the Wilderness. 
 
 father's brother was Lyman Hornbeck. 
 I've heard talk about my Uncle Lyme ever 
 since I could remember. He left home 
 years ago, before I was born. They al- 
 ways said he was out West, somewhere. 
 I bet it's the same man. At any rate, I'm 
 going to take a look around. You fix up 
 the pole and the white flag outside here, 
 and bring out the shovels. I'll be back 
 again and help." 
 
 Lafe's eyes sparkled with a new excite- 
 ment as he made his way across the past- 
 ure to the bank of the creek, noting as 
 he strode along that all the lifeless forms 
 on the grass wore the uniforms of privates. 
 
 He walked along the shelving edge of 
 this bank from one end of the clearing to 
 the other, to make sure that the winding 
 bed of the stream below did not hold what 
 he sought for. There was no sign, any- 
 where in the open, of an officer. 
 
 He remembered now that Red Pete had 
 spoken of the other side of the creek, 
 which lay so much lower than the bank 
 
Red Pete m Captivity. 213 
 
 on which he stood that it could not have 
 been raked by the fire from the breast- 
 work. It was swampy ground, covered 
 heavily with high, bushing willows and 
 rank growths of tall marsh grass. No path 
 leading into it was discernible, perhaps be- 
 cause the wind blew the reeds and flags 
 so stiffly sidewise. 
 
 With a running jump Lafe cleared the 
 bed of the stream, and pushed his way 
 into the morass. It was not so wet under- 
 foot as he had expected, but the tangle 
 of vines and undergrowth made his prog- 
 ress slow and troublesome. It was easy 
 enough to see that no portion of the bri- 
 gade had passed this way ; there were no 
 indications that wild nature here had ever 
 been disturbed. The boy pressed on until, 
 finding the swamp-jungle getting worse with 
 every yard, and the shadows deepening about 
 him, it was clearly useless to go farther. 
 
 Turning, he fancied he knew from which 
 direction he had advanced into this maze. 
 There was no use in merely retracing his 
 
214 -^ D^y ^^^ i^^^ Wilderness. 
 
 steps. He settled his bearings as well as 
 might be, and struck off to the left, to work 
 his way diagonally out to the clearing. 
 
 When he had floundered on over what 
 seemed twice the distance of his first direct 
 line, and halted, hot, tired, and out of breath, 
 he could detect no open space ahead. The 
 wind was blowing hard from up above, and 
 the noise of its impact upon the wilderness 
 was in itself enough to confuse the senses. 
 It was undoubtedly growing dark. 
 
 " Hello — Hornbeck ! " Lafe shouted. 
 
 The wind seized the shrill cry and scat- 
 tered it into fragmentary echoes. It was 
 worse than useless to call out. He must 
 push doggedly on. Lafe turned a little to 
 the right, and crushed his way forward 
 through the brush and bracken, with a 
 step to which dawning fears of being lost 
 lent added vigor. 
 
 He was traversing slightly higher ground 
 now. The willows and marsh grass had 
 given place to a more orderly second 
 growth of firs, with dry moss underfoot, 
 
Red Pete in Captivity. 215 
 
 and open spaces overhead. In one of these 
 breathing-places of the thicket, he came 
 suddenly upon the blue-clad figure of a 
 man sitting propped up against a stump, 
 his head hanging on his breast. 
 
 He was young and fair-haired, and Lafe's 
 glance took in the glint of gilt straps on 
 his shoulders as he hurried toward him. 
 Almost in the same instant the boy, kneel- 
 ing at his side, saw that this was the 
 young Ohio officer he had spoken with at 
 sunrise, and that he was alive. 
 
 As he sought to waken the wounded 
 man, and make out how badly he had been 
 hurt, it grew suddenly, strangely dark. 
 Looking upward, Lafe saw above the tree- 
 tops nearest him, piling skyward on the 
 wind, a great writhing wall of black smoke. 
 
 It mounted in huge, waving coils as he 
 looked, and came nearer, bending forward 
 in a sinister arch across the heavens. His 
 startled ears dimly heard a sullen, roaring 
 sound, newly engrafted upon the whistling 
 of the wind. 
 
 The woods were on fire ! 
 
CHAPTER V. 
 
 LAFE RESCUES AN OFFICER, AND FINDS HIS 
 COUSIN. 
 
 T AFE had seen forest fires near Juno 
 Mills, and there was nothing in his 
 recollection of them to suggest great dan- 
 ger in this one. He was more interested 
 for the moment in the young Ohio officer 
 propped against the stump. This lieuten- 
 ant was barefooted. A thief had evidently 
 taken also his sash, sword, and belt. 
 
 He was probably one of Red Pete's vic- 
 tims. The others could not be far away, 
 among them Lafe's problematical kinsman 
 with the presentation watch. 
 
 But finding a possible uncle was just 
 
 now of less importance than finding a safe 
 
 way out of the thicket. The smoke grew 
 
 visibly thicker, and Lafe could detect, off 
 
 216 
 
Lafe rescues an Officer. 217 
 
 to the left, the distinct crackling noise of 
 flames. He dropped on one knee again, 
 and patted the officer's shoulder with de- 
 cision. 
 
 The young man moved his head rest- 
 lessly, then opened his eyes and stared 
 dully at Lafe. 
 
 " Which way is the creek ? " the drum- 
 mer-boy shouted. 
 
 The lieutenant, as if dazed, looked half 
 wonderingly into the boy's face. Then 
 he blinked, shook himself, and made a 
 move to sit upright. He sank back with 
 his mouth drawn awry by the severity of 
 his pain, and forced the semblance of a 
 laugh upon these pale lips. 
 
 " I thought at first I was home, and you 
 were my brother," he said. 
 
 " How bad are you hurt ? Can you 
 walk } " Lafe demanded. " We've got to 
 get out of this. The woods are on fire, 
 and the wind is blowing it dead this way. 
 Where are you hit } " 
 
 " Minie ball here — between the shoul- 
 
2i8 A Day in the Wilderness. 
 
 der and the lung, I hope," replied the 
 other, indicating his left side. " It's stif- 
 fened and I can't lift myself. Help me 
 on my feet, and I guess I can walk 
 away." 
 
 Lafe put an arm under him and gave 
 him his hand. The lieutenant, with a 
 groan, set his teeth and scrambled up on 
 his feet. He looked about him for an 
 instant, and then hastily seated himself on 
 the stump. 
 
 " I'm dizzy for the minute," he murmured. 
 " I must have lost so much blood. It's 
 afternoon, isn't it .? " 
 
 " Past five. You'd better brace up now, 
 and try to come on. Which way is it } " 
 
 The officer looked vaguely around. " I 
 hardly know," he confessed. " I can just 
 remember dragging myself off into the 
 swamp. I thought I should find some 
 water, and I guess my strength gave out 
 about here. Somebody came along and 
 pulled off my boots and stockings, and 
 went through my pockets, but I was too 
 
Lafe rescues an Officer. 219 
 
 near dead to resist, and I kept my eyes 
 shut." 
 
 " Well, you want to keep 'em open now. 
 This must be the way out, according to 
 the wind. That's it ; get your arm over my 
 shoulder, and we'll make a break." 
 
 They walked thus for a dozen steps or 
 so, the officer leaning a little on Lafe's 
 right shoulder. Then the wounded man 
 stopped. 
 
 " I'd rather you went ahead," he called 
 into the boy's ear. " The branches knock 
 against my game side, this way. I'll keep 
 behind you ; " and so they went on again, 
 Lafe pushing the saplings and boughs 
 aside for the other. 
 
 The smoke had become almost blinding 
 now, as it sifted through the motionless 
 air of the thicket. The noises had risen 
 now into a pandemonium of uproar — on 
 the left the furious bellowing of the tem- 
 pest and the flames, to the right a series 
 of outbursts that shook the earth like mine 
 explosions. It sometimes seemed to Lafe 
 
2 20 A Day in the Wilderness. 
 
 as if he distinguished the cheers and 
 vague cries of men, off on the other side 
 — and then back would come the chaotic 
 din. 
 
 Awed and deafened, the two pushed 
 doggedly on, Lafe stealing glances over 
 his shoulder, to see if the officer was fol- 
 lowing. He came, holding to the branches 
 with his right hand for support, and striv- 
 ing to pick soft places for his bare feet 
 among the stones and prickly ground 
 vines. 
 
 It had suddenly grown very hot. The 
 heat began to sting Lafe's forehead and 
 eyes. They were advancing into the tem- 
 perature of a veritable furnace. The crack- 
 ling noises to the left had swollen all at 
 once to an angry tumult close at hand. 
 
 Looking up with smarting eyes through 
 the pungent smoke, the boy beheld scat- 
 tered flashes of flame dotting the murky 
 shadows of the forest beyond, and even as 
 he looked these tongues of fire ran for- 
 ward under the wind with darting swift- 
 
Lafe rescues mi Officer. 221 
 
 ness. An imperative outcry behind Lafe 
 called a halt. He turned as his companion 
 reeled, clutched wildly at an ash sapling, 
 and fell against it, his head hanging help- 
 lessly forward on his breast. 
 
 " It's no use," he gasped, as the boy 
 strode back. " I'm choking, and I'm 
 played out. I can't go another step." 
 
 He falteringly lifted one of his torn 
 and bleeding feet, and put it down again. 
 His arm slipped from around the sapling, 
 and he would have fallen if Lafe had not 
 caught him. 
 
 " Why don't you be a man ! " the boy 
 screamed shrilly through the tumult. 
 
 A sort of angry desperation seized upon 
 Lafe. He would drag this Ohio tender- 
 foot out of the fire in spite of himself. 
 With rough energy he fitted his shoulder 
 under the ofKicer's armpit, and drew his 
 right arm forward in the determined clutch 
 of both his hands. 
 
 " Come on now, the best way you can. 
 Never mind your feet or your shoulder 
 
2 22 A Day in the Wilderness. 
 
 either ! " he yelled, and then, stiffening 
 his back under the burden, he staggered 
 forward. 
 
 He could never afterward recall any- 
 thing definitely of how he did it, or how 
 long it took. But through the shrivelling 
 heat, through the murderous swoop of fire 
 and smoke, somehow he came. All at 
 once there was the play of cooler air upon 
 his face. Instead of the choking smoke 
 and darkness he was wrapped about by a 
 clean wind. It had grown suddenly day- 
 light again. 
 
 Bent almost double under his burden, 
 he strove in vain to fill his lungs with this 
 fresh air. It was dimly in his mind to 
 straighten himself, and breathe in all he 
 could hold. But the load on his back 
 seemed to be pressing him further down, 
 and whirling him round as well. 
 
 Then he was lying face downward, on 
 dry, soft earth with the sharp edges of 
 stiff marsh grass in his hair. Something 
 heavy lay across him. He rolled himself 
 
Lafe rescues an Officer. 223 
 
 free from the encumbrance, and stretched 
 himself out luxuriously on his back. The 
 wind soughed pleasantly through the reeds 
 about his head. 
 
 He went to sleep, dreaming placidly as 
 he dropped off that ordered swarms of 
 men were passing through the tall grass 
 close beside him, firing volleys and cheer- 
 ing as they fired. 
 
 Four red points of light, at regular dis- 
 tances apart, and shining faintly against a 
 broad canopy of blackness, was what Lafe, 
 still lying on his back, beheld when he 
 woke. He looked at them lazily for what 
 seemed a long time, and did not care in 
 the least what they signified. Then, quite 
 without any effort, he knew that they were 
 lanterns hung on a rope. 
 
 There were sinuous lines of motion in 
 the darkness above the lanterns, and these 
 revealed themselves to him as the sides of 
 canvas-strips stirring in the wind. This, 
 too, did not seem important, and he indo- 
 lently closed his eyes again. 
 
2 24 ^ Z^<2y in the Wilderness. 
 
 A sharp cry, ringing abruptly out close 
 at hand, awoke him more thoroughly. He 
 even lifted his head a little, and saw many 
 more lights — lanterns, kerosene lamps, and 
 tallow-dips stuck in bottles. They stretched 
 out irregularly in all directions, illumining 
 little patches of space, which seemed all 
 the smaller by comparison with the vast 
 blocks of deep shadows surrounding them. 
 
 The radiance of many of these lights 
 centred upon a broad table, about which 
 several men were standing in their shirt- 
 sleeves, and with aprons like butchers. 
 There seemed to be another man lying 
 on this table, and one of his legs was bared 
 to the thigh. Some of these shadowy fig- 
 ures moved, and another cry arose. Lafe 
 shut his eyes, and turned away from the 
 spectacle. 
 
 There was now a rustle of straw under 
 him, and he noted that his head was rest- 
 ing on a canvas pillow filled with straw. 
 A strong smell, as of arnica, attracted his 
 attention. Now he understood that he 
 was in a hospital tent. 
 
Lafe rescues an Officer. 225 
 
 He wondered where he himself had 
 been hurt. Except for a general, dull 
 aching of the muscles, he was conscious 
 of no special pain. He tried opening and 
 closing his fingers, and moving his toes. 
 
 Each member seemed in working order. 
 He passed his hands along his sides, and 
 still found nothing amiss. But his head 
 certainly did ache. 
 
 Vague recollection of the events of the 
 day began to stir in his memory, but not 
 at all in their right order. It seemed as 
 if it was Foldeen Schell whom he had car- 
 ried out of the burning woods, and nearer 
 still in point of time seemed to be Red 
 Pete's stifling grip upon his neck. Then, 
 somehow, his thoughts drifted to the watch 
 and its inscription. 
 
 He drowsily tried to think what this 
 Lyman Hornbeck must be like — a gray- 
 bearded old man and a church-member, 
 and yet only a lieutenant. So his vagrant 
 fancy drifted about on the border-land of 
 sleep. 
 
226 A Day in the Wilderness. 
 
 Suddenly there were voices close about 
 him. Half opening his eyes, Lafe blinked 
 at three or four torches which some sol- 
 diers were holding up at the foot of his 
 bed. A half-dozen officers were there as 
 well, and the foremost one was General 
 Boyce. 
 
 The light hurt Lafe's eyes, and he closed 
 them. The general's cheery voice remained 
 in his ears, though, and conveyed so true a 
 notion of the man that Lafe seemed to 
 continue to behold him, the red torchlight 
 heightening the glow of health on his 
 round cheeks and shining in his brave, 
 kindly eyes. 
 
 " Oh, you'll be up and about in a day 
 or two," the general was saying, in a hearty, 
 encouraging way. " Won't he, surgeon- 
 major.? " 
 
 " Well, inside a week," answered another 
 voice. " The wound in itself wasn't much. 
 It's the loss of blood that's worst." 
 
 " Lieutenant," the general went on, " if I 
 don't call you captain when you get back 
 
Lafe rescues an Officer. 227 
 
 from your furlough, it won't be my fault. 
 You've been mentioned in the despatches. 
 Your company's tussle with the breastwork 
 under the hill was as plucky a thing as 
 has been done to-day. Well, good luck to 
 you! 
 
 There was a rattle of spurs and swords, 
 as if the group were moving, and then Lafe 
 was conscious that the young Ohio officer 
 spoke, as if from the very next bed. 
 
 " O general," he called out, " I'll save 
 my own thanks for some other time ! But 
 I want you to take notice of this boy here. 
 Hes one who ought to be mentioned in 
 despatches. I'd have been roasted alive if 
 it hadn't been for him. He came into the 
 woods and found me, and routed me up, 
 and made me walk, and when I gave out 
 he actually carried me right through the 
 blaze. Talk about charging the breast- 
 work! What he did was worth .fifty of 
 
 it. 
 
 Lafe felt through his closed eyelids that 
 the torches were being held so as to cover 
 
228 A Day in the Wilderness. 
 
 him with their light. Oddly enough, he 
 seemed without desire to look. 
 
 " I won't forget," said the general. " How 
 badly off is he.? " 
 
 " He was brought in with the lieutenant 
 here," returned the surgeon-major. " I didn't 
 see him myself. You were here, nurse ? " 
 
 A woman's voice took up the thread : 
 " Poor little fellow, he doesn't seem to 
 have been shot, but his head was laid open 
 to the bone somehow. Doctor Alvord 
 thought it must have been a horse's hoof." 
 
 " We were both on the ground in the 
 way when the big charge down the run 
 was made," explained the lieutenant. " He 
 must have got trampled on. I think he's 
 a drummer in the brigade band. I noticed 
 him when we went into line this morning." 
 
 " I wonder if it can be our Juno Mills 
 boy," broke in the general. Lafe felt that 
 the great man was bending over close to 
 him. " Some Dutchman in the band was 
 telling a tremendous yarn about a young- 
 ster who went down alone into the breast- 
 
Lafe rescues an Officer. 229 
 
 work after it was deserted, and had a fight, 
 single-handed, with a baggage-thief, and 
 played the deuce generally. Does any- 
 body know whether he's the same one ? " 
 
 Lafe could never understand afterward 
 what ailed him to behave so, but at this 
 he kept his breathing down to its gentlest 
 possible form. The general and his attend- 
 ants moved off down the aisles, halting 
 with the torches at other bedsides to give 
 cheer. Their going gave Lafe leisure for 
 the thought which interested him most. 
 
 The news that his head had been laid 
 open to the bone had fascinated him. He 
 put up a hand now and felt of his skull. 
 It was covered all over with interlaced strips 
 of stiff plaster encased in a soft linen band- 
 age drawn tight. 
 
 " Are you feeling all right ? " 
 
 It was the voice of the lieutenant. Lafe, 
 proud of his plasters, opened his eyes and 
 made out the young officer, propped up 
 with a couple of straw pillows on the bed 
 next his. 
 
230 A Day in the Wilderness. 
 
 " My head aches a Httle, that's all," said 
 Lafe. " Say, we had a squeak for it, didn't 
 we?" 
 
 " I sha'n't forget it — nor you," responded 
 the other. 
 
 " Cleveland's in Ohio, ain't it ? " the boy 
 asked, all at once pursuing a subject which 
 had kept dodging in and out of his mind. 
 " Perhaps you know an old man in one of 
 the Ohio regiments — he must be getting 
 along toward sixty — he's a lieutenant, and 
 his name's Lyman Hornbeck. I was look- 
 ing for him this afternoon when — when I 
 lighted on you." 
 
 . The young ofHcer, quite heedless of his 
 bandages, sat bolt upright and stared at 
 Lafe as if too much amazed for words. 
 
 " I don't know what you'ne driving at," 
 he said at last. " My name is Lyman 
 Hornbeck, and I'm a Cleveland man and 
 a lieutenant — but I'm a long way off from 
 sixty. You can't mean my father? He's 
 been dead two years. His name was 
 Lyman. Why, hold on ! General Boyce 
 
Lafe rescues an Officer. 233 
 
 said something about Juno Mills — my 
 father came from near there — you don't 
 mean to say you're a Hornbeck ? " 
 
 An irresistible impulse moved Lafe to 
 crawl out of his bed and totter across to 
 the other's pallet. He sat down on the 
 edge of it, and leaned his head back on 
 the officer's two pillows. 
 
 " Say, I'm Steve Hornbeck's son," he 
 said, " and your father was my Uncle 
 Lyme. Do you know, I kind of felt like 
 takin' a shine to you when you spoke to 
 me early this morning." 
 
 The officer had put his arm affection- 
 ately round the boy's neck. " Why, don't 
 you remember," he cried, with pleased inter- 
 est, " how I said I had a brother like you 
 at home } " 
 
 And so the two lay close together in a 
 delighted gossip until the surgeon came, 
 and laughingly but peremptorily drove 
 them apart. They told him something of 
 the strange story, and an attendant went 
 out and found Foldeen, and brought him 
 
2 34 ^ Day in the Wilderness. 
 
 in, and he added many striking variations 
 to the legend which now, by midnight, 
 had become the talk of the brigade. 
 
 General Boyce came back to the hospi- 
 tal tent purposely to see the boy from his 
 own Dearborn County whom men were 
 talking about. He nodded his head ap- 
 provingly as he stood by the bedside and 
 listened to Foldeen's excited narrative of 
 the lad's fight with Red Pete. 
 
 " I remember hearing of that fellow be- 
 fore," he said. " We'll hang him in the 
 morning, if we have to go without break- 
 fast to do it." 
 
 Foldeen shook his head. " He is no 
 good for hanging, dot Red Pete," he ex- 
 plained. " When the fire is gone out by 
 dot breastwork where he vas, maybe you 
 find some chargoals from him — und maybe 
 two, dree buttons — dot's all." 
 
 The beautiful city by the lake wore its 
 most velvety, green robes of June when 
 Lieutenant Hornbeck, who had been home 
 invalided for some weeks, was able at last 
 
Lafe rescues mt Officer. 235 
 
 to accept the reception which the good 
 people of St. Mark's Church wished to 
 hold in his honor. 
 
 It seemed as if all Cleveland sought for 
 admission to this festival of welcome to 
 the brave young officer. Yet when he 
 came in, leaning on his wife's arm, and 
 with the flush of honest pride mantling 
 upon the pallor of his face, it turned out 
 that the real hero of the evening was the 
 wiry, brown-faced boy he brought with 
 him. 
 
 Lafe's story had been told in many other 
 places. They knew it by heart here in his 
 new home, where henceforth he was to 
 live with his cousin. He blushed many 
 times that evening at the things admiring 
 people said to his face about him, and he 
 still says if folks will insist on discussing 
 it, that the 'only interesting thing of the 
 whole day was his taking a shine to his 
 cousin before he knew who he was. 
 
HOW DICKON CAME BY HIS 
 
 NAME. 
 
HOW DICKON CAME BY HIS NAME. 
 
 ^ STalc of C!)r{0tma0 in tl^e ©Ilien Eimz, 
 
 diOic 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 THE MAKING OF A SOLDIER. 
 
