E-text prepared by Martin Robb

With Wolfe in Canada

Or The Winning of a Continent

by G. A. Henty

1894

Preface.

My Dear Lads,

In the present volume I have endeavoured to give the details of
the principal events in a struggle whose importance can hardly be
overrated. At its commencement the English occupied a mere patch of
land on the eastern seaboard of America, hemmed in on all sides by
the French, who occupied not only Canada in the north and Louisiana
in the south, but possessed a chain of posts connecting them, so
cutting off the English from all access to the vast countries of
the west.

On the issues of that struggle depended not only the destiny of
Canada, but of the whole of North America and, to a large extent,
that of the two mother countries. When the contest began, the
chances of France becoming the great colonizing empire of the world
were as good as those of England. Not only did she hold far larger
territories in America than did England, but she had rich colonies
in the West Indies, where the flag of England was at that time
hardly represented, and her prospects in India were better than our
own. At that time, too, she disputed with us on equal terms the
empire of the sea.

The loss of her North American provinces turned the scale. With
the monopoly of such a market, the commerce of England increased
enormously, and with her commerce her wealth and power of
extension, while the power of France was proportionately crippled.
It is true that, in time, the North American colonies, with the
exception of Canada, broke away from their connection with the old
country; but they still remained English, still continued to be the
best market for our goods and manufactures.

Never was the short-sightedness of human beings shown more
distinctly, than when France wasted her strength and treasure in a
sterile contest on the continent of Europe, and permitted, with
scarce an effort, her North American colonies to be torn from
her.

All the historical details of the war have been drawn from the
excellent work entitled Montcalm and Wolfe, by Mr. Francis Parkman,
and from the detailed history of the Louisbourg and Quebec
expeditions, by Major Knox, who served under Generals Amherst and
Wolfe.

Yours very sincerely,

G. A. Henty.

Chapter 1: A Rescue.

Most of the towns standing on our seacoast have suffered a
radical change in the course of the last century. Railways, and the
fashion of summer holiday making, have transformed them altogether,
and great towns have sprung up where fishing villages once stood.
There are a few places, however, which seem to have been passed by,
by the crowd. The number yearly becomes smaller, as the iron roads
throw out fresh branches. With the advent of these comes the
speculative builder. Rows of terraces and shops are run up,
promenades are made, bathing machines and brass bands become
familiar objects, and in a few years the original character of the
place altogether disappears.

Sidmouth, for a long time, was passed by, by the world of
holiday makers. East and west of her, great changes took place, and
many far smaller villages became fashionable seaside watering
places. The railway, which passed by some twelve miles away,
carried its tens of thousands westward, but left few of them for
Sidmouth, and anyone who visited the pretty little place, fifteen
years back, would have seen it almost as it stood when our story
opens a century ago.

There are few places in England with a fairer site. It lies
embosomed in the hills, which rise sharply on either side of it,
while behind stretches a rich, undulating country, thickly dotted
with orchards and snug homesteads, with lanes bright with
wildflowers and ferns, with high hedges and trees meeting overhead.
The cold breezes, which render so bare of interest the walks round
the great majority of our seaside towns, pass harmlessly over the
valley of the Sid, where the vegetation is as bright and luxuriant
as if the ocean lay leagues away, instead of breaking on the shore
within a few feet of the front line of houses.

The cliffs which, on either side, rise from the water's edge,
are neither white like those to the east, nor grey as are the
rugged bulwarks to the west. They are of a deep red, warm and
pleasant to the eye, with clumps of green showing brightly up
against them on every little ledge where vegetation can get a
footing; while the beach is neither pebble, nor rock, nor sand, but
a smooth, level surface sloping evenly down; hard and pleasant to
walk on when the sea has gone down, and the sun has dried and baked
it for an hour or two; but slippery and treacherous when freshly
wetted, for the red cliffs are of clay. Those who sail past in a
boat would hardly believe that this is so, for the sun has baked
its face, and the wind dried it, till it is cracked and seamed, and
makes a brave imitation of red granite; but the clammy ooze, when
the sea goes down, tells its nature only too plainly, and Sidmouth
will never be a popular watering place for children, for there is
no digging sand castles here, and a fall will stain light dresses
and pinafores a ruddy hue, and the young labourers will look as if
they had been at work in a brick field.

But a century since, the march of improvement had nowhere begun;
and there were few larger, and no prettier, seaside villages on the
coast than Sidmouth.

It was an afternoon in August. The sun was blazing down hotly,
scarce a breath of wind was stirring, and the tiny waves broke
along the shore with a low rustle like that of falling leaves. Some
fishermen were at work, recaulking a boat hauled up on the shore.
Others were laying out some nets to dry in the sun. Some fisher
boys were lying asleep, like dogs basking in the heat; and a knot
of lads, sitting under the shade of a boat, were discussing with
some warmth the question of smuggling.

"What do you say to it, Jim Walsham?" one of the party said,
looking up at a boy some twelve years old, who was leaning against
a boat, but who had hitherto taken no part in the discussion.

"There is no doubt that it's wrong," the boy said. "Not wrong
like stealing, and lying, and that sort of thing; still it's wrong,
because it's against the law; and the revenue men, if they come
upon a gang landing the tubs, fight with them, and if any are
killed they are not blamed for it, so there is no doubt about its
being wrong. Then, on the other hand, no one thinks any the worse
of the men that do it, and there is scarce a one, gentle or simple,
as won't buy some of the stuff if he gets a chance, so it can't be
so very wrong. It must be great fun to be a smuggler, to be always
dodging the king's cutters, and running cargoes under the nose of
the officers ashore. There is some excitement in a life like
that."

"There is plenty of excitement in fishing," one of the boys said
sturdily. "If you had been out in that storm last March, you would
have had as much excitement as you liked. For twelve hours we
expected to go down every minute, and we were half our time bailing
for our lives."

An approving murmur broke from the others, who were all, with
the exception of the one addressed as Jim Walsham, of the fisher
class. His clothing differed but little from that of the rest. His
dark blue pilot trousers were old and sea stained, his hands and
face were dyed brown with exposure to the sun and the salt water;
but there was something, in his manner and tone of voice, which
showed that a distinction existed.

James Walsham was, indeed, the son of the late doctor of the
village, who had died two years previously. Dr. Walsham had been
clever in his profession, but circumstances were against him.
Sidmouth and its neighbourhood were so healthy, that his patients
were few and far between; and when he died, of injuries received
from being thrown over his horse's head, when the animal one night
trod on a stone coming down the hill into Sidmouth, his widow and
son were left almost penniless.

Mrs. Walsham was, fortunately, an energetic woman, and a
fortnight after her husband's death, she went round among the
tradesmen of the place and the farmers of the neighbourhood, and
announced her intention of opening a school for girls. She had
received a good education, being the daughter of a clergyman, and
she soon obtained enough pupils to enable her to pay her way, and
to keep up the pretty home in which her husband lived in the
outskirts of Sidmouth.

If she would have taken boarders, she could have obtained far
higher terms, for good schools were scarce; but this she would not
do, and her pupils all lived within distances where they could walk
backwards and forwards to their homes. Her evenings she devoted to
her son, and, though the education which she was enabled to give
him would be considered meagre, indeed, in these days of universal
cramming, he learned as much as the average boy of the period.

He would have learned more had he followed her desires, and
devoted the time when she was engaged in teaching to his books; but
this he did not do. For a few hours in the day he would work
vigorously at his lessons. The rest of his time he spent either on
the seashore, or in the boats of the fishermen; and he could swim,
row, or handle a boat under sail in all weather, as well or better
than any lad in the village of his own age.

His disposition was a happy one, and he was a general favourite
among the boatmen. He had not, as yet, made up his mind as to his
future. His mother wanted him to follow his father's profession. He
himself longed to go to sea, but he had promised his mother that he
would never do so without her consent, and that consent he had no
hope of obtaining.

The better-class people in the village shook their heads gravely
over James Walsham, and prophesied no good things of him. They
considered that he demeaned himself greatly by association with the
fisher boys, and more than once he had fallen into disgrace, with
the more quiet minded of the inhabitants, by mischievous pranks.
His reputation that way once established, every bit of mischief in
the place, which could not be clearly traced to someone else, was
put down to him; and as he was not one who would peach upon others
to save himself, he was seldom in a position to prove his
innocence.

The parson had once called upon Mrs. Walsham, and had talked to
her gravely over her son's delinquencies, but his success had not
been equal to his anticipations. Mrs. Walsham had stood up warmly
for her son.

"The boy may get into mischief sometimes, Mr. Allanby, but it is
the nature of boys to do so. James is a good boy, upright and
honourable, and would not tell a lie under any consideration. What
is he to do? If I could afford to send him to a good school it
would be a different thing, but that you know I cannot do. From
nine in the morning, until five in the afternoon, my time is
occupied by teaching, and I cannot expect, nor do I wish, that he
should sit moping indoors all day. He had far better be out in the
boats with the fishermen, than be hanging about the place doing
nothing. If anything happened to me, before he is started in life,
there would be nothing for him but to take to the sea. I am laying
by a little money every month, and if I live for another year there
will be enough to buy him a fishing boat and nets. I trust that it
may not come to that, but I see nothing derogatory in his earning
an honest living with his own hands. He will always be something
better than a common fisherman. The education I have striven to
give him, and his knowledge that he was born a gentleman, will
nerve him to try and rise.

"As to what you say about mischief, so far as I know all boys
are mischievous. I know that my own brothers were always getting
into scrapes, and I have no doubt, Mr. Allanby, that when you look
back upon your own boyhood, you will see that you were not an
exception to the general rule."

Mr. Allanby smiled. He had come rather against his own
inclinations; but his wife had urged him to speak to Mrs. Walsham,
her temper being ruffled by the disappearance of two favourite
pigeons, whose loss she, without a shadow of evidence, most
unjustly put down to James Walsham.

The parson was by no means strict with his flock. He was a tall
man, inclined to be portly, a good shot and an ardent fisherman;
and although he did not hunt, he was frequently seen on his brown
cob at the meet, whenever it took place within a reasonable
distance of Sidmouth; and without exactly following the hounds, his
knowledge of the country often enabled him to see more of the hunt
than those who did.

As Mrs. Walsham spoke, the memory of his old school and college
days came across him.

"That is the argumentum ad hominem, Mrs. Walsham, and
when a lady takes to that we can say no more. You know I like your
boy. There is much that is good in him; but it struck me that you
were letting him run a little too wild. However, there is much in
what you say, and I don't believe that he is concerned in half the
mischief that he gets credit for. Still, you must remember that a
little of the curb, just a little, is good for us all. It spoils a
horse to be always tugging at his mouth, but he will go very badly
if he does not feel that there is a hand on the reins.

"I have said the same thing to the squire. He spoils that boy of
his, for whom, between ourselves, I have no great liking. The old
man will have trouble with him before he is done, or I am greatly
mistaken."

Nothing came of Mr. Allanby's visit. Mrs. Walsham told James
that he had been there to remonstrate with her.

"I do not want to stop you from going out sailing, Jim; but I
wish you would give up your mischievous pranks, they only get you
bad will and a bad name in the place. Many people here think that I
am wrong in allowing you to associate so much with the fisher boys,
and when you get into scrapes, it enables them to impress upon me
how right they were in their forecasts. I do not want my boy to be
named in the same breath with those boys of Robson's, or young
Peterson, or Blame."

"But you know I have nothing to do with them, mother," James
said indignantly. "They spend half their time about the public
house, and they do say that when Peterson has been out with that
lurcher of his, he has been seen coming back with his coat bulged
out, and there is often a smell of hare round his father's cottage
at supper time. You know I wouldn't have anything to do with
them."

"No, Jim, I am sure you would not; but if people mix up your
name with theirs it is almost as bad for you as if you had.
Unfortunately, people are too apt not to distinguish between tricks
which are really only the outcome of high spirit, and a lack of
something better to do, and real vice. Therefore, Jim, I say, keep
yourself from mischief. I know that, though you are out of doors so
many hours of the day, you really do get through a good deal of
work; but other people do not give you credit for this. Remember
how your father was respected here. Try to act always as you would
have done had he been alive, and you cannot go far wrong."

James had done his best, but he found it hard to get rid of his
reputation for getting into mischief, and more than once, when
falsely suspected, he grumbled that he might just as well have the
fun of the thing, for he was sure to have the blame.

As Jim Walsham and his companions were chatting in the shade of
a boat, their conversation was abruptly broken off by the sight of
a figure coming along the road. It was a tall figure, with a stiff
military bearing. He was pushing before him a large box, mounted on
a framework supported by four wheels. Low down, close to the
ground, swung a large flat basket. In this, on a shawl spread over
a thick bed of hay, sat a little girl some five years old.

"It is the sergeant," one of the boys exclaimed. "I wonder
whether he has got a fresh set of views? The last were first-rate
ones."

The sergeant gave a friendly nod to the boys as he passed, and
then, turning up the main street from the beach, went along until
he came to a shaded corner, and there stopped. The boys had all got
up and followed him, and now stood looking on with interest at his
proceedings. The little girl had climbed out of her basket as soon
as he stopped, and after asking leave, trotted back along the
street to the beach, and was soon at play among the seaweed and
stones.

She was a singularly pretty child, with dark blue eyes, and
brown hair with a touch of gold. Her print dress was spotlessly
clean and neat; a huge flapping sunbonnet shaded her face, whose
expression was bright and winning.

"Well, boys," the sergeant said cheerfully, "how have you been
getting on since I was here last? Nobody drowned, I hope, or come
to any ill. Not that we must grumble, whatever comes. We have all
got to do our duty, whether it be to march up a hill with shot and
shell screaming and whistling round, as I have had to do; or to be
far out at sea with the wind blowing fit to take the hair off your
head, as comes to your lot sometimes; or following the plough from
year's end to year's end, as happens to some. We have got to make
the best of it, whatever it is.

"I have got a grand new set of pictures from Exeter. They came
all the way down from London town for me by waggon. London Bridge,
and Windsor Castle, with the flag flying over it, telling that the
king--God bless his gracious majesty--is at home.

"Then, I have got some pictures of foreign parts that will make
you open your eyes. There's Niagara. I don't know whether you've
heard of it, but it's a place where a great river jumps down over a
wall of rock, as high as that steeple there, with a roar like
thunder that can be heard, they say, on a still night, for twenty
miles round.

"I have got some that will interest you more still, because you
are sailors, or are going to be sailors. I have got one of the
killing of a whale. He has just thrown a boat, with five sailors,
into the air, with a lash of his tail; but it's of no use, for
there are other boats round, and the harpoons are striking deep in
his flesh. He is a big fish, and a strong one; but he will be
beaten, for he does not know how to use his strength. That's the
case with many men. They throw away their life and their talents,
just because they don't know what's in them, and what they might do
if they tried.

"And I have got a picture of the fight with the Spanish Armada.
You have heard about that, boys, surely; for it began out there,
over the water, almost in sight of Sidmouth, and went on all the
way up the Channel; our little ships hanging on to the great
Spaniards and giving them no rest, but worrying them, and battering
them, till they were glad to sail away to the Dutch coast. But they
were not safe there, for we sent fire ships at them, and they had
to cut and run; and then a storm came on, and sunk many, and drove
others ashore all around our coasts, even round the north of
Scotland and Ireland.

"You will see it all here, boys, and as you know, the price is
only one penny."

By this time, the sergeant had let down one side of the box and
discovered four round holes, and had arranged a low stool in front,
for any of those, who were not tall enough to look through the
glasses, to stand upon. A considerable number of girls and boys had
now gathered round, for Sergeant Wilks and his show were old,
established favourites at Sidmouth, and the news of his arrival had
travelled quickly round the place.

Four years before, he had appeared there for the first time, and
since then had come every few months. He travelled round the
southwestern counties, Dorset and Wilts, Somerset, Devon, and
Cornwall, and his cheery good temper made him a general favourite
wherever he went.

He was somewhat of a martinet, and would have no crowding and
pushing, and always made the boys stand aside till the girls had a
good look; but he never hurried them, and allowed each an ample
time to see the pictures, which were of a better class than those
in most travelling peep shows. There was some murmuring, at first,
because the show contained none of the popular murders and
blood-curdling scenes to which the people were accustomed.

"No," the sergeant had said firmly, when the omission was
suggested to him; "the young ones see quite enough scenes of
drunkenness and fighting. When I was a child, I remember seeing in
a peep show the picture of a woman lying with her head nearly cut
off, and her husband with a bloody chopper standing beside her; and
it spoiled my sleep for weeks. No, none of that sort of thing for
Sergeant Wilks. He has fought for his country, and has seen
bloodshed enough in his time, and the ground half covered with dead
and dying men; but that was duty--this is pleasure. Sergeant Wilks
will show the boys and girls, who pay him their pennies, views in
all parts of the world, such as would cost them thousands of pounds
if they travelled to see them, and all as natural as life. He will
show them great battles by land and sea, where the soldiers and
sailors shed their blood like water in the service of their
country. But cruel murders and notorious crimes he will not show
them."

It was not the boys and girls, only, who were the sergeant's
patrons. Picture books were scarce in those days, and grown-up
girls and young men were not ashamed to pay their pennies to peep
into the sergeant's box.

There was scarcely a farm house throughout his beat where he was
not known and welcomed. His care of the child, who, when he first
came round, was but a year old, won the heart of the women; and a
bowl of bread and milk for the little one, and a mug of beer and a
hunch of bread and bacon for himself, were always at his service,
before he opened his box and showed its wonders to the maids and
children of the house.

Sidmouth was one of his regular halting places, and, indeed, he
visited it more often than any other town on his beat. There was
always a room ready for him there, in the house of a fisherman's
widow, when he arrived on the Saturday, and he generally stopped
till the Monday. Thus he had come to know the names of most of the
boys of the place, as well as of many of the elders; for it was his
custom, of a Saturday evening, after the little one was in bed, to
go and smoke his pipe in the taproom of the "Anchor," where he
would sometimes relate tales of his adventures to the assembled
fishermen. But, although chatty and cheery with his patrons,
Sergeant Wilks was a reticent, rather than a talkative, man. At the
"Anchor" he was, except when called upon for a story, a listener
rather than a talker.

As to his history, or the county to which he belonged, he never
alluded to it, although communicative enough as to his military
adventures; and any questions which were asked him, he quietly put
on one side. He had intimated, indeed, that the father and mother
of his grandchild were both dead; but it was not known whether she
was the child of his son or daughter; for under his cheerful talk
there was something of military strictness and sternness, and he
was not a man of whom idle questions would be asked.

"Now, boys and girls," he said, "step up; the show is ready.
Those who have got a penny cannot spend it better. Those who
haven't must try and get their father or mother to give them one,
and see the show later on. Girls first. Boys should always give way
to their sisters. The bravest men are always the most courteous and
gentle with women."

Four girls, of various ages, paid their pennies and took their
places at the glasses, and the sergeant then began to describe the
pictures, his descriptions of the wonders within being so exciting,
that several boys and girls stole off from the little crowd, and
made their way to their homes to coax their parents out of the
necessary coin.

James Walsham listened a while, and then walked away to the sea,
for there would be several sets of girls before it came to the turn
of the boys. He strolled along, and as he came within sight of the
beach stopped for a moment suddenly, and then, with a shout, ran
forward at the top of his speed.

The little girl, after playing some time with the seaweed, had
climbed into a small boat which lay at the edge of the advancing
tide, and, leaning over the stern, watched the little waves as they
ran up one after another. A few minutes after she had got into it,
the rising tide floated the boat, and it drifted out a few yards,
as far as its headrope allowed it. Ignorant of what had happened,
the child was kneeling up at the stern, leaning over, and dabbling
her hands in the water.

No one had noticed her. The boys had all deserted the beach.
None of the fishermen were near the spot.

Just before James Walsham came within sight of the sea, the
child had overbalanced itself. His eye fell on the water just as
two arms and a frightened little face appeared above it. There was
a little splash, and a struggle, and the sea was bare again.

At the top of his speed James dashed across the road, sprang
down the beach, and, rushing a few yards into the water, dived
down. He knew which way the tide was making, and allowed for the
set. A few vigorous strokes, and he reached something white on the
surface. It was the sunbonnet which had, in the child's struggles,
become unfastened. He dived at once, and almost immediately saw a
confused mass before him. Another stroke, and he seized the child's
clothes, and, grasping her firmly, rose to the surface and swam
towards shore.

Although the accident had not been perceived, his shout and
sudden rush into the water had called the attention of some of the
men, and two or three of them ran into the water, waist deep, to
help him out with his little burden.

"Well done, Master Walsham! The child would have been drowned if
you had not seed it. None of us noticed her fall over. She was
playing on the beach last time I seed her."

"Is she dead?" James asked, breathless from his exertions.

"Not she," the fisherman said. "She could not have been under
water a minute. Take her into my cottage, it's one of the nighest.
My wife will put her between the blankets, and will soon bring her
round."

The fisherman's wife met them at the door, and, taking the child
from the lad, carried it in, and soon had her wrapped up in
blankets. But before this was done she had opened her eyes, for she
had scarcely lost consciousness when James had seized her.

The lad stood outside the door, waiting for the news, when the
sergeant hurried up, one of the fishermen having gone to tell him
what had happened, as soon as the child had been carried into the
cottage--assuring him, as he did so, that the little one would
speedily come round.

Just as he came up the door of the cottage opened, and one of
the women, who had run in to assist the fisherman's wife, put her
head out.

"She has opened her eyes," she said. "The little dear will soon
be all right."

"Thank God for His mercies!" the sergeant said, taking off his
hat. "What should I have done if I had lost her?

"And I have to thank you, next to God," he said, seizing the
boy's hand. "May God bless you, young gentleman! and reward you for
having saved my darling. They tell me she must have been drowned,
but for you, for no one knew she had fallen in. Had it not been for
you, I should come round to look for her, and she would have been
gone--gone forever!" and the showman dashed the tears from his eyes
with the back of his hand.

"I was only just in time," the lad said. "I did not see her fall
out of the boat. She was only a few yards away from it when she
came up--just as my eyes fell on the spot. I am very glad to have
saved her for you; but, of course, it was nothing of a swim. She
could not have been many yards out of my depth. Now I will run home
and change my things."

James Walsham was too much accustomed to be wet through, to care
anything about his dripping clothes, but they served him as an
excuse to get away, for he felt awkward and embarrassed at the
gratitude of the old soldier. He pushed his way through the little
crowd, which had now gathered round, and started at a run; for the
news had brought almost all those gathered round the peep show to
the shore, the excitement of somebody being drowned being superior
even to that of the peep show, to the great majority; though a few,
who had no hope of obtaining the necessary pennies, had lingered
behind, and seized the opportunity for a gratuitous look through
the glasses.

James ran upstairs and changed his clothes without seeing his
mother, and then, taking down one of his lesson books, set to work,
shrinking from the idea of going out again, and being made a hero
of.

Half an hour later there was a knock at the front door, and a
few minutes after his mother called him down. He ran down to the
parlour, and there found the showman.

"Oh, I say," the boy broke out, "don't say anything more about
it! I do hate being thanked, and there was nothing in swimming ten
yards in a calm sea. Please don't say anything more about it. I
would rather you hit me, ever so much."

The sergeant smiled gravely, and Mrs. Walsham exclaimed:

"Why didn't you come in and tell me about it, Jim? I could not
make out at first what Mr.--Mr.--"

"Sergeant Wilks, madam."

"What Sergeant Wilks meant, when he said that he had called to
tell me how grateful he felt to you for saving his little
grandchild's life. I am proud of you, Jim."

"Oh, mother, don't!" the boy exclaimed. "It is horrid going on
so. If I had swum out with a rope through the surf, there might be
something in it; but just to jump in at the edge of the water is
not worth making a fuss about, one way or the other."

"Not to you, perhaps, young gentleman, but it is to me," the
showman said. "The child is the light of my life, the only thing I
have to care for in the world, and you have saved her. If it had
only been by stretching out your hand, I should have been equally
grateful. However, I will say no more about it, but I shall not
think the less.

"But don't you believe, madam, that there was no credit in it.
It was just the quickness and the promptness which saved her life.
Had your son hesitated a moment it would have been too late, for he
would never have found her. It is not likely that your son will
ever have any occasion for help of mine, but should there be an
opportunity, he may rely upon it that any service I can render him
shall be his to the death; and, unlikely as it may seem, it may yet
turn out that this brave act of his, in saving the life of the
granddaughter of a travelling showman, will not be without its
reward."

"Is she all right now?" James asked abruptly, anxious to change
the conversation.

"Yes. She soon came to herself, and wanted to tell me all about
it; but I would not let her talk, and in a few minutes she dropped
off to sleep, and there I left her. The women tell me she will
probably sleep till morning, and will then be as well as ever. And
now I must go and look after my box, or the boys will be pulling it
to pieces."

It was, however, untouched, for in passing the sergeant had told
the little crowd that, if they left it alone, he would, on his
return, let all see without payment; and during the rest of the
afternoon he was fully occupied with successive audiences, being
obliged to make his lectures brief, in order that all might have
their turn.

After the sergeant had left, James took his hat and went for a
long walk in the country, in order to escape the congratulations of
the other boys. The next day little Agnes was perfectly well, and
appeared with her grandfather in the seat, far back in the church,
which he always occupied on the Sundays he spent at Sidmouth. On
these occasions she was always neatly and prettily dressed, and,
indeed, some of the good women of the place, comparing the graceful
little thing with their own children, had not been backward in
their criticisms on the folly of the old showman, in dressing his
child out in clothes fit for a lady.

Chapter 2: The Showman's Grandchild.

Three months later the showman again appeared at Sidmouth, but
did not set up his box as usual. Leaving it at his lodging, he went
at once with his grandchild to Mrs. Walsham's.

"I have come, madam," he said after the first inquiries about
the child had been answered, "on a particular business. It will
seem a strange thing to you for a man like me to ask, but things
are not quite as they seem, though I can't explain it now. But I am
beating about the bush, and not getting any nearer. I have come to
ask, madam, whether you would take charge of the child for two
years. Of course I am ready to pay anything that you may think
proper."

"But I don't take boarders," Mrs. Walsham said, much surprised
at the proposition. "I only take girls who come in the morning and
go away in the afternoon. Besides, they are all a good many years
older than your grandchild. None of the girls who come to me are
under twelve."

"I know, ma'm, I know; and I am sure you must think it a great
liberty on my part to ask such a thing," the sergeant said
apologetically. "It is not the teaching I want, but just a home for
her."

Mrs. Walsham felt puzzled. She did, in her heart, feel it to be
a liberty. Surely this wandering showman would find no difficulty
in getting his grandchild taken care of among people of his own
rank in life. It did seem most singular that he should seek to
place the child with her. Mrs. Walsham was not given to thinking
what her neighbours would say, but she thought of the buzz of
comment and astonishment which her taking the charge of this child
would excite. She had been particular in keeping her little school
to some extent select, and as it was now as large as she could
manage unaided, she was able to make it almost a favour to the
farmers' wives to take their girls.

But to do Mrs. Walsham justice, this thought had less influence
with her than that of the time and care which would be required by
a child of that age in the house. Certainly, she thought, as she
looked at her, sitting with her eyes wide open and an expression of
grave wonder in her face, "she is a little darling, and as Jim
saved her life I have a special interest in her; but this is out of
the question."

It was two or three minutes before she answered the showman's
last words.

"No, it cannot be done, Sergeant Wilks. No money that could be
paid me would make up to me for the charge of a child of her age. I
am all day in school, and what could a child, especially one
accustomed to be out all day, do with herself? The worry and
anxiety would be immense. Were it not for my school, it would be
different altogether. A child of that age, especially such a sweet
little thing as your granddaughter seems to be, would be a pet and
amusement; but as it is, I am sorry to say that it is out of the
question. But surely you will have no difficulty in finding plenty
of good women who would be glad to take her, and to whom, having
children of the same age, she would be no trouble whatever."

"Yes," the sergeant said slowly, "I was afraid you would say
that, ma'm. Besides, though you are good enough not to say it, I
know that there must be other objections. I know you must be
surprised at my wanting her to be with a lady like yourself. So far
as money goes, I could afford to pay fifty pounds a year, and
perhaps you might get a girl who could look after Aggie while you
are busy."

"Fifty pounds a year!" Mrs. Walsham said, greatly surprised.
"That is a large sum, a great deal too large a sum for you to pay
for the care of such a little child. For half that, there are
scores of farmers' wives who would be happy to take her, and where
she would be far more happy and comfortable than she would be with
me."

"I know I could get plenty to take her," the soldier said, "but
I have reasons, very particular reasons, why I wish to place her
with a lady for two years. I cannot explain those reasons to you,
but you may imagine they must be strong ones, for me to be willing
to pay fifty pounds a year for her. That money has been laid by
from the day she was born, for that purpose. I have other reasons,
of my own, for wishing that she should be at Sidmouth rather than
at any other place; and I have another reason," and a slight smile
stole across his face, "for preferring that she should be with you
rather than anyone else. All this must seem very strange to you,
madam; but at the end of the two years, when you know what my
reasons were, you will acknowledge that they were good ones.

"God knows," he went on, looking very grave, "what a wrench it
will be for me to part with her. How lonely I shall be, as I tramp
the country without her pretty prattle to listen to; but I have got
to do it sooner or later, and these two years, when I can see her
sometimes, will be a break, and accustom me to do without her sweet
face.

"Please, madam," he urged, "do not give me a final answer today.
I shall not go till Monday, and will call again, if you will let
me, that morning; and believe me, if I could tell you all, I could
give you reasons which would, I think, induce you to change your
mind."

So saying, he made a military salute, took the child's hand in
his, and was soon striding along towards the sea.

Mrs. Walsham was some time before she recovered from her
surprise. This was, indeed, a mysterious affair. The earnestness
with which the old soldier pleaded his cause had moved her
strongly, and had almost persuaded her to accept the proposal,
which had at first seemed preposterous. Fifty pounds a year, too,
was certainly a handsome sum. She could get a girl from the village
for two or three shillings a week to look after the child, and go
out with her during school hours, and a hundred pounds would be a
very handsome addition to the sum which she had begun, little by
little, to lay by for Jim's preparation for the medical
profession.

In the five years which would elapse, before it would be time
for him to enter upon his studies for it, she could hardly hope to
lay by more than that sum, and this would at a stroke double it.
Certainly it was a tempting offer. She could not do justice to the
child, could not give her the care and attention which she ought to
have, and which she could have for such a sum elsewhere; but the
sergeant knew exactly how she was placed, and if he was willing and
anxious for her to assume the charge of the child, why should she
refuse this good offer?

However, her pupils were waiting for her in the next room, and
with an effort Mrs. Walsham put the matter aside, and went in to
them.

When James returned home to dinner, his mother related to him
the whole conversation. James was more amused than puzzled.

"It seems a rum idea, mother; but I don't see why you shouldn't
take her. She is a sweet little thing, and will be a great
amusement. Fifty pounds a year seems a tremendous sum for a man
like that to pay; but I suppose he knows his own business, and it
will be a great pull for you. You will be able to have all sorts of
comforts. I should like it very much. I have often wished I had had
a little sister, and she can go out walks with me, you know. It
would be like having a big dog with one, only much jollier."

"Yes," his mother said smiling; "and I shouldn't be surprised if
you wanted to throw sticks into the water for her to fetch them
out, and to be taking her out for a night's fishing, and be
constantly bringing her home splashed with that nasty red mud from
head to foot. You would be a nice playmate for a little girl, Jim.
Perhaps it is that special advantage that the sergeant had in his
mind's eye, when he was so anxious to put her with me."

James laughed.

"I would see that she didn't come to any harm, anyhow, you know;
and, after all, I suppose it was my picking her out of the sea that
had something to do with his first thinking of putting her with
you."

"I suppose it had, Jim," she said more seriously. "But what do
you think, my boy? You know there are disadvantages in it. There
will be a good deal of talk about my taking this showman's
grandchild, and some of the farmers' wives won't like it."

"Then let them dislike it," James said indignantly. "The child
is as good as their daughters, any day. Why, I noticed her in
church looking like a little lady. There was not a child there to
compare to her."

"Yes, I have noticed her myself," Mrs. Walsham said. "She is a
singularly pretty and graceful child; but it will certainly cause
remark."

"Well, mother, you can easily say, what is really the fact, that
you naturally felt an interest in her because I picked her out of
the water. Besides, if people make remarks they will soon be tired
of that; and if not, I can get into some scrape or other and give
them something else to talk about."

Accordingly, when Sergeant Wilks called on Monday morning for
his answer, Mrs. Walsham told him that she had decided to accept
his offer.

"You are aware how I am placed," she said, "and that I cannot
give her the care and time which I could wish, and which she ought
to have for such a liberal payment as you propose; but you know
that beforehand, and you see that for two years' payments I could
not sacrifice my school connection, which I should have to do if I
gave her the time I should wish."

"I understand, madam," he said, "and I am grateful to you for
consenting to take her. She is getting too old now to wander about
with me, and since the narrow escape she had, last time I was here,
I have felt anxious whenever she was out of my sight. It would not
suit me to put her in a farm house. I want her to learn to speak
nicely, and I have done my best to teach her; but if she went to a
farm house she would be picking up all sorts of country words, and
I want her to talk like a little lady.

"So that is settled, ma'm. I am going on to Exeter from here,
and shall get her a stock of clothes there, and will bring her back
next Saturday. Will it suit you to take her then?"

Mrs. Walsham said that would suit very well; and an hour later
the sergeant set out from Sidmouth with his box, Aggie trotting
alongside, talking continuously.

"But why am I to stop with that lady, grampa, and not to go
about with you any more? I sha'n't like it. I like going about,
though I get so tired sometimes when you are showing the pictures;
and I like being with you. It isn't 'cause I have been naughty, is
it? 'Cause I fell out of the boat into the water? I won't never get
into a boat again, and I didn't mean to fall out, you know."

"No, Aggie, it's not that," the sergeant said. "You are always a
good girl--at least, not always, because sometimes you get into
passions, you know. Still, altogether you are a good little girl.
Still, you see, you can't always be going about the country with
me."