 T^HOUGH more crests are blazoned now- 
 adays than there are minutes in which 
 the heralds may count them, yet old fami- 
 lies still live, with roots deep down in 
 rural England's soil, and nourish in quiet 
 legends which, when they come to notice, 
 are the fairest flowers in the garden of 
 English folk-lore. 
 
 Such a tale the Tambows of Shropshire 
 can tell. Once, it is dimly understood, the 
 narrative was written out, and even printed 
 from types in Caxton's own press. If this 
 be true, the book has long been lost. But 
 the story is worth keeping. 
 239 
 
240 How Dickon came by his Name. 
 
 Dickon looked at this time to be well 
 on in his teens. He was so tall and stout 
 a lad that grown men spoke to him, now 
 and again, as to one of themselves. Just 
 what his age might be, however, it lay 
 beyond mortal power to discover. His 
 mother was long since dead. His native 
 hamlet had been wiped by fire and sword 
 from the face of the earth. 
 
 His father could remember nothing more 
 of Dickon's birth than that it was either 
 just before the Battle of Bloreheath in 
 Stafford, or soon after the fierce fight at 
 Mortimer's Cross in Hereford. The one 
 would make him sixteen years old, the 
 other scarcely more than fourteen. Whether 
 it was sixteen or fourteen no living soul 
 in England cared. 
 
 There was as yet no other name for 
 him than Dickon — that is to say, any se- 
 curely fastened name. He had been called 
 Smithson, and even Smith, by word of 
 mouth among stranQ^ers. But the roug^h 
 men close at hand commonly hailed him 
 
The Making of a Soldier. 241 
 
 with oaths, which pointed to no surname 
 whatever. Indeed, surnames were matters 
 strictly for his betters — for gentlefolk, or 
 at the least for thrifty yeomen with a dozen 
 cows or fourscore sheep on a walk. 
 
 There could never have been a thought, 
 therefore, in Dickon's head as to what 
 name was likest to stick to him, since of 
 all unlabelled hinds in Salop surely he was 
 the lowliest. 
 
 Thought, in truth, is an over-fine word 
 for aught that went forward in Dickon's 
 brain. He knew only some few things 
 more clearly than did the horses and dogs 
 about him. 
 
 He did know, first of all, that his grim 
 master, who lived up in the castle just above, 
 was named Sir Watty Curdle, and that the 
 castle itself was Egswith. That he was Sir 
 Watty's man was by far the most important 
 thing there was for him to know; and that 
 it might be kept always fresh before his eyes 
 and patent to all others, this lord's device 
 of two running hares, back to back, one 
 
242 How Dickon cajne by his Name. 
 
 turned upside down, was sewed upon the 
 breast of Dickon's leather jerkin. 
 
 Dickon had more reasons for holding 
 his master to be a foul ruffian and robber 
 than the dumb brutes in stable and kennel 
 could have possessed, though doubtless 
 they, too, were of the same opinion. He 
 knew, furthermore, that the king was a 
 tall and fine young man, because he had 
 s^en him after Tewksbury. He knew that 
 the Lady Curdle came from Cheshire, which 
 was reputed to lie northward. 
 
 He knew that all men-at-arms who wore 
 three stags' heads on their jackets were 
 his natural enemies ; and that it was 
 thought better to be a soldier than the 
 son of a smith. Sometimes he thought that 
 it must be better to be dead than either. 
 
 Dickon's belongings were all on his back. 
 He owned a thick shirt of rough woollen, 
 which had been his share of the spoil of 
 a Yorkist archer, slain the year before in 
 a fray on Craven highroad. Formerly the 
 lad had been harassed by dreams that the 
 
The Making ^of a Soldier. 243 
 
 dead man, all shivering and frosted over, 
 had come back for his shirt, but these 
 dreams were past long since, and he wore 
 the shirt now like a second skin, so wholly 
 did it seem a part of him. 
 
 Over this shirt was drawn his leather 
 tunic, which was becoming too tight. Under 
 this were fastened with cowhide thongs the 
 points of his old leathern hose, also strained 
 now almost to bursting. His shoes were 
 rude and worn contrivances of leather, 
 bound on over ankle and instep with cords. 
 His neck and tangled shock of yellow hair 
 were hidden under a caped hood of coarse 
 brown cloth. 
 
 In these garments he toiled miserably by 
 day ; in them he slept in his cold corner of 
 the smithy floor by night. By night and 
 day the solitary aspiration of his mind was 
 for the time when he might escape his 
 father's curses and beatings, and bear a 
 spear among the men-at-arms. 
 
 This chance came to him suddenly, on a 
 December day, when the air over the 
 
244 How Dickon came by his Name. 
 
 Marches was so thick and gray and cold 
 that men desired to fight, if only to keep 
 their blood from chilling within them. Out 
 of this chance proceeded strange things, the 
 legend of which has lived these hundreds 
 of years in Salop. 
 
 Sir Watty Curdle did what he dared 
 toward being a law to himself. In the 
 fastness of the Welsh mountains, just back 
 of his domain, there were always whisper- 
 ings of new Lancastrian plots and bold ad- 
 ventures. These drifted to Egswith Castle, 
 on its steep, ugly crag, and made an atmos- 
 phere of treason there which hung over the 
 Marches like a fog. 
 
 That Sir Watty had a rushlight's choice 
 between King Edward and Queen Margaret 
 no one ever believed. If it had suited his 
 ends he would as easily have been the 
 king's man. But since the hated Stanleys 
 were cheek by jowl with the king, there 
 could be nothing for Sir Watty but the 
 other side. 
 
 Besides, he had grievances. That is to 
 
The Making of a Soldier. 245 
 
 say, other gentlemen in the countryside had 
 houses and fair daughters and plate and fat 
 cattle. These things rankled in Sir Watty's 
 mind. 
 
 Sir Watty rose on this December morn- 
 ing with his head clear from a month's ca- 
 rouse, with his muscles itching for sharp 
 work, and with the eager sniff of rapine in 
 his nostrils. 
 
 Word that sport was afoot ran presently 
 about through the galleries and yards and 
 clustering outer hovels within the high- 
 perched walls of Egswith. Rough, brawny 
 men forthwith dragged out haubergeons and 
 sallets, and leathern jackets stuffed with 
 wool, and smiled grimly over them and 
 put them on. 
 
 Two troopers in sleeveless coats of plate 
 mail, and heavy greaves and boots, came 
 clanking down the jagged hill-path. They 
 routed with loud halloos the threescore peo- 
 ple who dwelt in the foul and toppling 
 huts huddled at the foot of the crag, under 
 the shadow of gray Egswith. 
 
246 How Dickon came by his Name. 
 
 " Ho ! Ho-o ! " they bawled. " Out with 
 you — out ! out ! Your lord rides to-day ! " 
 
 A bustling crowd arose on the instant. 
 Strong men swarmed in the open. Some 
 were sent into the fields with horns to sum- 
 mon yokels who were grubbing among the 
 roots. Others haled forth armor and saddle- 
 gear, and bows and spears, and shouted joy- 
 ous quips from group to group. 
 
 Dull-browed women, with backs bent like 
 beasts of burden, brought food and hoods 
 and such tackle at command, in sulky 
 silence. Half-clad children hung about the 
 doorways, gazing wonderingly. From the 
 castle gates some horses were being led out ; 
 and about the high walls rang the shrill 
 blare of trumpet-calls. 
 
 The two troopers, after setting all in 
 motion outside, clanked their way into the 
 smithy, and the black one, Morgan, he 
 with a brutish face, seamed and gashed 
 with red scars, — where only one eye re- 
 mained to glare in rude arrogance, — kicked 
 the door open, and cried out as he did so: 
 
The Making of a Soldier, 247 
 
 " Are you dead here, then ? What are 
 your ears for, fools ? And no fire ! " 
 
 Dickon crossed the floor of the smithy, 
 and stood before the intruders. 
 
 " The old man will light fires no more," 
 he said, with dogged indifference, pointing 
 a sidelong thumb to the bundle of straw 
 at the tail of the forge, beneath the bel- 
 lows. 
 
 There, flat on his back, lay the smith, 
 with wide-open, staring eyes, and a face 
 of greenish-brazen hue ; his huge grizzled 
 beard spread stiffly outward like the bris- 
 tling collar of some unclean giant vulture. 
 
 " He was ever a surly swine," Morgan 
 growled. " Even as we need him most, 
 he fails us thus ! " 
 
 Dickon offered no opinion upon this. 
 " It fell on him in the night," he said. 
 
 Morgan leant over as far as his iron 
 casings permitted, to note what share of 
 breath remained in the smith's body. Then 
 he rose, and looked the lad from top to 
 toe with his sullen single eye. 
 
248 How Dickon came by his Name. 
 
 " Get you into his foot-gear, then, and 
 follow on," he snarled curtly. 
 
 Then for the first time the other man- 
 at-arms spoke. He was a huge, reddish 
 warrior, with the shoulders of an ox, and 
 a face which flamed forth from out the 
 casings of his head-piece like a setting 
 winter sun. 
 
 " Were it not better to leave him ? " this 
 Rawly asked. " If he chance to get his 
 head broken, how will Sir Watty make 
 shift for a smith ? " 
 
 Morgan sneered this down. " The lout 
 hath not the wit for the tenth part of a 
 smith," he said. " Between this and Brom- 
 field there are a dozen of the craft to be 
 had at the bare mention of a halter." 
 
 Thus it was that a soldier's life opened 
 before Dickon. 
 
 He made haste to don his father's sleeve- 
 less chain coat and sallet. Then, choosing 
 a crossbow and sheaf of quarrels for him- 
 self, he gathered such other weapons as 
 the smithy held, and carried them out into 
 
V 
 
 'ft 
 
 ■ Sir Watfy came stalking down." 
 
The Making of a Soldier. 251 
 
 the open. Now the troop was forming, 
 and the start close at hand. 
 
 The lad had seen many of these rallies 
 for a raid ; but this one, wherein he was to 
 have part, had a new glory in his eyes. 
 He rubbed shoulders with the men who 
 were making ready against the ride. With 
 the boldness of an equal he bore a hand 
 to help them fit the armor to their backs. 
 There was none to make him afraid. When 
 a knavish hobler offered to force his cross- 
 bow from him in exchange for a rusty 
 pole-axe, Dickon smote him on the head 
 with a full man's might and heart, and kept 
 his weapon. 
 
 At last Sir Watty came stalking down 
 the broken, winding path, with his chest- 
 nut stallion led prancing from rock to rock 
 at his heels. Behind him came a score of 
 men-at-arms, and then still other horses at 
 halter. 
 
 The knight stopped on the boulder at 
 the foot of the hill, that two men might 
 lift him to the saddle. As he moved for- 
 
252 How Dickon came by his Name. 
 
 ward there arose a great, joyful shout and 
 clanking bustle of men mounting to follow. 
 Dickon was of the sorrier sort who must 
 run on their own legs ; but no man on 
 armored steed was prouder than he. 
 
 Sir Watty sat with alert, poised light- 
 ness in his stirrups, as if the brigandines 
 which cased him from nape to ankle had 
 been of linen instead of close-set, burnished 
 metal plates overlapping one the other like 
 a fish's scales and planned with cunning 
 joints. Gilt nails studded the angles of 
 this glittering suit, and the body of it was 
 covered with green velvet, with the two 
 hares of Curdle wrought in gold upon the 
 breast. 
 
 Unlike the lesser riders, he wore bascinet 
 and gorget on head and neck, with light 
 pauldrons, velvet-clad and shaped like 
 eagles' talons, running out to his shoulders 
 over the scaled mail. 
 
 There were unnumbered tales as to how 
 Sir Watty had come by this princely har- 
 ness, all of a likeness in that they imputed 
 
The Making of a Soldier. 253 
 
 its possession to plunder. One might well 
 credit this on looking at the man's face 
 as he rode with lifted visor — the curved, 
 bony, beak-like nose, the stone-gray eyes, 
 the thin, brief line of lips twisted tight to- 
 gether — all as relentless and shrewd and 
 cruel as something born of snake or hawk. 
 
 Clustering at his back rode thirty men- 
 at-arms, no other knight among them. 
 There were unfrocked monks, loose, wander- 
 ing troopers, murderers, revolted townsmen 
 and mere generic ruffians from anywhere 
 on the face of the earth, all gathered to 
 Egswith by the magnet of its lawless fame, 
 and all risking life and facing punishment 
 here and hereafter with Sir Watty because 
 they knew him for a master knave and 
 robber. 
 
 These wore ill-assorted armor, the ran- 
 dom product of years of raiding — some 
 nearly covered with iron, others with no 
 more than a rusted haubergeon and bat- 
 tered sallet. Of weapons, too, there was 
 as mongrel a show. Some bore hagbuts, 
 
2 54 How Dickon came by his Name. 
 
 or hand-guns, to be fired with powder, and 
 had leather bags full of stone bullets hang- 
 ing at their saddles. Among the others 
 were crossbows with wyndacs and without, 
 lances, bills, long and short pole-axes, and 
 even spiked clubs of iron. 
 
 Dickon joined the score of footmen who 
 turned into the road as the cavalcade 
 filed by. 
 
 For a little these all trudged behind the 
 horses, bearing their lighter cuirasses and 
 caps and their long or cross-bows with 
 easy spirits. It was a morning made for 
 walking, with black frost holding the 
 ground so stiff that it rang like stone 
 under the clattering hoofs ahead. A sharp 
 air tweaked nostrils and ears, and made 
 the blood glow even in churlish veins. 
 
 It was to the footmen nothing short of 
 delight to stride onward thus, with a cap- 
 tain in front who feared naught, and on 
 one's shoulder a weapon of death. 
 
 Later in the day, when their course lay 
 over a rough moorland stretch where bleak 
 
The Making of a Soldier. 255 
 
 winds whistled, and hunger began to gnaw 
 upon fatigue, the adventure became less 
 joyful. Still Dickon pressed forward upon 
 the freshest hoof-marks, gay of heart. 
 Others, who carried more years and a 
 staler fancy, began to lag. Then an inter- 
 esting thing happened. 
 
 At a word from Morgan, huge Rawly 
 and a dozen others wheeled out from the 
 troop and, halting at the side of the high- 
 way in waiting till the footmen had passed, 
 drew close in behind them. 
 
 To make the meaning of this more clear, 
 some of these horsemen pleasantly pricked 
 their spear-points into the weariest of those 
 walking before them. Thereafter the whole 
 body moved on more swiftly. 
 
 None of the peasants knew whither the 
 expedition was proceeding. For the first 
 few leagues, journeying down the valley of 
 the little stream which rose back of Egswith, 
 they had seen at a distance more than one 
 frowning castle. But they had come near 
 to no human habitation. Then had ensued 
 
256 How Dickon came by his Name. 
 
 the arduous march across the moor, with 
 no sign of castle or roof-tree. 
 
 But now, some hours after high noon, 
 they were advancing upon a better-ordered 
 country, with smooth roads and farm-lands. 
 The mountains on the right were farther 
 away now, and hung pale blue upon the 
 confines of the gray sky. There were farm- 
 houses in view, and these were of a larger 
 and more prosperous aspect than Dickon 
 had seen before. The husbandmen seemed 
 to have small appetite for fighting, too, for 
 they could be discerned presently fleeing 
 with their women, children, and cattle across 
 their fields to woodland shelter. 
 
 The spectacle of people making their 
 escape before his approach was new to 
 Dickon. He swelled out his chest to a 
 greater girth because of it, and forgot the 
 heated aching of his feet. 
 
 Sir Watty permitted the men to enter 
 and ransack one of these farm-places. No 
 living soul was to be discovered, but of 
 food there was plenty. Some of the older 
 
The Making of a Soldier. 257 
 
 and wiser troopers knew where to look for 
 gear of less transient moment. But the 
 spoil was not of importance. 
 
 Soon they were all pressing on again, 
 along the highroad traversing this peaceful 
 and fertile plain. By and by an old archer 
 who trudged by Dickon's side halted in 
 surprise, and as he stepped forward again 
 growled out in perplexed disquiet: — 
 
 "Nay — aught but that. Sir Waddy, aught 
 but that!" 
 
 Dickon, looking ahead, noted that his 
 lord, after a moment's parley, had turned 
 his course to the left, and was leading the 
 party into a narrow lane. 
 
 Some of the hoblers, mounted on their 
 light nags, were sent flying off across fields 
 still more to the left, and Morgan came 
 galloping back to the rear of the column. 
 When he had muttered some charge to 
 Rawly and then set back again to join his 
 chief, it became known that Rawly with 
 his handful of horse and all the footmen 
 were to continue on the highroad. 
 
258 How Dickon came by his Name. 
 
 The lad would never have thought out 
 what this division of forces signified, but 
 the old archer, little by little, and more to 
 hear his own voice than from kindness to 
 the boy, informed his mind. The company 
 had been split in twain because the quarry 
 was near at hand, and must needs be 
 surrounded. 
 
 This was good soldiery, but in the pres- 
 ent case it would be useless. Sir Watty 
 and every mother's son with him would 
 be slain — the footmen as well as the rest. 
 Of this there could be no tittle of doubt, 
 the archer cheeringly insisted. He was a 
 native of these parts, and knew the evil 
 repute of the stronghold they were about 
 to attack. Not a man-jack of them would 
 ever find himself back upon this blessed 
 highroad again ! Of that he made certain. 
 
 Dickon listened to these astounding 
 tidings without any very near sense of 
 fear. To look Death in the eye seemed 
 not an unnatural thing, now that he was 
 a soldier and wore an iron jacket. But 
 
The Making of a Soldier. 259 
 
 his blood chilled within him when he 
 heard the answer to his idle query. 
 
 " Is it bigger then than Egswith ? " he 
 had asked. 
 
 The gray old archer, stealing an appre- 
 hensive glance about him, and whispering 
 sidelong, replied : — 
 
 " There are no walls — that eye can see. 
 But inside is a sorcerer who fights with 
 magic fires, and can on the instant raise 
 up battlements of poisoned adders and 
 scorpions, and blow upon us with a wind 
 so deadly that at its touch our flesh will 
 melt from our bones. If yon men wist 
 whither Sir Waddy led them, they would 
 fall upon him first and tear him limb from 
 hmb." 
 
CHAPTER II. 
 
 A BURST FOR FREEDOM. 
 
 T^HE crossbow was audibly rattling on 
 Dickon's shoulder and his knees smote 
 together after hearing what the old archer 
 had told him about the so-called sorcerer. 
 He looked hurriedly behind, with perhaps 
 some vague thoughts of flight, but the 
 sight of the fierce horsemen at his heels 
 scattered these. 
 
 The boy plodded miserably forward, 
 catching only here and there a stray word 
 of what the archer further said. This 
 was to the effect that the place they were 
 pushing toward — dread Camber Dane — 
 had been the home of the mad baron, 
 Lord Tasktorn, for many years. Now for 
 other many years his equally mad younger 
 son. Sir John Camber, had been in pos- 
 session of the estate. 
 260 
 
A Burst for Freedom. 261 
 
 A gruesome and awful man, by all ac- 
 counts, was this Sir John, who lived alone 
 with uncanny, dwarfish servant-people. It 
 was said that he conjured gold and jewels 
 out of the unholy flames he kindled, and 
 was accurst of God and the church. 
 
 Little enough of this did Dickon com- 
 prehend, for the idea of an alchemist was 
 new to him ; but the terrors which the 
 archer painted were none the less real to 
 the lad. 
 
 He fancied that the air in the tangled 
 copse through which they were now push- 
 ing their upward path already bore the 
 fatal taint of magic. He strove to breathe 
 as little of it as he could, and thus to 
 avoid its spell. 
 
 The horses had been left behind, and 
 their riders were now on foot like the 
 rest. 
 
 Dickon looked anxiously about for some 
 offer of escape. Then affrighted visions 
 of what death really was rose before his 
 eyes — all with startling suddenness taking 
 
262 How Dickon ca^ne by his Name. 
 
 on the likeness of his father, lying gasping 
 on the straw of the squalid forge. It 
 horrified his senses. 
 
 He stumbled blindly on with the rest, 
 not seeing where or with whom he was 
 going, and ever and again receiving blows 
 from the armed men behind him, which 
 he scarce noted. 
 
 All at once they all stood forth on the 
 edge of a promontory. Beneath them 
 spread out a picture of almost enchanted 
 loveliness, with park and lawn, with gar- 
 den, orchard, and lake. In the centre of 
 all was a peaceful mansion, turreted and 
 gabled for beauty rather than defence. 
 Engirdling all was a broad oaken zone of 
 forest. Midwinter though it was, the 
 sylvan prospect seemed to speak of spring, 
 and grass and trees alike were green. 
 
 As he looked down upon this scene, 
 Dickon felt the fog of fright lifting from 
 his mind. Somehow the notion dawned 
 upon him that if death by a sorcerer's 
 wiles awaited him here in this vale, it 
 
A Burst for Freedom. 263 
 
 must be a gracious and almost pleasant 
 death to fit the place. 
 
 His terrors left him, — as strangely swift 
 as they had come, — and in their place 
 there rose a curious sensation of regret 
 that so sweet and goodly a home as this 
 should be ravaged. 
 
 This was, however, too novel a thought 
 to take easy root, and he forgot it again 
 as they began creeping downward along 
 the narrow, shelving path to the park. 
 The marauding party were sheltered from 
 view the whole length of this path by a 
 hedge the height of a man's waist ; and 
 once the bottom was reached, their way 
 led throu2:h a wood where bushes and 
 saplings grew thickly in the shadow of 
 Q[iant oaks. 
 
 When at last the end of this had been 
 won, they were close to the rear of a 
 small stone building which they had not 
 seen until now. An arrow's flight away 
 was the great house, also in plain view — 
 and there grave things were going forward. 
 
264 How Dickon came by his Name. 
 
 As Dickon gazed out, a great cloud of 
 black smoke burst forth from the upper 
 window in one of the towers of this man- 
 sion, and through the smoke he saw a 
 dark object hurled outward, and whirl 
 swiftly to the ground. 
 
 As it fell and lay sprawled shapelessly 
 there, the lad realized that it was a human 
 being. Then, in a dazed way, he under- 
 stood that he was witnessino^ the sacking^ 
 of a manor-house. 
 
 Sir Watty and his troop were already 
 inside, and from the narrow doors and 
 windows faint noises proceeded — screams 
 of terror, curses of rage, and the clashing 
 of weapons. Through a little postern door 
 two of the Egswith marauders were thus 
 early dragging out spoil in hangings, armor, 
 and russet and murray gowns. 
 
 At the back of the mansion, to judge by 
 the SQunds, there was fighting in the open 
 air not less fierce than that within. 
 
 At sight of the booty issuing from the 
 postern, Rawly uttered a roar of greedy 
 
A Burst /o7'' Freedom, 265 
 
 exultation, and Dickon, in the twinkling of 
 an eye, found himself bereft of all his late 
 companions, who followed Rawly in a head- 
 long race for the scene of plunder. 
 
 The old archer did hold aloof for a brief 
 space, calling out to Dickon that in a min- 
 ute, or two at the utmost, all these would 
 assuredly be stricken dead ; but when no 
 such thing happened, and more costly stuffs 
 appeared to view in the hands of the ravish- 
 ers, he threw off his fears of magic, and ran 
 forward at the top of his speed to join in the 
 work of plunder. 
 
 Such combat as had been needed was 
 now at an end. Sir Watty — unless, indeed, 
 he had other visits on his mind — might 
 have safely wrought all this mischief with 
 the fifth part of his force. Dickon mar- 
 velled vaguely that so many men had been 
 brought for such paltry fighting — in igno- 
 rance that his lord's true danger lay on the 
 highroad, returning with his spoils. 
 
 Why the lad had not gone forward with 
 his fellows he could not have told. There 
 
266 How Dickon came by his Name. 
 
 was no reason why the thought of plunder 
 should be repugnant to him. 
 
 His whole life had been spent among men 
 who lived by plunder, and only in the dim- 
 mest fashion did he comprehend that there 
 were people able to command horses and 
 armor who lived by other means. 
 
 Yet he made no motion to join the others, 
 and in the curious interest with which he 
 stared upon the scene before him, had wholly 
 foro;otten the crossbow under his arm. 
 
 As he looked a swaying, shouting knot of 
 men-at-arms appeared at the chief door of 
 the mansion, dragging forward, with great 
 buffetings and scuffling, a person whom 
 Dickon saw to be, despite his struggles and 
 disorder, one of dignity and presence. 
 
 As they haled him out upon the sward, 
 and he stood erect among them, the lad 
 noted that he was tall and past middle age, 
 with the white face which goes with gentle 
 pursuits, and that he wore a blue side-gown 
 with fur upon it, and had a chain of gold 
 about his neck. 
 
A Durst for Freedom. 267 
 
 His brow was bleeding from a blow with 
 an iron orauntlet, but he held himself straifjht 
 and proudly. Now that they had ceased to 
 buffet him, he seemed to be putting ques- 
 tions to them which they answered by ribald 
 shouts. Instinctively Dickon left the wood 
 and began to cross the open space, that he 
 might the better hear the gentle questions 
 and the rude answers. 
 
 Sir Watty Curdle came suddenly out 
 from the door, and made his way with swift, 
 striding steps to the centre of this strange 
 group. The shouts of the soldiers rose the 
 higher for a moment, and then ceased alto- 
 gether, to make silence for what their dumb 
 show gave to be a talk between the robber- 
 knight and the gentleman. 
 
 Dickon had not won near enough to catch 
 even the sound of their voices, when the 
 parley came to an abrupt ending. 
 
 Sir Watty all at once lifted his mailed 
 hand, and with it struck the other man a vio- 
 lent blow in the face. As the gowned and 
 unarmed man reeled, a soldier with his pole- 
 
268 How Dickon came by his Name. 
 
 axe completed his master's work. The 
 stricken gentleman fell heavily, sidelong, 
 and two others on the instant pitched upon 
 the body to tear off the chain and furred 
 robe. 
 
 While he stood watching this, Dickon 
 felt his heart leap upward, and then sink 
 with a great sickening. He stood as if 
 turned to stone for a moment; and when 
 sense returned to him, he had uncon- 
 sciously brought his crossbow forward and 
 fitted a bolt in it, and begun to draw the 
 string home. To do what? He never knew. 
 
 Some soldiers were running in his direc- 
 tion across the sward, sounding the halloo 
 of the chase, and pointing their weapons 
 toward him. His first thousfht — that their 
 approach meant an attack upon him — 
 bred promptly the resolve to die as hard 
 as might be. 
 
 He set his heels firmly, and again began 
 to draw his bow ; but then it became ap- 
 parent that these running men strove to 
 call his attention to some other matter, for 
 
A Btirst for Fj'-ccdom. 269 
 
 they themselves were headed now obliquely 
 away from him. 
 
 Turning, he saw that two persons, an 
 old man and a boy, were fleeing for their 
 lives toward the wood. They had come 
 from the small house near by, and might 
 have won safety by this time if his pres- 
 ence there had not forced them to bend 
 in their course. 
 
 Without an instant's thought he began 
 running after them at his utmost speed. 
 It seemed to him that he had never moved 
 with half the swiftness before which now 
 lightened his heels. 
 
 At the very edge of the forest, the old 
 man staggered and tripped upon his long 
 gown, and fell face to earth, so that the 
 foremost of his pursuers tumbled over 
 him. Dickon had a momentary glimpse 
 of a reverend white head and long, snowy 
 beard kicked on the ground among iron 
 boots, and of a half-dozen furious men 
 fighting over what seemed already to be 
 a lifeless body. 
 
270 Hoiv Dickon came by his Name. 
 
 Then he heard a hoarse voice cry out, 
 "The lad has the jewels! After him! 
 After him ! " and two of these robbers 
 plunged on in headlong pursuit of the 
 fugitive boy. 
 
 What Dickon had seen thus swiftly had 
 served to slacken his pace for but a mo- 
 ment, and now that he gave chase again 
 he was nearer to the child victim than 
 were the others. 
 
 As he rushed through the thick tangle of 
 woodland, he could see that the boy ahead 
 bore under his arm a casket, the weight 
 of which so wore upon his frail strength 
 that his flight could last but a little longer. 
 Then it came that Dickon was between the 
 strange lad and his pursuers, being very 
 close to both, and was turned in hot re- 
 solve to face these murderers, with his 
 crossbow strung and levelled. 
 
 It seemed to cover only a blinded and 
 whirling instant of time — this struggle 
 which enveloped him. Dickon sent his 
 square-headed bolt with a twang! straight 
 
A Btirst for' Freedom. 271 
 
 into the throat of him who, panting and 
 red-eyed, led the chase. As this one threw 
 up his knees and pitched forward, the young 
 archer sprang fiercely over the body, and 
 fell with the fury of despair upon the other. 
 
 There was a terrible brief wrestle upon 
 the frosted leaves and moss. Then the 
 second ruffian lay suddenly still. 
 
 Dickon stood in trembling amaze for a 
 little, staring down upon these twain, whom 
 he had in a frenzied second put beyond 
 further combat. He shook like any winter 
 leaf as he looked, and his legs bent beneath 
 him — for this foremost dead man was Mor- 
 gan, the very bone and sinew of Egswith's 
 dread band. 
 
 To be burned alive were the lightest 
 vengeance for such a trick as this. 
 
 Dickon now thought of flight. Turning 
 in haste, he saw before him the boy with 
 the casket, standing at the entrance to a 
 rocky glade just beyond, and looking out 
 upon him with a white face. He moved 
 swiftly to him, and laid hold upon the box. 
 
272 How Dickon came by his Name. 
 
 " Speed for your life ! " he hissed ; and 
 then the pair, with no further word, set 
 forth in a breathless stumbling race through 
 the forest. 
 
 Before long the echoes of savage shouts 
 at the rear rang over the thicket, but the 
 hunted lads only shivered in silence and 
 pressed on. Then the cries died away, and 
 there was no sound in all the woodland 
 save the rustle of their hurried footsteps. 
 
 At last, when they had crossed a second 
 valley, and had arrived at a hill upon which 
 tall fir trees grew sparsely, and the ground 
 was spread with a dense carpet of dry 
 spines, the strange boy threw himself to 
 the earth. 
 
 " Further I may not stir," he groaned, 
 and put his head down upon the soft pine- 
 needles in utter weakness. 
 
 Dickon lifted the lad in his arms, and 
 bore him a little way to a nook where some 
 stunted firs, bunched close in a ring around 
 an ancestral stump, offered shelter. There, 
 when he had disposed his companion in 
 
A BtLTst for Freedom. 273 
 
 comfort, and stripped off his own fretting 
 haubergeon, Dickon had time to think and 
 to look about him. 
 
 The lad whose life he had saved in so 
 terrible a fashion was slender and small 
 of stature, yet had a face which to Dickon 
 seemed full of the wisdom of years. It 
 was a pale and girlish face, with thin, fine 
 lineaments and blue eyes from which shone 
 knowledge and swift sense. 
 
 The brow was strangely high and white. 
 Dickon had seen such once or twice amono: 
 the younger of the preaching road-friars. 
 The long hair which fell in two partings 
 from it was of the color and softness of 
 flax. His thin legs were cased in some 
 light hose which Dickon held to be of silk 
 — puny enough stuff for such a rude jour- 
 ney as they were making, and now much 
 torn and stained. 
 
 His body was covered with a tight slashed 
 tunic of a brown velvet. His cap — if he 
 set out with one — had been lost in the 
 flight. 
 
2 74 How Dickon came by his Name. 
 
 The boy seemed to desire no talk, for he 
 lay with his ear to the earth, breathing 
 heavily, and so Dickon squatted himself on 
 his haunches, and pried open the cover of 
 the heavy casket he had borne so far. 
 
 Instead of jewels, as he had looked to 
 find, there was naught but a block of 
 leather, ornamented with raised strips of vel- 
 vet and gilded lines, which wholly filled 
 the box. When Dickon lifted it out from 
 its encasing, this leather top turned as on 
 a hinge ; and fastened below it at the back 
 were seen many folds of parchment, one 
 upon the other, all covered with black 
 markings strange to the eye. 
 
 Dickon gazed in wonder at the queer 
 figures upon the parchment. Then his 
 slow mind recalled the archer's talk of 
 magic, and he let the thing drop, open and 
 with crushed pages, flat to the ground. 
 
 The lad sprang up at this with a mur- 
 mur of alarm, and lifted the fallen object, 
 solicitously smoothing out the parchments 
 and shuttino; the leather over them. Then 
 
A BiLvst for Freedom. 275 
 
 he reached for the casket, and put it in- 
 side again, eying his companion with vexed 
 reo-ard meanwhile. 
 
 " It is ill to mar what thou canst not 
 mend," he said sharply. 
 
 " There are more bolts to my bow, an 
 you mean me harm," Dickon answered, 
 with a stout voice enough, but much un- 
 certainty within. He took up his weapon 
 to point the words. 
 
 The lad in velvet laughed. " What harm 
 could be in me } " he said, and laughed 
 again. " Bolts and bows, forsooth ! Why, 
 thou couldst spoil me with thy thumb." 
 And still he laughed on, 
 
 "Yon leathern gear — is it goodly .f^" 
 Dickon pointed to the casket. 
 
 " What — my Troilus } " Looking into 
 Dickon's honest face, he understood his 
 fears, and answered gently : " Nay, ease thy 
 mind. It is a book — a book not written, 
 but made with types. It tells to the skilled 
 eye a brave story — but not braver, good 
 fellow, than to-day's tale of thee. Art a 
 
276 How Dickon came by his Name. 
 
 stout carle, by the rood ! Who is thy 
 master ? " 
 
 Dickon bent his chin upon his throat to 
 overlook the device stitched upon his breast, 
 but did not reply. A formless idea crossed 
 his brain that perchance one might live in 
 forests without a lord. It was worth think- 
 ing upon. 
 
 " And by what mercy camest thou at 
 my heels ? " the lad pursued. 
 
 Then, as these words brought up before 
 him the awful scene at the woodland's edge, 
 he fell to shuddering and choked with sobs. 
 
 " My good old master, — to die thus foully, 
 — oh, woe ! woe ! " he moaned, and put 
 down his head again. 
 
 Dickon pricked up his ears at the word. 
 " Had you then a master, too } " he asked, 
 and on the instant there sprouted in his 
 heart a kindlier feeling for the lad. They 
 were more of a common clay, it seemed, 
 than he had thought. 
 
 " But you have no badge ! " he com- 
 mented. 
 
A Burst for Freedom. 277 
 
 " Badge ? Badge ? " the boy said hesi- 
 tatingly, and Dickon noted now a strange- 
 ness of sound in his speech which, the 
 while he had held him to be of rank, had 
 passed unheard. 
 
 " What means it — badge ? " asked the 
 lad ; and when Dickon pointed to the two 
 hares on his own breast, the stranger burst 
 again into laughter. A droll boy this, 
 surely, who could be so merry and so tear- 
 ful all in the same breath. 
 
 " Nay, I wear no man's collar," he said 
 at last ; and then, in pity for Dickon's per- 
 plexity, explained. " The good old man, 
 Geraldus Hansenius, was my master only 
 in lov^e and courtesy, and in that he 
 taught me in all the deep mysteries of his 
 craft. 
 
 " He brought me from my own land, and 
 here, where Sir John gave us honor and fair 
 lodgment, we printed the book. And now, 
 lo ! in this short hour Sir John and Geraldus 
 are foully done to death, and Camber Dane 
 is despoiled — and the Troilus and I are 
 
278 How Dickon came by his Name. 
 
 hiding for our lives, like hares in a thicket. 
 Ach Gott! Ach Gott!" 
 
 At this there were more moans. 
 
 " No hare am I," said Dickon, stoutly, 
 " but if they try me, more like a wolf. Pick 
 me out these threads." 
 
 He knelt beside the lad, who with a 
 bodkin from his doublet ripped one by one 
 the hated lines that had shown Dickon to 
 be evil Sir Watty's man. 
 
 Then Dickon stood upright, and filled 
 himself with a great, deep breath. The new 
 sense of liberty seemed to raise his stature 
 and swell his girth. He took off his iron 
 sallet, and shook his free head proudly, 
 nearer to the sky than it had ever before 
 been lifted. 
 
 "We will live in the greenwood," he said 
 in bold, boyish confidence. 
 
w 
 
 I 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 A STRANGE CHRISTMAS EVE. 
 
 HEN two nights and two days had 
 passed, Dickon and Andreas found 
 themselves on the furthermost edge of 
 the forest. Here skirted the woodland a 
 highroad which neither had seen before. 
 Beyond this were a rolling moor country 
 and distant mountains, the sight of which 
 was strange to them ; but house of any 
 kind there was none. 
 
 When their eager gaze, sweeping all 
 the prospect, had made certain that no 
 habitation was to be seen, Dickon groaned 
 deeply, and little Andreas wept outright. 
 
 As they stood thus, Andreas clenched 
 
 his hands at his breast, lifting his white 
 
 face upward toward the bare boughs. 
 
 Then he closed his eyes, and staggering 
 
 279 
 
28o How Dickon came by his Name. 
 
 a single step, fell forward to the ground, 
 and lay there on his face like a log. 
 
 Dickon lifted his comrade in his arms, 
 and bore him back into the thicket. Out 
 in the open where the two youths had 
 viewed the highroad the earth was frozen 
 stiff, and snow lay thin-spread upon it ; 
 but behind them, on the path they had 
 made, lay warmer nooks sheltered by tan- 
 gled shrubs. 
 
 To the first of these Dickon pushed 
 his way, and putting the lad softly down, 
 began gathering dry, dead leaves by arm- 
 fuls and piling them over the senseless 
 body. On these he laid branches, and 
 then again more leaves, until only the 
 boyish, sleeping face met the air. 
 
 Now he made another journey to the 
 outer place which they had won, and 
 gleaning from the ground the three things 
 he had left there, brought them back to 
 where the lad lay under his leaves, and 
 put them down beside him. These were 
 the crossbow, the book in its casket, and 
 
A Strange Christmas Eve. 281 
 
 the mangled carcass of a boar which he 
 had killed, but had eaten of more to his 
 harm than good, since there was no fire 
 with which to cook the meat. 
 
 Dickon looked down to his friend, and 
 saw that the boy was awake, and sick unto 
 death. Cold and hunger and the toil of 
 wild wandering had dealt harshly with 
 even Dickon's own tough English flesh 
 and blood. They were killing the fragile 
 lad from foreign parts. 
 
 " Do you get warmth ? " he asked dole- 
 fully, as he had asked scores of other 
 times. 
 
 For answer the lad closed his eyes and 
 shook his head in weakness. 
 
 Then Dickon knelt down and did a 
 thins: strangle to all his knowledo^e of cus- 
 toms. He kissed the pale forehead which 
 lay half-hid among the leaves. Then, as 
 if in shame, he sprang to his feet. 
 
 " Bide you here till I come," he said, 
 and turning, strode off toward the open, 
 with the crossbow under his arm. 
 
282 How Dickon came by his Name. 
 
 For warmth's sake and the peril which 
 brooded behind him, he swung himself 
 forward at a swift pace down the high- 
 road. The air and the movement kindled 
 his blood a little. 
 
 A full league it seemed to him he must 
 have tramped, over barren moorland and 
 through winding defiles with steep, un- 
 friendly sides of bare rock, before he came 
 to anything that spoke of human habita- 
 tion. Then, as the skies were darkening 
 into twilight, he entered unawares into 
 the deeper shadows of a great wall, gray 
 and forbidding, rising above the highway 
 like a part of the boulders themselves. 
 
 At, the base of this, as if entering upon 
 the heart of the earth, was a small, black 
 door of wood, framed in frowning stone. 
 
 On this door of the monastery Dickon 
 pounded with his fists, and with the han- 
 dle of his weapon, and presently there 
 came a sound as of bolts withdrawn. The 
 door opened half-way, and a chalk-faced 
 young friar in white gown and hood stood 
 before him. 
 
A Strange Christmas Eve. 283 
 
 " Enter," this spectral figure said, and 
 trembled with the cold. 
 
 " Nay, fire is what I seek," stammered 
 Dickon, almost in fright at the ghost-like 
 form before him, and at the strange sound 
 of a tinkling bell echoing from the rocks 
 overhead. 
 
 " Canst not wait till thou art dead for 
 that .? " the white-robed phantom said, in 
 tones of earthly vexation. He would have 
 shut the door at this, but that Dickon 
 sprang forward, thrust his bow against the 
 inner frame, and clutched the friar by the 
 arm. 
 
 " Fire ! fire ! " he cried. " Give me that 
 to kindle fire, or I kill you — like the 
 others ! " 
 
 The monk stood stock-still, and curled 
 the thin corners of his lips in scorn at this 
 rude boy, and held him with his bright, 
 sneering gaze. Dickon looked into these 
 sharp, cold eyes, and felt himself a noisy 
 fool. 
 
 " Nay, father," he stumbled on, pleadingly, 
 " if I get not a fire, he dies ! " 
 
284 How Dickon came by his Name. 
 
 " Hast thy head full of dead men, seem- 
 ingly," the young Cistercian replied. 
 
 He cast his glance down over this rough 
 visitor, and noting the blood-splashes upon 
 his hose, lifted his brows in wrathful in- 
 quiry. Then he snatched up the crucifix 
 from the end of the chain at his girdle, 
 and thrust it swiftly into Dickon's face. 
 
 " Who art thou, churl } " he demanded. 
 "Whose blood is this?" 
 
 Dickon's nerve sank into his shoes. 
 
 " A boar that I have slain, good father," 
 he answered in a mumbling whimper, "and 
 lack fire wherewith to roast it; and the 
 raw flesh is ill food, and he can eat naught 
 of it, and gets no warmth, and must die if 
 I win not a fire." 
 
 At this the monk softened. He led 
 Dickon into the outer porch, and gleaned 
 the purport of his story. Only Dickon 
 said nothings of the book or of the two 
 men he had killed. 
 
 " Fire thou shalt have," the young monk 
 said, more kindly, when Dickon's tale was 
 
Whose Blood is Ihis?" 
 
A Strange Christmas Eve. 287 
 
 finished. " But first go through the gates 
 before thee to the hall, and take all thou 
 wilt of meat and ale. None will deny 
 thee. 'Tis the eve of holy Christmas, and 
 though we fast, thou and thy kind may 
 feed in welcome." 
 
 " It is only fire I seek," said Dickon, 
 doggedly, though all his vitals clamored in 
 revolt against the speech. " Food I will 
 none till he hath supped." 
 
 " So be it," said the monk, and left 
 Dickon alone under the groined archway 
 in the growing darkness. 
 
 Presently he came again, and put flint and 
 steel and tinder into the lad's hand. He gave 
 him also a leathern bottle stopped with wax 
 and a little cheese wrapped in fine straw. 
 
 " Bear these along," he said. " It is the 
 Christmas eve. Peace be with you," and 
 so motioned the boy away. 
 
 Dickon's tongue was not used to words 
 of thanks, and he had turned in silence to 
 go out when the monk called to him, and 
 then came forward to the outer door. 
 
288 How Dickon came by his Name. 
 
 "You were to kill me — like 'the others,'" 
 he said, with a grim smile curling his lips. 
 "What others?" 
 