"But why not, grampa?"

"Well, my dear, because great girls can't go about the country
like men. It wouldn't be right and proper they should."

"Why shouldn't it be, grampa?" the child persisted.

"Well, Aggie, I can't exactly explain to you why, but so it is.
Men and boys have to work. They go about in ships, or as soldiers
to fight for their country, just as I did. Girls and women have to
stop at home, and keep house, and nurse babies, and that sort of
thing. God made man to be hard and rough, and to work and go about.
He made woman gentle and soft, to stop at home and make things
comfortable."

Aggie meditated for some distance, in silence, upon this view of
the case.

"But I have seen women working in the fields, grampa, and some
of them didn't seem very soft and gentle."

"No, Aggie, things don't always go just as they ought to do; and
you see, when people are poor, and men can't earn enough wages,
then their wives and daughters have to help; and then, you see,
they get rough, more like men, because they are not doing their
proper work. But I want you to grow up soft and gentle, and so, for
a time, I want you to live with that lady with the nice boy who
pulled you out of the water, and they will make you very happy, and
I shall come and see you sometime."

"I like him," the child said with a nod; "but I would rather be
with you, you know."

"And the lady will teach you to read, Aggie. You have learned
your letters, you know."

Aggie shook her head, to show that this part of the programme
was not particularly to her liking.

"Do you think the boy will play with me, grampa?"

"I daresay he will, Aggie, when you are very good; and you must
never forget, you know, that he saved your life. Just think how
unhappy I should be, if he had not got you out of the water."

"The water was cold and nasty," Aggie said, "and it seemed so
warm and nice to my hands. Aggie won't go near the water any more.
Of course, if the boy is with me I can go, because he won't let me
tumble in.

"Shall I get into the basket now, grampa? I is tired."

"Oh, nonsense, little woman! you have not walked half a mile
yet. Anyhow, you must trot along until you get to the top of this
hill, then you shall have a lift for a bit."

And so, with the child sometimes walking and sometimes riding,
sometimes asleep in her basket and sometimes chatting merrily to
her grandfather, the pair made their way across the country towards
Exeter.

There was no little talk in Sidmouth when, on the following
Sunday, the showman's grandchild appeared in Mrs. Walsham's pew in
church, and it became known that she had become an inmate of her
house. It was generally considered that Mrs. Walsham had let
herself down greatly by taking the showman's grandchild, and one or
two of the mothers of her pupils talked about taking them away. One
or two, indeed, called upon her to remonstrate personally, but they
gained nothing by the step.

"I do not understand what you mean," she said quietly, "by
saying that the child is not fit to associate with my other pupils.
She is singularly gentle and taking in her manner. She expresses
herself better than any child of her own age in Sidmouth, so far as
I know. There are few so neatly and prettily dressed. What is there
to object to? Her grandfather has been a sergeant in the army. He
bears a good character, and is liked wherever he goes. I do not
consider that James or myself are, in any way, demeaned by sitting
down to meals with the child, who, indeed, behaves as prettily and
nicely as one could wish; and I certainly do not see that any of my
pupils can be injuriously affected by the fact that, for an hour or
two in the day, she learns her lessons in the same room with them.
Had I thought that they would be, I should not have received her. I
shall, of course, be sorry if any of my pupils are taken away, but
as I have several girls only waiting for vacancies, it would make
no difference to me pecuniarily."

And so it happened that Mrs. Walsham lost none of her pupils,
and in a short time the wonder died out. Indeed, the child herself
was so pretty, and taking in her ways, that it was impossible to
make any objection to her personally.

Mrs. Walsham had been struck by the self command which she
showed at parting with her grandfather. Her eyes were full of
tears, her lip quivered, and she could scarcely speak; but there
was no loud wailing, no passionate outburst. Her grandfather had
impressed upon her that the parting was for her own good, and child
though she was, she felt how great a sacrifice he was making in
parting with her, and although she could not keep the tears from
streaming down her cheeks, or silence her sobs as she bade him
goodbye, she tried hard to suppress her grief.

The pain of parting was, indeed, fully as great to Sergeant
Wilks as to his granddaughter; and it was with a very husky voice
that he bade her goodbye, and then, putting her into Mrs. Walsham's
arms, walked hastily away.

Aggie was soon at home. She and James very quickly became
allies, and the boy was ever ready to amuse her, often giving up
his own plans to take her for a walk to pick flowers in the
hedgerow, or to sail a tiny boat for her in the pools left as the
sea retired. Mrs. Walsham found, to her surprise, that the child
gave little trouble. She was quiet and painstaking during the half
hours in the morning and afternoon when she was in the school room,
while at mealtimes her prattle and talk amused both mother and son,
and altogether she made the house brighter and happier than it was
before.

In two months the sergeant came round again. He did not bring
his box with him, having left it at his last halting place; telling
James, who happened to meet him as he came into Sidmouth, that he
did not mean to bring his show there again.

"It will be better for the child," he explained. "She has done
with the peep show now, and I do not want her to be any longer
associated with it."

Aggie was delighted to see him, and sprang into his arms, with a
scream of joy, as he entered. After a few minutes' talk, Mrs.
Walsham suggested that she should put on her hat and go for a walk
with him, and, in high contentment, the child trotted off, holding
her grandfather's hand. Turning to the left, the sergeant took the
path up the hill, and when he reached the top, sat down on the
short turf, with Aggie nestling up against him.

"So you are quite well and happy, Aggie?" he asked.

"Quite well, grampa, and very happy; but I do wish so much that
you were here. Oh. it would be so nice to have you to go out with
every day!"

"I am afraid that cannot be managed, Aggie. I have been busy so
long that I could not settle down quietly here. Besides, I must
live, you know."

"But wouldn't people give you money for the show if you lived
here, grampa? You always got money here the same as other
places."

"Yes, my dear, but I could not get fresh pictures every day, and
should soon tire them by showing the old house."

"But you are sorry sometimes, grampa, not to have me with
you?"

"Yes, Aggie, very sorry. I miss you terribly sometimes, and I am
always thinking about you."

"Then why don't you take me away again, grampa?"

"Because, as I told you, Aggie, I want you to learn to read, and
to grow up quite a little lady."

"Does reading make one a lady, grampa?"

"No, Aggie, not by itself, but with other things."

"And when I am quite grown up and big, and know how to read
nicely, shall I be able to go with you again?"

"We will see about that, Aggie, when the time comes. There is
plenty of time yet to think about that."

"But I am getting on very fast, grampa, and the lady says I am a
good girl. So it won't be such a very long time before I can
leave."

"It will be some time, yet. You have only got to read little
words yet, but there are lots of long words which you will come to
presently. But Mrs. Walsham tells me that you are getting on
nicely, and that you are a very good girl, which pleases me very
much; and when I am walking along with my box, I shall like to be
able to think of you as being quite comfortable and happy."

"And I go walks with Jim, grampa, and Jim has made me a boat,
and he says someday, when it is very fine and quiet, he will take
me out in a big boat, like that boat, you know; and he is going to
ask you if he may, for the lady said I must not go out with him
till he has asked you. And he said he won't let me tumble over, and
I am going to sit quite, quite still."

"Yes, Aggie, I don't see any harm in your going out with him. I
am sure he will only take you when it is fine, and he will look
after you well. You like him, don't you?"

"Oh! I do, grampa; and you know, it was him who got me out of
the water, else I should never have come out, and never have seen
grampa again; and he has made me a boat. Oh! yes, I do like
him!"

"That's right, my dear; always stick to those who are good to
you."

A few days after this, as James was sailing the toy boat, for
Aggie's amusement, in a pool, a boy sauntered up. He was somewhat
taller than James Walsham, and at least two years older. He was
well dressed, and James knew him as the nephew and heir of the
squire.

It was not often that Richard Horton came down into the village.
He was accustomed to be treated with a good deal of deference at
the Hall, and to order servants and grooms about pretty much as he
chose, and the indifference with which the fisher boys regarded him
offended him greatly. He was a spoilt boy. His uncle had a resident
tutor for him, but the selection had been a bad one. The library
was large and good, the tutor fond of reading, and he was content
to let the boy learn as little as he chose, providing that he did
not trouble him. As to any instruction beyond books, he never
thought of giving it.

The squire never interfered. He was a silent and disappointed
man. He attended to his duties as a magistrate, and to the
management of his estate, but seldom went beyond the lodge gates.
He took his meals by himself, and often did not see his nephew for
a week together, and had no idea but that he was pursuing his
studies regularly with his tutor. Thus, the character of Richard
Horton formed itself unchecked. At the best it was a bad one, but
under other circumstances it might have been improved.

Up to the age of ten, he had lived in London with his father and
mother, the latter a sister of the squire, who, having married
beneath her, to the indignation of Mr. Linthorne, he had never seen
her afterwards.

Four years before the story begins, she had received a letter
from him, saying that, as her eldest son was now his heir, he
wished him to come and live with him, and be prepared to take his
place. The Hortons, who had a numerous family, at once accepted the
offer, and Richard, hearing that he was going to a grand house, and
would no doubt have a pony and all sorts of nice things, left his
father and mother without a tear.

He was essentially selfish. He was vain of his good looks, which
were certainly striking; and with his changed fortunes he became
arrogant, and, as the squire's servants said, hateful; and yet the
change had brought him less pleasure than he expected. It was true
that he had the pony, that he was not obliged to trouble himself
with lessons, that he was an important person at the "Hall;" but he
had no playfellows, no one to admire his grandeur, and the days
often passed heavily, and there was a look of discontent and
peevishness upon his handsome face.

Perhaps the reason why he so seldom came down into Sidmouth, was
not only because the fisher boys were not sufficiently impressed
with his importance, but because they looked so much happier and
more contented than he felt, in spite of his numerous advantages.
On this day he was in a particularly bad temper. He had lamed his
pony the day before, by riding it furiously over a bad road after
it had cast a shoe. The gardener had objected to his picking more
than half a dozen peaches which had just come into perfection, and
had threatened to appeal to the squire.

Altogether, he was out of sorts, and had walked down to the sea
with a vague hope that something might turn up to amuse him. He
stood for some little time watching James sail the boat, and then
strode down to the edge of the pool. The boat was a model of a
smack, with brown sails. James had taken a good deal of pains with
it, and it was an excellent model.

Presently, in crossing, she stuck in a shallow some twelve feet
from the edge. The intervening stretch of water was a foot
deep.

James picked up some small stones and threw them close to her,
that the tiny wave they made might float her off. He tried several
times without success.

"What's the use of such little stones as that?" Richard said
roughly. "You will never get her off like that;" and picking up one
as large as his fist, he threw it with some force.

It struck the mast, and broke it asunder, and knocked the boat
on to her side. James Walsham uttered an angry exclamation.

"You are a bad boy," Aggie said passionately. "You are a bad boy
to break my boat;" and she burst into tears.

"I didn't mean to do it, you little fool!" Richard said angrily,
vexed more at his own clumsiness than at the damage it had caused.
"What are you making such a beastly noise about?" and he gave her a
push.

It was not a hard one, but the ground was slippery, and the
child's foot slipped, and she fell at the edge of the pool, her
dress going partly into the water. At the same instant, Richard
reeled, and almost fell beside her, from a heavy blow between the
eyes from James's fist.

"You insolent blackguard!" he exclaimed furiously, "I will pay
you for this;" and he rushed at James.

The combat was not a long one. Hard work at rowing and sailing
had strengthened Jim Walsham's muscles, and more than balanced the
advantage in height and age of his adversary. He had had, too, more
than one fight in his time, and after the first sudden burst of
passion, caused by the overthrow of Aggie, he fought coolly and
steadily, while Richard rained his blows wildly, without attempting
to guard his face.

The child, on regaining her feet, ran crying loudly towards the
beach, making for two fishermen who were engaged in mending a net
some distance away; but before she could reach them to beg for aid
for her champion, the fight was over, terminating by a heavy
right-handed hit from James, which landed Richard Horton on his
back in the pool.

James stood quietly awaiting a renewal of the conflict when he
arose, but Richard had had enough of it. One of his eyes was
already puffed and red, his nose bleeding, and his lip cut. His
clothes were soaked from head to foot, and smeared with the red
mud.

"I will pay you out for this, you see if I don't," Richard
gasped hoarsely.

"What! have you had enough of it?" James said scornfully. "I
thought you weren't any good. A fellow who would bully a little
girl is sure to be a coward."

Richard moved as if he would renew the fight, but he thought
better of it, and with a furious exclamation hurried away towards
the Hall.

James, without paying any further heed to him, waded after the
boat, and having recovered it, walked off towards the child, who,
on seeing his opponent had moved off, was running down to meet
him.

"Here is the boat, Aggie," he said. "There is no great harm
done, only the mast and yard broken. I can easily put you in fresh
ones;" but the child paid no attention to the boat.

"He is a wicked bad boy, Jim; and did he hurt you?"

"Oh, no, he didn't hurt me, Aggie, at least nothing to speak of.
I hurt him a good deal more. I paid him out well for breaking your
boat, and pushing you down, the cowardly brute!"

"Only look, Jim," she said, holding out her frock. "What will
she say?"

James laughed.

"Mother won't say anything," he said. "She is accustomed to my
coming in all muddy."

"But she said 'Keep your frock clean,' and it's not clean,"
Aggie said in dismay.

"Yes, but that is not your fault, little one. I will make it all
right with her, don't you fret. Come on, we had better go home and
change it as soon as possible."

They passed close by the two fishermen on their way.

"You gave it to the young squire finely, Master Walsham," one of
them said, "and served him right, too. We chanced to be looking at
the moment, and saw it all. He is a bad un, he is, by what they say
up at the Hall. I heard one of the grooms talking last night down
at the 'Ship,' and a nice character he gave him. This thrashing may
do him some good; and look you, Master Walsham, if he makes a
complaint to the squire, and it's likely enough he will get up a
fine story of how it came about--the groom said he could lie like
King Pharaoh--you just send word to me, and me and Bill will go up
to the squire, and tell him the truth of the matter."

Mrs. Walsham felt somewhat alarmed when her son told her what
had happened, for the squire was a great man at Sidmouth, a
magistrate, and the owner of the greater part of the place as well
as of the land around it; and although Mrs. Walsham did not hold
the same exaggerated opinion of his powers as did the majority of
his neighbours, who would scarcely have dreamt of opposing it, had
the squire ordered anyone to be hung and quartered, still she felt
that it was a somewhat terrible thing that her son should have
thrashed the nephew and heir of the great man.

In the evening there was a knock at the door, and the little
maid came in with eyes wide open with alarm, for she had heard of
the afternoon's battle, to say that the constable wished to speak
to Mrs. Walsham.

"Servant, ma'am," he said as he entered. "I am sorry to be here
on an unpleasant business; but I have got to say as the squire
wishes to see Master Walsham in the justice room at ten o'clock, on
a charge of 'salt and battery.

"Don't you be afeard ma'am," he went on confidentially. "I don't
think as anything is going to be done to him. I ain't got no
warrant, and so I don't look upon it as regular business. I expects
it will be just a blowing up. It will be just the squire, and not
the magistrate, I takes it. He told me to have him up there at ten,
but as he said nothing about custody, I thought I would do it my
own way and come to you quiet like; so if you say as Master Walsham
shall be up there at ten o'clock, I'll just take your word for it
and won't come to fetch him. The doctor was allus very good to me
and my missus, and I shouldn't like to be walking through Sidmouth
with my hand on his son's collar."

"Thank you, Hobson," Mrs. Walsham said quietly. "You can rely
upon it my son shall be there punctually. He has nothing to be
afraid or ashamed of."

Full of rage as Richard Horton had been, as he started for home,
he would never have brought the matter before the squire on his own
account. His case was too weak, and he had been thrashed by a boy
younger than himself. Thus, he would have probably chosen some
other way of taking his vengeance; but it happened that, just as he
arrived home, he met his tutor coming out. The latter was astounded
at Richard's appearance. His eyes were already puffed so much that
he could scarcely see out of them, his lips were cut and swollen,
his shirt stained with blood, his clothes drenched and plastered
with red mud.

"Why, what on earth has happened, Richard?"

Richard had already determined upon his version of the
story.

"A brute of a boy knocked me down into the water," he said, "and
then knocked me about till he almost killed me."

"But what made him assault you in this outrageous manner?" his
tutor asked. "Surely all the boys about here must know you by
sight; and how one of them would dare to strike you I cannot
conceive."

"I know the fellow," Richard said angrily. "He is the son of
that doctor fellow who died two years ago."

"But what made him do it?" the tutor repeated.

"He was sailing his boat, and it got stuck, and he threw in some
stones to get it off; and I helped him, and I happened to hit the
mast of his beastly boat, and then he flew at me like a tiger, and
that's all."

"Well, it seems to be a monstrous assault, Richard, and you must
speak to the squire about it."

"Oh, no, I sha'n't," Richard said hastily. "I don't want any row
about it, and I will pay him off some other way. I could lick him
easy enough if it had been a fair fight, only he knocked me down
before I was on my guard. No, I sha'n't say anything about it."

But Richard's tutor, on thinking the matter over, determined to
speak to the squire. Only the evening before, Mr. Linthorne had
surprised him by asking him several questions as to Richard's
progress and conduct, and had said something about examining him
himself, to see how he was getting on. This had caused Mr.
Robertson no little alarm, for he knew that even the most
superficial questioning would betray the extent of Richard's
ignorance, and he had resolved that, henceforth, he would endeavour
to assert his authority, and to insist upon Richard's devoting a
certain portion of each day, regularly, to study. Should the squire
meet the boy anywhere about the house, he must at once notice the
condition of his face; and even if he did not meet him, he could
not fail to notice it on Sunday, when he sat beside him in the pew.
It would be better, therefore, that he should at once report the
matter to him.

Without saying a word to Richard of his intentions, he therefore
went to the squire's study, and told him what had taken place, as
he had learned it from Richard. The squire listened silently.

"Very well, Mr. Robertson. You were quite right to tell me about
it. Of course, I cannot suffer my nephew to be treated in this
manner. At the same time, I am sorry that it was Walsham's son. I
don't know anything about the boy, and should not know him even by
sight, but I had an esteem for his father, who was a hard-working
man, and, I believe, clever. He used to attend here whenever any of
the servants were ill, and I had intended to do something for the
boy. I am sorry he has turned out so badly. However, I will have
him up here and speak to him. This sort of thing cannot be
permitted."

And accordingly, orders were given to the constable. When, in
the evening, Mr. Robertson informed Richard what he had done, the
boy flew into a terrible passion, and abused his tutor with a
violence of language which shocked and astonished him, and opened
his eyes to his own culpability, in allowing him to go on his way
unchecked. He in vain endeavoured to silence the furious lad. He
had been so long without exercising any authority, that he had now
no authority to exercise, and, after an angry scene, Richard flung
himself out of the room, and left his tutor in a state bordering on
consternation.

Chapter 3: The Justice Room.

Richard's feelings were not to be envied, as he lay awake that
night, thinking over what had taken place in the morning. It had
never, for a moment, entered his mind that his tutor would repeat
his statement to the squire, and he would have given a good deal if
he had not made it. However, there was nothing for him now but to
stick to the story, and he felt but little doubt of the result. He
had no idea that any, but the actors in it, had witnessed the scene
by the pool, and he felt confident that his uncle would, as a
matter of course, take his word in preference to that of this boy,
who would naturally tell lies to screen himself. Of course, the
child was there, but no one would mind what a baby like that said.
Still, it was a nuisance, and he gnashed his teeth with rage at the
interference of his tutor in the matter.

"I will get rid of him, somehow, before long," he said. "I will
pay him out for his meddling, as sure as my name's Richard Horton.
I will get him out of this before three months are gone."

The next morning at breakfast, Richard received a message from
the squire that he was to be present at ten o'clock in the justice
room, and accordingly, at that hour he presented himself there with
a confident air, but with an inward feeling of misgiving.

The squire was sitting at his table, with his clerk beside him.
Mr. Robertson was in a chair a short distance off. The constable
was standing by the side of James Walsham, at the other end of the
room. Mr. Linthorne nodded to his nephew.

"I wish you to repeat the story which you told Mr. Robertson
yesterday."

Richard had thought over whether it would be better to soften
his story, but as it had already been told to the squire, he had
concluded that there would be more danger in contradicting his
first version than in sticking to it. Accordingly, he repeated his
story almost word for word as he had told it to Mr. Robertson.

"What have you to say to this, James Walsham?" the squire asked.
"This is a serious charge, that you without any provocation
assaulted and maltreated my nephew."

"I say it is all a lie, sir," James said fearlessly.

The squire uttered a short exclamation of surprise and anger. He
had been, at first, favourably impressed with the appearance of the
young prisoner, though he had been surprised at seeing that he was
younger than his nephew, for he had expected to see a much older
boy.

"That is not the way to speak, sir," he said sternly, while the
constable pressed a warning hand on James's shoulder.

"Well, sir, it's not true then," the boy said. "It's all false
from beginning to end, except that I did strike him first; but I
struck him, not because he had thrown a great stone and broken my
boat, but because he pushed a little girl who was with me down into
the water."

"She slipped down. I never pushed her," Richard broke in.

"Hold your tongue, sir," the squire said sternly. "You have
given your evidence. I have now to hear what the accused has to
say.

"Now, tell your story."

James now gave his version of the affair.

When he had ended, Mr. Linthorne said gravely, "Have you any
witnesses to call?"

"Yes, sir, there are two fishermen outside who saw it."

"Bring them in," the magistrate said to the constable.

Not a word was spoken in the justice room until the constable
returned. As James had told his story, the magistrate had listened
with disbelief. It had not occurred to him that his nephew could
have told a lie, and he wondered at the calmness with which this
boy told his story. Why, were it true, Richard was a coward as well
as a liar, for with his superior age and height, he should have
been able to thrash this boy in a fair fight; yet James's face had
not a mark, while his nephew's showed how severely he had been
punished.

But his eye fell upon Richard when James said that he had
witnesses. He saw an unmistakable look of terror come over his
face, and the bitter conviction flashed across him that James's
story was the true one.

"There is no occasion to give him the book, Hobson," he said, as
the constable was about to hand the Testament to one of the
fishermen. "This is a private investigation, not a formal
magisterial sitting, and there is no occasion, at this stage, to
take any evidence on oath."

"What is your name, my man?"

"John Mullens, your honour."

"Well, just tell me, Mullens, what you know about this
business."

"I was a-mending my nets, yer honour, along with Simon Harte,
and young Master Walsham was a-sailing his boat in a pool, along
with the little gal as lives at his mother's."

"How far were you from the spot where he was?" the squire
asked.

"Two hundred yards or so, I should say," the fisherman replied.
"We was working behind a boat, but we could see over it well
enough. Presently we saw Master Horton come down, and stand
alongside the others.

"I said to Simon, 'He is a good-looking young fellow, is the
squire's nephew,'" and the fisherman's eye twinkled with a grim
humour, as he glanced at Richard's swollen face.

"The boat got stuck, and Master Walsham threw something in close
to it to get it off. Then I see Master Horton stoop, and pick up a
chunk of stone, and chuck it hard; and it hit the boat and knocked
it over. I see the little girl turn round and say something to
Master Horton, and then she put her apron up to her face and began
to cry. He gave her a sort of shove, and she tumbled down into the
edge of the pool.

"I says to Simon, 'What a shame!' but afore the words was out of
my mouth, Master Walsham he hits him, and hits him hard, too. Then
there was a fight, but Master Horton, he hadn't a chance with
James, who gave him as sound a licking as ever you see'd, and
ending with knocking him backwards into the pool. Then he gets up
and shakes his fist at James, and then goes off as hard as he
could. That's all I know about it."

"It's a wicked lie," Richard burst out. "They have made it up
between them. There was nobody there."

"Hold your tongue, sir, I tell you," the squire said, so sternly
that Richard, who had risen from his seat, shrank back again and
remained silent; while Simon Harte gave his evidence, which was
almost identical with that of the other fisherman.

"Have you any other witnesses?" the magistrate asked James.

"Only the little girl, sir, but I did not bring her up. She is
so little, I thought it was better she should not come, but I can
send for her if you wish it."

"It is not necessary," Mr. Linthorne said. "I have heard quite
sufficient. The manner in which you and these fishermen have given
your evidence convinces me that you are speaking the truth, and I
am sorry that you should have been placed in this position. You
will understand that this is not a formal court, and therefore that
there is no question of discharging you. I can only say that,
having heard the story of what took place at this fight between you
and my nephew, I am convinced that you did what any other boy of
spirit would have done, under the same circumstances, and that the
punishment which you administered to him was thoroughly
deserved.

"Good morning!"

James Walsham and his witnesses left the room. Mr. Linthorne
rose, and saying to his nephew, "Follow me, sir," went to his
study.

Without saying a word as to what had passed, he took down some
books from the shelves, and proceeded to examine Richard in them. A
few minutes sufficed to show that the boy was almost absolutely
ignorant of Latin, while a few questions in geography and history
showed that he was equally deficient in these also.

"That will do," the squire said. "Go up to your room, and remain
there until I send for you."

An hour after this a dog cart came round to the door. Mr.
Robertson took his place in it with his trunk, and was driven away
to Exeter, never to return.

For two days Richard remained a prisoner in his room. His meals
were brought up to him, but the servant who came with them answered
no questions, telling him that the squire's orders were that he was
not to hold any conversation with him. There was, indeed, a deep
pleasure among the servants at the Hall, at the knowledge that
Richard Horton was in disgrace. The exact circumstances of the
affair were unknown, for the fishermen had not been present when
Richard had told his story, and Mrs. Walsham, who was much shocked
when James told her the circumstances, had impressed upon him that
it was better to say nothing more about it.

"You are clear in the matter, Jim, and that is enough for you.
The squire will, no doubt, punish his nephew for the wicked lies he
has told. Some day, you know, the boy will be master here. Don't
let us set everyone against him by telling this disgraceful
story."

So, beyond the fact that there had been a fight between James
Walsham and the squire's nephew, and that Richard Horton had been
thrashed, and that the squire himself had said that it served him
right, Sidmouth knew nothing of what had taken place in the justice
room.

Mr. Linthorne's first impulse had been to send his nephew at
once back to his parents, with the message that he would have
nothing more to do with him; but, though he had the reputation of
being a stern man, the squire was a very kind-hearted one. He was
shocked to find that the boy was a liar, and that, to shield
himself, he had invented this falsehood against his opponent; but
upon reflection, he acknowledged that he himself had been to blame
in the matter. He had taken the boy into his house, had assigned to
him the position of his heir, and had paid no further attention to
him.

Unfortunately, the man he had selected as his tutor had proved
false to the trust. The boy had been permitted to run wild, his
head was turned with the change in his prospects, his faults had
grown unchecked. It was to be said for him that he had not
intended, in the first place, to bring his opponent into disgrace
by making this false accusation against him, for his tutor had
acknowledged that he had said he did not intend to tell him, or to
take any step in the matter, and his position of accuser had been,
to some extent, forced upon him by the necessity of his confirming
the tale, which he had told to account for his being thrashed by a
boy smaller than himself.

Yes, it would be unfair upon the boy utterly to cast him off for
this first offence. He would give him one more trial.

The result of the squire's reflection was that, on the third day
of his imprisonment, Richard was sent for to the study. The squire
did not motion to him to sit down, and he remained standing with,
as the squire said to himself, a hang-dog look upon his face.

"I have been thinking over this matter quietly, Richard, for I
did not wish to come to any hasty conclusion. My first impulse was
to pack you off home, and have no more to do with you, but I have
thought better of it. Mean and despicable as your conduct has been,
I take some blame to myself, for not having seen that your tutor
did his duty by you. Therefore, I have resolved to give you another
chance, but not here. I could not bear to have a boy, who has
proved himself a despicable liar, about me; but I will try and
think that this was a first offence, and that the lesson which it
has taught you may influence all your future life, and that you may
yet grow up an honourable man.

"But you will remember that, henceforth, you are on trial, and
that the position in which you will stand by my will, will depend
solely and entirely on your own conduct. If you prove, by that,
that this lesson has had its effect, that you deeply repent of your
conduct, and are resolved to do your best to be henceforth
straight, honourable, and true, you will, at my death, occupy the
position I have intended for you. If not, not one single penny of
my money will you get. I am going to put you in a school where you
will be looked strictly after, and where you will have every chance
of retrieving yourself. I have just written to a friend of mine, a
post captain in his majesty's service, asking him to receive you as
a midshipman. I have told him frankly that you have been somewhat
over indulged, and that the discipline of the sea life will be of
great benefit to you, and have requested him to keep a tight hand
over you, and let me know occasionally how you are going on. I have
told him that your position as my heir will, to a very large
extent, depend upon his reports, and have asked him, in the name of
our old friendship, to be perfectly frank and open in them with me.
I have said 'he is my eldest nephew, but I have others who will
take his place, if he is unworthy of the position, and although I
should be sorry if he should be found wanting, I will commit the
interests of all the tenants and people on my estate to no one who
is not, in every respect, an honourable gentleman.'

"That will do, sir. You need not remain longer in your room, but
you will not leave the grounds. My friend's ship is at Portsmouth
at present, and doubtless I shall receive an answer in the course
of a few days. Until then, the less we see each other, the more
pleasant for us both."

There were few more miserable boys in England than Richard
Horton, during the week which elapsed before the answer to the
squire's letter was received. It cannot be said that, in the true
sense of the word, he was sorry for his fault. He was furious with
himself, not because he had lied, but because of the consequences
of the lie. A thousand times he called himself a fool for having
imperilled his position, and risked being sent back again to the
dingy house in London, merely to excuse himself for being thrashed
by a boy smaller than himself. Mad with his folly, not in having
invented the story, but in having neglected to look round, to
assure himself that there were no witnesses who would contradict
it, he wandered disconsolate about the gardens and park, cursing
what he called his fortune.

It was an additional sting to his humiliation, that he knew
every servant in and about the house rejoiced at his discomfiture,
and he imagined that there was a veiled smile of satisfaction, at
his bruised visage and his notorious disgrace with the squire, on
the face of every man he met outside, and of every woman who passed
him in the house.

During the whole week he did not venture near the stables, for
there he knew that he had rendered himself specially obnoxious, and
there was nothing for him to do but to saunter listlessly about the
garden, until the day arrived that the letter came granting the
squire's request, and begging that he might be sent off at once, as
the vessel would probably put to sea in a few days.

"Now, Richard," the squire said that evening to him, in a kinder
voice than he had used on the last occasion, "you understand
exactly how we stand towards each other. That being so, I do not
wish to maintain our present uncomfortable relations. You have had
your punishment, and, unless I hear to the contrary, I shall assume
that the punishment has had its effect. When you return from sea,
after your first voyage, you will come home here as if nothing had
happened, and this business need never be alluded to between us. If
you turn out as I have hitherto believed you to be, I shall receive
you as warmly as if my opinion of you had never been shaken.

"I have requested Captain Sinclair to let me know what is the
average allowance that the midshipmen receive from their parents,
and shall see that you have as much as your messmates. I have also
asked him to kindly allow one of his officers to order you a proper
outfit in all respects, and to have the bill sent in to me. So now,
my boy, you will have a fresh and a fair start, and I trust that
you will turn out everything that I can wish."

"I will try, sir. I will indeed," Richard said earnestly; and he
spoke from his heart, for the inheritance was very dear to him, and
it would be a terrible thing indeed to forfeit it.

For two years after Richard Horton's departure, things went on
quietly at Sidmouth. James Walsham continued to make a pet and a
playmate of little Aggie. Her out-of-door life had made her strong
and sturdy, and she was able to accompany him in all his rambles,
while, when he was at work at home preparing fishing lines, making
boats, or otherwise amusing himself, she was content to sit hours
quietly beside him, chattering incessantly, and quite content with
an occasional brief answer to the questions. When he was studying,
she too would work at her lessons; and however much she might be
puzzled over these, she would never disturb him by asking him
questions when so engaged.

She was an intelligent child, and the hour's lesson, morning and
afternoon, soon grew into two. She was eager to learn, and rapidly
gained ground on Mrs. Walsham's older pupils. During the two years,
that lady never had cause to regret that she had yielded to the
sergeant's entreaties. Aggie was no trouble in the house, which she
brightened with her childish laughter and merry talk; and her
companionship, James's mother could not but think, did the boy much
good. It softened his manner, and, although he still often went out
with the fishermen, he was no longer thrown entirely for
companionship upon the boys on the beach.

The sergeant came and went, seldom being more than two months
without paying a visit to Sidmouth. The child was always delighted
to see her grandfather, and James took to him greatly, and liked
nothing better than to stroll up with him to a sheltered spot on
the hillside, where he would throw himself down on the grass, while
the sergeant smoked his pipe and told him stories of his travels
and adventures, and Aggie ran about looking for wildflowers, or
occasionally sat down, for a while, to listen also.

The squire lived his usual lonely life up at the Hall. The
absence of his nephew, whose ship had sailed for a foreign station,
was a relief rather than otherwise to him. It had, from the first,
been a painful effort to him to regard this boy as his heir, and he
had only done it when heartsick from a long and fruitless search
for one who would have been nearer and dearer to him. Nor had he
ever taken to the lad personally. The squire felt that there was
not the ring of true metal in him. The careless way in which he
spoke of his parents showed a want of heart; and although his uncle
was ignorant how much the boy made himself disliked in the
household, he was conscious, himself, of a certain antipathy for
him, which led him to see as little of him as possible.

The two years, for which the sergeant had placed his grandchild
with Mrs. Walsham, came to an end. That he did not intend to
continue the arrangement, she judged from something he said on the
occasion of his last visit, two months before the time was up, but
he gave no hint as to what he intended to do with her.

In those weeks Mrs. Walsham frequently thought the matter over.
That the sergeant had plans for the child she could hardly doubt.
The child herself had told her that she knew of no other relations
than her grandfather, and yet he could hardly intend to take her
about with him, after placing her for two years in a comfortable
home. She was but seven years old now--far too young to go out into
a place as servant girl in a farm house. She doubted not that the
sergeant had expended the whole of his savings, and she thought him
foolish in not having kept her with him for some little time
longer, or, if he could not do that, he might have placed her with
some honest people, who would have kept her for the sum he had paid
until she was old enough to take a place as a nurse girl.