 " Two of Sir Watty's men, whom I 
 smote down as they would have fallen 
 upon him','' said Dickon, pride struggling 
 with apprehension. 
 
 The monk smiled at this outright, and 
 departing again abruptly, returned with a 
 pasty in a dish, enfolded in cloths. 
 
 " Now God be with vou ! " he said, 
 heartily. " Hither bring your strange gos- 
 sip on the morrow, if he find his legs." 
 
 Once outside the rock-girt postern, 
 Dickon set to running, his arms full with 
 the burden of the friar's gifts, and his 
 heart all aglow with joy. It was a weari- 
 some enough ascent, and the darkness of 
 even was drawing ever closer over the 
 earth, and the lad's empty stomach cried 
 aloud at every furlong for food ; but still 
 he pressed on. 
 
 When at last he had gained the point 
 on the road whence his quest had begun, 
 
A Strange Christmas Eve. 289 
 
 the light had altogether failed. Then only- 
 he struck his flint, and set fire to some 
 leaves. From these he kindled a knot of 
 dry branches, and with this for a torch 
 pushed his way into the woods. 
 
 " Andreas," he called out, when at last 
 he stood above his friend, " here is fire 
 and food ! " 
 
 The white face among the leaves was 
 the color of the snow he had left behind 
 him. The eyes were half-open, but no 
 answering light came into them. The boy 
 lay as if dead. 
 
 With a startled cry Dickon let fall his 
 spoils, and dropping to his knees, lifted 
 the other's head up against his waist. It 
 twisted inertly upon the thin neck and 
 hung forward. Was life truly gone .? 
 
 Like one in a daze, Dickon laid the boy 
 down again among the leaves, and rose to 
 his feet, still holding the burning sticks in 
 his hand. The flames came painfully near 
 to his flesh before he started into sense 
 again. 
 
290 How Dicko7i came by his Name. 
 
 Then he swiftly built a fire in a cleft 
 among the rocks at the end of the little 
 hollow, piling dry wood and leaves upon 
 it till the blaze lighted up everything 
 about. This done, he knocked off the 
 waxen cover of his leather bottle, cut out 
 the stopper, and kneeling once more, put 
 its mouth to the dying lad's lips. 
 
 Strange tears came into his eyes as, after 
 only a brief moment, those of his friend 
 opened in truth, and gazed wonderingly 
 upward at the luminous volume of ascend- 
 ing smoke. Then the slight frame shud- 
 dered piteously with a recuTring chill, and 
 the dread sleep fell upon it once more. 
 
 Dickon dragged him to the fire, piling 
 leaves behind for support, and holding the 
 lad's hands almost into the flames, so des- 
 perate did the strait seem to be. Then he 
 stripped off his own leathern jacket, and 
 wrapped it about Andreas. 
 
 He heaped fresh fuel on the fire, he 
 rubbed the slender limbs for warmth with 
 his rough hands, he forced more of the 
 
A Strange Christmas Eve. 291 
 
 wine-drink down the boy's throat — all at 
 once, as it were, in a frenzy of resolve that 
 death should at all hazards be fought off. 
 
 And so it came about, for presently 
 Andreas was sitting propped up upon the 
 mound of leaves, smiling faintly with pleas- 
 ure at the new warmth in his veins, and 
 sucking bare the last bird-bones from the 
 pie. 
 
 Dickon gnawed ravenously upon the 
 smoky and half-cooked piece of- tough 
 meat he had cut from the ham of the boar, 
 and watched the sweet spectacle of his 
 friend restored to life, in an abstraction 
 of dumb joy. 
 
 Andreas lifted his hand in air, and uttered 
 an exclamation of surprise. 
 
 " It is Christmas eve ! " he said. " I had 
 forgotten ! " 
 
 " So said the friar," Dickon mumbled 
 between mouthfuls, tearing at the food 
 meanwhile with his teeth. " He was in 
 two minds about having me flogged, but 
 for that. The monks have a fear of the 
 
292 How Dickon came by his Name. 
 
 king, they say, and on the days he marks 
 for them durst not break bread for them- 
 selves. Thus this friar must needs fast 
 to-day — so he said. How could the king 
 know, if he slipped in some food while- 
 times } He hath not been in these parts 
 this many years." 
 
 " It is not the king, Dickon," answered 
 Andreas. " A greater than any king order- 
 eth these matters." 
 
 " Aye, the lord of Warwick," said Dickon. 
 " My father rode with him, in far countries, 
 when he was lusty. But the king slew him 
 years agone, in a battle by London town. 
 Wist you not that.?" 
 
 " Tut, tut," the lad in ragged velvet 
 made reply, smiling at first, and then 
 more gravely. " Your Warwick is dust 
 and bones, as every man shall be, the king 
 not less than the meanest knave. But God 
 does not die, and He ruleth all things." 
 
 " Sir Watty swore ever by Him," said 
 Dickon. " But He hath not once set foot 
 in Shropshire, in my time." 
 
A Strange Christinas Eve. 293 
 
 Andreas lifted himself at this, with eyes 
 marvelling at such ignorance. 
 
 " Oh, Dickon lad, thou hast the very- 
 mother's milk of learning to find thy way 
 to," he cried, and crossed his knees by the 
 ruddy blaze, tailor-fashion, to begin. 
 
 The stoiy that he told to Dickon was 
 such a one as never Christian child in 
 these times needs to hear, but rather draws 
 in from every source, unconsciously, like 
 speech and the shapings of thought. But 
 to Dickon it was brand new, since at Egs- 
 with no godly man had ever shown his 
 face. He listened to it all with open 
 mouth and brain. 
 
 As for Andreas, he grew presently con- 
 scious of fatigue, and lay back upon his 
 couch of leaves as his narrative unfolded. 
 Then, the instant spur of food and 
 warmth becoming spent, his voice grew 
 fainter, and in the returning weakness his 
 thoughts wandered from the thread of the 
 sublime story to tender memories of how 
 it had been illumined and decked out in 
 his old German home. 
 
294 How Dickon came by his Name. 
 
 " Ach, lieber Tannenbaum ! " he mur- 
 mured, with the firehght in his dreamy- 
 eyes. " It was a sight to live for, Dickon 
 — the beautiful fir tree before you, with 
 burning candles fastened in among the 
 branches, and Christmas gifts hanging 
 underneath, — every little minute some- 
 thing new you found, — and father, mother, 
 brothers, sisters, all in the happy ring 
 around the tree, with joyful songs and 
 good wishes — woe ! woe ! I shall never 
 see it again ! " 
 
 "That thou shalt, and hundreds of 
 them," said Dickon, cheerily. 
 
 But Andreas shook his head in sadness, 
 and gazed into the crackling blaze as 
 though it were a tomb. 
 
 " Old Geraldus and I would have had a 
 tree," he sighed at last. " Each year since 
 we came out from Augsburg we made us 
 one, and sang the dear old German songs, 
 and gave each other gifts. And this year 
 we were both to give this goodly ' Troilus ' 
 to Sir John — and lo ! they are both mur- 
 
A Strange Christmas Eve. 295 
 
 dered, dead, and I am following them, 
 close at their heels — and ' Troilus ' will 
 come to naught. And never had more 
 cunning and shapely work been done, not 
 even in Augsburg ! " 
 
 "Is it far — that 'Owg' — what name 
 do you call it?" asked Dickon. "As far 
 as London tov/n ? " 
 
 The lad smiled faintly from where he 
 lay. " It is across the sea, and many days' 
 journey still." 
 
 "And does the king come there oftener 
 than into Shropshire t " 
 
 " Dull boy ! There your king durst 
 never come. It is not his country. There 
 is an emperor, and then a Wittelsbach 
 Duke, but even these may not come into 
 Augsburg if the burghers say them nay. 
 The tongue is different there from yours, 
 and so, glory be to the saints, are the 
 manners, too. There learning flourishes, 
 and men are gentle, and books like poor 
 Troilus yonder are monthly made by 
 dozens." 
 
296 How Dickon came by his Name. 
 
 " Wherefore came you hither, then ? " 
 queried Dickon, with rude islander logic. 
 
 " It was the madness in my master's 
 head. He deemed that here he should be 
 welcome, bringing a new craft to make 
 knowledge common. But these be beasts 
 here in Shropshire, not men. They desire 
 not books, but only blood and battle and 
 red meat." 
 
 " Men come by knowledge to their hurt," 
 said Dickon. " There was a clerk turned 
 thief in Egswith with Sir Watty, and he 
 was skilled to fashion marks on paper 
 so wise men mio^ht know their meanino- — 
 
 O O 
 
 and him they hanged at Rednal for a rogue 
 four winters syne." 
 
 " For that he was a robber, and no true 
 clerk," retorted Andreas. 
 
 Dickon looked into the fire for answer, 
 and then at the black, starless sky over- 
 head. He rose, and busied himself for a 
 time in gathering fresh fuel, and then in 
 roughly wattling some side shelter at the 
 back of the bed of leaves. Some vagrant 
 
A Strange Christmas Eve. 297 
 
 flakes of snow sifted through the branches 
 above, and he reflected upon the chances 
 of making a roof on the morrow. Or 
 doubtless it would be better to go farther 
 back, and build more securely there. 
 
 He put the question to Andreas by way 
 of talk, restoring the fire meanwhile. The 
 German boy smiled in wonder. 
 
 " Why, on the morrow, if strength comes 
 back to me, hie we to the good white friars. 
 They bade you come, and me, too ! " 
 
 Dickon's face clouded over. 
 
 " Nay, I'm for the greenwood," he said 
 stubbornly. " I will wear no man's collar 
 more, nor sleep under roof. To be free, 
 here in the open, it maketh a new man of 
 me. And so, an you leave me, here I abide 
 alone, or in these parts." 
 
 " How should I leave thee, Dickon } " 
 said the other, softly. "That could not 
 be. But freedom lies not alone out under 
 the skies, in wind and cold. Was any 
 other more free than I, with my old master } 
 Come, thou shalt be ruled by me — and we 
 
298 How Dickon came by his Name. 
 
 will make our way out from these ruffian 
 parts together, and somewhere we shall 
 light upon a gentle patron, and there I 
 will carve new types and build a press, 
 and thy stout arms shall turn the screw, 
 and I will teach thee learning, and — " 
 
 He broke off all at once, and gazed wist- 
 fully upward at the mounting volume of 
 smoke and snapping sparks for a long 
 time in silence. Dickon looked on him, 
 speechless but with great things dawning 
 confusedly in his head. 
 
CHAPTER IV. 
 
 UP IN THE WORLD. 
 
 OAVE the crackling of flame, and the 
 small sound of branches overhead that 
 were swayed a little by the draught from 
 the fire on the forest floor, Dickon heard 
 nothing while he waited for Andreas to 
 finish the matter of which he had been 
 speaking. 
 
 For the rude smithy-bred boy there was 
 little meaning in the other's promise to 
 teach him learning. No more meaning was 
 there for Dickon in the young scholar's 
 craving for types and a press to begin print- 
 ing anew. 
 
 But the promise that Andreas would not 
 part from him lingered in Dickon's ears, 
 and uplifted his heart as he waited rev- 
 erentially to hear again the gentle, con- 
 299 
 
300 How Dickon came by Jiis Name. 
 
 vinced, and loving accents of the German 
 youth. 
 
 At last Andreas spoke — as if he had 
 not paused, and yet with a strange new 
 wailing weakness in his voice : — 
 
 " And if the saints willed, thus might 
 we win our way back to Augsburg. But 
 that may never be, for I shall die here, here 
 where I lie, and thou wilt turn to wild 
 beast or robber when I am gone, and brave, 
 goodly Augsburg will press on, leading all 
 men, with never a thought of poor little 
 me, dead here in the forest." 
 
 Dickon would have spoken in homely 
 protest, but the change on his friend's face 
 scared him to dumbness. Not even the 
 flame-light could make it ruddy now. In 
 the eyes there was a dimmed, far-away look 
 which chilled Dickon's blood. 
 
 " Aye, when I lie forgotten here," — the 
 thin, saddened voice went on in increasing 
 slowness, — " there the old gray walls and 
 tiled gables will be, with the storks making 
 their nests in the spring, and the convent 
 
up in the World. 301 
 
 boys singing at daybreak in the streets, 
 and the good housewives stopping in the 
 market-place on their way home from mass, 
 and the smell of new grass and blossoms 
 in the air . . . and when Christmas comes 
 I shall not know it . . . these eyes shall not 
 look again on the Tannenbaum. Woe ! woe ! " 
 
 " Is that the tree ? " asked Dickon, some 
 impulse to words and action stirring vaguely 
 in his frightened heart. 
 
 " Aye," groaned Andreas, " the beautiful 
 tree with candles blazins^ on its branches 
 and shining gifts." He followed on in a 
 weak murmuring of foreign words, seem- 
 ingly without meaning. 
 
 Dickon bent one intent, long glance 
 upon this childish, waxen face before him. 
 Then he plucked a burning bough from 
 the fire, and without a word pushed the 
 bushes aside and plunged into the outer 
 darkness of the forest. 
 
 After some time he returned, bearing 
 an armful of rushes. He warmed himself 
 for a moment, and then, seated so that 
 
302 How Dickon came by his Name. 
 
 Andreas might not observe his work, began 
 with his knife to cut these down into 
 lengths of a span, and to strip off all but 
 a winding rim of their outer cover. 
 
 Then he hacked with his knife into the 
 frozen boar's carcass. Cutting out portions 
 of white, hard fat, he melted these a little 
 at the fire, and then rolled them thinly 
 between his palms about the trimmed 
 rushes. This done, he flayed off a part 
 of the boar's skin, scorched off the bristles, 
 rubbed it all with ashes, and spreading 
 it over his sallet, sliced it into a rude 
 semblance of fine thongs. 
 
 Then, still uttering no word, he was gone 
 again, once more bearing with him a lighted 
 torch. 
 
 In front of Andreas, but to one side, as 
 he lay in half trance and utter faintness 
 watching the smoke, there rose at two 
 rods' distance the dark outline of a lir 
 tree, the lower parts of which were hidden 
 by shrubs. 
 
 Suddenly the sick boy's gaze was diverted 
 
\ 
 
 Up in the World. 303 
 
 to the dim black cone of this tree, where 
 a reddish radiance seemed spreading up- 
 ward from the tangle underneath. Then 
 a sparkling spot of white light made itself 
 visible high up among the dusky branches 
 — then another — and another. At last 
 nearly a dozen there were, all brightly 
 glowing like stars brought near. 
 
 Andreas gazed in languid marvelling at 
 the development of this strange thing — 
 as one quietly contemplates miracles in 
 sleep. It seemed but a natural part of his 
 dying vision of Augsburg — the Tannen- 
 baum making itself weirdly real before his 
 fading sight. 
 
 The rosy smoke parted to shape a frame 
 for this mystic picture in its centre, and 
 Andreas saw it all — the twinkling lights, 
 the deep-shadowed lines of boughs, the 
 engirdling wreaths of fiery vapor — as a 
 part of the dreamland whose threshold he 
 stood upon. And his heart sang softly 
 within him at the sight. 
 
 Then all at once he awoke from the 
 
304 How Dicko7i came by his Name. 
 
 dream ; for Dickon was standing over him, 
 flushed with a rude satisfaction in his 
 work, and saying : — 
 
 " Gifts had I none to hang, Andreas, 
 save it were the bottle and what is left of 
 the cheese. Look your fill at it, for boar's 
 fat never yet was tallow, and the rushes 
 are short-lived." 
 
 The dream mists cleared from the Ger- 
 man boy's brain. 
 
 " Oh, it is thine ! " he faintly murmured, 
 in reviving comprehension. " Thou hast 
 made it — for me ! " 
 
 Dickon glanced out to where, in his eyes, 
 some sorry dips guttered for a brief space 
 on a tree-top. More than one of the lights 
 was already flickering to collapse in the 
 breeze. 
 
 "You said you never would see one 
 again," he urged triumphantly. " Belike 
 your speech about dying was no whit truer." 
 
 Andreas had no further words, but lifted 
 his hand weakly upward, and Dickon knelt 
 down and took it in his own hard palms. 
 
I 
 
 I 
 
 up in the World. 305 
 
 Thus the two boys kept silence for a 
 period — silence which spoke many things 
 to both — and looked at the little rush-dips 
 fluttering on the boughs against the cur- 
 tain of black night. 
 
 Of a sudden, the stillness which had ten- 
 derly enwrapped them was roughly broken. 
 If there had been warning sounds, the lads 
 had missed them — for their hearts almost 
 stopped beating with the shock that now 
 befell. 
 
 A violent crushing of the bushes, a 
 chance clank of metal — and two fierce- 
 faced bowmen in half-armor stood in the 
 firelight before their frightened gaze. 
 
 "Stir not — on your lives!" cried one 
 of these strange intruders, with the cold 
 menace of a pole-axe in his mailed hand. 
 " What mummery is this ? " 
 
 Somehow it dawned upon Dickon's con- 
 sciousness that these warlike men, for all 
 their terrifying mien, were as much fright- 
 ened in their way as he was. This per- 
 ception came doubtless from the lessons 
 
3o6 How Dickon came by his Name. 
 
 of a life spent with bold soldiers who yet 
 trembled at sight of a will o' the wisp. 
 He kept his jaw from knocking together 
 with an effort, and asked as if at his ease: 
 
 " What mean you, good sir ? No mum- 
 mery is here." 
 
 " There ! there ! " shouted the other man- 
 at-arms, pointing with his spear to where 
 the rush-lights — or what remained of them 
 — twinkled fitfully in the tree. 
 
 " Oh, that," said Dickon, with noncha- 
 lance. " It is a trick of foreign parts, made 
 by me to gladden the heart of this poor 
 lad, my master, who lies here sore stricken 
 with sickness. Wist you not it is Christ- 
 mas ? This is our Tonnybow, meet for 
 such a time." 
 
 The two men looked sharply at the 
 boys, and then, after a murmured consulta- 
 tion, one turned on his heel and disap- 
 peared. The other, espying the leathern 
 bottle, grew friendlier, and lifted it to his 
 lips by an undivided motion from the 
 ground. Then he said, drawing nearer to 
 
up in the World. 307 
 
 the blaze and heaving a long, comforted 
 breath : — 
 
 " Whose man art thou ? " 
 
 " This is my master," replied Dickon, 
 with his thumb toward Andreas, " who was 
 most foully beset by robbers, and is like 
 now to die if he win not help and shelter." 
 
 " That shall be as my lord duke willeth," 
 said the soldier. 
 
 As he spoke, the sound of more clanking 
 armor fell upon the air. In a moment a 
 half-dozen mailed men stood at the entrance 
 to the copse, gazing in with curious glances. 
 
 Behind them were men with flaring 
 torches, and in their front was the stately 
 figure of a young knight, tall and proudly 
 poised. A red cloak and fur tippet were 
 cast over his shining corselet. 
 
 This young man had a broad brow under 
 his hanging hair, and grave, piercing eyes, 
 which passed over Dickon as mere clay, and 
 fastened a shrewd gaze on the lad in velvet. 
 
 " It is the German gift-tree," he said to 
 those behind him, whom Dickon saw now to 
 
3o8 How Dickon came by his Name. 
 
 be gentles and no common soldiers. " I 
 have heard oft of this, but looked not to see 
 it first in Shropshire. What do you here.^* " 
 he asked at Dickon, rather than of him, and 
 with such a flash of sharp, commanding eyes 
 that the lad's tongue thickened, and he could 
 make no answer. 
 
 Andreas it was who spoke, when words 
 failed Dickon, in a voice firmer than before, 
 and lifting himself on his elbow. 
 
 " He saved my life, my lord," he said. 
 " And I am dying, I think, and this tree the 
 good fellow tricked out to please my sick 
 fancy. And I pray you, for a dead lad's 
 sake, have a care for him when I am gone." 
 
 The knight, with the promise of a smile 
 on his straight lips, looked from eager, 
 fragile Andreas to burly, hang-dog Dickon, 
 and back again. 
 
 " Art from the German countries } " he 
 asked. " And how here, of all spots under 
 the sky?" 
 
 " I am Andreas Mayer, from Augsburg," 
 said the lad, "driven hence by robbers from 
 
up in the World. 309 
 
 the house of Sir John Camber, who was 
 slain along with my good master, Geraldus 
 Hansenius." 
 
 The young knight took a' hasty step for- 
 ward, and peered down upon the lad. 
 
 " Geraldus of the types and press — the 
 printer ? " he asked hurriedly. " And thou 
 art skilled in his craft t " 
 
 " This is even more my handiwork than 
 his," replied Andreas, with a boy's pride, 
 reaching out for the casket containing his 
 beloved " Troilus." 
 
 Dickon undid the cover, and handed out 
 the volume to the young noble, who took 
 it with a swift gesture, and turned over 
 here and there a page, bending the book to 
 the firelight and uttering exclamations of 
 delight. Suddenly he closed the book, and 
 gave it back to Dickon to replace in the 
 casket. 
 
 " I thank thee. Sir Francis," he said to 
 one of those behind him. " But for thy 
 wonder at the lights in yon tree, we had 
 passed this treasure by. Ho there, Poynterl 
 
3IO How Dickon came by his Name. 
 
 Fashion me a litter on the moment, and we 
 will bear this lad onward to the abbey as 
 we go. Let some one ride on to say I am 
 belated ; hasten the others." 
 
 Then he took the precious volume from 
 its casket once more, and mused upon its 
 pages again, and spoke of them to the 
 gentlemen closest behind him. Again and 
 again he put pointed questions to young 
 Andreas upon the method of their making. 
 
 " Thou hast heard of Master Caxton } " 
 he asked the German boy. 
 
 " Aye, he of Bruges, and I have seen his 
 work. Geraldus did as fair." 
 
 " Thou shalt help Caxton, then, to do 
 fairer still. He is of Bruges no longer, 
 saints be praised, but practises his good 
 craft in his own native England now this 
 two months syne at my own house in West- 
 minster ; and he will fall upon thy neck in 
 joy when I do bring thee to him." 
 
 The boy's eyes sparkled with elation. 
 Forgetting his weakness, he sat upright. 
 
 " I would not be over-bold," he said, " but 
 
up in the World. 311 
 
 with these mine hands have I held proofs 
 for the Emperor to read from, and there is 
 none of higher state in this thy island of a 
 surety. Art thou the duke of these parts?" 
 
 " Rather a duke who fain would be of all 
 parts," the young knight answered, and 
 then smiled to note that the quip was lost 
 upon the foreign lad. He made a little 
 movement of his hand to signify that he 
 would be no longer unknown, and one of 
 the others informed the questioner. 
 
 "It is his Grace of Gloster — our good 
 King's brother — who honors you with his 
 princely favor." 
 
 Some archers bore in a bed of boughs at 
 this, over which the Prince, still smiling, 
 spread his own red cloak, jewelled collar and 
 all. To another he gave the casket with the 
 book. 
 
 " I keep my Christmas at the house of 
 holy St. Bernard, down the valley," he said, 
 as the men lifted Andreas gently into the 
 litter, and folded the royal robe about his 
 slender form. " Sobeit thou gainest strength 
 
312 How Dickon came by his Name. 
 
 there, in warm bed and cheerful care, shalt 
 ride to London with me." 
 
 So, as he turned upon his heel, the torch- 
 bearers spread themselves forth to light his 
 way ; and after him, with much rattling of 
 iron, arms and armor, the knights and the 
 men with the litter pushed their way. 
 
 Dickon stood by the declining fire, awed 
 and struck dumb with what had come to 
 pass. The brother of the King! They 
 were bearing Andreas away, and he was left 
 under the black winter sky with his cross- 
 bow and frozen boar and empty bottle, deso- 
 late and alone. 
 
 He stared stupidly at the dancing torch- 
 lights on the armor of the passing group, 
 with a dull ache in his breast. 
 
 Then suddenly he heard the shrill voice 
 of Andreas crying, "Dickon! My Dickon!" 
 
 Dickon ran headlong forward, and stood 
 boldly beside the litter, which for the mo- 
 ment was halted in its progress. When the 
 Prince turned to look back, the smith's son 
 faced even this mighty glance upright, and 
 
I 
 
 up in the World. 313 
 
 with his chin in the air. If the wrath of 
 kings' brothers killed, then he would at least 
 die beside Andreas. 
 
 "What to-do is this.'*" Richard of Gloster 
 asked, with a bending of his brows upon the 
 peasant lad. 
 
 The Prince had stopped, and with him all 
 his cortege. Above him flickered in its final 
 stage the last of the rush-lights on the tree. 
 Now that he stood cloakless, one of his 
 shoulders was revealed higher than the 
 other. 
 
 " He saved my poor life, your Highness," 
 spoke Andreas swiftly from his couch. " He 
 came to Camber Dane along with the robber 
 band, but in the pillage he bore no part, and 
 with his own hands slew he two villains who 
 would have run me down, and bore me 
 through the forest here, and got food and 
 drink and fire for me, and guarded my 
 ' Troilus ' there from loss and — " 
 
 " Whose man art thou, boy 1 " the Prince 
 broke in. 
 
 " I was Sir Watty Curdle's man," Dickon 
 
314 How Dickon came by his Name. 
 
 made answer, with a stumbling tongue, but 
 bold enough mien. " But that I will be no 
 more, but rather die here first." 
 
 " Why, Sir Watty hath outstripped thee 
 in that race. I set his head up on a pole in 
 Craven market-place this morning, and Egs- 
 with hath the King's men in it to keep for 
 once an honest Christmas," said the Prince, 
 smiling grimly. " What name hast thou ? " 
 
 " No other name save Dickon." 
 
 " Why, then, for all this doughty strife and 
 brave work shalt have another atop of it," 
 the Prince said, his shrewd, shapely young 
 face melting into a kindly softness. " Art a 
 good lad to be thus sued for." 
 
 He cast his swift glance about in instant 
 search for some fit surname, and his eye 
 caught the struggling taper-light upon the 
 bough above him. 
 
 " Thou shalt be Dickon of the Tannen- 
 baum," he called out, so that each might 
 hear, " and wear my boar s head in ex- 
 change for that other thou didst slay, and 
 hold thyself my man." 
 
up in the World. 315 
 
 Then the torches moved on again, and 
 behind them, in their dancing shadows 
 through the wintry wood, the Prince and 
 knights and Htter passed ; and Dickon fol- 
 lowed to the highroad, where horses and 
 five-score men-at-arms were waiting, and 
 so to the abbey before ever midnight 
 struck. 
 
 Seven years afterward, on bloody Bos- 
 worth field, when King Richard hewed his 
 despairing way through the ring of steel 
 which engirdled the pretender Richmond, 
 and fell there dead, another Richard rode 
 hotly at his heels, and like him was 
 stricken to the earth. 
 
 But life was left in this second, and for 
 the madness of his bravery it was spared. 
 After he had lain a time in Leicester Ab- 
 bey, to be cured of his wounds, he went to 
 London, where Henry now was king in- 
 stead. It was our Dickon. 
 
 The a^ed Master Caxton and Andreas 
 Mayer, his right hand now, stood Dickon's 
 friends at court, and it came in time to 
 
3i6 How Dickon came by his Name. 
 
 pass that he died Sir Richard Tannibow, 
 for so the EngUsh tongue framed the 
 strange foreign word Tannenbaum. Of 
 the properties he left behind the chief was 
 the domain of Egswith, where once he had 
 been the lowhest of hinds. 
 
 In after ages the name of the family still 
 further changed to Tambow; but it is not 
 likely to undergo any further shortening. 
 Though they do not hold Egswith now, 
 and wear no title in these later times, the 
 Tambows still bear upon their shield the 
 fir tree and the candles, and rightfully hold 
 their heads as high as any in all Shropshire. 
 
I 
 
 WHERE AVON INTO SEVERN 
 FLOWS. 
 
WHERE AVON INTO SEVERN 
 FLOWS. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 HUGH THE WRITER. 
 
 A BOY of fifteen, clad in doublet and 
 '^ hose of plain cloth dyed a sober 
 brown, sat alone at one end of a broad, 
 vaulted room, before a writing table. The 
 strong, clear light which covered him and 
 his work fell through an open window, 
 arched at the top and piercing a stone 
 wall of almost a yard's thickness. Similar 
 openings to the right and left of him 
 marked with bars of light a dozen other 
 places along the extended, shelf-like table, 
 where writers had now finished their day's 
 labor, and, departing, had left covered 
 horns of ink and cleansed utensils behind 
 319 
 
320 Where Avon into Several Flows. 
 
 them. But the boy's task lagged behind 
 fulfilment, and mocked him. 
 
 Strive as he might, Hugh could not 
 compel the tails of the longer letters to 
 curl freely and with decent grace, or even 
 to run in the same direction, one with the 
 other. Though he pressed his elbow to 
 the board, and scowled intently at the 
 vellum before him, and even thrust out 
 his tongue a little in earnest endeavor, 
 still the marks went wrong. At last there 
 came at the end of a word an "f," which 
 needs must flow into shapely curves at top 
 and bottom, if all fair writing were not to 
 be shamed — and, lo! it did neither, but 
 sloped off shakily into a rude angle above, 
 a clumsy duck's ^^^ below. Then he laid 
 down his reed pen, and groaned aloud. 
 
 This Hugh Overtown, having later come 
 to man's estate and then comfortably ripened 
 into old age, has been dust and ashes now 
 close upon four hundred years. For every 
 minute in that huge stretch of time, some 
 other boy since then has put aside his pen 
 
Hugh the Writer. 321 
 
 and groaned, because the stubborn letters 
 would not come right. But not many of 
 these have had such sound cause for vexation. 
 First of all, Hugh was a trained writer, 
 who might look a little later to be actually- 
 paid for his toil, if so be he did not take 
 the black habit and became a monk him- 
 self. All of their gentle craft that the 
 master limners and letterers in this great 
 scriptorium of Tewkesbury Abbey could 
 teach him, he had learned. In all the ten 
 major abbeys and priories of Gloucester- 
 shire, perhaps no other lad of his years 
 was so skilled to use both brush and pen. 
 His term of tutelage being passed, he 
 wrought how, in repayment for his teach- 
 ing, upon the choicest of the volumes 
 written here for great nobles and patrons 
 of art and letters. And if ever sureness 
 of glance and touch was called for, it was 
 at this present time, since the work must 
 be meet for royal eyes. The volume — 
 when all its soft, creamy leaves should 
 have been covered with arabesques and 
 
32 2 Where Avon into Severn Flows. 
 
 high painted crests and shields and deftly 
 regular text of writing, and been sewed 
 together inside their embossed covers — 
 was to be given, they said now, to the 
 brother of the King. Prouder ambition 
 than this a craftsman could hardly dream 
 of — yet now, all at once, Hugh despaired 
 to find himself making foolish mis-marks 
 on the precious page, and not able to 
 contrive their betterment. 
 
 The boy stared in gloom upon the parch- 
 ment, wondering if, in truth, it were wholly 
 spoilt; then his eyes wandered off through 
 the open window to the blue May sky, and 
 drifting after their gaze went his thoughts, 
 in wistful reverie upon that gilded dream- 
 land of princes and earls, whither this book, 
 in good time, was to wend its way. New 
 promptings stirred in his blood. 
 
 He had been a monk's boy in all these 
 later years of peace, since his father, the 
 poor saddler, fell in his Nevill livery on 
 Hedgely Moor, away in the farthest north. 
 The great kindly Abbey had been much 
 
Hugh the Writer. 323 
 
 more his home than the dark, squaHd Httle 
 house in the village below, where his wid- 
 owed mother lived : here he had learned 
 to write so that even the Abbot, John 
 Strensham, lofty magnate and companion 
 of princes though he was, had nodded 
 smilingly over his work ; here he had 
 helped to serve the Mass in the grand 
 Abbey church, with censer and bell, and 
 felt his young mind enriched and uplifted 
 by pious longings ; here, too, he had 
 dreamed into the likeness of veritable and 
 detailed history his vision of the time 
 when he should compose some wonderful 
 chronicle, and win thanks from the great 
 ones of the earth, and be known to all 
 men as Hugh of Tewkesbury, whose book 
 was to be prized above every other. 
 
 But now, after seven years wherein peace- 
 ful desires possessed plain men — lo ! here 
 was fightinp; in the land. And now of a 
 sudden it seemed to Hugh that the writ- 
 ing of books, the quiet cloistral life, even 
 the favor of the Abbot himself, were paltry 
 
324 Where Avon into Severn Flows. 
 
 things. An unaccustomed heat tingled in 
 his veins at thought of what existence out- 
 side these thick walls might now once more 
 signify. Who would be a stoop-shouldered 
 scribe, a monk, or even a mass-priest when 
 there were war harnesses to wear, horses 
 to mount, yew bows to bend till the shaft 
 trembled in the strain } 
 
 Hugh could almost believe that he heard 
 the tramp and distant confused murmur- 
 ing of an armed host, as his musing dream 
 took form. The very pages lying before 
 him spoke of this new outburst of war, 
 and linked him to it. The book was one 
 of heraldry, and it had been begun for the 
 great Earl of Warwick. Both the fame 
 and the person of this mighty captain were 
 well-known to the lad, for the King-maker 
 was lord of Tewkesbury, and the over- 
 shadowing patron of village and abbey 
 alike. But when scarcely the first sheets 
 had been written this puissant lord had fled 
 the kingdom, and the cautious monks had 
 laid the work aside. Later came strange 
 
 / 
 
Hugh the Writer. 325 
 
 rumors and tales : how Warwick had re- 
 turned and driven the King away, and put 
 up his whilom Red-rose foes to rule in 
 London — and then pens and brushes were 
 set busily at the book once more. But 
 now the King had in turn come back and 
 seized his own again, and slain Warwick 
 on bloody Barnet field — and the frightened 
 monks had bethought them to finish the 
 book, with sundry emblazonings of the 
 royal arms now ingeniously married to 
 those of the Nevills, and make it a peace 
 offering to Duke George of Clarence, who 
 had wedded Warwick's daughter, and would 
 be lord of Tewkesbury in his shoes. 
 
 The half-written page of vellum on the 
 table seemed to Hugh a living part of all 
 this stirring new romance of blood and 
 spark-striking steel. Almost it made a sol- 
 dier out of him to touch it. The char- 
 acters engrossed thereon by his own hand 
 danced before his eyes — waved in his day- 
 dream like the motto on some proud knight's 
 banner being borne forward to battle. 
 
326 Where Avon into Sever 71 Flows. 
 
 Suddenly the boy sat upright. Beyond 
 question there was an unwonted noise, as 
 of tumult, coming through the casement 
 from the village without. He could dis- 
 tinguish the clanking of iron harness and 
 weapons, the trampling of hoofs ; and now 
 
 — once ! twice ! a trumpet blast, rising on 
 the air above the dull, vague rumble which 
 bespeaks the assembling of a throng. He 
 sprang to his feet, with the thought to 
 climb the embrasure and look forth — and 
 then as swiftly sat down again and bent 
 over his work ; the Chief Scrivener of the 
 Abbey had entered the chamber. 
 
 Brother Thomas came slowly to the table 
 
 — a good, easy man, whose fat white fin- 
 gers knew knife and spoon now in these 
 latter days much oftener than brush or pen 
 
 — and glanced idly over Hugh's shoulder 
 at the pages. Then he lifted the unfin- 
 ished one, held it in the light to peer more 
 closely, and sniffed aloud. Next he put his 
 hand under Hugh's chin, and raised the boy's 
 blushing face up till their glances met. 
 
Hugh the Writer. 327 
 
 "What palsied spiders'-tracks are these?" 
 he asked, holding out the vellum. "Art ill, 
 boy ? " 
 
 The gentle irony in his master's tone 
 touched Hugh's conscience. He shook his 
 head, and hung it, and kept a sheepish 
 silence. 
 
 Thomas tossed the sheet upon the 
 table, and spoke with something more of 
 sharpness. "It is the mummers that have 
 led thy wits off morris-dancing," he said. 
 " These May-day fooleries stretch them- 
 selves out now, each year more, until no 
 time at all is left for honest work. This 
 it is I noted in thee yesterday, and mar- 
 velled at — when thou hadst ruled the lines 
 bordering the painted initial letter with 
 effect to cut off holy St. Adhelm's ear. 
 Thy head is filled with idle sports and 
 frolics outside. Happen his Lordship shall 
 put them down now, once for all ! " 
 
 Hu2[h's red face turned redder still, and 
 when he would have spoken, his tongue 
 was tied in confusion. Brother Thomas 
 
328 Where Avon into Severn Flows. 
 
 had unwittingly drawn very near to the 
 truth of an awkward thing, the burden of 
 which lay heavily on the boy's mind. In 
 the next room, hidden but indifferently, 
 were the fanciful garments which he him- 
 self had painted for the village morris- 
 dancers a mionth before. They had been 
 returned in privacy to him, and he had 
 weakly pledged himself to trick them out 
 anew against their coming use at Whit- 
 suntide. This guilty secret it was that 
 had preyed upon his peace, and robbed 
 his hand of its cunning, ever since the 
 masking dresses had been brought to him 
 on yester-morning. 
 
 In any other year, he might have spoken 
 freely to his master of this matter. But as 
 evil chance would have it, on this very 
 May festival, now two days gone — when 
 in their pleasant wont the youths and 
 maidens of Tewkesbury rose before cock- 
 crow, and hied them to the greenwood with 
 music and the blowing of horns, to gather 
 haythorn branches and dell-flowers, to bathe 
 
Hugh the Writer. 329 
 
 their faces in the May-dew for beauty's 
 sake, to shoot at target with Robin Hood, 
 and dance their fill about Maid Marian — 
 who but Brother Thomas should pass on 
 his return from matins at Deerhurst cell, 
 nodding drowsily with each movement of 
 his patient mule ? Hugh recalled with a 
 shudder how some wanton ne'er-do-well had 
 from the bushes hurled a huge, soft swol- 
 len toadstool, which broke upon the good 
 monk's astonished countenance, and scat- 
 tered miserably inside his hood. It was 
 small wonder that from this Brother Thomas 
 conceived sour opinions of May-day sports, 
 and now hinted darkly that the Abbot 
 should make an end to them. But as it 
 stood thus, Hugh dared not speak concern- 
 ing the morris-dresses, and so had hidden 
 them, and now was sorely troubled about 
 it all. 
 
 It may be that here, upon the moment, he 
 would have broken silence with his secret, 
 well knowing how truly gentle a heart had 
 Thomas. But at this the door was flung 
 
330 Where Avon into Severn Flows. 
 
 open, and there entered Brother Peter, his 
 gaunt gray poll shaking with excitement, 
 his claw-like hands held up as one amazed, 
 his eyes aflame with eagerness. 
 
 " Know ye what is come upon us ? " 
 he called out breathlessly. "The foreign 
 woman — save her Grace, she that was — 
 or is — Queen Margaret, I mean — is at 
 our gates, and with her the Lord Duke 
 Somerset, and her son the Prince Edward, 
 and the great Earl's daughter, our Lady 
 Anne, and with them a mort of lords, and 
 knights, and men-at-arms — running now 
 over every highway and lane inside Tewkes- 
 bury and out, taking to themselves roughly 
 whatever eye likes or belly craves — swear- 
 ing by the Rood they will have the Abbey 
 down about our ears if we deny them or 
 food or drink ! " 
 
 While Peter's vehement tongue hurled 
 forth these tidings, the man Thomas went 
 pale with sudden concern for the gi*eat treas- 
 ures and peace of the house ; the boy Hugh 
 rose to his feet, all the miseries of May-day 
 
Hugh the Writer. 331 
 
 and morris-garments clean forgotten, and 
 only the inspiriting ring of steel on steel in 
 his ears. 
 
 " Oh ! may I run and behold the brave 
 sight?" he prayed aloud, but Thomas held 
 forth a restraining hand for the moment, and 
 Hugh, much chafing, heard what further 
 Peter had to tell. 
 
 The Abbot, and with him the heads of 
 the Chapter, had gone to the gates, and 
 by parley had warded off incursion. The 
 Abbey servants, threescore in number, were 
 bearing forth meat and bread and ale to 
 spread on the ham by the mill for the fam- 
 ished Lancastrians, who had in these thirty 
 hours marched from Bristol by Glouces- 
 ter, through forest and foul by-ways, with 
 scarcely bite or sup, and now ravened like 
 winter wolves. There were stories that 
 King Edward, in pursuit, had covered 
 ground even more swiftly, and now was this 
 side of Cheltenham, in hot chase. With this 
 dread foe at their tail, the Lancastrian lords 
 dared not attempt to ford the Severn, and 
 
332 Where Avon into Severn Flows. 
 
 so Queen, Prince, Duke, and all were halted 
 up above the village on the high Gaston 
 fields, and there would on the morrow give 
 battle to King Edward. 
 
 " Oh ! woe the day ! " groaned Thomas, 
 whose heart was in peaceful things. " How 
 shall we escape sack and pillage — our 
 painted missals and fair written tomes, our 
 jewelled images, our plate of parcel-gilt, and 
 silver-gilt and white, the beryl candlesticks, 
 the mitres, monstrances, rings, gloves — wist 
 ye not how after Wakefield's victory the 
 Queen's men broke open churches, and de- 
 filed altars, from York along to London 
 town ? " 
 
 " Hast but a poor stomach for war times, 
 good Thomas ! " said the lean and eager old 
 Brother Sacristan, in a tone spiced with 
 sneerinor. " Who talketh of Wakefield ? 
 Who hath promised victory to these ribald 
 Devon louts ? On the morrow, we shall see 
 them cast off their coats to run the better. 
 Our stout Kingr Edward hath never lost 
 fight or turned tail yet. Shall he begin 
 now } " 
 
Hugh the Wi^itcr. 333 
 
 The old monk had not forgotten the deep 
 Yorkist devotion in which his hotter secu- 
 lar youth had been trained, and his eyes 
 sparkled now at thought of how true a 
 fighter King Edward really was. No such 
 fire of remembrance burned within Thomas, 
 who none the less accepted the proffered 
 consolation. 
 
 " Of a certainty," he admitted, " the King 
 hath won all his battles heretofore. Doubt- 
 less he hath the close favor of the saints. 
 I mind me now of his piety — how that he 
 would not be crowned on the day appointed, 
 for that it was Childermas, and the Holy 
 Innocents might not be thus affronted. 
 Thus do wise and pious kings and men " 
 — Thomas lifted his voice here, and 
 glanced meaningly at Hugh — "win Heav- 
 en's smiles, and honor fitly the anniversa- 
 ries of the year — not by dancing and mum- 
 ming in the greenwood." 
 
 " I ween that in this game now forward, 
 hard knocks will serve King Edward more 
 than all his holiness, good Thomas," said 
 
334 Where Avon into Severjt Floius. 
 
 Peter, who, coming to the Abbey late in 
 Hfe, brought some carnal wisdom along in 
 his skull. " And this more — mark thou my 
 words — when all is still again the Abbey 
 will be the richer, not the poorer, for it all." 
 
 " How wilt thou make that good } " asked 
 Thomas. " At best, this beef and ale must 
 be at our cost — and the worst may more 
 easily come to pass." 
 