And yet, while she argued thus, Mrs. Walsham felt that the old
showman had not acted without weighing the whole matter. There must
be something in it which she did not understand. In fact, he had
said so when he placed the child with her.

As the time approached, she became more worried at the thought
of Aggie leaving her. The little one had wound herself very closely
round her heart. The expense of keeping her was small indeed, the
cost of her food next to nothing; while the extra girl, whom Mrs.
Walsham had taken on when she first came, had been retained but a
very short time, James's constant companionship with her rendering
the keeping of a nurse altogether unnecessary.

At last she made up her mind that she would offer to keep her on
without pay. She and James would miss her companionship sorely, and
it could not be considered an extravagance, since the money she had
received for her would pay for the cost of her keep for years to
come. When Mrs. Walsham's mind was once made up, her only fear was
that these mysterious plans of the sergeant would not allow him to
leave Aggie with her.

Punctual to the day, Sergeant Wilks arrived, and after a little
talk in the parlour, as usual, with James and Aggie present, he
formally requested the favour of a conversation with Mrs. Walsham
alone.

"Take Aggie for a walk, James. Do not stay out above three
quarters of an hour, as your tea will be ready for you then."

"You must have wondered, ma'am, a good deal," the sergeant began
when they were alone, "why I, who get my living by travelling the
country with a peep show, wished to place my grandchild in a
position above her, and to have her taught to be a little lady. It
is time now that I should tell you. Aggie is my granddaughter, but
she is the granddaughter, too, of Squire Linthorne up at the
Hall."

"Bless me!" Mrs. Walsham ejaculated, too astonished for any
further expression of her feelings.

"Yes, ma'am, she is the daughter of the squire's son Herbert,
who married my daughter Cissie."

"Dear me, dear me," Mrs. Walsham said, "what an extraordinary
thing! Of course I remember Herbert Linthorne, a handsome, pleasant
young fellow. He was on bad terms, as everyone heard, eight years
ago, with his father, because he married somebody beneath--I mean
somebody of whom the squire did not approve. A year afterwards, we
heard that he was dead, and there was a report that his wife was
dead, too, but that was only a rumour. The squire went away just at
the time, and did not come back for months afterwards, and after
that he was altogether changed. Before, he had been one of the most
popular men in this part of the country, but now he shut himself
up, gave up all his acquaintances, and never went outside the park
gates except to come down to church. I remember it gave us quite a
shock when we saw him for the first time--he seemed to have grown
an old man all at once. Everyone said that the death of his son had
broken his heart.

"And Aggie is his granddaughter! Well, well, you have astonished
me. But why did you not tell me before?"

"There were a good many reasons, ma'am. I thought, in the first
place, you might refuse me, if you knew, for it might do you harm.
The squire is a vindictive man, and he is landlord of your house;
and if he came to know that you had knowingly taken in his
granddaughter, there was no saying how he might have viewed it.
Then, if you had known it, you might have thought you ought to keep
her in, and not let her run about the country with your son; and
altogether, it would not have been so comfortable for you or her. I
chose to put her at Sidmouth because I wanted to come here often,
to hear how the squire was going on; for if he had been taken ill I
should have told him sooner than I intended."

"But why did you not tell him before?" Mrs. Walsham asked.

"Just selfishness, ma'am. I could not bring myself to run the
risk of having to give her up. She was mine as much as his, and was
a hundred times more to me than she could be to him. I took her a
baby from her dead mother's arms. I fed her and nursed her, taught
her her first words and her first prayer. Why should I offer to
give her up to him who, likely enough, would not accept the offer
when it was made to him? But I always intended to make it some day.
It was my duty to give her the chance at least; but I kept on
putting off the day, till that Saturday when she was so nearly
drowned; then I saw my duty before me."

"I had, from the first, put aside a hundred pounds, to give her
more of an education than I could do; but if it hadn't been for
that fall into the sea, it might have been years before I carried
out my plan. Then I saw it could not go on any longer. She was
getting too old and too bold to sit quiet while I was showing my
box. She had had a narrow escape, and who could say what might
happen the next time she got into mischief? Then I bethought me
that the squire was growing old, and that it was better not to put
it off too long. So, ma'am, I came to you and made up my mind to
put her with you."

"And you had your way," Mrs. Walsham said, smiling, "though it
was with some difficulty."

"I expected it would be difficult, ma'am; but I made up my mind
to that, and had you kept on refusing I should, as a last chance,
have told you whose child she was."

"But why me?" Mrs. Walsham asked. "Why were you so particularly
anxious that she should come to me, of all people?"

The sergeant smiled.

"It's difficult to tell you, ma'am, but I had a reason."

"But what was it?" Mrs. Walsham persisted.

The sergeant hesitated.

"You may think me an old fool, ma'am, but I will tell you what
fancy came into my mind. Your son saved Aggie's life. He was twelve
years old, she was five, seven years' difference."

"Why, what nonsense, sergeant!" Mrs. Walsham broke in with a
laugh. "You don't mean to say that fancy entered your head!"

"It did, ma'am," Sergeant Wilks said gravely. "I liked the look
of the boy much. He was brave and modest, and a gentleman. I spoke
about him to the fishermen that night, and everyone had a good word
for him; so I said to myself, 'I can't reward him for what he has
done directly, but it may be that I can indirectly.'

"Aggie is only a child, but she has a loving, faithful little
heart, and I said to myself, 'If I throw her with this boy, who,
she knows, has saved her life, for two years, she is sure to have a
strong affection for him.'

"Many things may happen afterwards. If the squire takes her they
will be separated. He may get to care for someone, and so may she,
but it's just giving him a chance.

"Then, too, I thought a little about myself. I liked to fancy
that, even though she would have to go from me to the squire, my
little plan may yet turn out, and it would be I, not he, who had
arranged for the future happiness of my little darling. I shouldn't
have told you all this, ma'am; but you would have it."

"I am glad you brought her to me, Sergeant Wilks, anyhow," Mrs.
Walsham said, "for I love her dearly, and she has been a great
pleasure to me; but what you are talking about is simply nonsense.
My son is a good boy, and will, I hope, grow up an honourable
gentleman like his father; but he cannot look so high as the
granddaughter of Squire Linthorne."

"More unequal marriages have been made than that, ma'am," the
sergeant said sturdily; "but we won't say more about it. I have
thought it over and over, many a hundred times, as I wheeled my box
across the hills, and it don't seem to me impossible. I will agree
that the squire would never say yes; but the squire may be in his
grave years before Aggie comes to think about marriage. Besides, it
is more than likely that he will have nothing to say to my pet. If
his pride made him cast his son off, rather than acknowledge my
daughter as his, it will keep him from acknowledging her daughter
as his grandchild. I hope it will, with all my heart; I hope
so."

"In that case, Sergeant Wilks," Mrs. Walsham said, "let this be
her home for the time. Before you told me your story, I had made up
my mind to ask you to let her remain with me. You need feel under
no obligation, for the money you have paid me is amply sufficient
to pay for the expenses of what she eats for years. It will be a
real pleasure for me to keep her, for she has become a part of the
house, and we should miss her sorely, indeed. She is quick and
intelligent, and I will teach her all I know, and can train her up
to take a situation as a governess in a gentleman's family, or
perhaps--" and she laughed, "your little romance might come true
some day, and she can in that case stop in this home until James
makes her another."

"You are very kind, ma'am," the sergeant said. "Truly kind
indeed; and I humbly accept your offer, except that so long as I
live she shall be no expense to you. I earn more than enough for my
wants, and can, at any rate, do something towards preventing her
from being altogether a burden on your hands. And now, ma'am, how
would you recommend me to go to work with the vindictive old man up
at the Hall?"

"I shouldn't have thought he was vindictive. That is not at all
the character he bears."

"No," the sergeant said, "I hear him spoken well of; but I have
seen, in other cases, men, who have had the name of being pleasant
and generous, were yet tyrants and brutes in their own family. I
judge him as I found him--a hard hearted, tyrannical, vindictive
father. I think I had better not see him myself. We have never met.
I have never set eyes on him save here in church; but he regarded
me as responsible for the folly of his son. He wrote me a violent
letter, and said I had inveigled the lad into the marriage; and
although I might have told him it was false, I did not answer his
letter, for the mischief was done then, and I hoped he would cool
down in time.

"However, that is all past now; but I don't wish to see him. I
was thinking of letting the child go to the Hall by herself, and
drop in suddenly upon him. She is very like her father, and may
possibly take his heart by storm."

"Yes," Mrs. Walsham assented. "Now I know who she is, I can see
the likeness strongly. Yes; I should think that that would be the
best way. People often yield to a sudden impulse, who will resist
if approached formally or from a distance. But have you any reason
to suppose that he will not receive her? Did he refuse at first to
undertake the charge of the child? Does he even know that she is
alive? It may be that, all these years, he has been anxious to have
her with him, and that you have been doing him injustice
altogether."

"I never thought of it in that light," the sergeant said, after
a pause. "He never came near his son when he lay dying, never wrote
a line in answer to his letters. If a man could not forgive his son
when he lay dying, how could he care for a grandchild he had never
seen?"

"That may be so, Sergeant Wilks; but his son's death certainly
broke him down terribly, and it may be that he will gladly receive
his granddaughter.

"But there are the young ones back again. I will think over what
you have been telling me, and we can discuss it again
tomorrow."

Chapter 4: The Squire's Granddaughter.

The following day another council was held, and Mrs. Walsham
told the sergeant that, on thinking it over, she had concluded that
the best way would be to take the old butler at the Hall, who had
served the family for forty-five years, into their confidence, and
to ask him to arrange how best Aggie might be introduced to the
squire.

"I have been thinking over what you said, ma'am, and it may be
that you are right, and that I have partly misjudged the squire. I
hope so, for Aggie's sake, and yet I cannot help feeling sorry. I
have always felt almost sure he would have nothing to say to her,
and I have clung to the hope that I should not lose my little girl.
I know, of course, how much better it will be for her, and have
done all I could to make her so that she should be fit for it, if
he took her. But it will be a wrench, ma'am. I can't help feeling
it will be a wrench;" and the old soldier's voice quivered as he
spoke.

"It cannot be otherwise, sergeant," Mrs. Walsham said kindly.
"You have been everything to each other, and though, for her good
and happiness, you are ready to give her up, it is a heavy
sacrifice for you to make."

That afternoon, the sergeant went for a long walk alone with
Aggie, and when they returned Mrs. Walsham saw, by the flushed
cheeks and the swollen eyes of the child, that she had been crying.
James noticed it also, and saw that she seemed depressed and quiet.
He supposed that her grandfather had been telling her that he was
going to take her away, for hitherto nothing had been said, in her
hearing, as to the approaching termination of the stay with his
mother.

As they came out of church, Mrs. Walsham had waited for a moment
at the door, and had told the butler at the Hall that she wished
particularly to speak to him, that afternoon, if he could manage to
come down. They were not strangers, for the doctor had attended
John's wife in her last illness, and he had sometimes called with
messages from the Hall, when the doctor was wanted there.

John Petersham was astonished, indeed, when Mrs. Walsham
informed him that the little girl he had seen in her pew, in
church, was his master's granddaughter.

"You don't say so, ma'am. You don't say as that pretty little
thing is Master Herbert's child! But why didn't you say so afore?
Why, I have caught myself looking at her, and wondering how it was
that I seemed to know her face so well; and now, of course, I sees
it. She is the picture of Master Herbert when he was little."

"I couldn't say so before, John, because I only knew it myself
last night. Her grandfather--that is, her other grandfather, you
know--placed her with me to educate, and, as he said, to make a
little lady of, two years ago; but it was only last night he told
me."

"Only to think of it!" the butler ejaculated. "What will the
squire say?"

"Yes, that is the point, John. What will the squire say? Her
grandfather thinks he will have nothing to say to her."

"Nothing to say to her, ma'am! Why, he will be off his head with
joy. Didn't he search for her, and advertise for her, and do all he
could to find her for months? It wasn't till he tried for over a
year that he gave it up, and sent for Richard Horton to come to
him."

"Her grandfather can only judge by what he knows, John. He tells
me that the son wrote to his father, over and over again, on his
deathbed, and that he never came near him, or took any notice of
the letters."

"That's true enough, ma'am," the butler said sadly; "and it is
what has pretty nigh broken the squire's heart. He was obstinate
like at first, and he took me with him when he travelled about
across the sea among the foreigners, and when he was at a place
they called Athens, he got a fever and he was down for weeks. We
came home by sea, and the winds was foul, and we made a long voyage
of it, and when we got home there was letters that had been lying
months and months for us, and among them was those letters of
Master Herbert's.

"The squire wasn't an hour in the house afore the carriage was
round to the door, and we posted as hard as horses could take us
right across England to Broadstairs, never stopping a minute except
to change horses; and when we got there it was a month too late,
and there was nothing to do but to go to the churchyard, and to see
the stone under which Master Herbert and his young wife was
laid.

"The house where they had died was shut up. There had been a
sale, and the man who was the father of Master Herbert's wife was
gone, and we learned there had been a baby born, and that had gone
too. The squire was like a madman, blaming himself for his son's
death, and a-raving to think what must Master Herbert have thought
of him, when he never answered his letters. I had a terrible time
with him, and then he set to work to find the child; but, as I told
you, we never did find it, or hear a word of it from that time to
this, and the squire has never held up his head. He will be pretty
well out of his mind with joy."

"I am very glad to hear what you say, John," Mrs. Walsham said.
"I could hardly fancy the squire, who always has borne such a name
for kindness, being so hard that he would not listen to his dying
son's entreaties."

"No, ma'am. The squire was hard for a bit. Master Herbert's
marriage was a sad disappointment to him. He had made up his mind
he was going to do so well, and to cut such a figure in the world;
but he would have come round. Lord bless you, he only meant to hold
out for a bit. When he was ill at Athens, he was talking all the
time about forgiving his son, and I could see how hard it had been
to him to keep separated from him. On the voyage home he fidgeted
ever so at the delay, and I knew that the first thing he did, when
he got back, would be to write to Master Herbert and tell him to
bring his wife down to the Hall. There's not a hard corner in the
squire's heart.

"I thank the good God for the news you have told me, ma'am; it's
the best I ever heard in all my life."

Mrs. Walsham now told him how the child had been brought up, and
then the sergeant himself, who was waiting in the next room, was
brought in; and to him John Petersham related the story of the
squire's illness, the reason of the letters not reaching him for
months after they had been written, and his intense sorrow and self
reproach at having arrived too late, and told him of the efforts
that had been made to find the child. The sergeant listened in
grave silence.

"I am glad it is so," he said, after a pause. "I have misjudged
the squire, and I am glad of it. It will be a blow to me to lose
the child. I do not pretend that it won't; but it is for her good,
and I must be content. He can hardly object to my seeing her
sometimes, and if I know that she is well and happy, that is all I
care for; and now the sooner it's over the better. Can she come up
this evening?"

"Surely she can," John Petersham said. "The squire dines at
five. If you will bring her up at six, I will take her in to
him."

And so it was arranged, and in his walk with Aggie, afterwards,
the sergeant told her the history of her parents, and that Squire
Linthorne was her other grandfather, and that she was to go up and
see him that evening.

Aggie had uttered her protest against fate. She did not wish to
leave her grampa who had been so good to her, and Mrs. Walsham, and
James. The description of the big house and its grandeurs, and the
pleasures of a pony for herself, offered no enticement to her; and,
weeping, she flung her arms round her grandfather's neck and
implored him not to give her up.

"I must, my dear. It is my duty. I wish to God that it were not.
You know how I love you, Aggie, and how hard it is for me to part
with you; but it is for your good, my darling. You mayn't see it
now, but when you get older you will know it. It will not be so
hard now on me, dear, nor on you, as it would have been had I given
you up two years ago; but we have learned to do a little without
each other."

"But you will come and see me, just as you have here, won't
you?" Aggie said, still weeping.

"I hope so, my dear. You see, the squire is your father's
father, while I am only your mother's father, and somehow the law
makes him nearer to you than I am, and he will have the right to
say what you must do."

"I won't stay with him. I won't," Aggie said passionately, "if
he won't let you come."

"You must not say that, dear," the sergeant said. "We must all
do our duty, even when that duty is hard to do, and your duty will
be to obey the squire's orders, and to do as he tells you. I have
no doubt he will be very kind, and that you will be very happy with
him, and I hope he will let you see me sometimes."

It was a long time before the child was at all reconciled. When
her sobs began to cease, her grandfather told her what she was to
do when she saw the squire.

"You will remember, my dear, that I have been more fortunate
than he has. I have had you all these years, and he has had no one
to love or care for him. You must remember that he was not to
blame, because he objected to his son marrying my daughter. They
were not in the same position of life, and it was only natural that
he should not like it, at first; and, as I told you, he was coming
home to make them both happy, when he found it was too late.

"You must think, dear, that while I have been happy all these
years with you, he has been sorrowing and grieving, and you must
try and love him, and make up to him for what he has suffered. I
know you will not forget your old friends. You will love me whether
you see me often or not; and Mrs. Walsham, who has been very kind
to you; and James, you know, who saved your life."

"I shall never forget anyone, grampa. I shall always love you
better than anyone," the child exclaimed, throwing her arms round
his neck with a fresh burst of tears.

"There, there, my pet," the sergeant said soothingly. "You must
not cry any more. I want you to look your best this evening, you
know, and to do credit to us all. And now, I think we have settled
everything, so we will be going back to tea."

That evening, the squire was sitting by himself in the great
dining room, occasionally sipping the glass of port, which John
Petersham had poured out before he left the room. The curtains were
drawn, and the candles lighted; for it was late in September, and
the evenings were closing in fast; and the squire was puzzling over
John Petersham's behaviour at dinner.

Although the squire was not apt to observe closely what was
passing around him, he had been struck with the old butler's
demeanour. That something was wrong with him was clear. Usually he
was the most quiet and methodical of servants, but he had blundered
several times in the service. He had handed his master dishes when
his plate was already supplied. He had spilled the wine in pouring
it out. He had started nervously when spoken to. Mr. Linthorne even
thought that he had seen tears in his eyes. Altogether, he was
strangely unlike himself.

Mr. Linthorne had asked him if anything was the matter, but John
had, with almost unnecessary earnestness, declared there was
nothing. Altogether, the squire was puzzled. With any other
servant, he would have thought he had been drinking, but such a
supposition, in John's case, was altogether out of the
question.

He could have had no bad news, so far as the squire knew, for
the only children he had, had died young, and he had no near
relatives or connections. It was ridiculous to suppose that John,
at his age, had fallen in love. Altogether, the squire failed to
suggest to himself any explanation of his old butler's conduct, and
had just concluded, philosophically, by the reflection that he
supposed he should know what it was sooner or later, when the door
of the room quietly opened.

The squire did not look up. It closed again as quietly, and then
he glanced towards it. He could hardly believe his eyes. A child
was standing there--a girl with soft smooth hair, and large eyes,
and a sensitive mouth, with an expression fearless but appealing.
Her hands were clasped before her, and she was standing in doubt
whether to advance. There was something so strange, in this
apparition in the lonely room, that the squire did not speak for a
moment. It flashed across him, vaguely, that there was something
familiar to him in the face and expression, something which sent a
thrill through him; and at the same instant, without knowing why,
he felt that there was a connection between the appearance of the
child, and the matter he had just been thinking of--John
Petersham's strange conduct. He was still looking at her, when she
advanced quietly towards him.

"Grandpapa," she said, "I am Aggie Linthorne."

A low cry of astonishment broke from the squire. He pushed his
chair back.

"Can it be true?" he muttered. "Or am I dreaming?"

"Yes, grandpapa," the child said, close beside him now. "I am
Aggie Linthorne, and I have come to see you. If you don't think
it's me, grampa said I was to give you this, and then you would
know;" and she held out a miniature, on ivory, of a boy some
fourteen years old; and a watch and chain.

"I do not need them," the squire said, in low tones. "I see it
in your face. You are Herbert's child, whom I looked for so
long.

"Oh! my child! my child! have you come at last?" and he drew her
towards him, and kissed her passionately, while the tears streamed
down his cheeks.

"I couldn't come before, you know," the child said, "because I
didn't know about you; and grampa, that's my other grandpapa," she
nodded confidentially, "did not know you wanted me. But now he
knows, he sent me to you. He told me I was to come because you were
lonely.

"But you can't be more lonely than he is," she said, with a
quiver in her voice. "Oh! he will be lonely, now!"

"But where do you come from, my dear? and how did you get here?
and what have you been doing, all these years?"

"Grampa brought me here," the child said. "I call him grampa,
you know, because I did when I was little, and I have always kept
to it; but I know, of course, it ought to be grandpapa. He brought
me here, and John--at least he called him John--brought me in. And
I have been living, for two years, with Mrs. Walsham down in the
town, and I used to see you in church, but I did not know that you
were my grandpapa."

The squire, who was holding her close to him while she spoke,
got up and rang the bell; and John opened the door, with a
quickness that showed that he had been waiting close to it,
anxiously waiting a summons.

"John Petersham," the squire said, "give me your hand. This is
the happiest day of my life."

The two men wrung each other's hands. They had been friends ever
since John Petersham, who was twelve years the senior of the two,
first came to the house, a young fellow of eighteen, to assist his
father, who had held the same post before him.

"God be thanked, squire!" he said huskily.

"God be thanked, indeed, John!" the squire rejoined, reverently.
"So this was the reason, old friend, why your hand shook as you
poured out my wine. How could you keep the secret from me?"

"I did not know how to begin to tell you, but I was pretty nigh
letting it out, and only the thought that it was better the little
lady should tell you herself, as we had agreed, kept it in. Only to
think, squire, after all these years! But I never quite gave her
up. I always thought, somehow, as she would come just like
this."

"Did you, John? I gave up hope years ago. How did it come about,
John?"

"Mrs. Walsham told me, as I came out of church today, as she
wanted to speak to me. So I went down, and she told me all about
it, and then I saw him--" John hesitated at the name, for he knew
that, perhaps, the only man in the world against whom his master
cherished a bitter resentment, was the father of his son's wife.
"It seems he never saw your advertisements, never knew as you
wanted to hear anything of the child, so he took her away and kept
her. He has been here, off and on, all these years. I heard tell of
him, often and often, when I had been down into Sidmouth, but never
dreamt as it was him. He went about the country with a box on
wheels with glasses--a peep show as they calls it."

The squire winced.

"He is well spoken of, squire," John said, "and I am bound to
say as he doesn't seem the sort of man we took him for, at all, not
by no means. He did not know you wanted to have her, but he thought
it his duty to give her the chance, and so he put her with Mrs.
Walsham, and never told her, till yesterday, who she was. Mrs.
Walsham was quite grieved at parting with her, for she says she is
wonderfully quick at her lessons, and has been like a daughter with
her, for the last two years."

The child had sat quietly down in a chair, and was looking into
the fire while the two men were speaking. She had done what she was
told to do, and was waiting quietly for what was to come next. Her
quick ear, however, caught, in the tones of John Petersham, an
apologetic tone when speaking of her grandfather, and she was moved
to instant anger.

"Why do you speak like that of my grampa?" she said, rising to
her feet, and standing indignantly before him. "He is the best man
in the world, and the kindest and the nicest, and if you don't like
him, I can go away to him again. I don't want to stay here, not one
minute.

"You may be my grandpapa," she went on, turning to the squire,
"and you may be lonely, but he is lonely, too, and you have got a
great house, and all sorts of nice things; and you can do better
without me than he can, for he has got nothing to love but me, poor
grampa!"

And her eyes filled with sudden tears, as she thought of him
tramping on his lonely walks over the hills.

"We do not mean to speak unkindly of your grandfather, my dear,"
the squire said gently. "I have never seen him, you know, and John
has never seen him but once. I have thought, all these years,
bitterly of him; but perhaps I have been mistaken. He has ever been
kind and good to you, and, above all, he has given you back to me,
and that will make me think differently of him, in future. We all
make mistakes, you know, and I have made terrible mistakes, and
have been terribly punished for them. I daresay I have made a
mistake here; but whether or no, you shall never hear a word, from
me, against the man who has been so kind to you."

"And you will let me see him sometimes, grandpapa?" the child
said, taking his hand pleadingly. "He said, if you said no, I must
do as you told me; because somehow you are nearer to me than he is,
though I don't know how that can be. But you won't say that, will
you? For, oh! I know he is so lonely without me, and I should never
be happy, thinking of him all alone, not if you were to be ever so
kind to me, and to give me all sorts of grand things."

"No, my dear, I certainly shall not say so. You shall see him as
often as you like."

"Oh, thank you, grandpapa!" she exclaimed joyfully, and she held
up her face to kiss him.

The squire lifted her in his arms, and held her closely to
him.

"John," he said, "you must tell Mrs. Morcombe to get a room
ready for my granddaughter, at once, and you had better bring the
tea in here, and then we will think of other things. I feel quite
bewildered, at present."

When John returned with the tea, Aggie was sitting on the
squire's knee. She was perfectly at home, now, and had been
chattering to him of her life with her grandfather, and had just
related the incident of her narrow escape from drowning.

"Do you hear that, John?" the squire said. "She was nearly
drowned here, within sight of our home, and I might never have
known anything about it. It seems that lad of Dr. Walsham's saved
her life. He is a fine lad. He was her champion, you know, in that
affair with my nephew. How strange that the two boys should have
quarrelled over my granddaughter!"

"Yes, squire, and young Walsham came well out of it!" John said
heartily; for to him, only, did the squire mention the
circumstances of the case, and he chuckled now to himself, as he
thought that Richard Horton had made an even greater mistake in
that matter than he thought of, for John detested the boy with all
his heart, and had only abstained from reporting his conduct, to
the squire, from fear of giving his master pain.

The squire's brow clouded a little at the allusion.

"It will make a difference to him, John," he said, "for, of
course, now my granddaughter will take his place."

"And a good thing, too!" John said heartily. "I have never said
a word before, squire, because, as you had chosen him as your heir,
there was no use in setting you against him; but a more hatefuller
lad than Richard Horton I never comed across, and so said everyone
here. You did not see much of him, squire, and natural thought well
of him, for he was a good-looking boy, and could speak fair enough
when he liked. I thought well of him, myself, when he first came,
but I larned better, afterwards."

"There are many excuses to be made for him, John," the squire
said, "and I have had good reports of him, since. Of course, I
shall see that, although he can no longer be regarded as my heir
here, he shall be well provided for. But there will be plenty of
time to think of this."

"Mr. Wilks asked me to say, sir," the butler said as he prepared
to leave them, "that he shall be staying in Sidmouth tomorrow, and
that, if you wish to see him, he will come up here."

"Certainly I wish to see him," the squire replied. "I have many
things to ask him. Let the boy go down, the first thing in the
morning, or--no, if you don't mind, John, would you go down
yourself tonight? He will naturally be anxious to know how his
grandchild is getting on. Tell him with what joy I have received
her, and take any message she may give you.

"Is there anything you would like to say to your grandfather,
child?"

"Oh, yes. Please tell him that I think I shall like it, and that
he is to come and see me when he likes, and that, of course, he is
to see me when he comes in the morning, and then I can tell him all
about it."

"And say, I shall be glad to see him the first thing after
breakfast," the squire added.

The housekeeper soon entered, and Aggie, very sleepy after the
excitements of the day, was taken off to bed. Her sleepiness,
however, disappeared in her wonder at the size of the house, and at
the vastness of her bedroom.

"Why, you have got a fire!" she exclaimed in astonishment. "I
never saw a fire in a bedroom, before."

"I didn't light it for the cold, miss," the housekeeper said;
"but because it is a long time since the room was slept in before,
and because I thought it would be cheerful for you. I shall sleep
in the next room, till things are settled, so that, if you want
anything, you will only have to run in."

"Thank you," Aggie said gratefully. "It does all seem so big;
but I am sure not to want anything. Thank you."

"Here is your box, miss. Would you like me to help undress
you?"

"Oh, no!" Aggie laughed. "Why, of course I can undress myself;"
and she laughed at the idea of assistance being required in such a
matter.

"Then, good night!" the housekeeper said. "I shall leave the
door ajar, between the two rooms, when I come to bed."

The next morning, soon after breakfast, Sergeant Wilks was
ushered into the study, where the squire was expecting him. The two
men had had hard thoughts of each other, for many years. The squire
regarded the sergeant as a man who had inveigled his son into
marrying his daughter, while the sergeant regarded the squire as a
heartless and unnatural father, who had left his son to die alone
among strangers. The conversation with John Petersham had taught
the sergeant that he had wronged the squire, by his estimate of
him, and that he was to be pitied rather than blamed in the matter.
The squire, on his part, was grateful to the sergeant for the care
he had bestowed upon the child, and for restoring her to him, and
was inclined, indeed, at the moment, to a universal goodwill to all
men.

The sergeant was pale, but self possessed and quiet; while the
squire, moved, by the events of the night before, out of the silent
reserve in which he had, for years, enveloped himself, was agitated
and nervous. He was the first to speak.

"Mr. Wilks," he said. "I have to give you my heartfelt thanks,
for having restored my granddaughter to me--the more so as I know,
from what she has said, how great a sacrifice you must be making.
John has been telling me of his conversation with you, and you have
learned, from him, that I was not so wholly heartless and unnatural
a father as you must have thought me; deeply as I blame myself, and
shall always blame myself, in the matter."

"Yes," the sergeant said. "I have learned that I have misread
you. Had it not been so, I should have brought the child to you
long ago--should never have taken her away, indeed. Perhaps we have
both misjudged each other."

"I fear that we have," the squire said, remembering the letters
he wrote to his son, in his anger, denouncing the sergeant in
violent language.

"It does not matter, now," the sergeant went on quietly; "but,
as I do not wish Aggie ever to come to think ill of me, in the
future, it is better to set it right.

"When I left the army, I had saved enough money to furnish a
house, and I took one at Southampton, and set up taking lodgers
there. I had my pension, and lived well until my wife died--a year
before your son came down, from London, with another gentleman, and
took my rooms. My daughter was seventeen when her mother died, and
she took to managing the house. I was careful of her, and gave her
orders that, on no account, was she ever to go into the lodgers'
rooms. I waited on them, myself.

"How your son first saw her, and got to speak to her, I don't
know; but I am not surprised that, when he did, he loved her, for
there was no prettier or sweeter girl in Hampshire. They took the
rooms, first, only for a fortnight, then the other gentleman went
away, and your son stayed on.

"One day--it came upon me like a thunderbolt--your son told me
he wanted to marry my Agnes. I was angry, at first. Angry, because
it had been done behind my back, and because I had been deceived. I
said as much; but your son assured me that he had never spoken to
her in the house, but had met her when she went out for her walks.
Still, it was wrong, and I told him so, and I told her so, though,
in my heart, I did not altogether blame them; for young people will
be young people, and, as he had acted honourably in coming to me at
once, I let that pass.

"But, squire, though but a sergeant in His Majesty's service, I
had my pride as you had yours, and I told him, at once, that I
would not give my consent to my daughter's marrying him, until you
had given yours; and that he must leave the house at once, and not
see Agnes again, until he came with your written consent to show
me.

"He went away at once. After a time, he began to write to me,
urging me to change my decision; and from this, although he never
said so, I was sure that you had refused to sanction his marriage.
However, I stuck to what I had said, though it was hard for me to
do so, with my child growing thin and pale before my eyes, with all
her bright happiness gone.

"So it went on, for three months, and then one morning she was
gone, and I found a letter on her table for me, saying that she had
been married to him a week before, when she went out, as I thought,
to spend the day with a friend. She begged and prayed me to forgive
her, and said how miserable she had been, and that she could not
say no to her lover's pleadings.

"I wrote to the address she had given me, saying that she had
well nigh broken my heart. She knew that I had only refused my
consent because it would have seemed a dishonourable action, to
allow your son to marry her without your consent. She knew how hard
it had been for me to do my duty, when I saw her pining before my
eyes, but I forgave her wholly, and did not altogether blame her,
seeing that it was the way of Nature that young women, when they
once took to loving, should put their father altogether in the
second place;

"It was hard to me to write that letter, for I longed to see her
bonny face again. But I thought it was my duty. I thought so then;
but I think, now, it was pride.

"From time to time she wrote to me. I learned that you still
refused to see your son, and I gathered, though she did not say
much of this, that things were going badly with them. At last, she
wrote that her husband was ill--very ill, she feared. He had, in
vain, tried to get employment. I don't think he was naturally
strong, and the anxiety had broken him down. Then I went up to
London at once, and found them, in a little room, without the
necessaries of life. I brought them down home, and nursed him for
three months, till he died.

"A week later, Aggie was born. Ten days afterwards, I laid her
mother by the side of her father. No answer had come to the letters
he had written to you, while he had been ill, though in the later
ones he had told you that he was dying. So, I looked upon the child
as mine.

"Things had gone badly with me. I had been able to take no
lodgers, while they were with me. I had got into debt, and even
could I have cleared myself, I could not well have kept the house
on, without a woman to look after it. I was restless, too, and
longed to be moving about. So I sold off the furniture, paid my
debts, and laid by the money that remained, for the child's use in
the future.

"I had, some time before, met an old comrade travelling the
country with a show. I happened to meet him again, just as I was
leaving, and he told me the name of a man, in London, who sold such
things. I left the child, for a year, with some people I knew, a
few miles out of Southampton; came up to London, bought a show, and
started. It was lonely work, at first; but, after a year, I fetched
the child away, and took her round the country with me, and for
four years had a happy time of it.

"I had chosen this part of the country, and, after a time, I
became uneasy in my mind, as to whether I was doing right; and
whether, for the child's sake, I ought not to tell you that she was
alive, and offer to give her up, if you were willing to take her. I
heard how your son's death had changed you, and thought that,
maybe, you would like to take his daughter; but, before bringing
her to you, I thought she should have a better education than I had
time to give her, and that she should be placed with a lady, so
that, if you took her, you need not be ashamed of her manners.

"I hoped you would not take her. I wanted to keep her for
myself; but my duty to her was clear.

"And now, squire, you know all about it. I have been wrong to
keep her so long from you, I grant; but I can only say that I have
done my duty, as far as I could, and that, though I have made many
mistakes, my conscience is clear, that I did the best, as far as it
seemed to me at the time."

Chapter 5: A Quiet Time.

As the sergeant was telling the story, the squire had sat with
his face shaded by his hand, but more than one tear had dropped
heavily on the table.

"I wish I could say as much," he said sadly, when the other
ended. "I wish that I could say that my conscience is clear, Mr.
Wilks. I have misjudged you cruelly, and that without a tithe of
the reason, which you had, for thinking me utterly heartless and
cruel. You will have heard that I never got those letters my son
wrote me, after he was ill, and that, when I returned home and
received them, I posted to Southampton, only to find that I was too
late; and that, for a year, I did all in my power to find the
child. Still, all this is no excuse. I refused to forgive him,
returned his letters unanswered, and left him, as it seemed, to his
fate.

"It is no excuse to say that I had made up my mind to forgive
him, when he was, as I thought, sufficiently punished. He did not
know that. As to the poverty in which you found him, I can only
plead that I did not dream that he would come to that. He had, I
knew, some money, for I had just sent him his half-year's allowance
before he wrote to me about this business. Then there was the
furniture of his rooms in London, his horses, jewels, and other
matters. I had thought he could go on very well for a year.

"Of course, I was mistaken. Herbert was always careless about
money, and, no doubt, he spent it freely after he was first
married. He would naturally wish to have everything pretty and nice
for his young wife, and, no doubt, he counted upon my forgiving him
long before the money was spent.

"I am not excusing myself. God knows how bitterly I have
condemned myself, all these years. I only want to show you that I
had no idea of condemning him to starvation. He was my only son,
and I loved him. I felt, perhaps, his rebellion all the more,
because he had never before given me a day's trouble. I was harsh,
obstinate, and cruel.

"I have only the one old excuse. I never thought it would turn
out as it did. What would I give, if I could say, as you can, that
you have a clear conscience, and that you acted always as it seemed
to be your duty!

"And now, Mr. Wilks, now that I have heard your story, I trust
that you will forgive my past suspicions of you, and let me say how
much I honour and esteem you for your conduct. No words can tell
you how I thank you, for your goodness and kindness to my little
granddaughter; our little granddaughter, I should say. You have the
better right, a thousand-fold, to her than I have; and, had I been
in your place, I could never have made such a sacrifice.

"We must be friends, sir, great friends. Our past has been
saddened by the same blow. All our hopes, in the future, are
centred on the same object."

The two men rose to their feet together, and their hands met in
a firm clasp, and tears stood in both their eyes.

Then the squire put his hand on the other's shoulder, and said,
"We will talk again, presently. Let us go into the next room. The
little one is longing to see you, and we must not keep her."

For the next hour, the two men devoted themselves to the child.
Now that she had her old friend with her, she felt no further
misgivings, and was able to enter into the full delight of her new
home.

The house and its wonders were explored, and, much as she was
delighted with these, the gardens and park were an even greater
excitement and pleasure. Dancing, chattering, asking questions of
one or the other, she was half wild with pleasure, and the squire
was no less delighted. A new light and joy had come into his life,
and with it the ten years, which sorrow and regret had laid upon
him, had fallen off; for, although his habits of seclusion and
quiet had caused him to be regarded as quite an old man by his
neighbours, he was still three years short of sixty, while the
sergeant was two years younger.

It was a happy morning for them, all three; and when John
Petersham went in, after lunch, to the kitchen, he assured his
fellow servants that it was as much as he could do to keep from
crying with joy, at the sight of the squire's happy face, and to
hear him laugh and joke, as he had not done for eight years
now.

The sergeant had stopped to that meal, for he saw, by the manner
in which the squire asked him, that he should give pain if he
refused; and there was a simple dignity about the old soldier,
which would have prevented his appearing out of place at the table
of the highest in the land.

"Now, pussy," the squire said, when they had finished, "you must
amuse yourself for a bit. You can go in the garden again, or sit
with Mrs. Morcombe in her room. She will look you out some picture
books from the library. I am afraid there is nothing very suited to
your reading, but we will soon put all that right. Your grandfather
and I want to have another quiet chat together."

"Now I want your advice," he said when they were both
comfortably seated in the study. "You see, you have been thinking
and planning about the child for years, while it has all come new
upon me, so I must rely upon you entirely. Of course, the child
must have a governess, that is the first thing; not so much for the
sake of teaching her, though, of course, she must be taught, but as
a companion for her."

"Yes," the sergeant assented, "she must have a governess."

"It will be a troublesome matter to find one to suit," the
squire said thoughtfully. "I don't want a harsh sort of Gorgon, to
repress her spirits and bother her life out with rules and
regulations; and I won't have a giddy young thing, because I should
like to have the child with me at breakfast and lunch, and I don't
want a fly-away young woman who will expect all sorts of attention.
Now, what is your idea? I have no doubt you have, pictured in your
mind, the exact sort of woman you would like to have over her."

"I have," the sergeant answered quietly. "I don't know whether
it would suit you, squire, or whether it could be managed; but it
does seem, to me, that you have got the very woman close at hand.
Aggie has been for two years with Mrs. Walsham, who is a lady in
every way. She is very fond of the child, and the child is very
fond of her. Everyone says she is an excellent teacher. She would
be the very woman to take charge of her."

"The very thing!" the squire exclaimed, with great satisfaction.
"But she has a school," he went on, his face falling a little, "and
there is a son."

"I have thought of that," the sergeant said. "The school enables
them to live, but it cannot do much more, so that I should think
she would feel no reluctance at giving that up."

"Money would be no object," the squire said. "I am a wealthy
man, Mr. Wilks, and have been laying by the best part of my income
for the last eight years. I would pay any salary she chose, for the
comfort of such an arrangement would be immense, to say nothing of
the advantage and pleasure it would be to the child. But how about
the boy?"

"We both owe a good deal to the boy, squire," the sergeant said
gravely, "for if it had not been for him, the child would have been
lost to us."

"So she was telling me last night," the squire said. "And he
really saved her life?"

"He did," the sergeant replied. "But for his pluck and
promptitude she must have been drowned. A moment's hesitation on
his part, and nothing could have saved her."

"I made up my mind last night," the squire said, "to do
something for him. I have seen him before, and was much struck with
him."

"Then, in that case, squire, I think the thing could be managed.
If the lad were sent to a good school, his mother might undertake
the management of Aggie. She could either go home of an evening, or
sleep here and shut up her house, as you might arrange with her;
living, of course, at home, when the boy was home for his holidays,
and only coming up for a portion of the day."

"That would be a capital plan," the squire agreed warmly. "The
very thing. I should get off all the bother with strange women, and
the child would have a lady she is already fond of, and who, I have
no doubt, is thoroughly qualified for the work. Nothing could be
better. I will walk down this afternoon and see her myself, and I
have no doubt I shall be able to arrange it.

"And now about yourself--what are your plans?"

"I shall start tomorrow morning on my tramp, as usual," the
sergeant answered quietly; "but I shall take care, in future, that
I do not come with my box within thirty miles or so of Sidmouth. I
do not want Aggie's future to be, in any way, associated with a
showman's box. I shall come here, sometimes, to see her, as you
have kindly said I may, but I will not abuse the privilege by
coming too often. Perhaps you won't think a day, once every three
months, to be too much?"

"I should think it altogether wrong and monstrous!" the squire
exclaimed hotly. "You have been virtually the child's father, for
the last seven years. You have cared for her, and loved her, and
worked for her. She is everything to you, and I feel how vast are
your claims to her, compared to mine; and now you talk about going
away, and coming to see her once every three months. The idea is
unnatural. It is downright monstrous!

"No, you and I understand each other at last; would to Heaven we
had done so eight years back! I feel how much more nobly you acted
in that unhappy matter than I did, and I esteem and honour you. We
are both getting on in life, we have one common love and interest,
we stand in the same relation to the child, and I say,
emphatically, that you have a right, and more than a right, to a
half share in her. You must go away no more, but remain here as my
friend, and as joint guardian of the child.

"I will have no refusal, man," he went on, as the sergeant shook
his head. "Your presence here will be almost as great a comfort, to
me, as to the child. I am a lonely man. For years, I have cut
myself loose from the world. I have neither associates nor friends.
But now that this great load is off my mind, my first want is a
friend; and who could be so great a friend, who could enter into my
plans and hopes for the future so well, as yourself, who would have
an interest in them equal to my own?"

The sergeant was much moved by the squire's earnestness. He saw
that the latter had really at heart the proposal he made.

"You are very good, squire," he said in a low voice; "but even
if I could bring myself to eat another man's bread, as long as I
can work for my own, it would not do. I am neither by birth nor
education fitted for such a position as that you offer to me."

"Pooh, nonsense!" the squire said hotly. "You have seen the
world. You have travelled and mixed with men. You are fit to
associate as an equal with anyone. Don't you deceive yourself; you
certainly do not deceive me.

"It is pride that stands in your way. For that you are going to
risk the happiness of your granddaughter, to say nothing of mine;
for you don't suppose that either of us is going to feel
comfortable and happy, when the snow is whirling round, and the
wind sweeping the moors, to think of you trudging along about the
country, while we are sitting snugly here by a warm fire.

"You are wanting to spoil everything, now that it has all come
right at last, by just the same obstinate pride which wrecked the
lives of our children. I won't have it, man. I won't hear of
it.

"Come, say no more. I want a friend badly, and I am sure we
shall suit each other. I want a companion. Why, man, if I were a
rich old lady, and you were a poor old lady, and I asked you to
come as my companion, you would see nothing derogatory in the
offer. You shall come as my companion, now, or if you like as joint
guardian to the child. You shall have your own rooms in the house;
and when you feel inclined to be grumpy, and don't care to take
your meals with the child and me, you can take them apart.

"At any rate, try it for a month, and if you are not comfortable
then I will let you go, though your rooms shall always be in
readiness for you, whenever you are disposed to come back.

"Come, give me your hand on the bargain."

Sergeant Wilks could resist no longer. The last two years work,
without the child, had indeed been heavy, and especially in winter,
when the wind blew strong across the uplands, he began to feel that
he was no longer as strong as he used to be. The prospect of having
Aggie always near him was, however, a far greater temptation than
that of ending his days in quiet and comfort.

His hand and that of the squire met in a cordial grip, and the
matter was settled. Fortunately, as the sergeant reflected, he had
still his pension of ten shillings a week, which would suffice to
supply clothes and other little necessaries which he might require,
and would thus save him from being altogether dependent on the
squire.

Aggie was wild with delight, when she was called in and informed
of the arrangement. The thought of her grandfather tramping the
country, alone, had been the one drawback to the pleasure of her
life at Mrs. Walsham's, and many a time she had cried herself to
sleep, as she pictured to herself his loneliness. That he was to be
with her always, was to give up his work to settle down in comfort,
was indeed a delight to her.

Greatly pleased was she, also, to hear that Mrs. Walsham was to
be asked to come up to be her governess.

"Oh, it will be nice!" she exclaimed, clapping her hands. "Just
like the fairy stories you used to tell me, grampa, when everyone
was made happy at the end by the good fairy. Grandpapa is the good
fairy, and you and I are the prince and princess; and James--and
what is to be done with James? Is he to come up, too?"

"No, my dear," the squire said, smiling. "James is to go to a
good school, but you will see him when he comes home for his
holidays. But that part of it is not arranged yet, you know; but if
you will put on your hat, you can walk down with us to the town,
and introduce me to Mrs. Walsham."

Mrs. Walsham had just dismissed her pupils, when the party
arrived, and was thinking how quiet and dull the house was without
Aggie, when the door opened, and the child rushed in and threw her
arms round her neck.

"Oh, I have such good news to tell you! Grandpapa is so good and
kind, and grampa is going to live with us, and you are to come up,
too, and James is to go to school. Isn't it all splendid?"

"What are you talking about, Aggie?" Mrs. Walsham asked,
bewildered, as the child poured out her news.

"Aggie is too fast, madam," the squire said, entering the room
accompanied by the sergeant. "She is taking it all for granted,
while it has yet to be arranged. I must apologize for coming in
without knocking; but the child opened the door and rushed in, and
the best thing to do was, we thought, to follow her.

"I have come, in the first place, to thank you for your great
kindness to my little granddaughter, and to tell your son how
deeply I feel indebted to him, for having saved her life two years
ago.

"Now, Aggie, you run away and look for your friend, while I talk
matters over with Mrs. Walsham."

Aggie scampered away to find James, who was at work at his
books, and to tell him the news, while the squire unfolded his
plans to Mrs. Walsham.

His offers were so handsome that Mrs. Walsham accepted them,
without an instant's hesitation. She was to have the entire charge
of the child during the day, with the option of either returning
home in the evening, when Aggie went in to dessert after dinner, or
of living entirely at the Hall. The squire explained his intention
of sending James to a good school at Exeter, as an instalment of
the debt he owed him for saving the child's life, and he pointed
out that, when he was at home for his holidays, Aggie could have
her holidays, too, and Mrs. Walsham need only come up to the Hall
when she felt inclined.

Mrs. Walsham was delighted with the offer, even more for James's
sake than her own, although the prospect for herself was most
pleasant. To have only Aggie to teach, and walk with, would be
delightful after the monotony of drilling successive batches of
girls, often inordinately tiresome and stupid. She said, at once,
that she should prefer returning home at night--a decision which
pleased the squire, for he had wondered what he should do with her
in the evening.

The arrangement was at once carried into effect. The school was
broken up, and, as the parents of the children were almost all
tenants of the squire, they offered no objection to the girls being
suddenly left on their hands, when they heard that their teacher
was going to live as governess at the Hall. Indeed, the surprise of
Sidmouth and the neighbourhood, at learning that the little girl at
Mrs. Walsham's was the squire's granddaughter, and that the showman
was therefore a connection of the squire, and was going also to
live at the Hall, was so great, that there was no room for any
other emotion. Save for wrecks, or the arrival of shoals of fish
off the coast, or of troubles between the smugglers and the revenue
officers, Sidmouth had few excitements, and the present news
afforded food for endless talk and conjecture.

On comparing notes, it appeared that there was not a woman in
the place who had not been, all along, convinced that the little
girl at Mrs. Walsham's was something more than she seemed to be,
and that the showman was a man quite out of the ordinary way. And
when, on the following Sunday, the sergeant, who had in the
meantime been to Exeter, walked quietly into church with the
squire, all agreed that the well-dressed military-looking man was a
gentleman, and that he had only been masquerading under the name of
Sergeant Wilks until, somehow or other, the quarrel between him and
the squire was arranged, and the little heiress restored to her
position; and Sidmouth remained in that belief to the end.

The sergeant's military title was henceforth dropped. Mr.
Linthorne introduced him to his acquaintances--who soon began to
flock in, when it was known that the squire's granddaughter had
come home, and that he was willing to see his friends and join in
society again--as "My friend Mr. Wilks, the father of my poor boy's
wife."

And the impression made was generally favourable.

None had ever known the exact story of Herbert's marriage. It
was generally supposed that he had married beneath him; but the
opinion now was that this must have been a mistake, for there was
nothing in any way vulgar about the quiet, military-looking
gentleman, with whom the squire was evidently on terms of warm
friendship.

The only person somewhat dissatisfied with the arrangement was
James Walsham. He loved his mother so much, that he had never
offered the slightest dissent to her plan, that he should follow in
his father's footsteps. She was so much set on the matter, that he
could never bring himself to utter a word in opposition. At heart,
however, he longed for a more stirring and more adventurous life,
such as that of a soldier or sailor, and he had all along cherished
a secret hope, that something might occur to prevent his preparing
for the medical profession, and so enable him to carry out his
secret wishes. But the present arrangement seemed to put an end to
all such hopes, and, although grateful to the squire for sending
him to a good school, he wished, with all his heart, that he had
chosen some other way of manifesting his gratitude.

Four years passed quietly. James Walsham worked hard when at
school, and, during his holidays, spent his time for the most part
on board the fishermen's boats. Sometimes he went up to the Hall,
generally at the invitation of Mr. Wilks.

"Why don't you come oftener, Jim?" the latter asked him one day.
"Aggie was saying, only yesterday, that you used to be such friends
with her, and now you hardly ever come near her. The squire is as
pleased as I am to see you."

"I don't know," Jim replied. "You see, I am always comfortable
with you. I can chat with you, and tell you about school, and about
fishing, and so on. The squire is very kind, but I know it is only
because of that picking Aggie out of the water, and I never seem to
know what to talk about with him. And then, you see, Aggie is
growing a young lady, and can't go rambling about at my heels as
she used to do, when she was a little girl. I like her, you know,
Mr. Wilks, just as I used to do; but I can't carry her on my
shoulder now, and make a playfellow of her."

"I suppose that's all natural enough, Jim," Aggie's grandfather
said; "but I do think it is a pity you don't come up more often.
You know we are all fond of you, and it will give us a pleasure to
have you here."

Jim was, in fact, getting to the awkward age with boys. When
younger, they tyrannize over their little sisters, when older they
may again take pleasure in girls' society; but there is an age, in
every boy's life, when he is inclined to think girls a nuisance, as
creatures incapable of joining in games, and as being apt to get in
the way.

Still, Jim was very fond of his former playmate, and had she
been still living down in Sidmouth with his mother, they would have
been as great friends as ever.

At the end of the fourth year, Richard Horton came back, after
an absence of five years. He was now nearly twenty, and had just
passed as lieutenant. He was bronzed with the Eastern sun, and had
grown from a good-looking boy into a handsome young man, and was
perfectly conscious of his good looks. Among his comrades, he had
gained the nickname of "The Dandy"--a name which he accepted in
good part, although it had not been intended as complimentary, for
Richard Horton was by no means a popular member of his mess.

Boys are quick to detect each other's failings, and several
sharp thrashings, when he first joined, had taught Richard that it
was very inexpedient to tell a lie on board a ship, if there was
any chance of its being detected. As he had become one of the
senior midshipmen, his natural haughtiness made him disliked by the
younger lads; while, among those of his own standing, he had not
one sincere friend, for there was a general feeling, among them,
that although Richard Horton was a pleasant companion, and a very
agreeable fellow when he liked, he was not somehow straight, not
the sort of fellow to be depended upon in all emergencies.

By the captain and lieutenants, he was considered a smart young
officer. He was always careful to do his duty, quiet, and
gentlemanly in manner, and in point of appearance, and dress, a
credit to the ship. Accordingly, all the reports that his captain
had sent home of him had been favourable.

Great as was the rage and disappointment which Richard had felt,
when he received the letter from his uncle telling him of the
discovery of his long-lost granddaughter, he had the tact to
prevent any signs of his feelings being visible, in the letter in
which he replied. The squire had told him that, although the
discovery would, of course, make a considerable difference in his
prospects, he should still, if the reports of his conduct continued
satisfactory, feel it his duty to make a handsome provision for
him.

"Thanks to my quiet life during the last ten years," the squire
had written, "I have plenty for both of you. The estate will, of
course, go to her; but, always supposing that your conduct will be
satisfactory, I shall continue, during my lifetime, the allowance
you at present receive, and you will find yourself set down, in my
will, for the sum of twenty thousand pounds."

Richard had replied in terms which delighted the squire.

"You see, the boy has a good heart," he said, as he handed the
letter to Mr. Wilks. "No one could express himself better."

His companion read the letter over in silence.

"Charmingly expressed," he said as he returned it. "Almost too
charmingly, it seems to me."

"Come, come, Wilks, you are prejudiced against the young fellow,
for that business with Aggie and young Walsham."

"I hope I am not prejudiced, squire," his friend replied; "but
when I know that a lad is a liar, and that he will bring false
accusations to shield himself, and when I know that he was detested
by all who came in contact with him--John Petersham, the gardener,
and the grooms--I require a good deal more than a few satisfactory
reports from his captain, who can know very little of his private
character, and a soft-soldering letter like that, to reinstate him
in my good opinion. I will wager that, if you and I had been
standing behind him when he opened your letter, you would have
heard an expression of very different sentiments from those he
writes you here.

"Look at this: 'I regret, indeed, my dear uncle, that my new
cousin must have such a bad opinion of me, owing to my roughness in
that unfortunate affair, which I have never ceased to regret; but I
hope that, when we meet, I shall be able to overcome the dislike
which she must feel for me.'

"Bah!" the old soldier said scornfully. "I would lay all my
pension, to a shilling, that boy has already made up his mind that
someday he will marry Aggie, and so contrive to get the estates
after all."

The squire burst into a good-humoured laugh.

"It's well I don't take up your wager. Such ideas as that might
occur to you and me, but hardly to a lad not yet seventeen."

"Well, we shall see," the other said, cooling down. "I hope I
may be mistaken in him. We shall see when he comes home."

When he did come home, the old soldier could find but little
fault with the young man. He had a frank and open manner, such as
is common to men of his profession. He was full of life and
anecdote. His manner to the squire was admirable, affectionate, and
quietly respectful, without any air of endeavouring especially to
ingratiate himself with him. Nor could the ex-sergeant find
anything to complain of in the young man's manner towards himself.
He took the first opportunity, when they were alone, to say how
glad he had been, to hear that his grandfather had met with a
friend and companion in his lonely life, and to express a hope that
the bad opinion, which he had doubtless formed of him from his
conduct when a boy, would not be allowed to operate against him
now.

But, though there was nothing he could find fault with, the old
soldier's prejudices were in no way shaken, and, indeed, his
antipathy was increased, rather than diminished, by the young
officer's conduct towards Aggie. It might be, of course, that he
was only striving to overcome the prejudiced feeling against him;
but every time the old soldier saw him with his granddaughter, he
felt angry.

In point of fact, Aggie was disposed to like Richard, even
before his arrival. Six years had eradicated every tinge of
animosity for that shove on the sand. His letters had been long,
bright, and amusing, and with the mementos of travel which he
picked up in the ports of India and China, and from time to time
sent home to his uncle, there was always a little box with some
pretty trinket "for my cousin." She found him now a delightful
companion. He treated her as if she had been seventeen, instead of
eleven; was ready to ride or walk with her, or to tell her stories
of the countries he had seen, as she might choose; and to humour
all her whims and fancies.

"Confound him and his pleasant manners!" the ex-sergeant would
mutter to himself, as he watched them together, and saw, as he
believed, in the distance, the overthrow of the scheme he had at
heart. "He is turning the child's head; and that foolish boy,
James, is throwing away his chances."

James, indeed, came home from school for the last time, two or
three weeks after Richard Horton's return. He was now nearly
eighteen, and, although a broad and powerful fellow, was still a
boy at heart. He did not show to advantage by the side of Richard
Horton. The first time he went up to the Hall, after his return,
the latter had met him with outstretched hand.

"I am glad to meet you again," he said. "I behaved like a
blackguard, last time we met, and you gave me the thrashing which I
deserved. I hope we shall get on better, in the future."

Aggie and her two grandfathers were present, and James Walsham
certainly did not show to advantage, by the side of the easy and
self-possessed young officer. He muttered something about its being
all right, and then found nothing else to say, being uncomfortable,
and ill at ease. He made some excuse about being wanted at home,
and took his leave; nor did he again go up to call. Several times,
the old soldier went down to Sidmouth to see him, and on one
occasion remonstrated with him for not coming up to the Hall.

"What's the use?" James said, roughly. "I have got lots of
reading to do, for in two months, you know, I am to go up to
London, to walk the hospitals. No one wants me up there. Aggie has
got that cousin of hers to amuse her, and I should feel only in the
way, if I went."

Mr. Wilks was fairly out of temper at the way things were going.
He was angry with James; angry with the squire, who evidently
viewed with satisfaction the good understanding between his
granddaughter and nephew; angry, for the first time in his life,
with Aggie herself.

"You are growing a downright little flirt, Miss Aggie," he said
one day, when the girl came in from the garden, where she had been
laughing and chatting with her cousin.

He had intended to speak playfully, but there was an earnestness
in his tone which the girl, at once, detected.

"Are you really in earnest, grampa?" she asked, for she still
retained the childish name for her grandfather--so distinguishing
him from the squire, whom she always called grandpapa.

"No; I don't know that I am in earnest, Aggie," he said, trying
to speak lightly; "and yet, perhaps, to some extent I am."

"I am sure you are," the girl said. "Oh, grampa! You are not
really cross with me, are you?" and the tears at once sprang into
her eyes. "I have not been doing anything wrong, have I?"

"No, my dear, not in the least wrong," her grandfather said
hastily. "Still, you know, I don't like seeing Jim, who has always
been so good and kind to you, quite neglected, now this young
fellow, who is not fit to hold a candle to him, has turned up."

"Well, I haven't neglected him, grampa. He has neglected me. He
has never been near since that first day, and you know I can't very
well go round to Sidmouth, and say to him, 'Please come up to the
Hall.'"

"No, my dear, I know you can't, and he is behaving like a young
fool."

"Why is he?" Aggie asked, surprised. "If he likes sailing about
better than coming up here, why shouldn't he?"

"I don't think it's for that he stays away, Aggie. In fact, you
see, Jim has only just left school, and he feels he can't laugh,
and talk, and tell you stories about foreign countries, as this
young fellow can, and having been so long accustomed to have you to
himself, he naturally would not like the playing second fiddle to
Richard Horton."

"But he hasn't been here much," the girl said, "ever since I
came here. He used to be so nice, and so kind, in the old days when
I lived down there, that I can't make out why he has changed
so."

"My dear, I don't think he has changed. He has been only a boy,
and the fact is, he is only a boy still. He is fond of sailing, and
of the amusements boys take to, and he doesn't feel at home, and
comfortable here, as he did with you when you were a little girl at
his mother's. But mind, Aggie, James is true as steel. He is an
honourable and upright young fellow. He is worth fifty of this
self-satisfied, pleasant-spoken young sailor."

"I know James is good and kind, grampa," the girl said
earnestly; "but you see, he is not very amusing, and Richard is
very nice."

"Nice! Yes," the old soldier said; "a fair weather sort of
niceness, Aggie. Richard Horton is the squire's nephew, and I don't
wish to say anything against him; but mark my words, and remember
them, there's more goodness in James's little finger, than there is
in his whole body. But there, I am a fool to be talking about it.
There is your cousin calling you, in the garden. Go along with
you."

The girl went off slowly, wondering at her grandfather's
earnestness. She knew she liked her old playmate far better than
Richard Horton, although the latter's attentions pleased and
flattered her. The old soldier went straight off to the squire's
study.

"Squire," he said, "you remember that talk we had, three years
ago, when your nephew's answer came to your letter, telling him
that Aggie was found. I told you that I would wager he had made up
his mind to marry her. You laughed at me; but I was right. Child
though she still is, he is already paving the way for the
future."

"Master Richard certainly is carrying on a sort of flirtation
with the little witch," the squire said, smiling; "but as she is
such a mere child as you say, what does it matter?"

"I think it matters a great deal," the old soldier said
seriously. "I see, squire, the young fellow has quite regained your
good opinion; and unless I am mistaken, you have already thought,
to yourself, that it would not be a bad thing if they were to come
together someday.

"I have thought it over, and have made up my mind that, in spite
of your four years' continued kindness to me, and of the warm
friendship between us, I must go away for a time. My box is still
lying at Exeter, and I would rather tramp the country again, and
live on it and my pension, than stay here and see my darling
growing up a woman with that future before her. I am sorry to say,
squire, that what you call my prejudice is as strong as ever. I
doubt that young fellow as strongly as I did before he came home.
Then, I only had his past conduct and his letter to go by. Now I
have the evidence of my own senses. You may ask me what I have
against him. I tell you--nothing; but I misdoubt him from my heart.
I feel that he is false, that what he was when a boy, he is now.
There is no true ring about him."

The squire was silent for a minute or two. He had a very sincere
friendship and liking for his companion, a thorough confidence in
his judgment and principles. He knew his self-sacrificing nature,
and that he was only speaking from his love for his grandchild.

"Do not let us talk about it now, old friend," he said quietly.
"You and I put, before all other things, Aggie's happiness.
Disagreement between us there can be none on the subject. Give me
tonight to think over what you have said, and we will talk about it
again tomorrow."

Chapter 6: A Storm.

After breakfast next morning, the squire asked his friend to go
with him into his study.

"I have been thinking this matter over," he said, "very
seriously, and, upon reflection, I agree with you that it is
undesirable that Aggie should see much of Richard, until she is of
an age to form a fair opinion for herself, and to compare him with
other young men. I agree with you, also, that we have not yet
sufficient proofs that he is completely changed. I hope that he is.
You think he is not. At any rate, he must have a longer trial, and
until it is proved to your satisfaction, as well as mine, that he
is in every way a desirable husband for Aggie, the less they see of
each other, the better. I therefore propose to write at once to my
friend Admiral Hewson, to ask him to use his influence, at the
admiralty, to get the young fellow appointed to a ship. Does that
meet your approval, my friend?"

"Quite so," the other said cordially. "Nothing could be better.
In the meantime, as you say, should Richard turn out well, and the
young people take a liking for each other, no match could be more
satisfactory. What I want is that she should take no girlish fancy
for him, at present."

"So be it, then," the squire said. "I think, you know, that we
are a couple of old fools, to be troubling ourselves about Aggie's
future, at present. Still, in a matter which concerns us both so
nearly, we cannot be too careful. If we had a woman with us, we
could safely leave the matter in her hands; as it is, we must
blunder on, as best we may."

And so it was settled, and a week later, Richard Horton received
an official letter from the admiralty, ordering him to proceed at
once to Portsmouth to join the Thetis, to which he was
appointed as fourth lieutenant. The order gave Richard extreme
satisfaction. He was beginning to find his life desperately dull,
and he was heartily sick of playing the attentive nephew. He was
well content with the progress he had made; nothing had gone wrong
since he returned, his uncle had clearly taken him back into his
favour, and he had no doubt that Aggie quite appreciated the pains
he had bestowed to gain her liking.

He detested the squire's companion, for he felt that the latter
disliked and distrusted him, and that his projects would meet with
a warm opposition on his part. Still, with the squire and Aggie
herself on his side, he did not fear the result. As to James
Walsham, whom he had come home prepared to regard as a possible
rival, from his early intimacy with the child, and the fact that
his mother was her governess, he now regarded him with contempt,
mingled with a revengeful determination to pay off the old score,
should a chance ever present itself.

He therefore started next day in high spirits, assuming,
however, a great reluctance to tear himself away. A few days later
a letter came from him, saying that he hoped that he should be able
to come back, sometimes, for a day or two, as the Thetis
was at present to be attached to the Channel squadron, and it was
not expected that she would, for some time, proceed on foreign
service.

Early in October, James Walsham was to go up to London, to
commence his medical course. A week before he was to start, Mr.
Wilks went down in the morning, intending to insist on his
returning with him to the Hall. As he went down towards Sidmouth,
the old soldier noticed how strongly the wind was blowing, the
trees were swaying and thrashing in the wind, the clouds were
flying past overhead. Everything portended a severe gale.

Finding, at Mrs. Walsham's, that James was down on the beach, he
continued his course until he joined him there. James was standing
with a group of fishermen, who were looking seaward. Now that he
was exposed to the full force of the wind, Mr. Wilks felt that, not
only was it going to blow a gale, but that it was blowing one
already. The heavy clouds on the horizon seemed to lie upon the
water, the waves were breaking with great force upon the beach, and
the fishermen had hauled their boats up across the road.

"It's blowing hard, Jim," he said, laying his hand on the young
fellow's shoulder.

"It is blowing hard, and it will blow a great deal harder before
nightfall. The fishermen all think it is going to be an exceptional
gale. It is blowing dead on shore. It will be bad work for any
ships that happen to be coming up Channel today. Eight or ten of
our boats are out. We thought we had made out three of them just
before you came, but the cloud closed down on them. The fishermen
are just going to get lifelines ready. I am afraid we are going to
have a terrible night of it."

"I came down to ask you if you will come up to lunch, Jim, but I
suppose you will not be able to tear yourself away from here."

"I shouldn't like to leave now, indeed. There is no saying what
may happen. Besides, so many of the fishermen are away, that I may
be useful here if a vessel comes ashore, and there may be half a
dozen before the morning. Every hand will be wanted to give
assistance."

"But you could not get a boat out through those breakers, could
you, Jim?"

"Yes," Jim replied, "we might get one of the big boats through
it now; but it's going to be worse, presently. When I went out,
last year, with a boat to the brig which was driven ashore, it was
worse than this.

"I shall be very glad to come up tomorrow, if you will let me. I
hear that fellow Horton went away last week."

"Yes, he went away, Jim. But why his being there should have
kept you from going up is beyond me."

"I don't like the fellow, Mr. Wilks. He may mean very well, but
I don't like him. I have been in one row about him with the squire,
and I don't want another; but I am quite sure, if I had gone up
much while he was there, it would have ended in my trying to punch
his head again."

"In that case, perhaps," the old soldier said, smiling, "you
were wise to stay away, Jim. I don't like the lad myself. Still,
punching his head would not have been a desirable thing."

"I am glad you don't like him," James said, warmly. "Somehow I
made up my mind that you were all sure to like him, and I don't
suppose the idea made me like him any the better. He was just the
free-and-easy sort of fellow to get along well, and I was quite
sure that Aggie would not want me, when she had him to go about
with her. I saw him drive through in the pony carriage with her,
two or three times, and it was easy to see how thoroughly she was
enjoying herself."

"Well, it was your own fault, my boy. If you choose to sulk down
here, and never to go up to the Hall, you can't blame Aggie for
letting herself be amused by someone else."

"Oh! I don't blame her," James said hastily. "Of course, it is
all right that she should enjoy herself with her cousin. Only
somehow, you know, after being great friends with anyone, one
doesn't like to see someone else stepping into your place."

"But as I have told you, over and over again, during the last
three years, Jim, you have willfully stepped out of your place. You
know how often I have asked you to come up, and how seldom you have
come. You have never shown Aggie that you have any wish to continue
on the footing of friendship, on which you stood towards each other
when she was at your mother's, and as you have chosen to throw her
over, I don't see why she shouldn't take to anyone else who takes
pains to make himself pleasant to her."