 " Hast forgotten the funerals ? " said 
 Peter, dryly, with a significant nod towards 
 the door beyond. Then, noting no gleam 
 of comprehension on the faces of the 
 others, he strode to this door, and threw 
 it open. Within, in the half light, they 
 could see through the narrow archway the 
 dim outlines of rich banners standing piled 
 against the walls, and candles heaped on 
 chests of vestments, and velvet palls. 
 
 " How make it good '^. " cried the worldly 
 Peter. " " Where we have put pence into 
 that room we shall draw forth rose-nobles. 
 Know you not the King's charge to his 
 fighting men, ' Kill the lords, but spare the 
 
Hugh the Writer. 335 
 
 commons ! ' By sundown of the morrow 
 one may walk among dead knights round 
 about like sheeps' carcasses on a murrain'd 
 moor. The Gastons, if there the Queen 
 holdeth her place till she be met, will turn 
 to marshes with gentle blood. And where 
 shall they be buried, but here, within the 
 holy Abbey's walls 1 Then see what comes : 
 item, for tolling the death-bells ; item, for 
 streaking-board and face-cloth ; item, for so 
 many sin-eaters, to be of our own ser- 
 vitors; item, for so much waste of funeral 
 torches ; item, for funeral sermons ; item, 
 for the hiring of palls; item, for hiring of 
 garlands of wax and gum to hang over the 
 graves ; item, for masses and candles before 
 the rood at month's mind ; item — " 
 
 " Peace, greedy Peter ! " broke in the 
 artist Thomas ; " wert thou bred for a 
 gravedigger .? His Lordship mislikes this 
 funeral zeal of thine. When thy grumbling 
 for that the great Earl came not here from 
 Barnet for his burial reached the Abbot's 
 ears, he spoke wrothfuUy concerning it." 
 
336 Where Avon into Severn Flows. 
 
 " So would he not, when I had shown 
 him the charges in my book for that same," 
 retorted Peter. " For how lives an Abbey- 
 save by the death of generous and holy 
 men and women ? And was it not a foul 
 thing that the great Earl — lord of this 
 manor, patron of this Abbey — should not 
 have profitably laid his bones here, where 
 now for four hundred years lie all the 
 lords of Tewkesbury, Fitz-Hamons, Clares, 
 De Spensers, Beauchamps — but should be 
 filched away to Berkshire to enrich those 
 Austin friars instead ? Thus is religion 
 scandalized, Sir Scrivener ! " 
 
 Thomas turned away at this, mistrusting 
 his temper in further argument; and Hugh 
 would gladly have followed him out of the 
 room, but that Peter bent his steps toward 
 the storage chamber beyond, where lay 
 hidden those wretched morris trappings. 
 Prudence counselled the lad to depart, and 
 let discovery take care of itself; but anxiety 
 held him back, and he went in at the heels 
 of the Sacristan. 
 
Hugh the Writer. 337 
 
 Old Peter sent a speculative eye shrewdly 
 over the contents of the room, making a 
 rough enumeration as he progressed, and 
 offerino: comments aloud from time to time 
 half to himself. 
 
 " Full seven dozen small candles," he 
 muttered, " but scarce a score of torches. 
 How should we be shamed if they brought 
 us a ofreat lord like Somerset ! The moulds 
 shall be filled overnight." Then he turned 
 up the corner of a purple velvet pall, noting 
 its frayed edge and tarnished gilt braid. 
 " Time was," he grumbled, " when for this 
 eight crowns was gladly paid in hire ; alack, 
 but two months since Dame Willowby cried 
 out against me when I asked a paltry 
 five, and buried her good man under that 
 fustian with the linen edge instead. Ah, 
 the impious times we are fallen upon ! 
 Yet, if so be the press to get buried is 
 great enough, and they carry the lights 
 well up in air, a lord might be content 
 with it at ten crowns." Again he mused 
 over the waxen wreaths heaped on the floor. 
 
338 Where Avon into Severn Flows. 
 
 " There are half as many more on the rood 
 screen that may come down, if it be deftly 
 done, and go into hire again for better 
 men. The townspeople will be too stirred 
 with battle talk to miss them." 
 
 Suddenly he turned to Hugh, and raised 
 his voice. " The Sub-Prior will not 
 hearken to me. What we are richest 
 in is banners — here, against the wall, are 
 a dozen of the bravest in all Gloucester. 
 Yet in what do they serve ! — naught save 
 those trivial processions of Rogation Week, 
 where all is outlay and nothing income. 
 If he did but drop the hint, the fashion 
 would rise to hire them for funerals ; yet 
 when I urged this upon him he laughed 
 me to scorn ! I tell thee, boy, there is 
 no true piety left in mankind!" 
 
 Hugh had listened with but dull ears, 
 his mind wavering between thoughts of 
 what was going forward outside, and fears 
 lest Peter should push his inquiries within 
 the chamber too far. Here he said : — 
 
 " Good brother, if I do help thee to- 
 
Hztgh the Writer. 339 
 
 night with the moulds — and later with 
 what else is needful — wilt thou go with 
 me now forth to the street and view these 
 strange new things ? I have never yet 
 seen an army, harnessed for fighting, close 
 at hand. And if thou art with me, Thomas 
 will not be vexed." 
 
 So the twain — the old monk full as 
 eager as the lad to rub shoulders with 
 men-at-arms — made their way through the 
 corridors and cloister walks to the great 
 western gate of the Abbey. They met no 
 one either within the buildings or in these 
 cool, open-air paths : the monks were at 
 their prayers in the church, perhaps, or in 
 the garden burying the Abbey's treasures. 
 
 But when the gate was reached — "An- 
 gels save us ! " gasped good Peter ; " if 
 our walls win soundly through this next 
 forty hours, commoners shall be buried 
 with candles till Ascension Day for three- 
 pence. I vow it to Our Lady ! " 
 
 Well might such as loved the Abbey 
 feel their hearts sink at the sight ! Upon 
 
340 Where Avon i7ito Severn Flows. 
 
 the green before the gate, which sloped 
 smoothly for an arrow's flight down to 
 the mill pit on the Avon, swaggered or 
 lounged at leisure full five hundred base- 
 born archers and billmen, mired to the 
 knees, unwashed and foul of aspect, with 
 rusty chain coats or torn and blackened 
 leathern jackets. Some wore upon their 
 heads battered iron sallets ; others had 
 only hoods pulled forward to their brows, 
 or even lying back upon their shoulders, 
 but over each face hung tangled masses 
 of thick hair, and on the cleanest chin 
 sprouted a fortnight's beard. 
 
 These unkempt ruffians were for the 
 most part swart of visage, as Devon and 
 Cornishmen should be. They waited now 
 idly upon the return of their lords from 
 the great church in front. While their 
 betters within prayed to the saints in 
 heaven against the morrow's carnage, these 
 fellows sauntered in groups on the green 
 sward, or played at dice upon a cloak 
 spread flat on earth, or wrestled in rough 
 
Hugh the Writer. 341 
 
 jest to further amaze the gaping natives. 
 Many were ah*eady in their cups, yet still 
 the servants of the Abbey were to be 
 seen, in the waning sunlight, on the ham 
 beyond, broaching new casks of ale. 
 Ribald quips and drunken laughter filled 
 the air. In the distance, close upon the 
 entrance to the church itself, two soldiers 
 had thrown a farmer to the ground, and 
 one was stripping off his doublet while 
 the other kicked him as he lay. From 
 the direction of the mill there rose the 
 scream of a woman — and no one heeded 
 it. 
 
 The Sacristan and the boy cowered for 
 a time in the shadow of the gateway, look- 
 ing out with fearful eyes upon this un- 
 wonted scene. From their cover, they 
 watched until the great ones began coming 
 out from their prayers, and the idling men- 
 at-arms were hurriedly gathered, each after 
 his livery, to attend them. These billmen 
 bore upon their breasts the cognizances of 
 their masters, but so worn and defaced were 
 
342 Where Avon into Severn Flows. 
 
 many of these that all Hugh's heraldic lore 
 could not cope with them. Thus they could 
 but guess who this or that proud knight 
 might be, as he passed with gilded armor 
 rattling in every joint, and the squalid knot 
 of soldiers tramping at his heels. 
 
 "But this — this is surely the three tor- 
 teaux of the Courtenays," he whispered, 
 nudging Peter. " And he who carries his 
 casquetel in hand, with fair curls and head 
 bent in thought — that would be John, the 
 new Earl of Devon." 
 
 The two looked upon this fine, strong, 
 goodly young nobleman, and read in the 
 three crimson circles wrought upon the jer- 
 kins of his retainers a tale of stately long 
 descent, of cousinship with kings, of cru- 
 sades, tournaments, and centuries of gallant 
 warfare — familiar and stirring then to every 
 schooled mind in England. 
 
 " Ay — I mind him now," said Peter, 
 peering eagerly forth. " I saw his brother, 
 the Earl Thomas, led to the block at York, 
 after Towton field — 'tis nine years sine. 
 
Hugh the Writer. 343 
 
 There was a witch who then foretold that 
 those three ripe-red roundels of the Courte- 
 nays were blood spots from three brothers' 
 hearts, and all should die under the axe." 
 
 A stranger's voice, close behind them, 
 took up their talk. 
 
 " My father saw the second brother, Earl 
 Henry, beheaded at Salisbury four years 
 later — and men called then to mind this 
 same bloody prophecy — to the end that 
 the Lord John fled the realm. Look where 
 he walks, with bowed head and face o'er- 
 cast — a fateful man ! Belike the axe's 
 edge is whetted for him, even now." 
 
 He who spoke thus, with a shivering 
 sigh to close his speech, was young and of 
 slight form — clad from sole to crown in 
 plain and dulled plate-harness. His up- 
 lifted visor framed a face of small features 
 and soft lines, with saddened eyes. He 
 had stepped aside into the gateway un- 
 noted by the two, and stood now at the 
 Sacristan's elbow, gazing forth as gloomily 
 as ever affrighted monk might do. 
 
344 Where Avon into Severn Flows, 
 
 Peter glanced him briefly over, and sniffed 
 disdain. 
 
 " I know you not, young sir," he said, 
 with curtness, " and offer no offence. But 
 I have seen stout fighting in my time — 
 and were you kin .of mine, into to-morrow's 
 battle you should not stir, with witches' 
 babble sickening your thoughts, and dead 
 men's bones in your eyes. Hearten your- 
 self, I conjure you ! " 
 
 That monk should bear himself thus 
 masterfully toward warrior startled Hugh 
 for the moment, until he recalled that old 
 Peter had on occasion browbeaten even the 
 Sub-Prior himself, and reflected that this 
 Knight seemed very young. 
 
 The stranger made no reply, but kept 
 his anxious gaze fastened upon the scene 
 without. Then, with a sudden little shud- 
 der which rattled swiftly like an echo 
 through his armor, he lifted his head up- 
 right, and tossed the end of his cloak 
 across his shoulder. 
 
 " The streets are strange to me," he said 
 
Hugh the Writer. 345 
 
 proudly. " If you are so minded, walk 
 with me upon them. No harm shall befall 
 you! 
 
 His beckoning hand summoned from 
 the outer shadows two tall old men-at-arms, 
 in buU's-hide jackets and bearing pikes. 
 
 " Fare ye close upon our heels, Wilkin 
 and Ashman," the Knight commanded. The 
 monk and scrivener-lad took instant counsel 
 of glances, and without a word walked be- 
 side their new companion — forth from the 
 calm haven of Mother Church into the rude 
 turbulence of murderous civil war. 
 
 Pressing tight together, the five made 
 their way across the green and into 
 Church Street. To their left, above the 
 black roofs of the Abbey mills, the sun- 
 set sky was glowing with laced bars of 
 blood and sulphur, overhung by a pall of 
 lead. Before them, the narrow street lay 
 dark beneath the shadows of projecting 
 roofs and swollen galleries. 
 
 Here, as in the other streets which they 
 traversed, the houses were for the most 
 
346 Where Avon into Severn Flows. 
 
 part closed and lightless. Even in the 
 market-place, where the Tolzey cross glim- 
 mered faintly in the waning daylight like 
 an altar in some deserted unroofed church, 
 the citizens gave no sign of life in their 
 homes ; movement enough was on foot all 
 about them, but it was that of strangers. 
 Knots of soldiers, some already with flam- 
 ing torches, strode aimlessly up and down 
 before the taverns and in the alleys, roar- 
 ing forth camp songs, kicking at suspected 
 doors, or brawling with such trembling in- 
 habitants as they had unearthed. Amidst 
 it all the Knight passed unquestioned, 
 with head haughtily erect. 
 
 If the Knight had led the walk town- 
 wards with set purpose, it did not appear; 
 for presently he turned, and the five 
 pushed back again through the jostling, 
 clamorous crowd to the open Abbey green. 
 At the great gate he paused, and motioned 
 the two retainers to stand aside. Still he 
 hesitated, tapping the sward impatiently 
 with his mailed foot, his gaze astray 
 
Hugh the Writer. 347 
 
 among the clouds. At last he spoke, 
 turning abruptly to the boy : — 
 
 " Canst write me a letter, to-night ? " 
 
 "How wist ye he is a penman?" asked 
 Peter, in amazed suspicion. 
 
 "What other wears ink upon his fin- 
 gers ? Nay — not you, good monk ! — I 
 asked the lad." 
 
 " The scriptorium is long since shut," 
 Hugh began ; " and — " 
 
 " Mayhap this golden key will fit the 
 lock," the Knight interposed, drawing a 
 coin from the purse at his side. " The 
 letter is a thing of life or death." 
 
 " It may be contrived," broke in good 
 Peter, taking the money without ceremony. 
 "When a life hangs on a few paltry 
 scratches of the pen, should we be Chris- 
 tians to withhold them?" 
 
 The Sacristan led the way now by a pos- 
 tern door into a basement room, and lighted 
 two candles by the embers on the hearth. 
 
 " Run you," he said to Hugh, " and 
 bring hither what is needful." 
 
34^ Where Avon into Severn Flows. 
 
 When the boy returned, and placed 
 paper, inkhorn, and wax upon the table, 
 and, pen in teeth, looked inquiry upward, 
 the Knight's wits seemed wandering once 
 again. He paced to and fro about the 
 chamber, halting a dozen times to utter 
 words which would not come, and then, 
 with a head-shake, taking up his march 
 upon the stones. Finally, thus he ordered 
 the letter written, though not without 
 many pauses, and erasures in plenty: — 
 
 From a true friend : Much there is to tell you ; 
 how that the Lady Katherine's father is dead, and 
 herself for some time sore beset and menaced by the 
 enemy you wot of, but now in safety. Worse betides 
 you if this evil man works his will. This se'nnight 
 four villeins took horse from Okehampton with intent 
 to slay you and win reward from him ; so that he 
 gains your lands and hers, and gets her to wife to boot. 
 These foul knaves wear the Courtenay livery, and, ar- 
 rived to-day in your camp, mix with the Lord John's 
 train ; though of this he is innocent. So watch and 
 ware, as herself and I will pray. 
 
 " There needs no signature," the Knight 
 replied, when at the finish Hugh looked 
 
Hugh the Writer. 349 
 
 up. " Seal it with this ring," and took 
 from his baslard-hilt a little jewelled hoop, 
 with the signet of three fishes, upright. 
 Then, when the wax securely held the silk, 
 he bade him superscribe the name " Sir 
 Hereward Thayer, Knt." 
 
 The Knight took the packet — saying, 
 briefly: "I am in much beholden to you 
 both, and to all black monks through you, 
 and shall forget nor one nor other," and 
 went his way through the postern into the 
 darkness, leaving the ring behind. 
 
CHAPTER II. 
 
 SIR hereward's ring. 
 
 CROM the spire of the Abbey church, 
 throughout the night, the monks could 
 see on the high lands close by, to the 
 south, long lines of red camp-fires, and 
 dancing torches here and there, as captains 
 made their watchful rounds. The cries of 
 the sentries came to their ears through the 
 stilled air, as from the near side of Swil- 
 gate Brook itself, which washed the Abbey's 
 walls. Little of sleep did the cells or dor- 
 mitories know that frightened night, for 
 servants were busy till the first cock-crow 
 burying jewels and plate in the Abbot's 
 garden, and half the brothers kept vigil in 
 prayer before the High Altar, or in the 
 chapels of St. Eustacius and St. James, 
 while others slumbered fitfully on their 
 
 350 
 
Sir Hereward's Ring. 351 
 
 pallets, or climbed the tower to watch the 
 Lancastrians' lights. 
 
 Thus, at last, anxious morning broke, 
 and the cawing of the rooks in the branches 
 close to Hugh's window roused the boy 
 from his sleep. At a bound he was on 
 his feet, forgetting even to rub his eyes, 
 and glad that, having slept in his clothes, 
 he might fare forth without loss of time. 
 His dreams had been all of archery — how 
 that the best bows were of Spanish yew, 
 and he had tried to cut down the English 
 yews in the churchyard to make new weap- 
 ons, and had been haled before the King's 
 justices because of the law to preserve the 
 yews for the King's armies — and the thread 
 of this dream ran through his mind even 
 as he knelt and muttered his prayer. 
 
 It was full daylight when Hugh found 
 himself outside the Abbey walls and on 
 the footpath leading over the brook up to 
 the Vineyards. Behind him the matin 
 chimes were sounding from the belfry. Be- 
 fore him rose the dismantled walls of Holme 
 
352 Where Avon into Severn Flows. 
 
 Castle, once the abiding place of the great 
 Earls of Gloster, but now long since grown 
 over with ivy, and a harbor for owls 
 and bats. When he had come to the top 
 of the knoll, at the front of these ruins, 
 the sight spread out before his eyes was 
 one to well quicken breath and set veins 
 tingling. 
 
 A vast host of armed men seemed to 
 cover the earth as far as he could see. The 
 boy had not known before that the whole 
 world contained so many soldiers. One 
 company was in the rough meadow close 
 at hand. In the bright light he could dis- 
 cern them clearly — strong men of war, 
 with battered steel breastplates, half blue, 
 half red with rust, and iron caps upon their 
 heads. Some of these were leading a score 
 of horses back and down to the brook 
 whence he had come. Others toiled at lev- 
 elling some half-dozen camp-tents of white 
 cloth, with crimson stripes, while still 
 others crowded about the place where 
 sparks crackled and black smoke curled 
 
Sir Here ward's Ring. 353 
 
 about huge caldrons wherein food was cook- 
 ing. At the peak of the largest tent, high 
 upon the staff, floated gently in the early 
 breeze an emblazoned standard, bearing the 
 blood-red three roundels of the Courtenays. 
 
 For a moment Hugh's thoughts stopped 
 at the memory of the strange Knight and 
 his letter; somewhere among this band of 
 brawny fighting men would be the four 
 caitiffs who were here to slay that un- 
 known Devon gentleman. Sir Hereward. 
 He glanced at his little finger, whereon the 
 signet ring of the three fishes glittered un- 
 wontedly, — and marvelled to find his base- 
 born skin touched by such a trinket, for 
 he had resisted Peter's desire to take it 
 over to the Abbey treasury, — and then the 
 glance lifted itself to still more marvellous 
 things. 
 
 Away in the distance, on the topmost 
 point to the left hand of the highroad, 
 Hugh had already noted a brave pavilion, 
 guarded by banks of earth raised since last 
 he saw that familiar horizon, and overhung 
 
354 Where Avon into Severn Flows. 
 
 by what he saw now to be the royal stand- 
 ard of England's Kings. A blare of trum- 
 pets, rolling in sharp echoes from mound 
 to mound across the field, proceeded now 
 from this point, and as he looked Hugh 
 saw upon the highway, setting forth in his 
 direction, a little cavalcade of knights and 
 ladies whose dress and trappings sparkled 
 in the morning sun, even thus afar, like 
 the lights on the High Altar beneath the 
 painted windows. 
 
 Onward this group of riders came — 
 and the boy, creeping under the cover of 
 the hedge, stole forward with no other 
 thought than to see them close at hand. 
 And so it was that he crouched in listen- 
 ing silence, not more than twenty paces 
 removed, when this thing happened. 
 
 The tall, grave-faced, golden-haired noble 
 whom Hugh knew to be John, Earl of 
 Devon, clad all in burnished steel, and 
 bearing a great lion-crested tilting helmet 
 upon his arm, strode forth from the com- 
 pany near the ruins to the highway, and 
 
Sir Hereward' s Ring. 355 
 
 stood thus, with bare head erect in the 
 sunHght, until the riders, cantering Hghtly 
 over the dew-laid road, drew rein before 
 him. Then he advanced, and bending with 
 one knee to earth, kissed the hand of a 
 lady who, with a single knight, rode at 
 the head of the little train. 
 
 This lady, then, — she with the bold, 
 beautiful face, pale now as an ivory missal- 
 cover, and drawn with stern lines, she with 
 the burning brown-black eyes, and proudly 
 upright carriage, — was the Frenchwoman, 
 the Queen, the great Margaret of Anjou ! 
 
 Hugh held his breath and stared out of 
 fixed eyes at this terrible foreign woman, 
 whose hates had fastened war upon his 
 country, had killed even his own father, 
 had drenched the land with blood — and 
 listened with all his ears. 
 
 " We have given you, out of our grace, 
 the lands and titles which your recreant 
 brother Henry forfeited, and lost along 
 with his head, when he played fast and 
 loose with the usurper," this Queen said, 
 
356 Where Avon into Severn Flows. 
 
 in loud, cold tones, when the Courtenay 
 stood upright again. " This day will test 
 our wisdom in the thing." 
 
 "Madame," the Earl made answer, hold- 
 ing her eye with his, " our house has 
 given three lives for you. If mine goes 
 to-day I shall die sorrowing chiefly for 
 this — that there are no more of us to die 
 for our King." 
 