"Oh! I don't blame her a bit, Mr. Wilks. How could you think
such a thing! I was very fond of little Aggie when she was at my
mother's; but of course, I was not ass enough to suppose that she
was going trotting about the country with me, when she once went up
to the Hall as the squire's granddaughter. Of course, the whole
thing was changed.

"Ah! Here comes the rain."

As he spoke, a sudden splash of rain struck them. It might have
been noticed coming across the water in a white line. With it came
a gust of wind, to which that which had already been blowing was a
trifle. There was no more talking, for nothing less than a shout
could have been heard above the roaring of the wind. It was
scarcely possible to stand against the fury of the squall, and they
were driven across the road, and took shelter at the corner of some
houses, where the fishermen had already retired.

The squall lasted but a few minutes, but was soon succeeded by
another, almost equally furious, and this seemed to increase in
strength, until the wind was blowing a perfect hurricane; but the
fishermen now struggled across the road again, for, between the
rain squalls, a glimpse had been caught of two of the fishing
boats, and these were now approaching the shore. A mere rag of sail
was set on each, and yet they tore over the waves at tremendous
speed.

One was some two hundred yards ahead of the other, and by the
course they were making, they would come ashore nearly at the same
spot. The news that two boats were in sight spread rapidly, and
many of the fishermen's wives, with shawls over their heads, ran
down and stood peering out from behind shelter, for it was
well-nigh impossible to stand exposed to the fury of the gale.

An old fisherman stood, with a coil of rope in his hand, close
to the water's edge. Several of the others stood close to him, and
four of them had hold of the other end of the rope. When the boat
was within fifty yards of shore, the sail was lowered; but she
still drove straight on before the wind, with scarce an abatement
in her speed. A man stood in her bow, also with a coil of rope in
his hand, and, as he approached, threw it far ahead. The fisherman
rushed waist deep into the water and caught the end of it, which in
a moment was knotted to the one in his hand.

"Run along with her," he shouted.

For a moment, the boat towered on the top of a wave, which raced
in towards the shore. The next, as it came, took her stern, and she
was in the act of swinging round, when the strain of the rope came
upon her, and brought her straight again. Higher and higher the
wave rose, and then crashed down, and the boat shot forward, like
an arrow, in the foam. The fishermen rushed forward and caught it,
those on board leapt out waist-deep; all were taken off their feet
by the backward rush, but they clung to the sides of the boat,
while the men at the head rope, with their heels dug deeply into
the sand, withstood the strain, and kept her from being swept out
again.

A few seconds, and the boat was left dry, and the next wave
carried it high up on the beach, amid a loud cheer from the
fishermen and lookers on; but there was no time to waste, for the
next boat was close at hand. Again, the rope was thrown to the
shore, but this time the strain came a moment too late, the
following wave turned the boat round, the next struck it broadside
and rolled it, over and over, towards the shore. The fishermen, in
an instant, joined hands, and rushing down into the water, strove
to grasp the men.

Several times, those in front were knocked down and rolled up on
the beach, but three of the crew were brought in with them. There
was one still missing, and there was a shout as he was seen,
clinging to an oar, just outside the line of breakers. James
Walsham had been working with the fishermen in saving those already
brought to shore. He now fastened the end of a line round his
body.

"You can never get through those rollers--they will break you up
like an eggshell," the old fisherman shouted.

"I will dive through them," Jim shouted back. "Give me plenty of
slack, and don't pull, till you see I have got him."

The lad waited for his opportunity, and then, rushing down after
the sheet of white foam, he stood, waist deep, as a great wave,
some twelve feet high, towered up like a wall towards him. It was
just going to break, when James plunged, head foremost, into it.
There was a crash which shook the earth, a mass of wildly rushing
foam, and then, some ten yards beyond the spot where the wave had
broken, Jim's head appeared above the surface. It was but for a
moment, for he immediately dived again, under the next wave, and
then came up within a few yards of the floating oar. A stroke or
two, and he was alongside. He seized the man, and held up one arm
as a signal. In a moment the rope tightened, and they moved towards
shore. When they were close to the edge of the breaking waves, Jim
held up his hand, and the strain stopped.

"Now," he said to the man, "the moment they begin to pull, leave
go of the oar, and throw your arms round me."

He waited until a wave, bigger than ordinary, approached, and,
just as it began to pass under him, gave the signal. Higher and
higher they seemed to rise, then they were dashed down with a
tremendous shock. There was a moment's confusion as they were swept
along in the white water. Jim felt a terrific strain, and it seemed
to him that the rope would cut him in sunder. Then he was seized by
a dozen strong arms, and carried high and dry, before the next wave
could reach him.

For a minute or two he was scarce conscious. The breath had been
almost knocked out of his body, with the break of the wave, and the
rushing water seemed still singing in his ears.

"Are you hurt, my boy? Are you hurt, James?" were the first
words he clearly heard.

"No, I think I am all right," he said, trying to sit up. "Is the
other fellow all right?"

"He has broke his arm," one of the fishermen, who had just
helped the man to his feet, replied. "He may be thankful it's no
worse."

James was now helped to his feet.

"I am all right," he repeated to Mr. Wilks, "except that I feel
as if I had a hot iron round my body. That rope has taken the skin
off all round me, I fancy, and doesn't it smart, just, with the
salt water!"

"Oh, James, how could you do it?" a girl's voice said
suddenly.

The fishermen drew aside, and Aggie Linthorne pressed
forward.

The squire had gone into her schoolroom and had said:

"Mrs. Walsham, I think you had better give up your lessons for
the morning, and get home. It is blowing a gale now, and we shall
probably have the rain down before long. I will walk down with you.
The wind is dead on the shore, and it will be a grand sight."

Aggie at once set her mind on going, too; but the squire
refused, until Mrs. Walsham suggested that, if it came on wet,
Aggie could stop at her house until it cleared up, or, if
necessary, till morning. Whereupon, the squire had given way, and
the three had started together for Sidmouth, leaving Mrs. Walsham
at her house as they passed. The others had struggled down, against
the wind, until they came within sight of the sea. The first boat
had just been run safely on shore when they arrived, and Aggie gave
a cry, and put her hands over her face, as the second boat was seen
to capsize.

"Cling to me, Aggie," the squire said. "See, they are rushing in
the water to save them. They will have them, yet!"

At the cheer which broke out from the spectators, clustering
thickly now, as the first of the shipwrecked crew was brought to
shore, Aggie looked out again. It was a sight she never forgot.
With the great waves crashing down on the shore, and the line of
straggling figures, waist deep in the white foam, in which were
scattered, here and there, portions of the boat, oars, sails, and
nets.

"Well done, well done!" the squire exclaimed. "They have dragged
up three of them. I don't know whether there are any more."

"Yes, yes, look!" Aggie cried; "there, out in the waves--there,
I can see a head. That's just about where I was nearly drowned. Oh,
grandpapa, take me away, I can't look at it."

"There's someone going out to save him, Aggie. Listen to the
cheer."

Aggie looked again.

"Oh, grandpapa, stop him, stop him!" she cried, "it's
James."

But at the same moment the plunge was made, and the figure lost
to sight.

Aggie threw her arms round her grandfather, and hid her
face.

"I can't look, I can't look," she cried. "Tell me about it."

"There, he is up; bravo!" the squire exclaimed, almost as
excited as she was. "He has dived again, dear,"--then, after a
pause--"there he is close to him. He has got him, Aggie! Now he is
waving his hand; now they are tightening the rope; now he is waving
his hand again, and they are waiting. There!"

There was a pause, which seemed to the girl to be endless, then
the squire cried:

"They have got them out, both of them;" and a loud cheer broke
from all standing round.

"Come along, grandpapa, let us go down to them."

"Stay a moment, my dear. They may be hurt. It's better you
should not go."

The girl stood, with her hands clasped, gazing at the fishermen
grouped on the shore, stooping over the prostrate figures. Then one
of them stood up and waved his hand, and the spectators knew that
all was well. Then the girl ran down to join them.

"Why, Aggie!" James exclaimed in astonishment, as she pressed
forward. "Why, my dear, what brings you here in this storm?
Whatever will the squire say?"

"The squire has brought her down himself," Mr. Linthorne said,
following closely behind his granddaughter; "and he is glad he did,
James, for she has seen a grand sight.

"You are a fine fellow;" and he wrung the lad's hand.

"A grand fellow, Wilks, isn't he?"

"I always said so, squire," the old soldier said, his face
beaming with satisfaction; "but now, let us get him home, and
Aggie, too. The child will be blown away."

But, for a minute or two, they could not carry James off, so
closely did the men and women press round him, and shake him by the
hand. At last they got him away, and, escorted by a crowd of
cheering boys, led him back to his mother's.

"Your son is a hero, Mrs. Walsham!" the squire exclaimed as they
entered; "but don't talk to him now, but mix him a glass of hot
grog.

"Wilks, you get him between the blankets directly. I will tell
his mother all about it, while she is mixing the grog.

"Hallo, Aggie! Why, bless the child, she's fainted."

The girl had borne up till they reached the house, towards which
the wind had blown her along, as she clung to her grandfather's
arm; but the excitement had been too much for her, and, the instant
they entered the room, she had dropped into an armchair, and at
once lost consciousness.

Mrs. Walsham kept her presence of mind, in spite of her
bewilderment at these sudden occurrences. She at once laid the girl
on the sofa, removed her dripping bonnet and cloak, and poured a
few drops of brandy between her lips, while she set the squire to
work, to chafe her hands. Aggie soon opened her eyes, and recovered
her consciousness.

"Don't try to get up, Aggie," Mrs. Walsham said. "You are faint
and shaken with all this excitement. Your grandpapa and I were two
very foolish people, to let you come out.

"Now, Mr. Wilks, the best thing you can do, is to find a boy
outside, and send him up to the Hall, with a message that the
carriage is to come down directly.

"I think, Mr. Linthorne, she had better get back home. I should
be glad enough, as you know, to keep her here for the night; but
this house is rocking with the wind, now, and she would not be
likely to get any sleep here. I will run up and see how James is,
and if he is all right, I will come up with her and stop the night.
She is very much shaken, and had better not be alone."

Mrs. Walsham soon came downstairs again, and said that James
said he never felt better in his life, and that, by all means, she
was to go up to the Hall. She then set about and prepared a cup of
tea, which greatly restored Aggie, and, by the time the carriage
arrived, the girl was able to walk to the gate.

Mr. Wilks had offered to remain with James, but the latter would
not hear of it. The lad was, indeed, well pleased to hear that they
were all going up to the Hall, as thereby he escaped hearing any
more of his own praises. Besides, he was most anxious to get down
to the beach again, for no one could say what might take place
there before morning.

As soon, therefore, as he heard the door close, he jumped out of
bed, and when, peeping through the blinds, he saw the carriage
drive off with its four occupants, he at once began to dress. He
felt bruised and sore from the blows he had received, and a red
wheal round his chest, beneath the arms, showed where the rope had
almost cut into the flesh. However, he soon dressed himself, and
descended the stairs, went into the kitchen, and told the
astonished girl that he was going out; then, having made a hasty
meal of bread and cold meat, he put on his oilskins again, and
started for the shore.

He did not, however, wait long. So heavy was the sea, now, that
nothing whatever could be done should any vessel drive ashore, and,
as for the fisher boats, the sailors shook their heads as they
spoke of them.

"They were farther away to the west, so the chaps as got ashore
tells us. They may have got in, somewhere, before it got to the
worst. If not, it must have gone hard with them."

Finding that there was nothing to be done, and that he was much
more stiff and bruised than he had believed, Jim made his way back
again, and turned into bed; where he soon fell asleep, and did not
wake until the following morning.

One of the grooms had come down from the Hall, at six o'clock,
to inquire how he was, and the message given by the girl, that he
had been out, but that he had come back and was now sound asleep,
satisfied Mrs. Walsham, and enabled her to devote her undivided
attention to her charge, who needed her care more than her son.
Before night, indeed, the squire had sent down to Sidmouth for Dr.
Walsham's successor, who said that Aggie was very feverish, and
must be kept perfectly quiet for some days. He sent her up a
soothing draught, and Mrs. Walsham sat up with her all night. She
slept but little, and talked almost incessantly, sometimes rambling
a little.

The first thing in the morning, the doctor was again sent for,
and on his recommendation the squire at once sent off a man, on
horseback, to Exeter, for the leading physician of that town. When
he arrived, late in the afternoon, Aggie was somewhat quieter, and
his report was more cheering.

"Her pulse is very high," he said; "but Mr. Langford tells me
that it is not so rapid as it was in the morning, and that he
thinks the symptoms are abating. Undoubtedly, it is a sharp
feverish attack, brought on by excitement and exposure. A very
little more, and it would have been a case of brain fever, but I
trust now that it will soon pass off. The sedatives that have been
administered are taking effect, and I trust she will soon fall
asleep.

"As you requested, I have made my arrangements for staying here
tonight, and I trust that, by the morning, we shall have her
convalescent."

Mr. Wilks had gone down, the first thing in the morning, to see
James, and found him up and about as usual. He was very greatly
concerned, at hearing that Aggie had passed a bad night, and came
four times up to the Hall, during the day, to inquire about her;
and on his last visit, late in the evening, he was told that she
was sleeping quietly, and that the doctor had every hope that she
would wake, in the morning, free from fever. This proved to be the
case; but she was ordered to keep her bed for a day or two.

On the morning after the storm, the wind had gone down much,
although a tremendous sea was still breaking on the shore. Messages
arrived, in the course of the day, to say that all the missing
boats, with one exception, had succeeded in gaining the shore
before the storm was full on. The missing boat was never heard of
again.

Two days later, James Walsham had strolled up the hill to the
east of the town, and was lying, with a book before him, in a
favourite nook of his looking over the sea. It was one of the
lovely days which sometimes come late in autumn, as if the summer
were determined to show itself at its best, before leaving. It
could not be said that James was studying, for he was watching the
vessels passing far out at sea, and inwardly moaning over the fact
that he was destined for a profession for which he had no real
liking, instead of being free to choose one of travel and
adventure.

Presently, he heard voices behind him. The position, in which he
was lying, was a little distance down on the slopes, on the seaward
side of the path, and, as a screen of bushes grew behind it, he
could not be seen by anyone passing along.

"All the men, with their pistols and cutlasses, are to assemble
here at ten o'clock tonight, Johnson. But do not give them orders
till late, and let them come up, one by one, so as not to attract
attention. Lipscombe's men are to assemble at the same hour, and
march to meet us. This time, I think, there is no mistake. The
cargo is to be landed where I told you. It will be high tide at
twelve o'clock, and they are sure to choose that hour, so that the
cutter can run close in. I have sent off a man on horseback to
Weymouth, for the revenue cutter to come round. If she's in time,
we shall catch that troublesome lugger, as well as her cargo. She
has been a thorn in our side for the last year. This time, I do
hope we shall have her."

The speakers then moved on out of hearing, but James Walsham
recognized the voice, as that of the revenue officer commanding the
force at Sidmouth.

Smuggling was, at that time, carried on on a large scale along
the coast, and there were frequent collisions between those engaged
in it and the revenue officers. The sympathies of the population
were wholly with the smugglers, and the cheating of the revenue was
not at all considered in the light of a crime.

Many of the fishermen, from time to time, took a hand in
smuggling cruises, and the country people were always ready to lend
assistance in landing and carrying the cargoes.

When out in their boats at night, James had often heard the
fishermen tell stories of their smuggling adventures, and more than
once he had been with them, when they had boarded a lugger laden
with contraband, to warn them that the revenue cutter was on the
cruising ground, and it would not be safe to attempt to run cargo
at present. He now determined, at once, that he would warn the
smugglers of their danger. The question was, where was the cargo to
be run? The officer had not mentioned the spot, but, as the force
from the next station to the east was to cooperate, it must be
somewhere between the two.

Waiting till the speakers must have gone well along the cliff,
he rose to his feet, and returned to Sidmouth. He thought, at
first, of telling some of the fishermen what he had heard, but as,
in the event of an affray, it might come out how the smugglers had
been warned of the intention of the revenue officers, he thought
there would be less risk in giving them warning himself. He knew
every path down the cliff for miles, and trusted that he should be
able to make his way down, and give the boats notice of their
danger, before the revenue men reached the shore.

At nine o'clock he dressed himself, in the rough sailor's suit
he wore when he went out with the fishermen, and started along the
cliff. For some distance he kept well inland, as the officer might
have placed a man on the lookout, to stop anyone going towards the
scene of action. The spot he thought the most likely was a mile and
a half along the shore. There was a good landing place, and an easy
path up the cliff, and he knew that cargoes had been more than once
run here. Accordingly, when he reached this spot, he sat down among
some bushes on the edge of the cliff, and waited for some sort of
signal. Half an hour later, he heard the tramp of a number of men,
passing along behind him.

"There go the revenue men," he thought to himself. "I suppose
they are going to meet those coming the other way."

An hour passed without further sound, and James began to get
uneasy. If this was the spot fixed for the landing, some of the
country people ought to be arriving, by this time, to help to carry
off the cargo. They might, for aught he knew, be already near,
waiting for the signal before they descended the path. No doubt the
revenue men would be lying in wait, a short distance off, and would
allow the friends of the smugglers to go down to the water, without
letting them know of their presence.

He kept his eyes fixed on the water to the east, watching
anxiously for the appearance of a light. Presently he started.
Immediately in front of him, about a mile at sea, a bright light
was shown. In a second, it disappeared. Three times it flashed out,
and then all was dark. The night was a very dark one. There was no
moon, and the stars were obscured, and although he strained his
eyes to the utmost, he could not make out the vessel from which the
light had been shown.

"How foolish to show such a bright light!" he said to himself.
"It would have been almost sure to attract the attention of anyone
on the watch."

He made his way to the path, and descended to the edge of the
water, and waited, expecting momentarily to be joined by people
from above. But no one came. He strained his ears listening for the
fall of approaching oars; but all was silent.

Half an hour passed, and then it flashed across him that the
signal must have been made to deceive the revenue men, and to cause
them to assemble at that spot, and so leave the point really
determined upon free for operations.

With an exclamation of disgust at his own stupidity, in having
been deceived, James ran up the path again at the top of his speed,
and then took the road along the cliff. For two miles, he ran
without interruption, and then saw a dark mass in front of him. He
turned off, instantly, to the left. Doubtless he had been heard
approaching, for two or three men detached themselves from the
rest, and started to cut him off. James ran straight inland, and in
the darkness soon lost sight of his pursuers. Then he turned, and
made for the cliff again. Two or three hundred yards farther along,
there was another path to the shore, and this he had no doubt, now,
was the one the smugglers were about to use. He struck the cliff
within a few yards of the spot. In an instant, two men jumped up
and seized him.

"Who are you?"

For an instant, James thought that his assailants were revenue
men, but, even in the darkness, he saw that they were
countrymen.

"Quick!" he said. "The revenue men are close at hand. They are
watching, two or three hundred yards along. Listen! Here they
come."

A tramping of feet coming rapidly along the cliff was clearly
heard, and the men, with an oath, released their hold and ran off,
giving a loud whistle, and made for their carts, which were
stationed a few hundred yards inland. James dashed down the path,
shouting at the top of his voice. He had not gone many yards before
he met a number of men, coming up with tubs of spirits on their
shoulders.

"Throw them down," he cried, "and make along the shore. The
revenue men are close behind."

His advice was taken at once. The tubs were thrown down, and
went leaping and bounding down to the shore, while the men followed
James, at full speed, down the path.

Their pursuers were close behind. There was no longer any use in
concealment. Their officer shouted to them to press forward at full
speed, while, from the beach below, a hubbub of voices suddenly
broke out, and, at the same moment, a blue light was lit on the
cliff above.

"Beat them back, my lads," one of the smugglers was shouting, as
James ran down to the little crowd of men standing near two boats.
"We are five to one against them. Come on."

"Surrender in the king's name," the revenue officer shouted, as
he rushed forward, followed by his men.

The answer was a pistol shot, and, in a moment, a furious melee
began. The advantage in numbers was all on the side of the
smugglers. Those who had landed with the kegs were all armed with
pistol and cutlass, and the countrymen had heavy sticks and
bludgeons. The ten revenue men would have been overpowered, but
suddenly a shout was heard, and another party of sailors ran up
along the shore, and joined in the fray. It was the detachment from
the other station, which had been waiting, at some little distance
along the shore, for the signal from above.

"To the boats, lads," the leader of the smugglers shouted. "We
are caught in a trap."

The smugglers rushed to the boats, and James, who was standing
by the water's edge, leaped on board with them. Most of the country
people fled at once along the shore, pursued by some of the revenue
men, while the others made a rush for the boats. These had been
kept afloat a few yards from the shore. Grapnels had been dropped
over their sterns, and, as the men in charge hauled out the moment
the fight began, they were in water shoulder deep when the
smugglers scrambled on board.

The revenue men dashed in after them, and strove to hold the
boats; but they were beaten off with oars and cutlasses, and the
boats were soon hauled out into deep water. The grapnels were
lifted, and the men, many of whom were wounded more or less
severely in the fray, got out their oars and pulled to the lugger,
amid a dropping fire of pistol shots from shore.

Chapter 7: Pressed.

Many and deep were the maledictions uttered, as the smugglers
climbed on board their vessel; but their captain said cheerily:

"Never mind, lads, it might have been worse. It was only the
first cargo of tubs, and half of those weren't ashore. The lace and
silk are all right, so no great harm is done. Set to work, and get
up sail as soon as you can. Likely enough there is a cutter in the
offing; that blue light must have been a signal. They seem to have
got news of our landing, somehow."

The crew at once set to work to get up sail. Three or four of
the countrymen, who had, like James, got on board the boats, stood
in a group looking on, confused and helpless; but James lent his
assistance, until the sails were hoisted and the craft began to
move through the water.

"Now, then," the captain said, "let us go below and look at the
wounds. We daren't show a light, here on deck."

The wounds were, for the most part, slashes and blows with
cutlasses; for in the darkness and confusion of the fight, only two
of the bullets had taken effect. One of the smugglers had fallen,
shot through the head, while one of those on board had his arm
broken by a pistol ball.

"Now for our passengers," the captain said, after the wounds had
been bandaged.

"Who are you?" and he lifted a lantern to James's face.

"Why, it is young Mr. Walsham!" he exclaimed in surprise.

James knew the man now, for the lugger had several times put in
at Sidmouth, where, coming in as a peaceable trader, the revenue
officers, although well aware of the nature of her vocation, were
unable to touch her, as vessels could only be seized when they had
contraband on board.

"Why, what brings you into this affair, young master?"

James related the conversation he had overheard, and his
determination to warn the smugglers of their danger.

"I should have managed it, in plenty of time, if I had known the
exact spot on which you were going to land; but I saw a signal
light, two miles down the coast, and that kept me there for half an
hour. It struck me, then, it was a ruse to attract the officers
from the real spot of landing, but though I ran as hard as I could,
I was only just before them."

"Thank you heartily," the smuggler said. "I expect you saved us
from a much worse mess than we got into. I have no doubt they meant
to capture the tubs, as they were loaded, without raising an alarm;
and the fellows on the shore would have come up quietly, and taken
us by surprise as we were landing the last boat loads. Thanks to
you, we have got well out of it, and have only lost one of our
hands, and a score or so of tubs."

"You can't put me ashore, I suppose?" James said.

"That I can't," the smuggler replied. "I have no doubt that
cutter from Weymouth is somewhere outside us, and we must get well
off the coast before morning. If we give her the slip, I will send
you off in a boat sometime tomorrow. I must go ashore, myself, to
make fresh arrangements for getting my cargo landed."

James went on deck again. The breeze was light, and the lugger
was slipping along quietly through the water. He could faintly see
the loom of the cliffs on his right, and knew that the lugger was
running west, keeping as close inshore as she could, to avoid the
cutter watching for her outside. He wondered what they would say at
home, when it was found that he was missing; but consoled himself
by thinking that his mother, who was still up at the Hall, would no
doubt suppose that he had gone out for a night's fishing, as he had
often done before, and that, as she was away, he had forgotten to
leave word with the servant.

Suddenly, a blue light burned out on the top of the cliff. An
angry exclamation broke from the captain, who was standing at the
helm.

"Confound it!" he exclaimed. "They have caught sight of us from
the cliff, and are signalling our whereabouts to the cutter."

As he spoke, he turned the vessel's head seaward, and, for a
quarter of an hour, sailed straight out.

"Now," he said quietly, "I think we must be out of sight of
those fellows on shore. Get her on the other tack, lads, but be as
quiet as you can about it. There's no saying how close the cutter
may be to us."

The great sails were lowered, as the boat's head paid off to the
east. The yards were shifted to the other sides of the masts, and
the sails hoisted again, and the lugger began to retrace her way
back along the coast.

"It's just a chance, now," the captain said to James, who was
standing close by him, "whether the commander of the cutter
guesses, or not, that we shall change our course. He will know we
are likely enough to do it."

"What should you do if you were in his place?" James said.

"I should run straight out to sea, and lay to, eight or ten
miles off. He would be able to make us out then at daylight,
whichever course we take; whereas, by trying to follow in the dark,
he would run the chance of missing us altogether. I wish the wind
would get up a bit. We are not moving through the water more than
three knots an hour, and it's dying away. However, I fancy it will
blow up again in the morning."

"Do you know whether she is faster than you are?" James
asked.

"There is not much difference," the captain replied. "If the
wind is strong, we have the legs of her; but in a light breeze, she
is the fastest. She has chased us half a dozen times already, but
we have always given her the slip."

"Then, even if she does run out to sea, as you say," James said,
"we ought to be safe, as we should be a dozen miles or so along the
coast."

"Yes, but not that ahead of her," the captain answered, "for she
would be so much to the seaward. Still, that would be far enough;
but she will begin to fire long before we are in range, and will
bring any other king's ship within hearing down on us. However, I
daresay we shall give her the slip, as we have done before."

The hours passed slowly. The wind continued to drop, until the
vessel scarcely moved through the water, and, after a while, the
sweeps were got out, and were worked until the day broke. All eyes
were on the lookout for the cutter, as the day dawn began to steal
over the sky.

"There she is, sure enough," the captain exclaimed at length,
"lying to on the watch, some eight miles to the west. She must have
seen us, for we are against the light sky; but, like, ourselves,
she is becalmed."

It was a quarter of an hour, however, before the position of the
cutter was seen to change. Then her head was suddenly turned
east.

"She has got the wind," the captain said. "Now we only want a
good breeze, and you'll have a lively day of it, lads."

From the time when she had turned, the lugger had made only
about eight miles along the coast to the east, and an equal
distance seaward, for the tide had set against her. The morning was
bright and clear, the sea was perfectly smooth. As yet, the sails
hung idly down, but there were dark lines on the water that showed
that a breeze was coming.

"We shall have plenty of wind presently," the skipper said. "See
how light the sky is to the south. There will be white tops on the
waves in an hour or two.

"Here comes a flaw. Haul in your sheets, lads, now she begins to
move."

The puff did not last long, dying away to nothing in a few
minutes, and then the lugger lay immovable again. The men whistled,
stamped the deck impatiently, and cast anxious glances back at the
cutter.

"She is walking along fast," the skipper said, as he examined
her through a glass. "She has got the wind steady, and must be
slipping along at six knots an hour. This is hard luck on us. If we
don't get the breeze soon, it will be a close thing of it."

Another quarter of an hour passed without a breath of wind
ruffling the water. The cutter was fully two miles nearer to them
than when she had first been seen, and was holding the wind
steadily.

"Here it comes, lads," the skipper said cheerfully. "Another ten
minutes, and we shall have our share."

The time seemed long, indeed, before the dark line on the water
reached the lugger, and there was something like a cheer, from the
crew, as the craft heeled slightly over, and then began to move
through the water. It was the true breeze this time, and increased
every moment in force, till the lugger was lying well over, with a
white wave at her bow.

But the cutter had first gained by the freshening breeze, and
James Walsham, looking back at her, judged that there were not more
than four miles of water between the boats. The breeze was nearly
due west, and, as the lugger was headed as close as she would lie
to it, the cutter had hauled in her sheets and lay up on the same
course, so that they were now sailing almost parallel to each
other.

"If we could change places," the skipper said, "we should be
safe. We can sail nearer the wind than she can, but she can edge
away now, and has all the advantage of us."

James had already perceived this, and wondered that the lugger
did not pay off before the wind, so as to make a stern chase of
it.

"I want to get a few miles farther out," the skipper said.
"Likely enough there is another cutter somewhere inshore. It is
quite enough to have one of these fellows at one's heels."

Another half hour and the cutter, edging in, was little over
three miles distant. Then the skipper gave the word, the helm was
put down, the sheets slackened off, and, in a minute, the lugger
was running dead before the wind with her sails boomed out, one on
either side. The cutter followed her example, and hoisted a large
square sail.

The wind was blowing fresh now, and the sea was getting up. Not
a cloud was to be seen in the sky, and the sun shone brightly on
the white heads which were beginning to show on the water. The
lugger was tearing along, occasionally throwing a cloud of spray
over her bows, and leaving a track of white water behind her.

"I think she still gains on us," the captain said to the mate,
who had taken the helm.

"Ay, she is gaining," the sailor agreed, "but the wind is
freshening every minute. She can't carry that topsail much longer.
It's pressing her bows under now."

"She will go almost as fast without it," the skipper said.

The commander of the cutter seemed to be of the same opinion,
for, just as he spoke, the topsail was seen to flutter, and then
descended to the deck. It was a quarter of an hour before the
skipper spoke again.

"I think we just about hold our own," he said. "I didn't think
the Polly could have held her running."

"She couldn't, in a light wind," the mate replied; "but with
this wind, it will want a fast boat to beat her."

The hands were now set to work, shifting the kegs further
aft.

"That's better," the skipper said presently. "I am sure we are
gaining ground, and our masts will stand it, if the cutter's
will."

With her stern low in the water, the lugger was now tearing
along at a tremendous pace. Stout as were her masts, and strong the
stays, James Walsham wondered at their standing the strain of the
great brown sails, as they seemed, at times, almost to lift her
bodily out of the water. Buoyant as the craft was, the waves broke
over her bows and flooded her decks, and sheets of spray flew over
her.

The cutter, with her sharper bows and all her sail forward, was
feeling it still more severely, and the spirits of all on board the
lugger rose rapidly, as it was evident that they were dropping
their pursuers. Suddenly, the gaff of the cutter's mainsail was
seen to droop, and the boom was hauled on board.

"I thought it would be too much for them," the skipper said
exultantly. "They are going to reef."

"We had better reef down too, I think," the mate said. "She has
had as much as she could bear for some time."

"I'll hold on ten minutes longer," the skipper said. "Every half
mile counts."

But before that time was up, the sails were one after another
reefed, for the wind continued to freshen. The sky was still
cloudless, but there was a misty light in the air, and a heavy sea
was beginning to run.

Suddenly, a gun flashed out from the cutter. The skipper uttered
an oath. Their pursuer was more than three miles astern, and he
knew that she could only be firing as a signal.

There were several large ships in sight on their way up or down
the Channel. To these, little attention had been paid. The skipper
shaded his eyes with a hand, and gazed earnestly at a large ship on
the weather beam, some four miles away.

"That is a frigate, sure enough," he exclaimed. "We are fairly
caught between them.

"Haul in the sheets, lads, we will have a try for it yet."

The lugger was brought sharp up into the wind, and was soon
staggering along seaward, with the lee bulwark almost under water.
The cutter instantly lowered her square sail, and followed her
example, continuing to fire a gun every minute. All eyes were
turned towards the frigate, which was now on the port beam.

"We shall cross two miles to windward of her," the skipper said.
"If she keeps on her course, a quarter of an hour will do it, but
she is sure to notice the guns. The wind will take them down to
her.

"Ah, there she goes."

As he spoke, a puff of smoke darted out from the frigate's bow.
Her sails fluttered, and her head bore round, until she was on the
same tack as the lugger.

The latter was now about equidistant from her two pursuers. The
cutter and the lugger were nearly abreast, but the former, being to
windward, could edge down. The frigate was three miles to leeward,
but she was fully a mile ahead.

"There is no way out of it," the skipper said bitterly. "In a
light wind we could run away from the frigate, but with this breeze
we have no chance with her. Look how she is piling on sail!"

The crew shared the captain's opinion. Some shook their fists
and cursed vainly at their pursuers, some stood sullenly scowling,
while the French portion of the crew gave way to wild outbursts of
rage. Rapidly the three vessels closed in towards each other, for
the cutter edged in so rapidly that the lugger was obliged to bear
off towards the frigate again. As a last hope, the lugger's course
was changed, and she again tried running, but the superior weight
and power of the frigate brought her rapidly down. Presently a
heavy gun boomed out, and a shot came dancing along the water, a
hundred yards away.

"Lower the sails," the skipper said. "It is no use going
farther. The inside of a prison is better than the bottom of the
sea, anyhow."

Down came the sails, and the lugger lay rolling heavily in the
waves, as the frigate bore down upon her with a white roll of water
on her stem.

"Get ready, lads," the skipper said. "There is just one chance
yet. She will run by us. The instant she is past, up sail again. We
shall be a mile away before they can get her round into the wind
again. If she doesn't cripple us with her shot, we may weather her
yet. We needn't mind the cutter."

The frigate came foaming along, the crew busy in taking sail off
her. The instant she had passed, and was preparing to round to, the
sails of the lugger flew up like magic, and she was soon tearing
along almost in the eye of the wind, as if to meet the cutter,
which was running down towards her.

"Down below, lads, every man of you," the captain shouted. "We
shall have a broadside in a minute."

In a moment, the deck was clear of all save the skipper and his
mate, who stood at the tiller. The frigate swept slowly round, and
then, as her guns came to bear, shot after shot was fired at the
lugger, already three-quarters of a mile to the windward. The shot
hummed overhead, one struck the water alongside, a yard or two
away, but still she was untouched.

"Some of her shots went as near the cutter as they did to us,"
the skipper said. "She won't fire again."

They were now fast approaching the cutter, which, when she was
within a quarter of a mile, changed her course and was brought up
again into the wind, firing the four guns she carried on her
broadside as she came round. The lugger's head was paid off, and
this placed the cutter on her starboard quarter, both going free.
The former was travelling the faster, but a gun was fired from the
cutter's bow, and the shot struck splinters from the lugger's
quarter. The crew were on deck again now.

"Train that gun over the stern," the skipper said. "If we can
knock her mast out of her, we are saved. If not, they will have us
yet."

He had scarcely spoken when there was a crash. A shot from the
cutter had struck the mizzen mast, a few feet above the deck, and
the mast and sail fell over to leeward. There was a cry of rage and
dismay.

"Luck's against us," the skipper said bitterly. "Down with the
sail, lads. This time it is all up with us."

The sail was lowered, and the lugger lay motionless in the
water, until the cutter came up and lay within fifty yards of her.
A boat was at once lowered, and an officer was rowed to the
lugger.

"So we have caught you, my friends, at last," he said, as he
sprang on board.

"You wouldn't have done it, if it had not been for the frigate,"
the skipper said.

"No; I will say your craft sails like a witch," the officer
replied. "I wish we could have done it without her. It will make
all the difference to us. The frigate will get the lion's share of
the prize. What is the value of your cargo?"

"Two hundred kegs of brandy," the skipper replied, "and fifteen
hundred pounds' worth of lace and silks."

"A good prize," the officer said. "Not your own, I hope, for you
have made a brave chase of it."

"No," the skipper answered. "Fortunately, I only took a very
small share this time. It's bad enough to lose my boat; I own
two-thirds of her."

"I am sorry for you," the officer said, for he was in high
spirits at the success of the chase, and could afford to be
pleasant. "Here comes a boat from the frigate. You played them a
rare trick, and might have got off, if it hadn't been for that
lucky shot of ours.

"I see you were just getting out a stern chaser," and he pointed
to the gun. "It is well for you that you didn't fire it, as you
can't be charged with armed resistance."

"I wish I had fired it, for all that. It might have been my luck
to cripple you."

"It would have made no difference if you had," the officer
replied. "The frigate would have overhauled you. With this wind she
would sail five feet to your four."

The boat from the frigate now came alongside.

"How are you, Cotterel?" the officer said, as he stepped on
board. "That was a lucky shot of yours; but I think it's lucky for
the lugger that you hit her, for the captain was so savage, at that
trick they played him, that I believe he would have sunk her when
he came up to her again. I heard him say to the first lieutenant,
'I won't give her a chance to play me such a trick again.'"

"What orders have you brought?" the other asked.

"We are outward bound, so you are to put a crew on board and
take her into port; but, as we are very short of hands, we will
relieve you of the prisoners."

All on board the lugger were at once ordered into the frigate's
boat, and were rowed off to the ship. On gaining the deck, they
were drawn up in line, and the captain and first lieutenant came
up. The good humour of the former had been restored by the capture
of the lugger.

"Hallo!" he said, looking at the bandaged heads and arms of some
of the men, "so you have been having a fight trying to run your
cargo, I suppose. That will make it all the worse for you, when you
get on shore. Now, I might press you all without giving you a
choice, but I don't want unwilling hands, so I will leave it to
you. Which is it to be--an English prison for two or three years,
or a cruise on board the Thetis?"

The greater part of the men at once stepped forward, and
announced their willingness to volunteer.

"Who have we here," the captain asked, looking at the three
countrymen.

"They are passengers, sir," the skipper of the lugger said, with
a half smile.

A few questions brought to light the facts of the surprise while
the cargo was being landed.

"Well, my lads," the captain said, "you are in the same boat
with the rest. You were engaged in an unlawful enterprise, and in
resisting his majesty's officers. You will get some months in
prison anyhow, if you go back. You had better stay on board, and
let me make men of you."

The countrymen, however, preferred a prison to a man o' war.

James Walsham had been turning over the matter in his mind. He
had certainly taken no part in the fray, but that would be
difficult to prove, and he could not account for his presence
except by acknowledging that he was there to warn them. It would
certainly be a case of imprisonment. Surely, it would be better to
volunteer than this. He had been longing for the sea, and here an
opportunity opened for him for abandoning the career his mother
intended for him, without setting himself in opposition to her
wishes. Surely she would prefer that he should be at sea for a year
or two to his being disgraced by imprisonment. He therefore now
stepped forward.

"I do not belong to the lugger's crew, sir, and had nothing to
do with running their cargo, though I own I was on the spot at the
time. I am not a sailor, though I have spent a good deal of time on
board fishing boats. Mr. Horton, whom I see there, knows me, and
will tell you that I am a son of a doctor in Sidmouth. But, as I
have got into a scrape, I would rather serve than go back and stand
a trial."

"Very well, my lad," the captain said. "I like your spirit, and
will keep my eye on you."

The three countrymen and four of the French sailors, who
declined to join the Thetis, were taken back to the
cutter, and the Thetis at once proceeded on her way down
channel. James had given a hastily scribbled line, on the back of
an old letter which he happened to have in his pocket, to the men
who were to be taken ashore, but he had very little hope that it
would ever reach his mother. Nor, indeed, did it ever do so. When
the cutter reached Weymouth with the lugger, the men captured in
her were at once sent to prison, where they remained until they
were tried at assizes three months afterwards; and, although all
were acquitted of the charge of unlawful resistance to the king's
officers, as there was no proof against any of the six men
individually, they were sentenced to a year's imprisonment for
smuggling.

Whether Jim's hurriedly written letter was thrown overboard, or
whether it was carried in the pocket of the man to whom he gave it
until worn into fragments, James never knew, but it never reached
his mother.

The news that James was missing was brought to her upon the day
after the event by Mr. Wilks. He had, as usual, gone down after
breakfast to report how Aggie was getting on, with a message from
his mother that her charge was now so completely restored that it
was unnecessary for her to stay longer at the Hall, and that she
should come home that evening at her usual time. Hearing from the
girl that James had not returned since he went out at nine o'clock
on the previous evening, the old soldier sauntered down to the
beach, to inquire of the fishermen in whose boat James had gone
out.

To his surprise, he found that none of the boats had put to sea
the evening before. The men seemed less chatty and communicative
than usual. Most of them were preparing to go out with their boats,
and none seemed inclined to enter into a conversation. Rather
wondering at their unusual reticence, Mr. Wilks strolled along to
where the officer of the revenue men was standing, with his
boatswain, watching the fishermen.

"A fine morning, lieutenant."

"Yes," the latter assented. "There will be wind presently. Have
you heard of the doings of last night?"

"No," Mr. Wilks said in surprise, "I have heard nothing. I was
just speaking to the fishermen, but they don't seem in as
communicative a mood as usual this morning."

"The scamps know it is safest for them to keep their mouths
shut, just at present," the officer said grimly. "I have no doubt a
good many of them were concerned in that affair last night. We had
a fight with the smugglers. Two of my men were shot and one of
theirs, and there were a good many cutlass wounds on each side. We
have taken a score of prisoners, but they are all country people
who were assisting in the landing; the smugglers themselves all got
off. We made a mess of the affair altogether, thanks to some fellow
who rushed down and gave the alarm, and upset all the plans we had
laid.

"It is too provoking. I had got news of the exact spot and hour
at which the landing was to take place. I had my men all up on the
cliff, and, as the fellows came up with kegs, they were to have
been allowed to get a hundred yards or so inland and would there
have been seized, and any shout they made would not have been heard
below. Lieutenant Fisher, with his party from the next station, was
to be a little way along at the foot of the cliffs, and when the
boats came with the second batch, he was to rush forward and
capture them, while we came down from above. Then we intended to
row off and take the lugger. There was not wind enough for her to
get away.

"All was going well, and the men were just coming up the cliff
with the tubs, when someone who had passed us on the cliff ran down
shouting the alarm. We rushed down at once, but arrived too late.
They showed fight, and kept us back till Fisher's party came up;
but by that time the boats were afloat, and the smugglers managed
to get in and carry them off, in spite of us. We caught, as I tell
you, some of the countrymen, and Fisher has taken them off to
Weymouth, but most of them got away. There are several places where
the cliff can be climbed by men who know it, and I have no doubt
half those fishermen you see there were engaged in the
business."

"Then the smuggler got away?" Mr. Wilks asked.

"I don't know," the lieutenant said shortly. "I had sent word to
Weymouth, and I hope they will catch her in the offing. The lugger
came down this way first, but we made her out, and showed a blue
light. She must have turned and gone back again, for this morning
at daylight we made her out to the east. The cutter was giving
chase, and at first ran down fast towards her. Then the smugglers
got the wind, and the last we saw of them they were running up the
Channel, the cutter some three miles astern.

"I would give a couple of months' pay to know who it was that
gave the alarm. I expect it was one of those fishermen. As far as
my men could make out in the darkness, the fellow was dressed as a
sailor. But I must say good morning, for I am just going to turn
in."

Mr. Wilks had been on the point of mentioning that James was
missing, but a vague idea that he might, in some way, be mixed up
with the events of the previous night, checked the question on his
lips; and yet he thought, as the officer walked away, it was not
probable. Had James been foolish enough to take part in such a
business, he would either have been taken prisoner, or would, after
he escaped, have returned home. He had evidently not been taken
prisoner, or the officer would have been sure to mention it.

Much puzzled, he walked slowly back to the fishermen. Some of
the boats had already pushed off. He went up to three of the men,
whose boat, being higher up than the rest, would not be afloat for
another quarter of an hour.

"Look here, lads," he said. "My young friend Jim Walsham is
missing this morning, and hasn't been at home all night. As none of
the fishing boats put out in the evening he cannot have gone to
sea. Can any of you tell me anything about him?"

The men gave no answer.

"You need not be afraid of speaking to me, you know," he went
on, "and it's no business of mine whether any of the men on the
shore were concerned in that affair. The lieutenant has just been
telling me of last night; but hearing of that, and finding Jim is
missing, I can't help thinking there is some connection between the
two things. Nothing you say to me will go further, that I can
promise you; but the lad's mother will be in a terrible way. I
can't make it out, for I know that, if he had anything to do with
this smuggling business, he would have told me. Again, if he was
there and got away, he would naturally have come straight home, for
his absence would only throw suspicion upon him."

"Well, Mr. Wilks," the youngest of the sailors said, "I don't
know nothing about it myself. No one does, so far as I know, but I
have heard say this morning as how he was there or thereabouts; but
don't you let out as I told you, 'cause they would want to know who
I heard it from."

"You can rely upon my silence, my lad, and here's half a guinea
to drink my health between you. But can't you tell me a little
more?"

"Well, sir, they do say as how it war Mr. Jim as came running
down into the middle of them on the beach, shouting the alarm, with
the revenue men close at his heels. I don't say as it were
he--likely enough it weren't--but that's the talk, and that's all I
have heared about the matter. How he came for to know of it, or how
he got there, no one knows, for sartin he has had nought to do with
any landings afore. He was a lot among us, but I know as he never
was told about it; for, though everyone would have trusted Jim,
still, seeing how he was placed, with his mother up at the Hall,
and the squire a magistrate, it was thought better as he shouldn't
be let into it. Everyone on the shore here likes Jim."

"But if he was there, and he hasn't been taken prisoner--and I
am sure the lieutenant would have told me if he was--why shouldn't
he have got home?"

"We didn't know as he hadn't got home, did us, Bill?" the
fisherman appealed to one of his comrades.

"No," the other said. "We thought likely he had got safely away
with the rest. It war a dark night, and I expect as everyone was
too busy looking after himself to notice about others."

"He may have been wounded," the old soldier said anxiously, "and
may be in hiding in some house near the place."

The fisherman was silent. Such a thing was, of course,
possible.

"He might that," one of the sailors said doubtfully, "and yet I
don't think it. The chase was a hot one, and I don't think anyone,
wounded so bad as he couldn't make his way home, would have got
away. I should say as it wur more likely as he got on board one of
the boats. It seems to me as though he might have come to warn
us--that is to say, to warn them, I mean--just to do em a good
turn, as he was always ready to do if he had the chance. But he
wouldn't have had anything to do with the scrimmage, and might have
been standing, quiet like, near the boats, when the other lot came
along the shore, and then, seeing as the game was up, he might,
likely enough, have jumped on board and gone off to the
lugger."

"That is possible," Mr. Wilks said. "Anyhow, I will go off at
once, and make inquiries at all the houses within a mile or so of
the landing place."

Chapter 8: Discharged.

Contrary to his usual habits of punctuality, Mr. Wilks did not
return to luncheon at the Hall, and it was two hours later before
he came in, looking fagged and anxious. He had been to all the farm
houses within two miles of the scene of the fight, and had
ascertained, for certain, that Jim was not lying wounded at any of
them. At first, his inquiries had everywhere been coldly received.
There was scarce a farm house near the coast, but the occupants had
relations with the smugglers, assisting with their carts and men at
the landings, or having hiding places where goods could be stowed
away. At first, therefore, all professed entire ignorance of the
events of the previous night; but, when persuaded by the
earnestness of the old soldier's manner that his mission was a
friendly one, they became more communicative, and even owned that
some of their men had been taken prisoners and marched to Weymouth;
but none of them had heard of any wounded man being in hiding.

Convinced, at last, that James must have gone off to the lugger,
Mr. Wilks returned to Sidmouth, a prey to great anxiety. Everything
depended now on whether the lugger was captured. If so, James would
have to stand his trial for being concerned in the fight on the
beach, and, as two of the revenue men had been killed, his sentence
might be a heavy one.

If she got away, all would be well. They would doubtless hear by
letter from Jim, and it would be better that he should not return
at present to Sidmouth, but should at once take up his residence in
London, and commence his studies there.

He met the squire just as the latter was starting for
Sidmouth.

"Well, Wilks, we began to think that you were lost," he said,
cheerfully. "Aggie was downstairs to lunch, and was mightily
offended that you should not be there at her first appearance.

"But you look tired and fagged. Has anything gone wrong?"

"Things have gone very wrong, squire."

And he related to his friend all the news that he had gathered,
and his conviction that James Walsham was on board the lugger.

"This is a pretty kettle of fish," the squire said irritably.
"What on earth did the boy mean by getting himself mixed up with
such an affair as that?"

"It is a foolish business, squire," the old soldier agreed. "But
we can't expect wise heads on young shoulders, I suppose. He,
somehow or other, learnt the surprise which the revenue men
intended, and as most of his friends, the fishermen, would probably
be concerned in it, he went to give them notice, intending, no
doubt, to go quietly back again before the revenue men arrived. I
don't know that he's altogether to be blamed in the matter. Most
young fellows would do the same."

"Well, I suppose they would," the squire agreed reluctantly;
"but it is a most awkward business. If the lad gets caught, and
gets two or three years' imprisonment, it will ruin his prospects
in life. His mother will be broken hearted over the business, and I
am sure Aggie will take it terribly to heart. They were great
friends of old, though she hasn't seen much of him for the last two
or three years, and, of course, that affair of the other day has
made quite a hero of him."

"We must hope the lugger will get safely over to France," his
companion said. "Then no great harm will have been done."

"We must hope so," the squire assented moodily. "Confound the
young jackanapes, turning everything upside down, and upsetting us
all with his mad-brain freaks."

Mrs. Walsham was greatly distressed, when the news was broken to
her by Mr. Wilks, and Aggie cried so that the squire, at last, said
she must go straight up to bed unless she stopped, for she would be
making herself ill again. When she was somewhat pacified, the
matter was discussed in every light, but the only conclusion to be
arrived at was, that their sole hope rested in the hugger getting
safely off.

"Of course, my dear madam," the squire said, "if they are taken
I will do my best to get a pardon for your son. I am afraid he will
have to stand his trial with the rest; but I think that, with the
representations I will make as to his good character, I may get a
mitigation, anyhow, of a sentence. If they find out that it was he
who gave the alarm, there will be no hope of a pardon; but if that
doesn't come out, one would represent his being there as a mere
boyish freak of adventure, and, in that case, I might get him a
free pardon. You must not take the matter too seriously to heart.
It was a foolish business, and that is the worst that can be said
of it."

"I think it was a grand thing," Aggie said indignantly, "for him
to risk being shot, and imprisoned, and all sorts of dreadful
things, just to save other people."

"And I think you are a goose, Aggie," the squire said. "If
everyone were to go and mix themselves up in other people's
business, there would be no end of trouble. I suppose next you will
say that, if you heard me arranging with the constable to make a
capture of some burglars, you would think it a grand thing to put
on your hat to run off to warn them."

"Oh, grandpapa, how can you say such a thing!" the girl said.
"Burglars and smugglers are quite different. Burglars are wicked
men, and thieves and robbers. Smugglers are not, they are only
trying to get goods in without paying duty."

"They try to rob the king, my dear, and in the eyes of the law
are just as criminal as burglars. Both of them are leagued to break
the law, and both will resist and take life if they are interfered
with. I allow that, in general estimation, the smugglers are looked
upon in a more favourable light, and that a great many people, who
ought to know better, are in league with them, but that does not
alter the facts of the case."

The girl did not argue the question, but the squire was
perfectly aware that he had in no way convinced her, and that her
feeling, that James Walsham's action was a highly meritorious one,
was in no way shaken. It was agreed that nothing was to be said
about James's absence, and, after taking some refreshment, Mr.
Wilks went down into Sidmouth again, to tell the girl at Mrs.
Walsham's that she was not to gossip about James being away.

Three days later, a letter was received by the squire from
Richard Horton.

"I am taking the opportunity of writing a few lines to you, my
dear uncle, as I have a chance of sending it ashore by the revenue
cutter Thistle, which is lying alongside of us. Between us, we have
just captured a rascally smuggling lugger, with a cargo of lace,
silk, and spirits. You will, I am sure, be surprised and grieved to
hear that among the crew of the lugger was James Walsham. I could
hardly believe my eyes, when I saw him in such disreputable
company. It will be a sad blow for his poor mother. As we were
short of hands, our captain offered the crew of the lugger the
choice of shipping with us, or being sent on shore for trial. Most
of them chose the former alternative, among them James Walsham, of
which I was glad, as his mother will be spared the disgrace of his
being placed in the dock with his associates. I need not say that
if I could have obtained his release, I should have done so,
knowing that you had a high opinion of him; but it was, of course,
out of my power to interfere."

The squire was alone in his study when he received the letter,
for it was midday before the post arrived at Sidmouth, when a man
from the Hall went down each day, with a bag, to fetch the letters.
He rang the bell, and ordered the servant to tell Mr. Wilks he
should be glad if he would step in to him. When his friend came, he
handed him the letter without a word.

"That settles the matter," he said, as he threw the letter
angrily down upon the table. "A malicious young viper! I wish I had
him here."

"It is not nicely worded," the squire said gravely; "but it was
an unpleasant story to have to tell."

"It was not an unpleasant story for him to tell," the old
soldier said hotly. "There is malice in every line of it. He speaks
of the men as James's associates, talks about the disgrace he would
bring on his mother. There's malice, squire, in every line of
it."

"I'm afraid it's a bad letter," the squire assented gravely.

"It's a natural letter," Mr. Wilks said savagely. "It is written
in a hurry, and he's had no time to pick and choose his words, and
round off his sentences, as he generally does in his letters to
you. He was so full of malicious exultation that he did not think
how much he was showing his feeling, as he wrote."

"It's a bad letter and a nasty letter," the squire assented;
"but let that pass, now. The first question is--How are we to tell
Jim's mother? Do you think it will be a relief to her, or
otherwise?"

"It will be a blow to know that the lugger has been captured,"
Mr. Wilks said--"a severe blow, no doubt, for her escape is what we
have been building our hopes upon. It will be a heavy blow, too,
for her to know that James is a seaman before the mast; that it
will be years before she will see him again, and that all her plans
for his future are upset. But I think this will be much better for
her than if she knew he was a prisoner, and would have to stand a
trial.

"Between ourselves, squire, as far as the lad himself is
concerned, I am not sure that he will be altogether sorry that
events have turned out as they have. In our talks together, he has
often confided to me that his own inclinations were altogether for
a life of activity and adventure; but that, as his mother's heart
was so set upon his following his father's profession, he had
resolved upon never saying a word, to her, which would lead her to
suppose that his own wishes lay in any other direction. This
business will give him the opportunity he has longed for, to see
the world, without his appearing in any way to thwart his mother's
plans."

"At any rate," the squire said, "I am heartily glad he has got
off being tried. Even if I had got a free pardon for him, it would
have been a serious slur upon him that he had been imprisoned, and
would have been awkward for us all in the future. I think, Wilks, I
will leave it to you to break it to his mother."

"Very well," the other agreed. "It is an unpleasant business,
squire; but perhaps I had better do it. It may console her if I
tell her that, at heart, he always wanted to go to sea, and that,
accustomed as he is to knock about in the fishermen's boats, he
will find it no hardship on board a man o' war, and will come back,
in the course of two or three years, none the worse for his cruise.
She may think he will take up doctoring again after that, though I
have my doubts whether he will do that. However, there is no use in
telling her so. Shall I show her that letter, squire?"

"No," the squire replied, "of course you can tell her what's in
it; but I will keep the letter myself. I would give a good deal if
he had not written it. It is certainly badly worded, though why he
should feel any malice, towards the other, is more than I can
tell."

His companion was about to speak, but thought better of it, and,
without another word, went to break the news to Mrs. Walsham.

Mrs. Walsham was terribly upset. After suffering her to cry for
some time in silence, Mr. Wilks said:

"My dear madam, I know that this news must distress you
terribly; but it may be that in this, as in all things, a
providence has overruled your plans for your son, for his own good.
I will tell you now what you would never have known had this affair
never occurred. Jim, at heart, hates his father's profession. He is
a dutiful son and, rather than give you pain, he was prepared to
sacrifice all his own feelings and wishes. But the lad is full of
life and energy. The dull existence of a country surgeon, in a
little town like this, is the last he would adopt as his own
choice; and I own that I am not surprised that a lad of spirit
should long for a more adventurous life. I should have told you
this long ago, and advised you that it would be well for you both
to put it frankly to him that, although you would naturally like to
see him following his father's profession, still that you felt that
he should choose for himself; and that, should he select any other
mode of life, you would not set your wishes against his. But the
lad would not hear of my doing so. He said that, rather than upset
your cherished plans, he would gladly consent to settle down in
Sidmouth for life. I honoured him for his filial spirit; but,
frankly, I think he was wrong. An eagle is not made to live in a
hen coop, nor a spirited lad to settle down in a humdrum village;
and I own that, although I regret the manner of his going, I cannot
look upon it as an unmixed evil, that the force of circumstances
has taken him out of the course marked out for him, and that he
will have an opportunity of seeing life and adventure."

Mrs. Walsham had listened, with a surprise too great to admit of
her interrupting the old soldier's remarks.

"I never dreamed of this," she said at last, when he ceased. "I
cannot remember, now, that I ever asked him, but I took it for
granted that he would like nothing better than to follow in his
father's steps. Had I known that he objected to it, I would not for
a moment have forced him against his inclinations. Of course it is
natural that, being alone in the world, I should like to have him
with me still, but I would never have been so selfish as to have
sacrificed his life to mine. Still, though it would be hard to have
parted from him in any way, it is harder still to part like this.
If he was to go, he need not have gone as a common sailor. The
squire, who has done so much for him, would no doubt, instead of
sending him to school, have obtained a midshipman's berth for him,
or a commission in the army; but it is dreadful to think of him as
a common sailor, liable to be flogged."

"Well, Mrs. Walsham, perhaps we may set the matter partly to
rights. I will speak to the squire, and I am sure he will write to
his friend at the admiralty, and have an order sent out, at once,
for Jim's discharge. At the same time, it would be better that he
should not return here just at present. His name may come out, at
the trial of the smugglers, as being concerned in the affair, and
it would be better that he should stay away, till that matter blows
over. At any rate, if I were you I should write to him, telling him
that you know now that he has no taste for the medical profession,
and that, should he see anything that he thinks will suit him in
America, you would not wish him to come home immediately, if he has
a fancy for staying out there; but that, if he chooses to return,
you are sure that the squire will exert himself, to give him a
start in any other profession he may choose."

Mrs. Walsham agreed to carry out the suggestion and, that
afternoon, the squire sent off a letter to his friend at the
admiralty, and three letters were also posted to James himself.

The voyage of the Thetis was uneventful. Her
destination was Hampton, at the opening of Chesapeake Bay, where
the troops on board would join the expedition under General
Braddock, which was advancing up the Potomac. When she arrived
there, they found several ships of war under Commodore Keppel.
Braddock's force had marched to Wills Creek, where a military post
named Fort Cumberland had been formed. The soldiers on board were
at once disembarked, and marched up the banks of the Potomac to
join the force at Fort Cumberland. The sailors were employed in
taking stores up the river in boats.

James Walsham had done his best, during the voyage, to acquire a
knowledge of his duties. His experience in the fishing boats was
useful to him now, and he was soon able to do his work as an
able-bodied seaman. His good spirits and willingness rendered him a
general favourite. He was glad that he was not put in the same
watch with Richard Horton, as, after their first meeting, the young
lieutenant showed no signs of recognition. He was not, James found,
popular among the men. He was exacting and overbearing with them,
and some on board, who had served with him on his previous voyage,
had many tales to his disadvantage.

A fortnight after the arrival of the Thetis at Hampton,
orders were issued among the ships of war for thirty volunteers for
Braddock's expedition, of which the Thetis was to furnish
ten. So many sent in their names, that the first lieutenant had
difficulty in choosing ten, who were looked upon with envy by the
rest of the ship's company; for there seemed little chance, at
present, of fighting at sea, and the excitement of a march on
shore, with adventures of all sorts, and encounters with the French
and their Indian allies, seemed delightful to the tars.

Upon the following day a ship arrived from England and, an hour
afterwards, an order was passed forward that the first lieutenant
wanted James Walsham upon the quarterdeck.

"Walsham," he said, "an order has just come from the admiralty
for your discharge, and you are to have a passage in the first ship
returning, if you choose to take it. I am sorry you are leaving the
ship, for I have noticed that you show great willingness and
activity, and will make a first-rate sailor. Still, I suppose, your
friends in England did not care about your remaining before the
mast."

James touched his hat and walked forward. He was scarcely
surprised, for he had thought that his mother would probably ask
the squire to use his influence to obtain his discharge. He
scarcely knew whether he was glad or sorry. He was in a false
position, and could not hope for promotion except by some lucky
chance, such as was not likely to occur, of distinguishing
himself.

At the same time, he sighed as he thought that he must now
return and take up the profession for which his mother had intended
him. A quarter of an hour later, however, the ship's corporal came
round and distributed the mails, and James, to his delight, found
there were three letters for him. He tore open that from his
mother. It began by gently upbraiding him for getting himself mixed
up in the fight between the smugglers and the revenue men.

"In the next place, my dear boy," she said, "I must scold you,
even more, for not confiding in your mother as to your wishes about
your future profession. Mr. Wilks has opened my eyes to the fact
that, while I have all along been taking it for granted, that your
wishes agreed with mine as to your profession, you have really been
sacrificing all your own inclinations in order to avoid giving me
pain. I am very thankful to him for having opened my eyes, for I
should have been grieved indeed had I found, when too late, that I
had chained you down to a profession you dislike.

"Of course, I should have liked to have had you with me, but in
no case would have had you sacrifice yourself; still less now, when
I have met with such kind friends, and am happy and comfortable in
my life. Therefore, my boy, let us set aside at once all idea of
your becoming a doctor. There is no occasion for you to choose,
immediately, what you will do. You are too old now to enter the
royal navy, and it is well that, before you finally decide on a
profession, you have the opportunity of seeing something of the
world.

"I inclose bank notes for a hundred pounds so that, if you like,
you can stay for a few weeks or months in the colonies, and then
take your passage home from New York or Boston. By that time, too,
all talk about this affair with the smugglers will have ceased;
but, as your name is likely to come out at the trial of the men who
were taken, so the squire thinks it will be better for you to keep
away, for a time."

The rest of the letter was filled up with an account of the
excitement and alarm which had been felt when he was first
missed.

"We were glad, indeed," she said, "when a letter was received
from Richard Horton, saying that you were on board the
Thetis. Mr. Wilks tells me it was an abominably spiteful
letter, and I am sure the squire thinks so, too, from the tone in
which he spoke this afternoon about his nephew; but I can quite
forgive him, for, if it had not been for his letter, we should not
have known what had become of you, and many months might have
passed before we might have heard from you in America. As it is,
only four or five days have been lost, and the squire is writing
tonight to obtain your discharge, which he assures me there will be
no difficulty whatever about."

The squire's was a very cordial letter, and he, too, enclosed
notes for a hundred pounds.

"Mr. Wilks tells me," he said, "that you do not like the thought
of doctoring. I am not surprised, and I think that a young fellow,
of such spirit and courage as you have shown, ought to be fitted
for something better than administering pills and draughts to the
old women of Sidmouth. Tell me frankly, when you write, what you
would like. You are, of course, too old for the royal navy. If you
like to enter the merchant service, I have no doubt I could arrange
with some shipping firm in Bristol, and would take care that, by
the time you get to be captain, you should also be part owner of
the ship. If, on the other hand, you would like to enter the
army--and it seems to me that there are stirring times
approaching--I think that, through one or other of my friends in
London, I could obtain a commission for you. If there is anything
else you would like better than this, you may command my best
services. I never forget how much I am indebted to you for my
present happiness, and, whatever I can do for you, still shall feel
myself deeply your debtor."

The old soldier wrote a characteristic letter. In the first
place, he told James that he regarded him as a fool, for mixing up
in an affair in which he had no concern whatever. Then he
congratulated him on the fact that circumstances had broken the
chain from which he would never otherwise have freed himself.

"You must not be angry with me," he said, "for having betrayed
your confidence, and told the truth to your mother. I did it in
order to console her, by showing her that things were, after all,
for the best; and I must say that madam took my news in the very
best spirit, and I am sure you will see this by her letter to you.
There is no one I honour and esteem more than I do her, and I was
sure, all along, that you were making a mistake in not telling her
frankly what your wishes were. Now you have got a roving commission
for a time, and it will be your own fault if you don't make the
best of it. There is likely to be an exciting time in the colonies,
and you are not the lad I take you for, if you dawdle away your
time in the towns, instead of seeing what is going on in the
forest."

These letters filled James with delight, and, without an hour's
delay, he sat down to answer them. In his letter to the squire he
thanked him most warmly for his kindness, and said that, above all
things, he should like a commission in the army. He wrote a very
tender and affectionate letter to his mother, telling her how much
he felt her goodness in so promptly relinquishing her own plans,
and in allowing him to choose the life he liked.

"Thank Aggie," he concluded, "for the message she sent by you.
Give her my love, and don't let her forget me."

To the old soldier he wrote a gossipping account of his
voyage.

"It was impossible," he said, "for the news of my discharge to
have come at a better moment. Thirty sailors from the fleet are
going with General Braddock's force, and everyone else is envying
their good luck--I among them. Now I shall go up, at once, and join
the Virginian regiment which is accompanying them. I shall join
that, instead of either of the line regiments, as I can leave when
I like. Besides, if the squire is able to get me a commission, it
would have been pleasanter for me to have been fighting here as a
volunteer, than as a private in the line.

"By the way, nobody thinks there will be much fighting, so don't
let my mother worry herself about me; but, at any rate, a march
through the great forests of this country, with a chance of a brush
with the redskins, will be great fun. Perhaps, by the time it is
over, I may get a letter from you saying that I have got my
commission. As I hear there is a chance of a regular war between
the French and us out here, the commission may be for a regiment on
this side."

After finishing his letters, and giving them to the ship's
corporal to place in the next post bag, James said goodbye to his
messmates, and prepared to go on shore. The ten men chosen for the
expedition were also on the point of starting. Richard Horton was
standing near, in a state of great discontent that he had not been
chosen to accompany them in their expedition. James Walsham stepped
up to him, and touched his hat respectfully.

"I wish to thank you, Lieutenant Horton, for your extremely kind
letter, telling my friends that I was on board this ship. It has
been the means of my obtaining my discharge at once, instead of
having to serve, for many months, before I could send the news home
and obtain an answer in return."

Without another word he turned and, walking to the gangway, took
his place in a boat about starting with some sailors for the shore,
leaving Richard Horton in a state of fury, with himself, for having
been the means of obtaining James's discharge. He had already, more
than once, felt uncomfortable as he thought of the wording of the
letter; and that this indulgence of his spite had had the effect of
restoring James's liberty, rendered him well-nigh mad with
rage.

On landing, James Walsham at once disposed of his sailor's
clothes, and purchased a suit similar to those worn by the
colonists; then he obtained a passage up the river to Alexandria,
where the transports which had brought the troops were still lying.
Here, one of the companies of the Virginia corps was stationed, and
James, finding that they were expecting, every day, to be ordered
up to Wills Creek, determined to join them at once.

The scene was a busy one. Stores were being landed from the
transports, teamsters were loading up their waggons, officers were
superintending the operations, the men of the Virginia corps, who
wore no uniform, but were attired in the costume used by hunters
and backwoodsmen; namely, a loose hunting shirt, short trousers or
breeches, and gaiters; were moving about unconcernedly, while a few
of them, musket on shoulder, were on guard over the piles of
stores.

Presently a tall, slightly-built young man, with a pleasant but
resolute face, came riding along, and checked his horse close to
where James was standing. James noticed that the men on sentry, who
had, for the most part, been sitting down on fallen logs of wood,
bales, or anything else which came handy; with their muskets across
their knees, or leaning beside them; got up and began pacing to and
fro, with some semblance of military position.

"Who is that young man?" he asked a teamster standing by.

"That is Colonel Washington," the man replied, "one of the
smartest of the colonial officers."

"Why, he only looks two or three and twenty," James said in
surprise.