 The knight who rode beside the Queen 
 — Hugh through the bushes saw only that 
 he was tall and lean, with a delicately 
 handsome young face and reddish-brown 
 hair under his beaver, and wore a silver 
 swan on his breast — spoke now : — 
 
 " My Lord of Devon, my mother rides 
 now with the Lady Anne and her tiring 
 women to a place of safety on t'other side 
 of Avon, there to wait upon the good tid- 
 ings we shall presently bring her. The 
 place is at Bushley, the Lady Anne being 
 acquainted with it from childhood. From 
 this, I return to lead our centre, with the 
 Prior and the Lord Wenlock. My Lord 
 
He advanced and kissed the Lady's Hand." 
 
Sir Hereward's Ring. 359 
 
 Duke holds the front, beyond where our 
 standard hangs. To you, my lord, the 
 rear is given, to swing across this field, 
 with your back against the ridge. The 
 men from Somerset march to join you, 
 even now. God stead you, honest Courte- 
 nay, and bring us victory ! " 
 
 The Prince at this threw himself off his 
 horse and into his mqther's arms, his face 
 buried upon her knees, his hands holding 
 hers. The Queen, with marble face, swept 
 her agonized glance high into the morn- 
 ing sky, and wept not, neither spoke, but 
 bit her lips, and with her eyes invoked 
 the saints. 
 
 Then, like some dissolving mist before 
 Hugh's gaze, everything was altered. The 
 Queen with her escort was ambling one 
 way, toward the gray Abbey walls and the 
 passage at the mill ; her gallant young son 
 was galloping with his group of knights 
 back whence he came ; the Courtenay 
 company, close at hand, was gathering 
 itself into ranks, with knights clambering 
 
360 Where Avon into Severn Flows. 
 
 heavily into saddles, and men-at-arms strik- 
 ing their pikes together. The whole 
 broad field was, as by some magic hand, 
 set in motion ; everywhere troops were 
 marching, standards fluttering forward, 
 trumpets calling shrill-voiced to one 
 another. 
 
 The boy, lifting his head now above the 
 hedge, looked upon .this vast shifting pict- 
 ure with but a dazed comprehension. 
 The beauty of it all was so great that its 
 grim meaning missed his mind. As far 
 as eye could reach, armed bodies of men, 
 with banners and harness glittering in the 
 sunlight, met the vision. And now, of a 
 sudden, all movement ceased. The birds 
 in the ivy on the ruin behind him sang 
 into the morning air, and no trumpet 
 answered them. The landscape stood still. 
 
 Suddenly the boy clapped hands to 
 ears, and stared affrightedly about him. 
 A demon-like roaring sound had burst, 
 as out of the very earth, which rocked 
 and quivered under the shock. A thou- 
 
Sir Hereward's Ring. 361 
 
 sand thunder-claps in one, out from the 
 clear sky ! Quailing with fright, as lesser 
 belching noises succeeded, shaking the 
 ground and confounding all senses and 
 wits, Hugh backed out of the ditch, and 
 felt, rather than made, his way rearward 
 to the shadow of the ruins. Creeping up 
 upon a ragged heap of tumbled stones, 
 he ventured to look forth again. 
 
 A broadened veil of smoke — curious, 
 thin, bluish smoke — all unlike that from 
 burnins: thatches or stubble refuse — huno; 
 now upon the horizon where the royal 
 standard had been. Was it still there } 
 Hugh could not tell. Flashes of fire 
 leaped swiftly for an instant here and 
 there from this veil of smoky haze, and 
 after each dart of flame there burst this 
 deafening, thunderous roar which had so 
 appalled him. Then it broke upon his 
 brain that these were cannon, of which 
 all men had long since heard, but few had 
 ever seen on Enfrlish soil. More than 
 
 O 
 
 this it was not easy to grasp of what w?s 
 
362 Where Avon into Severn Flows. 
 
 going forward. Along the line of smoke, 
 where sky ought to meet earth, coukl be 
 seen confused masses of horse and foot- 
 men struggHng together, but whither 
 moving or how faring in their conflict 
 could not be told. The men under 
 Courtenay's banner had marched west- 
 ward toward the windmill, and were not 
 in sight. 
 
 All at once Hugh's gaze was diverted 
 from this distant prospect to a strange ap- 
 parition nearer at hand — a brownish-gray 
 sort of globe, like a full moon, which, low 
 to earth, stood between him and the 
 smoke, and seemed to wax in bigness 
 visibly as he looked. There was not time 
 for thought before this ball, singing to 
 itself as it came, swelled to giant size in 
 the lad's vision — then smashed into the 
 vine-clad wall beside him with a huge 
 scattering of stones and mortar. The 
 wall quivered for a moment, then fell out- 
 ward, prone to the sward. 
 
 Without hesitation, Hugh slid dow^n from 
 
Sir Hcrcward's Ring. 363 
 
 his perch, and half-choked with dust and 
 Hme ran toward Swilgate Brook as fast as 
 ever his legs would carry him. He made no 
 pause, nor cast any glance backward, until 
 he stumbled, panting and aflame with fright, 
 into the cool shadow of the Abbey's big west 
 gate. Not till its ponderous doors had 
 clansfed shut behind him, did he venture to 
 draw breath. 
 
 Only the slowest and stoutest of the lay 
 servitors in the kitchen lingered yet over 
 their morning meal when the boy, his hunger 
 led forward by keenest smelling sense, found 
 his way thither. Within this low-vaulted 
 chamber it was as if the confusion of tongues 
 had fallen again. There were some hardier 
 spirits who had, from sundry distant points 
 of vantage, seen a tithe of what Hugh had 
 witnessed. These told their tales to gaping, 
 awe-stricken groups with much bold em- 
 broidery and emblazoning of fancy, peopling 
 the field with mailed giants, and imputing to 
 magic the mystery of the cannons, whose 
 dire bellowings gave even these stony kitchen 
 
364 Where Avon into Severn Flows. 
 
 walls a throbbing pulse. Worse still was 
 what the village vagabonds — permitted for 
 the once to enter freely and mix with their 
 betters before the fires — related with roll- 
 ing eyes and quaking voices, to wile further 
 victuals from the frightened cooks. 
 
 Into such riot ran this babel of loose 
 tonc^ues that not even the Precentor's en- 
 trance stilled it. This gentle, soft-eyed old 
 monk had, indeed, no thought to govern 
 aught or any, and gazed about over the mot- 
 ley throng as one abashed, until his glance 
 fell upon Hugh. To him he beckoned, and, 
 when the two were without upon the stairs, 
 made hurried explanation: — 
 
 " His Lordship will himself sing the early 
 Mass, with pontifical procession, and full 
 chapter ceremonial. Get thee with all speed 
 into thy surphce, comb out thy locks — shalt 
 bear the cross ! " 
 
 A brief while later, paced slowly from the 
 cloisters the long devotional line, Hugh, all 
 aglow with pride in his new office, advancing 
 at its head, with the jewelled cross upheld 
 
Sir Hcreward' s Ring. 365 
 
 aloft. After him were singing boys in sur- 
 plices and singing men with added copes; 
 then two score monks in ebon black with 
 lighted tapers, the secular canons, the priests 
 of the Abbey, the priors, the deacons attired 
 for the altar, and last the venerable Abbot, 
 John Strensham, bent with age and infirmi- 
 ties, and wearing over his vestments an 
 almuce with hood of ermine, because his 
 blood was cold. Into the choir the proces- 
 sion filed with measured step and solemn 
 chant — and then, as by some sudden stroke 
 of universal palsy, foot halted and song died 
 on lips. 
 
 Such a scene as never monk or abbot had 
 dreamt of in Tewkesbury lay before them. 
 
 The doors of the rood screen hung wide, 
 so that vision swept from the choir down 
 through the nave and its outer parts, where 
 the simple and base-born heard the Mass, 
 straight to the great north porch. Here, 
 too, the doors were open, for daylight 
 streamed therefrom transversely across the 
 nave. And in this liQ:ht the amazed 
 
366 Where Avon into Severn Flows. 
 
 monks saw a mired, blood-stained, bedrag- 
 gled swarm of armed men struggling fiercely 
 for entrance before their fellows, and among 
 these some who smote and felled the others 
 with their swords or battle-axes — amid 
 clamor of shrieks and violent curses, rising 
 above the ground-note of a deep wild shout- 
 ing as from a multitude without, and the 
 furious clash of steel on steel. The wrath 
 of hell rasped here and tore itself before them 
 on the consecrated floor of heaven. 
 
 While yet this spell of bewilderment lay 
 upon the astounded spectators in the choir, 
 Hugh felt himself clutched by the shoulder 
 and pushed forward down the steps and into 
 the aisle by a strong though trembling hand. 
 It was the old Abbot, who in the moment 
 of horror at this sacrilege forgot his years. 
 Raising himself to his full height, and 
 snatching the great beryl monstrance from 
 the altar, he hurried now down the nave at 
 such a pace that the cross-bearer, whom he 
 dragged at his side, and the wondering 
 monks and choristers who followed, were 
 
Sir Hcreward' s Ring. 367 
 
 fain almost to run if they would not let him 
 reach the porch alone. 
 
 The western end of the nave held now 
 a closely-packed mass of fugitives, with 
 scarce a weapon among them — gilded and 
 blazoned knight huddled against unkempt 
 billman, lord and varlet jammed together 
 — all crowding backward in despair from 
 the open porch where, bestriding corpses 
 on the blood-wet flags, a dozen mailed 
 ruffians with naked swords and axes bent 
 ferocious, hungry scowls upon them. 
 
 Helpless and dazed, as in an evil dream, 
 the boy felt himself thrust forward into the 
 very front of these war-wolves ; and as he 
 stood there, holding the cross as steadily 
 as might be, within a cloth-yard shaft's 
 length of their ravening jaws and flame-lit 
 eyes, his foolish knees knocked together, 
 and he had liked to swoon. 
 
 But then — lo ! these fierce men put 
 down their blades, and, bowing first, with 
 ill-will slunk backwards to the sides of the 
 porch ; and the foremost, still doggedly, even 
 
368 Where Avon into Severn Flows. 
 
 fell upon their knees. Then, the way being 
 clear, Hugh saw that where the churchyard 
 graves had been was now, underfoot, a 
 slaughter pen, and above a wilderness of 
 wild faces and dripping pike-heads. And 
 in the forefront of this awful array, with 
 one mailed foot on the threshold of the 
 porch itself, stood the noblest figure of a 
 man the boy's eyes had ever compassed 
 — a youngish man of uncommon stature 
 and great girth of shoulders, girt with pol- 
 ished steel armor picked in gold, and having 
 on its breast a silver sun with flaring jew- 
 elled rays. He too grasped a huge naked 
 sword, and sank its point before the cross 
 Hugh held — the while two esquires made 
 loose the rivets of his towering helmet and 
 lifted it from him. Then he, not too hum- 
 bly, bowed his head — a shapely head, with 
 reddish-golden curls — and lifting it, looked 
 into the church with the flushed face and 
 glance of a very god of war. 
 
 The Abbot, tottering as he came, pushed 
 Hugh aside and reared himself proudly in 
 
Sir Hereward's Ring. 369 
 
 the porch, holding the monstrance with 
 shaken hand above his head, and crying 
 out : — 
 
 " Where thou standest, my liege, thou 
 art not King, but only Edward Plantagenet, 
 a sinner even as the meanest of us, and with 
 the blood of God's children on thy hands. 
 Therefore abase thyself. It is the Host ! " 
 
 The King dropped to his knees for the 
 counting of ten, then rose and made a 
 step within the porch, still searching sharply 
 with restless eyes into the shadows of the 
 nave. , 
 
 "My Lord Abbot," he said, in a soft, full 
 voice of stately measure which belied his 
 glance, " I and my brothers and our trusty 
 friends have desire to forthwith enter this 
 .holy edifice, and with thee offer reverent 
 thanks for this our resplendent victory." 
 As the Abbot held his silence, the King 
 added, " I had not looked to find a Strens- 
 ham liftino: himself between the saints and 
 my piety." 
 
 The Abbot found his voice : " I am 
 
370 Where Avon into Severn Flows. 
 
 stricken in years, my liege. My life has 
 
 been thine as long as has thy crown ; take 
 
 it now if needs be. But while it lasts me, 
 
 into this consecrated house thou may'st not 
 
 enter to ravish or mete punishment. Pledge 
 
 me thy royal faith that no man within these 
 
 walls shall feel thy wrath — that all shall 
 
 be suffered to go forth in peace ! " 
 
 " Since what time, my Lord Abbot," 
 
 asked the King, dryly, " hath the privilege 
 
 of sanctuary descended upon the black 
 
 monks of Tewkesbury } " 
 
 " Where God's flesh and blood are, there 
 
 > 
 
 is sanctuary ! " shrilled the Abbot. " By 
 the pains of Calvary, thou shalt not enter 
 unpledged — save over my old bones!" 
 
 While the King's answer hung yet in 
 doubt, an old monk slipped past the Ab- 
 bot, and, thrusting his shaven gray poll in 
 obeisance close before Edward, mumbled 
 a request which none behind him might 
 hear. It was Peter, the Brother Sacristan 
 — and the King, so far from buffeting the 
 audacious shaveling with his gauntlet, 
 
Sir Hcreivard's Ring. 371 
 
 thought for a moment, then smiled, and 
 waved Peter aside, 
 
 " On my kingly honor, I promise," he 
 said firmly, with a glance ranging from 
 Peter to the Abbot, and the half-smile play- 
 ing on his handsome, ruddy face. " Before 
 God, I promise! And for this sacrilegious 
 bloodshed here, will I do penance ! " 
 
 The Abbot's withered old lips formed a 
 mute thanksgiving. " My liege," he faltered, 
 " some forewarning of your triumph of a 
 surety brought me from my bed to the 
 altar this day. Praise God thy enemies are 
 put under thy feet ! Pray God for humility 
 and a gentle spirit, these to stay thee from 
 trampling them ! Wilt follow, and hear the 
 Mass ? " 
 
 Thus strangely, the broken procession 
 was reformed, and Hugh, aweary now under 
 the weight of the cross, sick with the smell 
 of blood and the sight of hewn corpses at 
 his feet, stumbled back again up the aisle, 
 past the rood screen, into the choir, the 
 sinwrs chanting: the solemn Tc Dciim Lau- 
 
2i'^2 Where Avon into Severn Flows. 
 
 dainus behind him, and King, princes, 
 nobles and knights and monks and soldiers 
 followinor the Abbot to the Hio^h Altar. 
 Here, out of pity at his white face, another 
 took his office on him, and Hugh, escaping 
 from the incense-laden air of the choir, stag- 
 gered into the ambulatory, faint and dis- 
 tressed. He had too little wit left to note 
 that the side aisles and transepts held scores 
 of skulking fugitive soldiers, and that others 
 of a like kidney were hiding in the shrine 
 chapels about him. 
 
 Not even when one of these came forth 
 from the enclosure dedicated to St. Edmund 
 the Martyr, and laid hand upon his shoul- 
 der, was he startled, but only looked up 
 with wan indifference on his chalk-like 
 face. 
 
 " Where had ye that ring } " a deep voice 
 asked, with tightened grip upon his shoul- 
 der to point the query. 
 
 Hugh saw now that it was a stalwart 
 young man who questioned him — and one 
 of quality, despite the miry disorder of his 
 
Sir Hcrcward'' s Ring. t^']'^ 
 
 dress and armor, and his dust-stained face. 
 What could be discerned of this face was 
 pleasing enough, too — but the lad's head 
 was whirling and his tongue numbed at its 
 roots. For his life he could not speak. 
 
 "That ring!" the stranger went on ex- 
 citedly. " I saw it on your hand whilst 
 you held the cross — the which, now I 
 think on't, saved our lives. Fear nothing, 
 lad! Tell me, how came you by it? Per- 
 chance I am beholden to you for the letter 
 last night — if so — will ye not speak, I say!" 
 
 Hugh, with a despairing effort, gathered 
 his wits, and asked faintly : " Are you the 
 Sir Hereward, then, to whom 'twas writ } " 
 
 "Aye, none other — what there is left of 
 me. And writ ye the letter? And at 
 whose behest ? " 
 
 The boy opened his mouth to answer, 
 looked blankly up into his questioner's face 
 — then, as the swelling chant ceased sud- 
 denly in the choir beyond, rolled supinely 
 on the stones at Sir Hereward's feet, in a 
 deadly swoon. 
 
374 Where Avon into Severn Flows. 
 
 Through what remained of this awful 
 Saturday, and through the startled hush 
 of the Sunday following it, the boy kept 
 his bed in a faint, drowsing languor, broken 
 by fits of shuddering under the terror of 
 evil dreams. Oft and again, the writing 
 monks came in compassion to his bedside, 
 but his shaken wits made of these visitors 
 only black figures in the background of an 
 endless scared vision of stark corpses, bear- 
 ing blood-stained heraldic shields along the 
 pages of his book. 
 
 The second night came, and, lagging 
 desperately through the long watches, stole 
 off by a trick at last while the lad slept — 
 so that he woke crow^ned as he lay with 
 sunlight. The neglected book was in his 
 thoughts first of all — and then came con- 
 sciousness that he was better — and then, 
 as he opened his eyes and blinked against 
 the full light, he saw that Peter was in the 
 room, bearing a steaming dish of broth. 
 
 " Art fit for great news ? " the Sacristan 
 asked, roughly enough, but looking down 
 
Sir Hcrcward's Ring. 375 
 
 upon the boy with a kindly Hght shining 
 from under his gray, shaggy brows. " The 
 Prince Richard — my Lord Duke of Gloster 
 — ^^ hath sent hither for our best scrivener to 
 attend him at the Tolzey, and Brother 
 Thomas, conferring with the Abbot, hath 
 nomfnated thee. Not that thou art our 
 best, nor near it, but thy masters are in 
 cowls and gowns, and since Saturday's 
 sacrilege no monk may stir forth to serve 
 the Princes or the King. Art fit for it } " 
 
 Hugh sat up in bed, and put hand to 
 brow, and smiled wistfully. " Aye, save 
 for a foolish little wandering here," he 
 made answer, " naught ails me now ! " And 
 for proof he seized the dish and buried his 
 jowl in it. 
 
 Peter strode up and down before the 
 narrow casement, grumbling as his gown 
 flapped about his heels. 
 
 "Sacrilege! Sacrilege!" he sneered. 
 " Well may the King laugh us to scorn 
 as witless loons ! For what is ' sacrilege ' 
 but a weapon forged by Holy Church to 
 
376 Where Avon into Severn Flows. 
 
 use against the laity, to our great profit 
 and their upHfting ? Yet here are we, 
 turning its point upon our own throats! 
 Because a httle paltry blood was spattered 
 in the porch — lo ! for a full month now 
 the Church must lie in penitential dark- 
 ness, no matins, no masses, no vespers — 
 until it be purified and newly consecrated. 
 Was ever such madness ? Here with mine 
 own eyes have I seen the son of a king, 
 he that was born Prince of Wales, shov- 
 elled into a grave in the choir without so 
 much as a rush-light. The flags are all 
 up for burials — the Earl of Devon, the 
 Lord Wenlock, the Lord John Beaufort, 
 and scores of knights and brave gentlemen 
 brought to us by God's own hand — and 
 yet we may not harvest so much as a 
 penny for it all ! Oh ! senseless chapter, 
 to decree such folly!" 
 
 Hugh had in swift silence dressed him- 
 self the while the old monk babbled, and 
 stood now in all readiness. " I will to the 
 scriptorium, good Peter," he said eagerly, 
 
Sir Hereward's Ring. 377 
 
 " to bring ink and pens and paper, and 
 then take orders from Brother Thomas for 
 my going." 
 
 " Thomas thou may'st not see, nor any 
 other," said the Sacristan ; " each is in his 
 cell, upon his knees, because of this same 
 sacrilege, and there must stick for days ! " 
 
 " But thou art here ! " 
 
 " Oh, aye ! " the old monk growled. " Be- 
 like I took the habit overlate in life to 
 learn the trick of good, thick, solid praying. 
 They set me now and again at small, light 
 supplications, but when great things are 
 besought, my help seems never needful. 
 Moreover, I have the burials to order. A 
 sweet task, truly ! To be laying the bones 
 of princes and lords in consecrated ground 
 as thick together as rogues in the stocks at 
 fair-time, and not the purchase of so much 
 as a gum- wreath to show for it! " 
 
 The two walked through the long de- 
 serted corridor overhanging the cloisters, 
 and entered the tenantless writing room. 
 Naught had been touched since that fate- 
 
378 Where Avon into Severn Flows. 
 
 ful Friday night, when Hugh had written 
 the letter for the strange knight. He re- 
 called this now, as he took his inkhorn 
 from the dusty table. 
 
 " Oh — tell me, Peter," he said, " saw you 
 aught of the Devon gentleman — him to 
 whom that letter was writ — he was in the 
 Abbey when — " 
 
 " Aye, more than once. He was holding 
 you in his arms when Thomas and I found 
 you. A goodly youngster — a thought too 
 hasty, it may be, but sound at heart. He 
 hath promised a year's masses for the dead 
 Earl of Devon, when things come right 
 again. They were in some sort kinsmen. 
 And I have sown in his mind pious 
 thoughts of, moreover, rearing an altar- 
 tomb in the Lady Chapel, with effigy and 
 sculptured sides. Oh, aye — he had food 
 from me yestere'en here in this very room, 
 and so hotly pressed payment on me that — " 
 
 Even as the Sacristan spoke the veil of 
 silence hanging like a pall over the Abbey 
 was rent by a shrill, piercing shriek from 
 
Sir Hereward's Ring. 379 
 
 the cloister-green below! Clambering to 
 the table, and peering forth, Hugh saw the 
 figures of men running along the vaulted 
 walks, and of others, mailed, and with 
 weapons, chasing them. From the church 
 beyond proceeded a great tumult, with 
 angry shouts, and the clashing of steel. 
 