"He is not more than that," the man said; "but age don't go for
much here, and Colonel Washington is adjutant general of the
Virginian militia. Only a few months back, he made a journey with
despatches, right through the forests to the French station at Port
de Beuf, and, since then, he has been in command of the party which
went out to build a fort, at the forks of the Ohio, and had some
sharp fighting with the French. A wonderful smart young officer
they say he is, just as cool, when the bullets are flying, as if
sitting on horseback."

James resolved, at once, that he would speak to Colonel
Washington, and ask him if he could join the Virginian militia. He
accordingly went up to him, and touched his hat.

"If you please, sir, I am anxious to join the Virginian militia,
and, as they tell me that you are adjutant general, I have come to
ask you if I can do so."

"I see no difficulty in it, my lad," the colonel said; "but if
you have run away from home, in search of adventure, I should
advise you to go back again, for we are likely to have heavy
work."

"I don't mind that, sir, and I have not run away. I am English.
I was pressed on board a frigate, and was brought over here, but my
friends in England procured my discharge, which came for me here, a
fortnight after my arrival. They are, I believe, about to obtain
for me a commission in a king's regiment; but, as I was here, I
thought that I should like to see some service, as it may be some
months before I hear that I have got my commission. I would rather
if I could join as a volunteer, as I do not want pay, my friends
having supplied me amply with money."

"You seem to be a lad of spirit," Colonel Washington said, "and
I will at once put you in the way of doing what you desire. You
shall join the Virginian corps as a volunteer. Have you money
enough to buy a horse?"

"Yes, plenty," Jim said. "I have two hundred pounds."

"Then you had better leave a hundred and fifty, at least, behind
you," the colonel said. "I will direct you to a trader here, with
whom you can bank it. You can get an excellent horse for twenty
pounds. I asked you because, if you like, I can attach you to
myself. I often want a mounted messenger; and, of course, as a
volunteer, you would mess with me."

"I should like it above all things," James said thankfully.

"Then we will at once go to the tent of the officer commanding
this company," Washington said, "and enroll you as a
volunteer."

On reaching the tent, Washington dismounted and led the way
in.

"Captain Hall," he said, "this is a young English gentleman, who
will shortly have a commission in the king's army, but, in the
meantime, he wishes to see a little brisk fighting, so he is to be
enrolled as a volunteer in your company; but he is going to obtain
a horse, and will act as a sort of aide-de-camp to me."

Captain Hall at once entered James's name as a volunteer on the
roll of his company.

"Do you know of anyone who has a good horse for sale?"
Washington asked.

"Yes," the captain replied, "at least, there was a farmer here
half an hour ago with a good-looking horse which he wants to sell.
I have no doubt he is in the camp, still."

Captain Hall went to the door of the tent, and told two of the
men there to find the farmer, and tell him he had a purchaser for
his horse.

Ten minutes later the farmer came up, and James bought the
horse, Captain Hall doing the bargaining for him.

"Now," Washington said, "we will go round to the storekeeper I
spoke of, and deposit the best part of your money with him. I
should only take a pound or two, if I were you, for you will find
no means of spending money when you once set forward, and, should
anything happen to you, the Indians would not appreciate the value
of those English notes of yours. You will want a brace of pistols
and a sword, a blanket, and cooking pot--that is about the extent
of your camp equipment."

Chapter 9: The Defeat Of Braddock.

England and France were, at this time, at peace in Europe,
although the troops of both nations were about to engage in
conflict, in the forests of America. Their position there was an
anomalous one. England owned the belt of colonies on the east
coast. France was mistress of Canada in the north, of Louisiana in
the south, and, moreover, claimed the whole of the vast country
lying behind the British colonies, which were thus cooped up on the
seaboard. Her hold, however, of this great territory was extremely
slight. She had strong posts along the chain of lakes from the
Saint Lawrence to Lake Superior, but between these and Louisiana,
her supremacy was little more than nominal.

The Canadian population were frugal and hardy, but they were
deficient in enterprise; and the priests, who ruled them with a rod
of iron, for Canada was intensely Catholic, discouraged any
movements which would take their flocks from under their charge.
Upon the other hand, the colonists of New England, Pennsylvania,
and Virginia were men of enterprise and energy, and their traders,
pushing in large numbers across the Alleghenies, carried on an
extensive trade with the Indians in the valley of the Ohio, thereby
greatly exciting the jealousy of the French, who feared that the
Indians would ally themselves with the British colonists, and that
the connection between Canada and Louisiana would be thereby
cut.

The English colonists were greatly superior to the French in
number; but they laboured under the disadvantage that the colonies
were wholly independent of each other, with strong mutual
jealousies, which paralysed their action and prevented their
embarking upon any concerted operations. Upon the other hand,
Canada was governed by the French as a military colony. The
governor was practically absolute, and every man capable of bearing
arms could, if necessary, be called by him into the field. He had
at his disposal not only the wealth of the colony, but large
assistance from France, and the French agents were, therefore, able
to outbid the agents of the British colonies with the Indians.

For years there had been occasional troubles between the New
England States and the French, the latter employing the Indians in
harassing the border; but, until the middle of the eighteenth
century, there had been nothing like a general trouble. In 1749 the
Marquis of Galissoniere was governor general of Canada. The treaty
of Aix la Chapelle had been signed; but this had done nothing to
settle the vexed question of the boundaries between the English and
French colonies. Meanwhile, the English traders from Pennsylvania
and Virginia were poaching on the domain which France claimed as
hers, ruining the French fur trade, and making friends with the
Indian allies of Canada. Worse still, farmers were pushing westward
and settling in the valley of the Ohio.

In order to drive these back, to impress the natives with the
power of France, and to bring them back to their allegiance, the
governor of Canada, in the summer of 1749, sent Celoron de
Bienville. He had with him fourteen officers, twenty French
soldiers, a hundred and eighty Canadians, and a band of Indians.
They embarked in twenty-three birch-bark canoes, and, pushing up
the Saint Lawrence, reached Lake Ontario, stopping for a time at
the French fort of Frontenac, and avoiding the rival English port
of Oswego on the southern shore, where a trade in beaver skins,
disastrous to French interests, was being carried on, for the
English traders sold their goods at vastly lower prices than those
which the French had charged.

On the 6th of July the party reached Niagara, where there was a
small French fort, and thence, carrying their canoes round the
cataract, launched them upon Lake Erie. Landing again on the
southern shore of the lake, they carried their canoes nine miles
through the forest to Chautauqua Lake, and then dropped down the
stream running out of it until they reached the Ohio. The fertile
country here was inhabited by the Delawares, Shawanoes, Wyandots,
and Iroquois, or Indians of the Five Nations, who had migrated
thither from their original territories in the colony of New York.
Further west, on the banks of the Miami, the Wabash, and other
streams, was a confederacy of the Miami and their kindred tribes.
Still further west, in the country of the Illinois, near the
Mississippi, the French had a strong stone fort called Fort
Chartres, which formed one of the chief links of the chain of posts
that connected Quebec with New Orleans.

The French missionaries and the French political agents had, for
seventy years, laboured hard to bring these Indian tribes into
close connection with France. The missionaries had failed signally;
but the presents, so lavishly bestowed, had inclined the tribes to
the side of their donors, until the English traders with their
cheap goods came pushing west over the Alleghenies. They carried
their goods on the backs of horses, and journeyed from village to
village, selling powder, rum, calicoes, beads, and trinkets. No
less than three hundred men were engaged in these enterprises, and
some of them pushed as far west as the Mississippi.

As the party of Celoron proceeded they nailed plates of tin,
stamped with the arms of France, to trees; and buried plates of
lead near them, with inscriptions saying that they took possession
of the land in the name of Louis the Fifteenth, King of France.

Many of the villages were found to be deserted by the natives,
who fled at their approach. At some, however, they found English
traders, who were warned at once to leave the country; and, by some
of them, letters were sent to the governor of Pennsylvania, in
which Celoron declared that he was greatly surprised to find
Englishmen trespassing in the domain of France, and that his orders
were precise, to leave no foreign traders within the limits of the
government of Canada.

At Chiningue, called Logstown by the English, a large number of
natives were gathered, most of the inhabitants of the deserted
villages having sought refuge there. The French were received with
a volley of balls from the shore; but they landed without replying
to the fire, and hostilities were avoided. The French kept guard
all night, and in the morning Celoron invited the chiefs to a
council, when he told them he had come, by the order of the
governor, to open their eyes to the designs of the English against
their lands, and that they must be driven away at once. The reply
of the chiefs was humble; but they begged that the English traders,
of whom there were, at that moment, ten in the town, might stay a
little longer, since the goods they brought were necessary to
them.

After making presents to the chiefs, the party proceeded on
their way, putting up the coats of arms and burying the lead
inscriptions. At Scioto a large number of Indians were assembled,
and the French were very apprehensive of an attack, which would
doubtless have been disastrous to them, as the Canadians of the
party were altogether unused to war. A council was held, however,
at which Celoron could obtain no satisfaction whatever, for the
interests of the Indians were bound up with the English.

There can be no doubt that, had they been able to look into the
future, every Indian on the continent would have joined the French
in their effort to crush the English colonies. Had France remained
master of America the Indians might, even now, be roaming free and
unmolested on the lands of their forefathers. France is not a
colonizing nation. She would have traded with the Indians, would
have endeavoured to Christianize them, and would have left them
their land and freedom, well satisfied with the fact that the flag
of France should wave over so vast an extent of country; but on
England conquering the soil, her armies of emigrants pressed west,
and the red man is fast becoming extinct on the continent of which
he was once the lord.

Celoron's expedition sailed down the Ohio until it reached the
mouth of the Miami, and toiled for thirteen days against its
shallow current, until they reached a village of the Miami Indians,
ruled over by a chief called, by the French, La Demoiselle, but
whom the English, whose fast friend he was, called Old Britain. He
was the great chief of the Miami confederation.

The English traders there withdrew at the approach of the
French. The usual council was held, and Celoron urged the chief to
remove from this location, which he had but newly adopted, and to
take up his abode, with his band, near the French fort on the
Maumee. The chief accepted the Frenchman's gifts, thanked him for
his good advice, and promised to follow it at a more convenient
time; but neither promises nor threats could induce him to stir at
once.

No sooner, indeed, had the French departed, than the chief
gathered the greater part of the members of the confederation on
that spot; until, in less than two years after the visit of
Celoron, its population had increased eightfold, and it became one
of the greatest Indian towns of the west, and the centre of English
trade and influence.

Celoron reached Miami, and then returned northward to Lake Erie,
and thence back to Montreal, when he reported to the governor that
English influence was supreme in the valley of the Ohio.

In the following year, a company was formed in Virginia for
effecting a settlement in Ohio, and a party proceeded west to the
village of the chief called Old Britain, by whom they were received
with great friendship, and a treaty of peace was solemnly made
between the English and the Indians. While the festivities,
consequent on the affair, were going on, four Ottawa Indians
arrived from the French, with the French flag and gifts, but they
were dismissed with an answer of defiance. If, at this time, the
colonists could have cemented their alliance with the Indians, with
gifts similar to those with which the French endeavoured to
purchase their friendship, a permanent peace with the Indians might
have been established; but the mutual jealousies of the colonies,
and the nature of the various colonial assemblies, rendered any
common action impossible. Pennsylvania was jealous of the westward
advance of Virginia, and desired to thwart rather than to assist
her.

The governors of New York, Pennsylvania, and Virginia were fully
conscious of the importance of the Indian alliance, but they could
do nothing without their assemblies. Those of New York and
Pennsylvania were largely composed of tradesmen and farmers,
absorbed in local interests, and animated but by two motives; the
cutting down of all expenditure, and bitter and continuous
opposition to the governor, who represented the royal authority.
Virginia and Pennsylvania quarrelled about their respective rights
over the valley of the Ohio. The assembly of New York refused to
join in any common action, saying, "We will take care of our
Indians, and they may take care of theirs."

The states further removed from the fear of any danger, from the
action of the Indians and French, were altogether lukewarm.

Thus, neither in the valley of the Ohio, nor on the boundaries
of the New England states, did the Indians receive their promised
gifts, and, as the French agents were liberal both in presents and
promises, the Indians became discontented with their new friends,
and again turned their eyes towards France. Old Britain, however,
remained firm in his alliance; and the English traders, by constant
presents, and by selling their goods at the lowest possible rates,
kept him and his warriors highly satisfied and contented.

The French, in vain, tried to stir up the friendly tribes to
attack Oswego on Lake Ontario, and the village of Old Britain,
which were the two centres to which the Indians went to trade with
the English; but they were unsuccessful until, in June, 1752,
Charles Langlade, a young French trader, married to a squaw at
Green Bay, and strong in influence with the tribes of that region,
came down the lakes with a fleet of canoes, manned by two hundred
and fifty Ottawa and Ojibwa warriors. They stopped awhile at the
fort at Detroit, then paddled up the Maumee to the next fort, and
thence marched through the forests against the Miamis.

They approached Old Britain's village in the morning. Most of
the Indians were away on their summer hunt, and there were but
eight English traders in the place. Three of these were caught
outside the village, the remaining five took refuge in the
fortified warehouse they had built, and there defended
themselves.

Old Britain and the little band with him fought bravely, but
against such overwhelming numbers could do nothing, and fourteen of
them, including their chief, were killed. The five white men
defended themselves till the afternoon, when two of them managed to
make their escape, and the other three surrendered. One of them was
already wounded, and was at once killed by the French Indians.
Seventy years of the teaching of the French missionaries had not
weaned the latter from cannibalism, and Old Britain was boiled and
eaten.

The Marquis of Duquesne, who had succeeded Galissoniere as
governor, highly praised Langlade for the enterprise, and
recommended him to the minister at home for reward. This bold
enterprise further shook the alliance of the Indians with the
English, for it seemed to them that the French were enterprising
and energetic, while the English were slothful and cowardly, and
neglected to keep their agreements. The French continued to build
forts, and Dinwiddie, governor of Virginia, sent George Washington
to protest, in his name, against their building forts on land
notoriously belonging to the English crown.

Washington performed the long and toilsome journey through the
forests at no slight risks, and delivered his message at the forts,
but nothing came of it. The governor of Virginia, seeing the
approaching danger, made the greatest efforts to induce the other
colonies to join in common action; but North Carolina, alone,
answered the appeal, and gave money enough to raise three or four
hundred men. Two independent companies maintained by England in New
York, and one in South Carolina, received orders to march to
Virginia. The governor had raised, with great difficulty, three
hundred men. They were called the Virginia Regiment. An English
gentleman named Joshua Fry was appointed the colonel, and
Washington their major.

Fry was at Alexandria, on the Potomac, with half the regiment.
Washington, with the other half, had pushed forward to the
storehouse at Wills Creek, which was to form the base of
operations. Besides these, Captain Trent, with a band of
backwoodsmen, had crossed the mountain to build a fort at the forks
of the Ohio, where Pittsburgh now stands.

Trent had gone back to Wills Creek, leaving Ensign Ward, with
forty men, at work upon the fort, when, on the 17th of April, a
swarm of canoes came down the Allegheny, with over five hundred
Frenchmen, who planted cannon against the unfinished stockade, and
summoned the ensign to surrender. He had no recourse but to submit,
and was allowed to depart, with his men, across the mountains.

The French at once set to, to build a strong fort, which they
named Fort Duquesne. While the governor of Virginia had been
toiling, in vain, to get the colonists to move, the French had
acted promptly, and the erection of their new fort at once covered
their line of communication to the west, barred the advance of the
English down the Ohio valley, and secured the allegiance of all the
wavering Indian tribes.

Although war had not yet been declared between England and
France, the colonists, after this seizure, by French soldiers, of a
fort over which the English flag was flying, henceforth acted as if
the two powers were at war. Washington moved forward from Wills
Creek with his hundred and fifty men, and surprised a French force
which had gone out scouting. Several of the French were killed, and
the commander of Fort Duquesne sent despatches to France to say
that he had sent this party out with a communication to Washington,
and that they had been treacherously assassinated.

This obscure skirmish was the commencement of a war which set
two continents on fire. Colonel Fry died a few days after this
fight, and Washington succeeded to the command of the regiment, and
collected his three hundred men at Green Meadow, where he was
joined by a few Indians, and by a company from South Carolina.

The French at Duquesne were quickly reinforced, and the command
was given to Coulon de Villiers, the brother of an officer who had
been killed in the skirmish with Washington. He at once advanced
against the English, who had fallen back to a rough breastwork
which they called Fort Necessity, Washington having but four
hundred men, against five hundred French and as many Indians.

For nine hours the French kept up a hot fire on the
intrenchment, but without success, and at nightfall Villiers
proposed a parley. The French ammunition was running short, the men
were fatigued by their marches, and drenched by the rain which had
been falling the whole day. The English were in a still worse
plight. Their powder was nearly spent, their guns were foul, and
among them they had but two cleaning rods.

After a parley, it was agreed that the English should march off
with drums beating and the honours of war, carrying with them all
their property; that the prisoners taken in the previous affair
should be set free, two officers remaining with the French as
hostages until they were handed over.

Washington and his men arrived, utterly worn out with fatigue
and famine, at Wills Creek. This action left the French masters of
the whole country beyond the Alleghenies.

The two mother nations were now preparing for war, and, in the
middle of January, 1755, Major General Braddock, with the 44th and
48th Regiments, each five hundred strong, sailed from Cork for
Virginia; while the French sent eighteen ships of war and six
battalions to Canada.

Admiral Boscawen, with eleven ships of the line and one frigate,
set out to intercept the French expedition. The greater part of the
fleet evaded him, but he came up with three of the French men of
war, opened fire upon them, and captured them. Up to this time a
pretence of negotiations had been maintained between England and
France, but the capture of the French ships brought the
negotiations to a sudden end, and the war began.

A worse selection than that of Major General Braddock could
hardly have been made. He was a brave officer and a good soldier,
but he was rough, coarse, and obstinate. He utterly despised the
colonial troops, and regarded all methods of fighting, save those
pursued by regular armies in the field, with absolute contempt. To
send such a man to command troops destined to fight in thick
forests, against an enemy skilled in warfare of that kind, was to
court defeat.

As might be expected, Braddock was very soon on the worst
possible terms with the whole of the colonial authorities, and the
delays caused by the indecision or obstinacy of the colonial
assemblies chafed him to madness. At last, however, his force was
assembled at Wills Creek. The two English regiments had been
raised, by enlistment in Virginia, to 700 men each. There were nine
Virginian companies of fifty men, and the thirty sailors lent by
Commodore Keppel. General Braddock had three aides-de-camp--Captain
Robert Orme, Captain Roger Morris, and Colonel George
Washington.

It was the 1st of June, when James Walsham rode with Colonel
Washington into the camp, and, three days later, the last companies
of the Virginian corps marched in. During the next week, some of
the English officers attempted to drill the Virginians in the
manner of English troops.

"It is a waste of time," Colonel Washington said to James, one
day, when he was watching them, "and worse. These men can fight
their own way. Most of them are good shots, and have a fair idea of
forest fighting; let them go their own way, and they can be trusted
to hold their own against at least an equal number of French and
Indians; but they would be hopelessly at sea if they were called
upon to fight like English regulars. Most likely the enemy will
attack us in the forest, and what good will forming in line, or
wheeling on a flank, or any of the things which the general is
trying to drum into their heads, do to them? If the French are
foolish enough to wait at Fort Duquesne until we arrive, I have no
doubt we shall beat them, but if they attack us in the woods it
will go hard with us."

During the ten days which elapsed between his arrival and the
start, James was kept hard at work, being for the most part
employed galloping up and down the road, urging up the waggoners,
and bringing back reports as to their position and progress. On the
10th of June the army started; 300 axemen led the way, cutting and
clearing the road; the long train of pack horses, waggons, and
cannon followed; the troops marched in the forest on either side,
while men were thrown out on the flanks, and scouts ranged the
woods to guard against surprise.

The road was cut but twelve feet wide, and the line of march
often extended four miles. Thus, day by day they toiled on,
crossing the Allegheny Mountains, range after range; now plunging
down into a ravine, now ascending a ridge, but always in the deep
shadow of the forest. A few of the enemy hovered round them,
occasionally killing a straggler who fell behind.

On the 18th of June, the army reached a place called the Little
Meadows. So weak were the horses, from want of forage, that the
last marches had been but three miles a day, and, upon Washington's
advice, Braddock determined to leave the heavy baggage here, with
the sick men and a strong guard under Colonel Dunbar; while he
advanced with 1200 men, besides officers and drivers.

But the progress was still no more than three miles a day, and
it was not until the 7th of July that they arrived within eight
miles of the French fort. Between them lay, however, an extremely
difficult country with a narrow defile, and Braddock determined to
ford the Monongahela, and then cross it again lower down.

The garrison of Fort Duquesne consisted of a few companies of
regular troops, some hundreds of Canadians, and 800 Indian
warriors. They were kept informed, by the scouts, of the progress
of the English, and, when the latter approached the Monongahela, a
party under Captain Beaujeu set out to meet them. His force
consisted of 637 Indians, 100 French officers and soldiers, and 146
Canadians, in all about 900 men.

At one o'clock in the day, Braddock crossed the Monongahela for
the second time. The troops had, all the day, been expecting the
attack and had prepared for it. At the second ford the army marched
in martial order, with music playing and flags flying. Once across
the river they halted for a short time, and then again continued
their advance.

Braddock made every disposition for preventing a surprise.
Several guides, with six Virginian light horsemen, led the way.
Then came the advanced column, consisting of 300 soldiers under
Gage, and a large body of axemen, under Sir John Sinclair, with two
cannon. The main body followed close behind. The artillery and
waggons moved along the road, the troops marched through the woods
on either hand, numerous flanking parties were thrown out a hundred
yards or more right and left, and, in the space between them and
the line of troops, the pack horses and cattle made their way, as
they best could, among the trees.

Beaujeu had intended to place his men in ambuscade at the ford,
but, owing to various delays caused by the Indians, he was still a
mile away from the ford when the British crossed. He was marching
forward when he came suddenly upon the little party of guides and
Virginian light horsemen. These at once fell back. The Indians
raised their war whoop, and, spreading right and left among the
trees, opened a sharp fire upon the British.

Gage's column wheeled deliberately into line, and fired volley
after volley, with great steadiness, at the invisible opponents.
The greater part of the Canadians bolted at once, but the Indians
kept up their fire from behind the shelter of the trees. Gage
brought up his two cannon and opened fire, and the Indians, who had
a horror of artillery, began also to fall back.

The English advanced in regular lines, cheering loudly. Beaujeu
fell dead; but Captain Dumas, who succeeded him in command,
advanced at the head of his small party of French soldiers, and
opened a heavy fire.

The Indians, encouraged by the example, rallied and again came
forward, and, while the French regulars and the few Canadians who
had not fled held the ground in front of the column, the Indians
swarmed through the forests along both flanks of the English, and
from behind trees, bushes, and rocks opened a withering fire upon
them. The troops, bewildered and amazed by the fire poured into
them by an invisible foe, and by the wild war whoops of the
Indians, ceased to advance, and, standing close together, poured
fruitlessly volley after volley into the surrounding forest.

On hearing the firing, Braddock, leaving 400 men in the rear
under Sir Peter Halket, to guard the baggage, advanced with the
main body to support Gage; but, just as he came up, the soldiers,
appalled by the fire which was mowing them down in scores,
abandoned their cannon and fell back in confusion. This threw the
advancing force into disorder, and the two regiments became mixed
together, massed in several dense bodies within a small space of
ground, facing some one way and some another, all alike exposed,
without shelter, to the hail of bullets.

Men and officers were alike new to warfare like this. They had
been taught to fight in line against solid masses of the enemy, and
against an invisible foe like the present they were helpless. The
Virginians alone were equal to the emergency. They at once adopted
their familiar forest tactics, and, taking their post behind trees,
began to fight the Indians in their own way.

Had Braddock been a man of judgment and temper, the fortunes of
the day might yet have been retrieved, for the Virginians could
have checked the Indians until the English troops were rallied and
prepared to meet the difficulty; but, to Braddock, the idea of men
fighting behind trees was at once cowardly and opposed to all
military discipline, and he dashed forward on his horse, and with
fierce oaths ordered the Virginians to form line. A body of them,
however, under Captain Waggoner, made a dash for a huge fallen
tree, far out towards the lurking places of the Indians, and,
crouching behind it, opened fire upon them; but the regulars,
seeing the smoke among the bushes, took them for the enemy and,
firing, killed many and forced the rest to return.

A few of the soldiers tried to imitate the Indians, and fight
behind the trees, but Braddock beat them back with the flat of his
sword, and forced them to stand with the others, who were now
huddled in a mass, forming a target for the enemy's bullets.
Lieutenant Colonel Burton led 100 of them towards a knoll from
which the puffs came thickest, but he fell wounded, and his men, on
whom the enemy instantly concentrated their fire, fell back. The
soldiers, powerless against the unseen foe, for afterwards some of
the officers and men who escaped declared that, throughout the
whole fight, they had not seen a single Indian, discharged their
guns aimlessly among the trees.

They were half stupefied now with the terror and confusion of
the scene, the rain of bullets, the wild yells which burst
ceaselessly from their 600 savage foemen; while the horses, wild
with terror and wounds, added to the confusion by dashing madly
hither and thither. Braddock behaved with furious intrepidity. He
dashed hither and thither, shouting and storming at the men, and
striving to get them in order, and to lead them to attack the
enemy. Four horses were, one after the other, shot under him. His
officers behaved with equal courage and self devotion, and in vain
attempted to lead on the men, sometimes advancing in parties
towards the Indians, in hopes that the soldiers would follow them.
Sir Peter Halket was killed, Horne and Morris, the two
aides-de-camp, Sinclair the quartermaster general, Gates, Gage, and
Gladwin were wounded. Of 86 officers, 63 were killed or disabled,
while of non-commissioned officers and privates only 459 came off
unharmed.

James Walsham had been riding by the side of Washington when the
fight began, and followed him closely as he galloped among the
troops, trying to rally and lead them forward. Washington's horse
was pierced by a ball and, staggering, fell. James leaped from his
horse and gave it to the colonel, and then, seeing that there was
nothing for him to do, withdrew a short distance from the crowd of
soldiers, and crouched down between the trunks of two great trees
growing close to each other; one of which protected him, for the
most part, from the fire of the Indians, and the other from the not
less dangerous fire of the English. Presently, seeing a soldier
fall at a short distance from him, he ran out and picked up his
musket and cartridge box, and began to fire at the bushes where the
puffs of smoke showed that men were in hiding.

After three hours' passive endurance of this terrible fire,
Braddock, seeing that all was lost, commanded a retreat, and he and
such officers as were left strove to draw off the soldiers in some
semblance of order; but at this moment a bullet struck him, and,
passing through his arm, penetrated his lungs, and he fell from his
horse. He demanded to be left where he lay, but Captain Stewart of
the Virginians, and one of his men, bore him between them to the
rear.

The soldiers had now spent all their ammunition, and, no longer
kept in their places by their general, broke away in a wild panic.
Washington's second horse had now been shot, and as, trying to
check the men, he passed the trees where James had taken up his
position, the latter joined him.

In vain Washington and his other officers tried to rally the men
at the ford. They dashed across it, wild with fear, leaving their
wounded comrades, cannon, baggage, and military chest a prey to the
Indians.

Fortunately, only about fifty of the Indians followed as far as
the ford, the rest being occupied in killing the wounded and
scalping the dead. Dumas, who had now but twenty Frenchmen left,
fell back to the fort, and the remnants of Braddock's force
continued the flight unmolested.

Chapter 10: The Fight At Lake George.

Fortunate was it, for the remnant of Braddock's force, that the
Indians were too much occupied in gathering the abundant harvest of
scalps, too anxious to return to the fort to exhibit these trophies
of their bravery, to press on in pursuit; for, had they done so,
few indeed of the panic-stricken fugitives would ever have lived to
tell the tale. All night these continued their flight, expecting
every moment to hear the dreaded war whoop burst out again in the
woods round them.

Colonel Washington had been ordered, by the dying general, to
press on on horseback to the camp of Dunbar, and to tell him to
forward waggons, provisions, and ammunition; but the panic, which
had seized the main force, had already been spread by flying
teamsters to Dunbar's camp. Many soldiers and waggoners at once
took flight, and the panic was heightened when the remnants of
Braddock's force arrived. There was no reason to suppose that they
were pursued, and even had they been so, their force was ample to
repel any attack that could be made upon it; but probably their
commander saw that, in their present state of utter demoralization,
they could not be trusted to fight, and that the first Indian war
whoop would start them again in flight. Still, it was clear that a
retreat would leave the whole border open to the ravages of the
Indians, and Colonel Dunbar was greatly blamed for the course he
took.

A hundred waggons were burned, the cannon and shells burst, and
the barrels of powder emptied into the stream, the stores of
provisions scattered through the woods, and then the force began
its retreat over the mountains to Fort Cumberland, sixty miles
away. General Braddock died the day that the retreat began. His
last words were:

"We shall know better how to deal with them next time."

The news of the disaster came like a thunderbolt upon the
colonists. Success had been regarded as certain, and the news that
some fourteen hundred English troops had been utterly routed, by a
body of French and Indians of half their strength, seemed almost
incredible. The only consolation was that the hundred and fifty
Virginians, who had accompanied the regulars, had all, as was
acknowledged by the English officers themselves, fought with the
greatest bravery, and had kept their coolness and presence of mind
till the last, and that on them no shadow of the discredit of the
affair rested. Indeed, it was said that the greater part were
killed not by the fire of the Indians, but by that of the troops,
who, standing in masses, fired in all directions, regardless of
what was in front of them.

But Colonel Dunbar, not satisfied with retreating to the safe
shelter of Fort Cumberland, to the amazement of the colonists,
insisted upon withdrawing with his own force to Philadelphia,
leaving the whole of the frontier open to the assaults of the
hostile Indians. After waiting a short time at Philadelphia, he
marched slowly on to join a force operating against the French in
the region of Lake George, more than two hundred miles to the
north. He took with him only the regulars, the provincial regiments
being under the control of the governors of their own states.

Washington therefore remained behind in Virginia with the
regiment of that colony. The blanks made in Braddock's fight were
filled up, and the force raised to a thousand strong. With these he
was to protect a frontier of three hundred and fifty miles long,
against an active and enterprising foe more numerous than himself,
and who, acting on the other side of the mountain, and in the shade
of the deep forests, could choose their own time of attack, and
launch themselves suddenly upon any village throughout the whole
length of the frontier.

Nor were the troops at his disposal the material which a
commander would wish to have in his hand. Individually they were
brave, but being recruited among the poor whites, the most
turbulent and troublesome part of the population, they were wholly
unamenable to discipline, and Washington had no means whatever for
enforcing it. He applied to the House of Assembly to pass a law
enabling him to punish disobedience, but for months they hesitated
to pass any such ordinance, on the excuse that it would trench on
the liberty of free white men.

The service, indeed, was most unpopular, and Washington, whose
headquarters were at Winchester, could do nothing whatever to
assist the settlements on the border. His officers were as unruly
as the men, and he was further hampered by having to comply with
the orders of Governor Dinwiddie, at Williamsburg, two hundred
miles away.

"What do you mean to do?" he had asked James Walsham, the day
that the beaten army arrived at Fort Cumberland.

"I do not know," James said. "I certainly will not continue with
Dunbar, who seems to me to be acting like a coward; nor do I wish
to go into action with regulars again; not, at least, until they
have been taught that, if they are to fight Indians successfully in
the forests, they must abandon all their traditions of drill, and
must fight in Indian fashion. I should like to stay with you, if
you will allow me."

"I should be very glad to have you with me," Washington said;
"but I do not think that you will see much action here. It will be
a war of forays. The Indians will pounce upon a village or solitary
farm house, murder and scalp the inhabitants, burn the buildings to
the ground, and in an hour be far away beyond reach of pursuit. All
that I can do is to occupy the chief roads, by which they can
advance into the heart of the colony, and the people of the
settlements lying west of that must, perforce, abandon their
homesteads, and fly east until we are strong enough to again take
up the offensive.

"Were I in your place, I would at once take horse and ride
north. You will then be in plenty of time, if inclined, to join in
the expedition against the French on Fort George, or in that which
is going to march on Niagara. I fancy the former will be ready
first. You will find things better managed there than here. The
colonists in that part have, for many years, been accustomed to
Indian fighting, and they will not be hampered by having regular
troops with them, whose officers' only idea of warfare is to keep
their men standing in line as targets for the enemy.

"There are many bodies of experienced scouts, to which you can
attach yourself, and you will see that white men can beat the
Indians at their own game."

Although sorry to leave the young Virginian officer, James
Walsham thought that he could not do better than follow his advice,
and accordingly, the next day, having procured another horse, he
set off to join the column destined to operate on the lakes.

The prevision of Washington was shortly realized, and a cloud of
red warriors descended on the border settlements, carrying murder,
rapine, and ruin before them. Scores of quiet settlements were
destroyed, hundreds of men, women, and children massacred, and in a
short time the whole of the outlying farms were deserted, and
crowds of weeping fugitives flocked eastward behind the line held
by Washington's regiment.

But bad as affairs were in Virginia, those in Pennsylvania were
infinitely worse. They had, for many years, been on such friendly
terms with the Indians, that many of the settlers had no arms, nor
had they the protection in the way of troops which the government
of Virginia put upon the frontier. The government of the colony was
at Philadelphia, far to the east, and sheltered from danger, and
the Quaker assembly there refused to vote money for a single
soldier to protect the unhappy colonists on the frontier. They held
it a sin to fight, and above all to fight with Indians, and as long
as they themselves were free from the danger, they turned a deaf
ear to the tales of massacre, and to the pitiful cries for aid
which came from the frontier. But even greater than their objection
to war, was their passion of resistance to the representative of
royalty, the governor.

Petition after petition came from the border for arms and
ammunition, and for a militia law to enable the people to organize
and defend themselves; but the Quakers resisted, declaring that
Braddock's defeat was a just judgment upon him and his soldiers for
molesting the French in their settlement in Ohio. They passed,
indeed, a bill for raising fifty thousand pounds for the king's
use, but affixed to it a condition, to which they knew well the
governor could not assent; viz, that the proprietary lands were to
pay their share of the tax.