 The King's word was broken. The fugi- 
 tives were being dragged from sanctuary! 
 
 Above the noises of search and despair- 
 ing flight which now filled the air, there 
 rose suddenly the sound of heavy footsteps 
 near at hand. Then the further door was 
 flung open, and Sir Hereward Thayer, 
 breathless, bareheaded, and without his 
 corselet, made hasty entrance. His eyes 
 brightened as they fell upon Peter. 
 
 " The wolves are on us," he said, " and 
 we have not so much as a stick to fend 
 them off. It is no shame to hide. Where 
 shall I find security, good brother.?" 
 
 " Alack ! there will be none here ! " cried 
 Peter. " If they are in the church itself, think 
 you they will spare mere cells and ofiices } " 
 
380 Where Avon into Severn Flows. 
 
 " Whither leads this room ? " asked Sir 
 Hereward, opening the middle door, and 
 looking in upon Peter's array of candles, 
 banners, wreaths, and palls. " Here, under 
 these, I can make myself secret till the 
 search be done ! " 
 
 Without further words, he lifted from 
 the darkest corner a pile of disordered linen 
 stuffs, loose shrouds, and grave-cloths, and 
 coverings for cofifins. The Sacristan, as he 
 looked from the doorway, noted with shrewd 
 swiftness the gay colors of the morris-dresses 
 underneath, and, stepping forward, laid his 
 hand upon them. Then Hugh, hurriedly, 
 and with faltering lips, told Peter what they 
 were, and the story of their guilty presence 
 — and lo ! the old monk laughed aloud. 
 
 Then suddenly — as the clamor of the 
 chase deepened outside — Peter hissed com- 
 mands into Sir Hereward's ear. 
 
 " Get you into this motley in all haste ! 
 Lose no moment ! Thus only can you win 
 outside and pass the gates, and go unques- 
 tioned through the town ! " 
 
CHAPTER III. 
 
 HOW HUGH MET THE PRINCE. 
 
 /^NLY a brief space later, Hugh and 
 ^-^^ this new companion in painted fool's 
 clothes and with raddled cheeks made their 
 way forth from the great west gate to the 
 green. No formless loitering of idle men- 
 at-arms now met their gaze. Straight lines 
 of pikemen had been posted before each 
 entrance to church or monastery, and in 
 the open space beyond stood long regu- 
 lar ranks of other soldiers, with fluttering 
 standards and a forest of tall weapons — 
 all newly burnished — ashine in the morn- 
 ing sun. 
 
 The twain, with as bold a front as 
 
 might be, walked down this passage of 
 
 pikes until the captain of the watch, a 
 
 burly, bearded man in Flemish armor, 
 
 381 
 
382 Where Avon mto Severn Flows. 
 
 stopped them with uplifted hand ; and two 
 dozen pike-heads clashed down as by a 
 single touch, to bar alike progress and 
 retreat. 
 
 " I am the scrivener of the Abbey," Hugh 
 called out from within this steel girdle, 
 " and go forth to the Tolzey at behest of 
 your master and mine — the Lord Duke 
 of Gloster." 
 
 " And this merry fellow ; hath the Duke 
 need for him likewise ? " the captain asked, 
 with sharp glances. " I'm sworn his Grace 
 looks more for headsmen than for morris- 
 dancers, as to-day's wind blows." 
 
 " Put thy queries to the Duke himself," 
 said Hugh ; " and hold us no longer waiting 
 here, as he waits at the Tolzey." 
 
 Grumbling in his beard, the captain 
 dropped his hand, and the pikes flashed 
 upward. Hugh and the mock fool passed 
 forth, and turned their feet townwards across 
 the trampled sward. At the church gate to 
 their right hand, a greater body of armed 
 men stood, and beyond these, within the 
 
How Hugh met the Prince. 383 
 
 churchyard, high plumes on knightly helmets 
 nodded in the morning breeze. Of what 
 was going forward there the two saw noth- 
 ing, but hurried on, glad to pass unques- 
 tioned. 
 
 They came thus to the market-place, 
 held clear by solid walls of troopers, mailed, 
 and armed to the teeth, behind whom the 
 townsfolk, now heartily of but one opinion, 
 strove to win friends and peep between 
 steel shoulders into the open space. Still 
 unmolested, the boy, bearing his inkhorn 
 and scroll well before him as a badge of 
 craft, passed with his companion to the 
 side of the cross — where workmen toiled 
 with axe and mallet to rear a platform of 
 newly hewn beams and boards — and held 
 his course straight to the Tolzey. 
 
 " Saw you what they build, there by the 
 cross ? " whispered Sir Hereward. " It is 
 a scaffold, where presently axes shall hew 
 flesh and blood, not logs." And then he 
 added, " Whither go we ; into the very tusks 
 of the boar .? " 
 
384 Where Avon htto Severn Flows. 
 
 " Nay, but to get behind him," returned 
 Hugh, in the same sidelong whisper. 
 "Halt you at the Tolzey door; mix there 
 with the throng which idly gapes upon 
 the soldiery, until chance offers to steal 
 through some alley to the open fields." 
 
 " And you leave me there ? " 
 
 " How shall it be otherwise ? And — I 
 say it now — farewell ; the saints protect 
 thee ! " 
 
 " A word," the masker whispered. " Art 
 sure it was a knight who ordered the letter 
 to be writ t " 
 
 " None other. A knight in full battle 
 harness. And — Oh! God save us! // 
 is he ./ " 
 
 Before the low-browed Tolzey, or Toll- 
 booth, a house of bricks on timber, with 
 projecting gallery reared over open pillars, 
 an urgent throng of citizens swarmed be- 
 hind two rows of soldiers, to note the 
 uttermost of what was passing. This Tol- 
 zey — at once exchange and town hall, court- 
 house and jail — had in its long life seen 
 
Two Dozen Pike-Hkads clashed down as by a Single Touch." 
 
How Hugh met the Prince. 387 
 
 strange things, but nothing hke unto to-day, 
 when the King's brother, Richard of Gloster, 
 and John Mowbray, Duke of Norfolk, held 
 bloody assize upon the enemies of the King. 
 Above the gable floated, side by side, two 
 standards of deep red stuff, on which were 
 wrought, one the silver boar of Gloster, 
 Lord Constable of England, one the silver 
 lion rampant of Norfolk, Earl Marshal. 
 
 And at the porch, pushing their way 
 through the press of onlookers under the 
 arches between the pillars, a knot of men- 
 at-arms dragged forward that same strange 
 knight at whose bidding Hugh had written 
 the letter ! 
 
 " Look ! It is he ! " the boy repeated 
 breathlessly, quickening his pace for the 
 instant, then shrinking back dismayed. 
 
 Sir Hereward laid a firm hand on his 
 arm. " I quit ye not here ! " he swore, be- 
 tween clenched teeth. " Hasten we forward, 
 and into the presence of the court." 
 
 "But — it means death to thee — "the 
 boy began, as the other hurried him on. 
 
388 Where Avon into Severn Flows. 
 
 " Better a thousand deaths — by fire and 
 molten lead — than that this should hap- 
 pen," the other gasped. " Up with thy 
 chin ! They must not say us nay ! " 
 
 What answers they gave, in what manner 
 their arguments satisfied, the twain barely 
 knew. The chief matter was that they 
 won their way into the Tolzey, were borne 
 up the foul, narrow staircase by the throng 
 close at the heels of the soldiers and their 
 captive, and suddenly found themselves 
 stumbling over the threshold into a large 
 room, whereof one part was densely 
 crowded, and one empty as a grave fresh 
 dug. A triple line of steel corselets, sal- 
 lets, and bills, drawn from side to side, split 
 these parts asunder, and behind this line 
 those in authority at the door roughly made 
 to drive the new-comers. 
 
 When Huo^h had shown his writino^ tools 
 and told his errand, they smoothed their 
 tone and bade him stand aside, in the 
 cleared space. The others — strange knight, 
 his rude captors, the mummer-gentleman — 
 
 I 
 
How Hugh met the Prince. 389 
 
 all were swallowed up behind the barrier 
 into the throng which snarled, and surged, 
 and gnashed its teeth, in weltering heat 
 and evil smells, under the spell of the scent 
 of blood. 
 
 After a little while there rose an echoing 
 blast of trumpets from the market-place 
 without, riding as it were on the crest of 
 a great wave of cheering. Then hurriedly 
 the officers brought forth from an outer 
 room two high chairs of state, gilded, and 
 bearing the town's arms, and set them upon 
 the floor-cloth under a canopy, and put 
 behind these, on either side of the dais, 
 other .chairs and stools — and then bowed 
 low as the doors in the centre were flung 
 open with loud knocks, and two heralds, in 
 blazoned tabards, entered. Behind these, 
 with stately step, by twos came a score of 
 great warriors and lords, mailed to the 
 throat, and with pages bearing their cum- 
 brous head-gear; then others of distinction, 
 for the most part advanced in years, who 
 wore rich gowns and chains, and held velvet 
 
390 Where Avon into Severn Flows. 
 
 caps in their hands ; and lastly, two young 
 men in gowns who wore their caps on 
 their heads. And one of these, of a square, 
 thick-featured aspect, with broad breast, and 
 reddish hair, was Earl Marshal of England, 
 yet had scarce a look from any one, so bent 
 were all thoughts upon the other. 
 
 This other — clad in sober colors, with 
 a broad chain upon his breast and a black 
 close-curling plume in his cap — came 
 sedately forward and sat in the large 
 chair a hand's breadth in front of his 
 companion's. He let his glance rest easily 
 upon the crowded half of the room, as 
 if noting things in idleness the while his 
 mind was elsewhere. 
 
 The heralds called out each his master's 
 exalted office, and what matters they had 
 come now to rightly judge upon ; and 
 Hugh, having been seated at a desk by 
 the window, hung with all his eyes to the 
 face of the youth in the foremost chair. 
 
 It was a thin, thoughtful face, dark of 
 skin and with a saddened air. The 
 
How Htigh 7net the Prince. 391 
 
 bended nose was long, the point well out 
 in air to bespeak an inborn swiftness of 
 scent. And above, wide apart, there 
 burned a steady flame of great-hearted 
 wisdom in two deep iron-gray eyes which 
 embraced all things, searched calmly and 
 comprehended all things. This Prince, 
 though first subject and foremost soldier 
 under the King, his brother, was even 
 now but nineteen years of age ; and Hugh, 
 gazing in rapt timidity upon him, flushed 
 with shame at thought of his own years, 
 close treading upon those of -this Prince, 
 and of his own weak unworthiness. 
 
 The boy wrote down what the old men 
 in gowns bade him say concerning the 
 dreadful things that now were toward, 
 and, writing, contrived also to look and 
 listen with an awed, ashen face and bewil- 
 dered mind. 
 
 Other soldiers had entered the room, 
 and, making a weapon-lined lane between 
 the door and the throng, brought forward 
 now, one after another, the captive lords 
 
392 Where Avon into Severn Flows. 
 
 and knights taken red-handed from the 
 Abbey or found in hiding in the town. 
 Each in his turn, with elbows thong-bound 
 at his back, with torn raiment and dishev- 
 elled if not bandaged head, was haled 
 before the dais, and looked into these 
 deep-glancing eyes of his boy judge. 
 
 Richard held them in his calm, engir- 
 dling gaze with never sign of heat or pity, 
 and to each spoke in tones high and 
 sharp-cut enough for all to hear, but of 
 a level in cold dignity. When they in 
 turn replied, he listened gravely, with lip 
 uplifted so that his teeth were seen. Ever 
 and again his fingers toyed with the hilt 
 of the baslard at his girdle the while he 
 listened ; and these to whom he heark- 
 ened thus trembled rightly at the omen. 
 When all needful words were spent, the 
 Prince leaned for a moment to his right 
 and whispered apart with Mowbray, Duke 
 of Norfolk ; but this for very form's sake, 
 and not to seek counsel. Then, still in 
 the same chilled, equable voice, he would 
 
How Hugh met the Prince. 393 
 
 mete out the judgment, suiting to each 
 with apposite words his deliverance, 
 whether they should lose their heads for 
 their treason on the morrow, or depart 
 under the King's mercy as free men, pay- 
 ing fines in gold or land, or suffering no 
 penalty whatsoever. Well nigh two score 
 and ten passed thus before the Prince, 
 and of this number two-and-twenty were 
 sent to the block. Of these, the greatest 
 in estate was Edmund Beaufort, Duke of 
 Somerset, blood-cousin to his judge, and 
 to whom gray hairs had brought neither 
 wisdom nor control. With him Prince 
 Richard parleyed at length, pointing out 
 how the Beaufort line of John of Gaunt, 
 beginnino^ in dishonor with Katherine 
 Swynford, and filtering through envious 
 trickery and disloyalty, would on the mor- 
 row run itself miserably out in muddy lees 
 upon the scaffold. And then they led 
 the childless Duke away amid the an- 
 gered hootings of the crowd. 
 
 None but this Somerset, and Sir John 
 
394 Where Avon into Severn Flows. 
 
 Longstrother, who was called the Prior of 
 St. John's, had courage wherewith to ac- 
 cuse the King of broken faith, in that he 
 had sworn to give mercy to all who sought 
 refuge in the Abbey. To this young 
 Gloster, still deadly calm, made answer 
 that the King had given no such pledge, 
 but only granted some old monk's prayer 
 that all of gentle blood who met their 
 death, either in battle or on the scaffold, 
 might be buried in the Abbey without 
 dismemberment ; this, and nothing more. 
 
 Of a sudden, Hugh, grown at home 
 among these horrors, saw advancing under 
 guard between the glittering lines of bills, 
 the mailed figure he knew so well. The 
 boy held his breath as the strange Knight 
 stood before the dais, helmeted and erect 
 — and as he noted that the morris-dancer, 
 fiercely pushing his way, had followed 
 close behind. 
 
 " What now ! " — it was Mowbray who 
 spoke — "Who comes thus covered.? Loose 
 us his helm ! " 
 
How Hugh met the Prince. 395 
 
 " I pray ye both," spoke the Knight, 
 " suffer me to thus remain ! It is as easy 
 to lose one's head in this fashion as an- 
 other. I crave no other mercy," 
 
 A pale, flitting smile played over the 
 Prince's lips. " After such stress of sober 
 state affairs, cousin of Norfolk," he said, 
 more gently, " the jest is grateful. Hast 
 brought thy rnorris-dancer with thee, too, 
 I note, good sir ! " 
 
 The Knight swung round to follow Glos- 
 ter's glance; then, after a moment's earnest 
 gaze upon the disguised man close at 
 hand, turned with closed eyes and hand 
 on heart. 
 
 The Prince rubbed his hands softly to- 
 gether, and smiled again. 
 
 " Aye ! lift us the basnet," he said to the 
 soldiers standing guard. "The jest will trip 
 the better for more air and light" — and 
 in a twinkling the men had unfastened 
 and raised the heavy helmet; and the 
 Knight stood, flushed and confused, no 
 knight at all ! but a young and fair-faced 
 
396 Where Avon into Severn Flows. 
 
 woman, with loose golden hair tumbled 
 sweetly upon her neck. 
 
 Richard's lips curled again, and his teeth 
 gleamed under them, while his eyes shone 
 with a merry light. 
 
 " Most excellent ! " he chuckled, looking 
 to Mowbray's dull, puzzled face in mock 
 search for sympathy. " Now scrub us the 
 paint off yon mummer's cheeks, and let 
 his head be bared. The jest goes bravely." 
 
 Before the astonished onlookers, this too 
 was done, and Sir Hereward, still arrayed 
 to the throat in motley, with eyes sheep- 
 ishly downcast, stood revealed. 
 
 The young Prince covered the two, as 
 they stood, with his mirthful regard, and 
 rubbed his palms together in silent enjoy- 
 ment. 
 
 " Read me the riddle, Lady Kate," he 
 said at last. " I guess thy errand to these 
 parts, and his is clear enough — perchance 
 too clear ! — but why, if thou must trick 
 him out in morris-dress, why bring him 
 here.'* Nay!" — as the lady would have 
 
How Hugh met the Prince. 397 
 
 spoken — "fear nothing; I like the jest 
 thus far, but comprehend it only in part." 
 
 " My Lord Duke," the lady said, throw- 
 ing back, her hair with a proud gesture, 
 "we were children together, — you and I, — 
 you will credit my word. I knew not till 
 this moment that he was here, but deemed 
 him — left — behind on the field. And I 
 came hither, not in your despite, or your 
 dread brother's, but to warn my friend here, 
 Sir Hereward, of treason menacing him in 
 his own camp ; and to that end, on Fri- 
 day night, sent I a letter to him where he 
 lay, by my own servants hand." 
 
 " This is the letter," said Sir Hereward 
 simply, drawing from his breast the folded 
 paper with its broken seal. 
 
 The Prince bent forward, took the mis- 
 sive, spread it out upon his knee, and read 
 carefully through from first to last. *' I 
 grieve to learn of your good sire's death," 
 he said once, lifting his eyes, and then 
 read on, musingly. At last he smiled, and 
 shook his head. 
 
398 Where Avon into Severn Flows. 
 
 " I have full knowledge — none better, 
 Lady Kate," he said, " of thy high spirits 
 and brave temper. Thou wert of the mettle 
 of knights-errant even in short clothes. But 
 what I looked not for was this clerkly hand, 
 this deft scrolling of lines and letters." Still 
 with dancing eyes he held the paper up 
 before the Earl Marshal. " Why, look you, 
 cousin of Norfolk ! 'Tis as fair as any guild 
 work from Bruges. And from a woman's 
 hand, mark ye ! " 
 
 The lady hung her head and blushed, 
 then, lifting it, smiled. " Your Grace ever 
 loved his jest," she said. " Alas, I am no 
 clerk, nor would be with a thousand years of 
 teaching. I could more easily ride, by night 
 and day, across from Devon to save my — 
 my friend, than mark a straight line on 
 paper." 
 
 " And who writ ye this ? " pursued Rich- 
 ard, eying the scroll afresh. 
 
 " A youth in the Abbey," said the lady, 
 and Sir Hereward pointed him out where 
 he sat. 
 
How Hugh met the Prince. 399 
 
 Then suddenly Hugh, staring vaguely at 
 all this, heard some one say in his ear that 
 his Grace had called for him, and felt 
 another push him to his feet — and then 
 saw, as through a golden fog, that the 
 Prince held up a jewelled finger, beckon- 
 ing to him. The boy's heart thumped to 
 his throat with every step as he moved 
 to the dais. 
 
 " It is thy hand, eh 1 " Duke Richard 
 asked, with kindly voice, and the lad could 
 only bow and blush. One of the old men at 
 the table had brought forward as well the 
 scrolls on which Hugh had written the 
 day's grim record, and the Prince glanced 
 over these with a student's lingering eye. 
 Then, with a quaint smile and sigh, he 
 said : — 
 
 " Behold how fair and goodly a thing is 
 learning ! Of ye three, this stripling boy 
 comes first in the race. Thou mightst have 
 had thy ride for naught, my Lady Kate, but 
 for his craft. And thou, sirrah, mightst 
 have been murdered in thy camp, but for 
 
400 Where Avon into Severn Flows. 
 
 this same letter. And wert thou set upon 
 by these knaves ? " 
 
 " Aye, your Grace," Sir Hereward replied, 
 "and slew two, with some small hurt to my- 
 self, and their fellows fled ^ to be butchered 
 elsewhere — down by the mill pit." 
 
 The Prince nodded his head in satisfac- 
 tion, then more slowly spoke again. 
 
 " Sir Hereward, were thy head a match 
 for thy heart or thy vast sinews, belike thou 
 hadst not saved it to-day. 'Tis dull of wit, 
 but belongs to a simple valiant gentleman, 
 and I will not lop it from his shoulders. Get 
 thee to Devon, and keep within the King's 
 grace — and if the taste for mumming 
 rise in thee again, and will not down, go 
 morris-dancing on thine own estates — or 
 hers. And thou — saucy Kate — go take 
 thy man, and make thy wit the complement 
 of his slow honesty. But no tricks ! Why, 
 silly pretty maid, didst think England was 
 ruled by blind men ! Thou hadst not killed 
 thy first horse, in Somerset, ere we knew of 
 thee and thy quest. And as for thy knight 
 
How Hugh met the Prince. 401 
 
 in motley, loud rumor preceded him down 
 the street to-day as if he had been the 
 borough bellman." 
 
 Sir Hereward, holding the lady's hand, 
 would at this have made some speech of 
 thanks, but that the Prince held up his 
 finger to stop him. 
 
 " Nay — another day," he said, " perchance 
 when we do send for thee to come up to 
 London town. Thy affairs have eaten up 
 too much time, as it stands. The saints 
 speed thee. Lady Kate, and teach thee to 
 write. In this rude, topsy-turvy world, 
 nauQ-ht is secure but learning. Observe 
 what joy I have in this clerkly boy whose 
 skilled hand mocks Master Caxton's types 
 in the Low Countries — but of that thou 
 knowest nothino^. I am beholden to thee 
 for the boy. This night I'll beg him of 
 the Abbot, and he shall be of my house- 
 hold at Baynard's. Go now. I am aweary 
 of good unlettered folk." 
 
 And as the twain, bowing, left the room, 
 the Prince turned again to the scrivener lad. 
 
i 
 
 c^V/ 
 
RARE BOOK 
 COLLECTION 
 
 THE LIBRARY OF THE 
 
 UNIVERSITY OF 
 
 NORTH CAROLINA 
 
 AT 
 
 CHAPEL HILL 
 
 Wilmer 
 
 470 
 
 C.2 
 
I fffiftliliftiiPMI