To this condition the governor was unable to assent, for,
according to the constitution of the colony, to which he was bound,
the lands of William Penn and his descendants were free of all
taxation. For weeks the deadlock continued. Every day brought news
of massacres of tens, fifties, and even hundreds of persons, but
the assembly remained obstinate; until the mayor, aldermen, and
principal citizens clamoured against them, and four thousand
frontiersmen started on their march to Philadelphia, to compel them
to take measures for defence.

Bodies of massacred men were brought from the frontier villages
and paraded through the town, and so threatening became the aspect
of the population, that the Assembly of Quakers were at last
obliged to pass a militia law. It was, however, an absolutely
useless one. It specially excepted the Quakers from service, and
constrained nobody, but declared it lawful for such as chose to
form themselves into companies, and to elect officers by ballot.
The company officers might, if they saw fit, elect, also by ballot,
colonels, lieutenant colonels, and majors. These last might then,
in conjunction with the governor, frame articles of war, to which,
however, no officer or man was to be subjected, unless, after three
days' consideration, he subscribed them in presence of a justice of
the peace, and declared his willingness to be bound by them.

This mockery of a bill, drawn by Benjamin Franklin while the
savages were raging in the colony and the smoke of a hundred
villages was ascending to the skies, was received with indignation
by the people, and this rose to such a height that the Assembly
must have yielded unconditionally, had not a circumstance occurred
which gave them a decent pretext for retreat.

The governor informed them that he had just received a letter
from the proprietors, as Penn's heirs were called, giving to the
province five thousand pounds to aid in its defence, on condition
that the money should be accepted as a free gift, and not as their
proportion of any tax that was or might be laid by the
Assembly.

Thereupon, the Assembly struck out the clause taxing the
proprietory estates, and the governor signed the bill. A small
force was then raised, which enabled the Indians to be to some
extent kept in check; but there was no safety for the unhappy
settlers in the west of Pennsylvania during the next three years,
while the French from Montreal were hounding on their savage
allies, by gifts and rewards, to deeds of massacre and
bloodshed.

The northern colonies had shown a better spirit. Massachusetts,
which had always been the foremost of the northern colonies in
resisting French and Indian aggression, had at once taken the lead
in preparation for war. No less than 4500 men, being one in eight
of her adult males, volunteered to fight the French, and enlisted
for the various expeditions, some in the pay of the province, some
in that of the king. Shirley, the governor of Massachusetts,
himself a colonist, was requested by his Assembly to nominate the
commander. He did not choose an officer of that province, as this
would have excited the jealousy of the others, but nominated
William Johnson of New York--a choice which not only pleased that
important province, but had great influence in securing the
alliance of the Indians of the Five Nations, among whom Johnson,
who had held the post of Indian commissioner, was extremely
popular.

Connecticut voted 1200 men, New Hampshire 500, Rhode Island 400,
and New York 800, all at their own charge. Johnson, before assuming
the command, invited the warriors of the Five Nations to assemble
in council. Eleven hundred Indian warriors answered the invitation,
and after four days' speech making agreed to join. Only 300 of
them, however, took the field, for so many of their friends and
relatives were fighting for the French, that the rest, when they
sobered down after the excitement of the council, returned to their
homes.

The object of the expedition was the attack of Crown Point--an
important military post on Lake Champlain--and the colonists
assembled near Albany; but there were great delays. The five
colonial assemblies controlled their own troops and supplies.
Connecticut had refused to send her men until Shirley promised that
her commanding officer should rank next to Johnson, and the whole
movement was for some time at a deadlock, because the five
governments could not agree about their contributions of artillery
and stores.

The troops were a rough-looking body. Only one of the corps had
a blue uniform, faced with red. The rest wore their ordinary farm
clothing. All had brought their own guns, of every description and
fashion. They had no bayonets, but carried hatchets in their belts
as a sort of substitute.

In point of morals the army, composed almost entirely of farmers
and farmers' sons, was exemplary. It is recorded that not a chicken
was stolen. In the camps of the Puritan soldiers of New England,
sermons were preached twice a week, and there were daily prayers
and much singing of psalms; but these good people were much shocked
by the profane language of the troops from New York and Rhode
Island, and some prophesied that disaster would be sure to fall
upon the army from this cause.

Months were consumed in various delays; and, on the 21st of
August, just as they were moving forward, four Mohawks, whom
Johnson had sent into Canada, returned with the news that the
French were making great preparations, and that 8000 men were
marching to defend Crown Point. The papers of General Braddock,
which fell, with all the baggage of the army, into the hands of the
French, had informed them of the object of the gathering at Albany,
and now that they had no fear of any further attempt against their
posts in Ohio, they were able to concentrate all their force for
the defence of their posts on Lake Champlain.

On the receipt of this alarming news, a council of war was held
at Albany, and messages were sent to the colonies asking for
reinforcements. In the meantime, the army moved up the Hudson to
the spot called the Great Carrying Place, where Colonel Lyman, who
was second in command, had gone forward and erected a fort, which
his men called after him, but was afterwards named Fort Edward.

James Walsham joined the army a few days before it moved
forward. He was received with great heartiness by General Johnson,
to whom he brought a letter of introduction from Colonel
Washington, and who at once offered him a position as one of his
aides-de-camp. This he found exceedingly pleasant, for Johnson was
one of the most jovial and open hearted of commanders. His
hospitality was profuse, and, his private means being large, he was
able to keep a capital table, which, on the line of march, all
officers who happened to pass by were invited to share. This was a
contrast, indeed, to the discipline which had prevailed in
Braddock's columns, and James felt as if he were starting upon a
great picnic, rather than upon an arduous march against a superior
force.

After some hesitation as to the course the army should take, it
was resolved to march for Lake George. Gangs of axemen were sent to
hew a way, and, on the 26th, 2000 men marched for the lake, while
Colonel Blanchard, of New Hampshire, remained with 500 to finish
and defend Fort Lyman. The march was made in a leisurely manner,
and the force took two days to traverse the fourteen miles between
Fort Lyman and the lake. They were now in a country hitherto
untrodden by white men save by solitary hunters.

They reached the southern end of the beautiful lake, which
hitherto had received no English name, and was now first called
Lake George in honour of the king. The men set to work, and felled
trees until they had cleared a sufficient extent of ground for
their camp, by the edge of the water, and posted themselves with
their back to the lake. In their front was a forest of pitch pine,
on their right a marsh covered with thick brush wood, on their left
a low hill. Things went on in the same leisurely way which had
marked the progress of the expedition.

No attempt was made to clear away the forest in front, although
it would afford excellent cover for any enemy who might attack
them, nor were any efforts made to discover the whereabouts or
intention of the enemy. Every day waggons came up with provisions
and boats.

On September 7th, an Indian scout arrived about sunset, and
reported that he had found the trail of a body of men moving from
South Bay, the southern extremity of Lake Champlain, towards Fort
Lyman. Johnson called for a volunteer to carry a letter of warning
to Colonel Blanchard. A waggoner named Adams offered to undertake
the perilous service, and rode off with the letter. Sentries were
posted, and the camp fell asleep.

While Johnson had been taking his leisure on Lake George, the
commander of the French force, a German baron named Dieskau, was
preparing a surprise for him. He had reached Crown Point at the
head of 3573 men--regulars, Canadians, and Indians--and he at once
moved forward, with the greater portion of his command, on
Cariolon, or, as it was afterwards called, Ticonderoga, a
promontory at the junction of Lake George with Lake Champlain,
where he would bar the advance of the English, whichever road they
might take.

The Indians with the French caused great trouble to their
commander, doing nothing but feast and sleep, but, on September
4th, a party of them came in bringing a scalp and an English
prisoner, caught near Fort Lyman.

He was questioned, under the threat of being given over to the
Indians to torture, if he did not tell the truth, but the brave
fellow, thinking he should lead the enemy into a trap, told them
that the English army had fallen back to Albany, leaving 500 men at
Fort Lyman, which he represented as being entirely
indefensible.

Dieskau at once determined to attack that place, and, with 216
regulars of the battalions of Languedoc and La Reine, 684
Canadians, and about 600 Indians, started in canoes and advanced up
Lake Champlain, till they came to the end of South Bay. Each
officer and man carried provisions for eight days in his
knapsack.

Two days' march brought them to within three miles of Fort
Lyman, and they encamped close to the road which led to Lake
George. Just after they had encamped, a man rode by on horseback.
It was Adams, Johnson's messenger. He was shot by the Indians, and
the letter found upon him. Soon afterwards, ten or twelve waggons
appeared, in charge of ammunition drivers who had left the English
camp without orders.

Some of the drivers were shot, two taken prisoners, and the rest
ran away. The two prisoners declared that, contrary to the
assertion of the prisoner at Ticonderoga, a large force lay
encamped by the lake. The Indians held a council, and presently
informed Dieskau that they would not attack the fort, which they
believed to be provided with cannon, but would join in an attempt
on the camp by the lake. Dieskau judged, from the report of the
prisoners, that the colonists considerably outnumbered him,
although in fact there was no great difference in numerical
strength, the French column numbering 1500 and the colonial force
2200, besides 300 Mohawk Indians. But Dieskau, emulous of repeating
the defeat of Braddock, and believing the assertions of the
Canadians that the colonial militia was contemptible, determined to
attack, and early in the morning the column moved along the road
towards the lake.

When within four miles of Johnson's camp, they entered a rugged
valley. On their right was a gorge, hidden in bushes, beyond which
rose the rocky height of French Mountain. On their left rose
gradually the slopes of West Mountain. The ground was thickly
covered with thicket and forest. The regulars marched along the
road, the Canadians and Indians pushed their way through the woods
as best they could. When within three miles of the lake, their
scout brought in a prisoner, who told them that an English column
was approaching. The regulars were halted on the road, the
Canadians and Indians moved on ahead, and hid themselves in ambush
among the trees and bushes on either side of the road.

The waggoners, who had escaped the evening before, had reached
Johnson's camp about midnight, and reported that there was a war
party on the road near Fort Lyman. A council of war was held, and
under an entire misconception of the force of the enemy, and the
belief that they would speedily fall back from Fort Lyman, it was
determined to send out two detachments, each 500 strong, one
towards Fort Lyman, the other to catch the enemy in their retreat.
Hendrick, the chief of the Mohawks, expressed his strong
disapproval of this plan, and accordingly it was resolved that the
thousand men should go as one body. Hendrick still disapproved of
the plan, but nevertheless resolved to accompany the column, and,
mounting on a gun carriage, he harangued his warriors with
passionate eloquence, and they at once prepared to accompany them.
He was too old and fat to go on foot, and the general lent him a
horse, which he mounted, and took his place at the head of the
column.

Colonel Williams was in command, with Lieutenant Colonel Whiting
as second. They had no idea of meeting the enemy near the camp, and
moved forward so carelessly that not a single scout was thrown out
in front or flank. The sharp eye of the old Indian chief was the
first to detect a sign of the enemy, and, almost at the same
moment, a gun was fired from the bushes. It is said that the
Iroquois, seeing the Mohawks, who were an allied tribe, in the van,
wished to warn them of danger. The warning came too late to save
the column from disaster, but it saved it from destruction. From
the thicket on the left a deadly fire blazed out, and the head of
the column was almost swept away. Hendrick's horse was shot, and
the chief killed with a bayonet as he tried to gain his feet.

Colonel Williams, seeing rising ground on his right, made for
it, calling his men to follow; but, as he climbed the slope, the
enemy's fire flashed out from behind every tree, and he fell dead.
The men in the rear pressed forward to support their comrades, when
the enemy in the bushes on the right flank also opened fire.

Then a panic began. Some fled at once for the camp, and the
whole column recoiled in confusion, as from all sides the enemy
burst out, shouting and yelling. Colonel Whiting, however, bravely
rallied a portion of Williams' regiment, and, aided by some of the
Mohawks, and by a detachment which Johnson sent out to his aid,
covered the retreat, fighting behind the trees like the Indians,
and falling back in good order with their faces to the enemy.

So stern and obstinate was their resistance that the French
halted three-quarters of a mile from the camp. They had inflicted a
heavy blow, but had altogether failed in obtaining the complete
success they looked for. The obstinate defence of Whiting and his
men had surprised and dispirited them, and Dieskau, when he
collected his men, found the Indians sullen and unmanageable, and
the Canadians unwilling to advance further, for they were greatly
depressed by the loss of a veteran officer, Saint Pierre, who
commanded them, and who had been killed in the fight. At length,
however, he persuaded all to move forward, the regulars leading the
way.

James Walsham had not accompanied the column, and was sitting at
breakfast with General Johnson, on the stump of a tree in front of
his tent, when, on the still air, a rattling sound broke out.

"Musketry!" was the general exclamation.

An instantaneous change came over the camp. The sound of
laughing and talking was hushed, and every man stopped at his work.
Louder and louder swelled the distant sound, until the shots could
no longer be distinguished apart. The rattle had become a steady
roll.

"It is a regular engagement!" the general exclaimed. "The enemy
must be in force, and must have attacked Williams' column."

General Johnson ordered one of his orderlies to mount and ride
out at full speed and see what was going on. A quarter of an hour
passed. No one returned to his work. The men stood in groups,
talking in low voices, and listening to the distant roar.

"It is clearer than it was," the general exclaimed.

Several of the officers standing round agreed that the sound was
approaching.

"To work, lads!" the general said. "There is no time to be lost.
Let all the axemen fell trees and lay them end to end to make a
breastwork. The rest of you range the waggons in a line behind, and
lay the boats up in the intervals. Carry the line from the swamp,
on the right there, to the slope of the hill."

In an instant, the camp was a scene of animation, and the forest
resounded with the strokes of the axe, and the shouts of the men as
they dragged the waggons to their position.

"I was a fool," Johnson exclaimed, "not to fortify the camp
before; but who could have supposed that the French would have come
down from Crown Point to attack us here!"

In a few minutes terror-stricken men, whites and Indians,
arrived at a run through the forest, and reported that they had
been attacked and surprised by a great force in the forest, that
Hendrick and Colonel Williams were killed, and numbers of the men
shot down. They reported that all was lost; but the heavy roll of
fire, in the distance, contradicted their words; and showed that a
portion of the column, at least, was fighting sternly and steadily,
though the sound indicated that they were falling back.

Two hundred men had already been despatched to their assistance,
and the only effect of the news was to redouble the efforts of the
rest. Soon parties arrived carrying wounded; but it was not until
an hour and a half after the engagement began, that the main body
of the column were seen marching, in good order, back through the
forest.

By this time the hasty defences were well-nigh completed, and
all the men were employed in cutting down the thick brushwood
outside, so as to clear the ground as far as possible, and so
prevent the enemy from stealing up, under shelter, to the felled
trees.

Three cannon were planted, to sweep the road that descended
through the pines. Another was dragged up to the ridge of the hill.
Two hundred and fifty men were now placed on each flank of the
camp, the main body stood behind the waggons or lay flat behind the
logs and boats, the Massachusetts men on the right, the Connecticut
men on the left.

"Now, my lads," Johnson shouted, in his cheery voice, "you have
got to fight. Remember, if they get inside not one of you will ever
go back to your families to tell the tale, while if you fight
bravely you will beat them back sure enough."

In a few minutes, ranks of white-coated soldiers could be seen
moving down the roads, with their bayonets showing between the
boughs. At the same time, Indian war whoops rose loud in the
forest, and then dark forms could be seen, bounding down the slope
through the trees towards the camp in a throng.

There was a movement of uneasiness among the young rustics, few
of whom ever heard a shot fired in anger before that morning; but
the officers, standing pistol in hand, threatened to shoot any man
who moved from his position.

Could Dieskau have launched his whole force at once upon the
camp at that moment, he would probably have carried it, but this he
was powerless to do. His regular troops were well in hand; but the
mob of Canadians and Indians were scattered through the forest,
shouting, yelling, and firing from behind trees.

He thought, however, that if he led the regulars to the attack,
the others would come forward, and he therefore gave the word for
the advance. The French soldiers advanced steadily, until the trees
grew thinner. They were deployed into line, and opened fire in
regular volleys. Scarcely had they done so, however, when Captain
Eyre, who commanded the artillery, opened upon them with grape from
his three guns, while from waggon, and boat, and fallen log, the
musketry fire flashed out hot and bitter, and, reeling under the
shower of iron and lead, the French line broke up, the soldiers
took shelter behind trees, and thence returned the fire of the
defenders.

Johnson received a flesh wound in the thigh, and retired to his
tent, where he spent the rest of the day. Lyman took the command,
and to him the credit of the victory is entirely due.

For four hours the combat raged. The young soldiers had soon got
over their first uneasiness, and fought as steadily and coolly as
veterans. The musketry fire was unbroken. From every tree, bush,
and rock the rifles flashed out, and the leaden hail flew in a
storm over the camp, and cut the leaves in a shower from the
forest. Through this Lyman moved to and fro among the men,
directing, encouraging, cheering them on, escaping as by a miracle
the balls which whistled round him. Save the Indians on the English
side, not a man but was engaged, the waggoners taking their guns
and joining in the fight.

The Mohawks, however, held aloof, saying that they had come to
see their English brothers fight, but, animated no doubt with the
idea that, if they abstained from taking part in the fray, and the
day went against the English, their friends the Iroquois would not
harm them.

The French Indians worked round on to high ground, beyond the
swamp on the left, and their fire thence took the defenders in the
flank. Captain Eyre speedily turned his guns in that direction, and
a few well-directed shells soon drove the Indians from their
vantage ground. Dieskau directed his first attack against the left
and centre; but the Connecticut men fought so stoutly, that he next
tried to force the right, where the Massachusetts regiments of
Titcomb, Ruggles, and Williams held the line. For an hour he strove
hard to break his way through the intrenchments, but the
Massachusetts men stood firm, although Titcomb was killed and their
loss was heavy.

At length Dieskau, exposing himself within short range of the
English lines, was hit in the leg. While his adjutant Montreuil was
dressing the wound, the general was again hit in the knee and
thigh. He had himself placed behind a tree, and ordered Montreuil
to lead the regulars in a last effort against the camp.

But it was too late. The blood of the colonists was now up, and,
singly or in small bodies, they were crossing their lines of
barricade, and working up among the trees towards their assailants.
The movement became general, and Lyman, seeing the spirit of his
men, gave the word, and the whole of the troops, with a shout,
leaped up and dashed through the wood against the enemy, falling
upon them with their hatchets and the butts of their guns.

The French and their allies instantly fled. As the colonists
passed the spot where Dieskau was sitting on the ground, one of
them, singularly enough himself a Frenchman, who had ten years
before left Canada, fired at him and shot him through both legs.
Others came up and stripped him of his clothes, but, on learning
who he was, they carried him to Johnson, who received him with the
greatest kindness, and had every attention paid to him.

Chapter 11: Scouting.

It was near five o'clock before the final rout of the French
took place; but, before that time, several hundreds of the
Canadians and Indians had left the scene of action, and had
returned to the scene of the fight in the wood, to plunder and
scalp the dead. They were resting, after their bloody work, by a
pool in the forest, when a scouting party from Fort Lyman, under
Captains M'Ginnis and Folsom, came upon them and opened fire.

The Canadians and Indians, outnumbering their assailants
greatly, fought for some time, but were finally defeated and fled.
M'Ginnis was mortally wounded, but continued to give orders till
the fight was over. The bodies of the slain were thrown into the
pool, which to this day bears the name, "the bloody pool."

The various bands of French fugitives reunited in the forest,
and made their way back to their canoes in South Bay, and reached
Ticonderoga utterly exhausted and famished, for they had thrown
away their knapsacks in their flight, and had nothing to eat from
the morning of the fight until they rejoined their comrades.

Johnson had the greatest difficulty in protecting the wounded
French general from the Mohawks, who, although they had done no
fighting in defence of the camp, wanted to torture and burn Dieskau
in revenge for the death of Hendrick and their warriors who had
fallen in the ambush. He, however, succeeded in doing so, and sent
him in a litter under a strong escort to Albany. Dieskau was
afterwards taken to England, and remained for some years at Bath,
after which he returned to Paris. He never, however, recovered from
his numerous wounds, and died a few years later.

He always spoke in the highest terms of the kindness he had
received from the colonial officers. Of the provincial soldiers he
said that, in the morning they fought like boys, about noon like
men, and in the afternoon like devils.

The English loss in killed, wounded, and missing was two hundred
and sixty-two, for the most part killed in the ambush in the
morning. The French, according to their own account, lost two
hundred and twenty-eight, but it probably exceeded four hundred,
the principal portion of whom were regulars, for the Indians and
Canadians kept themselves so well under cover that they and the
provincials, behind their logs, were able to inflict but little
loss on each other.

Had Johnson followed up his success, he might have reached South
Bay before the French, in which case the whole of Dieskau's column
must have fallen into his hands; nor did he press forward against
Ticonderoga, which he might easily have captured. For ten days
nothing was done except to fortify the camp, and when, at the end
of that time, he thought of advancing against Ticonderoga, the
French had already fortified the place so strongly that they were
able to defy attack. The colonists sent him large reinforcements,
but the season was getting late, and, after keeping the army
stationary until the end of November, the troops, having suffered
terribly from the cold and exposure, became almost mutinous, and
were finally marched back to Albany, a small detachment being left
to hold the fort by the lake. This was now christened Fort William
Henry.

The victory was due principally to the gallantry and coolness of
Lyman; but Johnson, in his report of the battle, made no mention of
that officer's name, and took all the credit to himself. He was
rewarded by being made a baronet, and by being voted a pension, by
parliament, of five thousand a year.

James Walsham, having no duties during the fight at the camp,
had taken a musket and lain down behind the logs with the soldiers,
and had, all the afternoon, kept up a fire at the trees and bushes
behind which the enemy were hiding. After the battle, he had
volunteered to assist the over-worked surgeons, whose labours
lasted through the night. When he found that no forward movement
was likely to take place, he determined to leave the camp. He
therefore asked Captain Rogers, who was the leader of a band of
scouts, and a man of extraordinary energy and enterprise, to allow
him to accompany him on a scouting expedition towards
Ticonderoga.

"I shall be glad to have you with me," Rogers replied; "but you
know it is a service of danger. It is not like work with regular
troops, where all march, fight, stand, or fall together. Here each
man fights for himself. Mind, there is not a man among my band who
would not risk his life for the rest; but, scattered through the
woods as each man is, each must perforce rely principally on
himself. The woods near Ticonderoga will be full of lurking
redskins, and a man may be brained and scalped without his fellow,
a few yards away, hearing a sound. I only say this that you may
feel that you must take your chances. The men under me are, every
one, old hunters and Indian fighters, and are a match for the
redskin in every move of forest war. They are true grit to the
backbone, but they are rough outspoken men, and, on a service when
a foot carelessly placed on a dried twig, or a word spoken above a
whisper, may bring a crowd of yelping redskins upon us, and cost
every man his scalp, they would speak sharply to the king himself,
if he were on the scout with them, and you must not take offence at
any rough word that may be said."

James laughed, and said that he should not care how much he was
blown up, and that he should thankfully receive any lessons from
such masters of forest craft.

"Very well," Captain Rogers said. "In that case, it is settled.
I will let you have a pair of moccasins. You cannot go walking
about in the woods in those boots. You had better get a rifle. Your
sword you had best leave behind. It will be of no use to you, and
will only be in your way."

James had no difficulty in providing himself with a gun, for
numbers of weapons, picked up in the woods after the rout of the
enemy, were stored in camp. The rifles had, however, been all taken
by the troops, who had exchanged their own firelocks for them.
Captain Rogers went with him among the men, and selected a
well-finished rifle of which one of them had possessed himself. Its
owner readily agreed to accept five pounds for it, taking in its
stead one of the guns in the store. Before choosing it, Captain
Rogers placed a bit of paper against a tree, and fired several
shots at various distances at it.

"It is a beautiful rifle," he said. "Its only fault is that it
is rather heavy, but it shoots all the better for it. It is
evidently a French gun, I should say by a first-rate maker, built
probably for some French officer who knew what he was about. It is
a good workmanlike piece, and, when you learn to hold it straight,
you can trust it to shoot."

That evening James, having made all his preparations, said
goodbye to the general and to his other friends, and joined the
scouts who were gathering by the shore of the lake. Ten canoes,
each of which would carry three men, were lying by the shore.

"Nat, you and Jonathan will take this young fellow with you. He
is a lad, and it is his first scout. You will find him of the right
sort. He was with Braddock, and after that affair hurried up here
to see fighting on the lakes. He can't have two better nurses than
you are. He is going to be an officer in the king's army, and wants
to learn as much as he can, so that, if he ever gets with his men
into such a mess as Braddock tumbled into, he will know what to do
with them."

"All right, captain! We will do our best for him. It's risky
sort of business ours for a greenhorn, but if he is anyways
teachable, we will soon make a man of him."

The speaker was a wiry, active man of some forty years old, with
a weatherbeaten face, and a keen gray eye. Jonathan, his comrade,
was a head taller, with broad shoulders, powerful limbs, and a
quiet but good-tempered face.

"That's so, isn't it, Jonathan?" Nat asked.

Jonathan nodded. He was not a man of many words.

"Have you ever been in a canoe before?" Nat inquired.

"Never," James said; "but I am accustomed to boats of all sorts,
and can handle an oar fairly."

"Oars ain't no good here," the scout said. "You will have to
learn to paddle; but, first of all, you have got to learn to sit
still. These here canoes are awkward things for a beginner. Now you
hand in your traps, and I will stow them away, then you take your
place in the middle of the boat. Here's a paddle for you, and when
you begin to feel yourself comfortable, you can start to try with
it, easy and gentle to begin with; but you must lay it in when we
get near where we may expect that redskins may be in the woods, for
the splash of a paddle might cost us all our scalps."

James took his seat in the middle of the boat. Jonathan was
behind him. Nat handled the paddle in the bow. There was but a
brief delay in starting, and the ten boats darted noiselessly out
on to the lake. For a time, James did not attempt to use his
paddle. The canoe was of birch bark, so thin that it seemed to him
that an incautious movement would instantly knock a hole through
her.

Once under weigh, she was steadier than he had expected, and
James could feel her bound forward with each stroke of the paddles.
When he became accustomed to the motion of the boat, he raised
himself from a sitting position in the bottom, and, kneeling as the
others were doing, he began to dip his paddle quietly in the water
in time with their stroke. His familiarity with rowing rendered it
easy for him to keep time and swing, and, ere long, he found
himself putting a considerable amount of force into each stroke.
Nat looked back over his shoulder.

"Well done, young 'un. That's first rate for a beginner, and it
makes a deal of difference on our arms. The others are all paddling
three, and, though Jonathan and I have beaten three before now,
when our scalps depended on our doing so, it makes all the
difference in the work whether you have a sitter to take along, or
an extra paddle going."

It was falling dusk when the boat started, and was, by this
time, quite dark. Scarce a word was heard in the ten canoes as,
keeping near the right-hand shore of the lake, they glided rapidly
along in a close body. So noiselessly were the paddles dipped into
the water that the drip from them, as they were lifted, was the
only sound heard.

Four hours' steady paddling took them to the narrows, about
five-and-twenty miles from their starting point. Here, on the
whispered order of Nat, James laid in his paddle; for, careful as
he was, he occasionally made a slight splash as he put it in the
water. The canoes now kept in single file, almost under the trees
on the right bank, for the lake was here scarce a mile across, and
watchful eyes might be on the lookout on the shore to the left.
Another ten miles was passed, and then the canoes were steered in
to the shore.

The guns, blankets, and bundles were lifted out; the canoes
raised on the shoulders of the men, and carried a couple of hundred
yards among the trees; then, with scarcely a word spoken, each man
rolled himself in his blanket and lay down to sleep, four being
sent out as scouts in various directions. Soon after daybreak, all
were on foot again, although it had been arranged that no move
should be made till night set in. No fires were lighted, for they
had brought with them a supply of biscuit and dry deers' flesh
sufficient for a week.

"How did you get on yesterday?" Captain Rogers asked, as he came
up to the spot where James had just risen to his feet.

"First rate, captain!" Nat answered for him. "I hardly believed
that a young fellow could have handled a paddle so well, at the
first attempt. He rowed all the way, except just the narrows, and
though I don't say as he was noiseless, he did wonderfully well,
and we came along with the rest as easy as may be."

"I thought I heard a little splash, now and then," the captain
said, smiling; "but it was very slight, and could do no harm where
the lake is two or three miles wide, as it is here. But you will
have to lay in your paddle when we get near the other end, for the
sides narrow in there, and the redskins would hear a fish jump,
half a mile away."

During the day the men passed their time in sleep, in mending
their clothes, or in talking quietly together. The use of tea had
not yet become general in America, and the meals were washed down
with water drawn from the lake (where an over-hanging bush shaded
the shore from the sight of anyone on the opposite bank), mixed
with rum from the gourds which all the scouts carried.

Nat spent some time in pointing out, to James, the signs by
which the hunters found their way through the forest; by the moss
and lichens growing more thickly on the side of the trunks of the
trees opposed to the course of the prevailing winds, or by a slight
inclination of the upper boughs of the trees in the same
direction.

"An old woodsman can tell," he said, "on the darkest night, on
running his hand round the trunk of a tree, by the feel of the
bark, which is north and south; but it would be long before you can
get to such niceties as that; but, if you keep your eyes open as
you go along, and look at the signs on the trunks, which are just
as plain, when you once know them, as the marks on a man's face,
you will be able to make your way through the woods in the daytime.
Of course, when the sun is shining, you get its help, for, although
it is not often a gleam comes down through the leaves, sometimes
you come upon a little patch, and you are sure, now and then, to
strike on a gap where a tree has fallen, and that gives you a line
again. A great help to a young beginner is the sun, for a young
hand in the woods gets confused, and doubts the signs of the trees;
but, in course, when he comes on a patch of sunlight, he can't make
a mistake nohow as to the direction."

James indulged in a silent hope that, if he were ever lost in
the woods, the sun would be shining, for, look as earnestly as he
would, he could not perceive the signs which appeared so plain and
distinct to the scout. Occasionally, indeed, he fancied that there
was some slight difference between one side of the trunk and the
other; but he was by no means sure that, even in these cases, he
should have noticed it unless it had been pointed out to him;
while, in the greater part of the trees he could discern no
difference whatever.

"It's just habit, my lad," Nat said encouragingly to him;
"there's just as much difference between one side of the tree and
the other, as there is between two men's faces. It comes of
practice. Now, just look at the roots of this tree; don't you see,
on one side they run pretty nigh straight out from the trunk, while
from the other they go down deep into the ground. That speaks for
itself. The tree has thrown out its roots, to claw into the ground
and get a hold, on the side from which the wind comes; while, on
the other side, having no such occasion, it has dipped its root
down to look for moisture and food."

"Yes, I do see that," James said, "that is easy enough to make
out; but the next tree, and the next, and, as far as I see, all the
others, don't seem to have any difference in their roots one side
or the other."

"That is so," the scout replied. "You see, those are younger
trees than this, and it is like enough they did not grow under the
same circumstances. When a few trees fall, or a small clearing is
made by a gale, the young trees that grow up are well sheltered
from the wind by the forest, and don't want to throw out roots to
hold them up; but when a great clearing has been made, by a fire or
other causes, the trees, as they grow up together, have no shelter,
and must stretch out their roots to steady them.

"Sometimes, you will find all the trees, for a long distance,
with their roots like this; sometimes only one tree among a number.
Perhaps, when they started, that tree had more room, or a deeper
soil, and grew faster than the rest, and got his head above them,
so he felt the wind more, and had to throw out his roots to steady
himself; while the others, all growing the same height, did not
need to do so."

"Thank you," James said. "I understand now, and will bear it in
mind. It is very interesting, and I should like, above all things,
to be able to read the signs of the woods as you do."

"It will come, lad. It's a sort of second nature. These things
are gifts. The redskin thinks it just as wonderful that the white
man should be able to take up a piece of paper covered with black
marks, and to read off sense out of them, as you do that he should
be able to read every mark and sign of the wood. He can see, as
plain as if the man was still standing on it, the mark of a
footprint, and can tell you if it was made by a warrior or a squaw,
and how long they have passed by, and whether they were walking
fast or slow; while the ordinary white man might go down on his
hands and knees, and stare at the ground, and wouldn't be able to
see the slightest sign or mark. For a white man, my eyes are good,
but they are not a patch on a redskin's. I have lived among the
woods since I was a boy; but even now, a redskin lad can pick up a
trail and follow it when, look as I will, I can't see as a blade of
grass has been bruised. No; these things is partly natur and partly
practice. Practice will do a lot for a white man; but it won't take
him up to redskin natur."

Not until night had fallen did the party again launch their
canoes on the lake. Then they paddled for several hours until, as
James imagined, they had traversed a greater distance, by some
miles, than that which they had made on the previous evening. He
knew, from what he had learned during the day, that they were to
land some six miles below the point where Lake George joins Lake
Champlain, and where, on the opposite side, on a promontory
stretching into the lake, the French were constructing their new
fort.

The canoes were to be carried some seven or eight miles through
the wood, across the neck of land between the two lakes, and were
then to be launched again on Lake Champlain, so that, by following
the east shore of that lake, they would pass Ticonderoga at a safe
distance. The halt was made as noiselessly as before, and, having
hauled up the canoes, the men slept till daybreak; and then,
lifting the light craft on their shoulders, started for their
journey through the woods. It was toilsome work, for the ground was
rough and broken, often thickly covered with underwood. Ridges had
to be crossed and deep ravines passed, and, although the canoes
were not heavy, the greatest care had to be exercised, for a graze
against a projecting bough, or the edge of a rock, would suffice to
tear a hole in the thin bark.

It was not until late in the afternoon that they arrived on the
shores of Lake Champlain. A fire was lighted now, the greatest care
being taken to select perfectly dry sticks, for the Iroquois were
likely to be scattered far and wide among the woods. The risk,
however, was far less than when in sight of the French side of Lake
George. After darkness fell, the canoes were again placed in the
water, and, striking across the lake, they followed the right-hand
shore. After paddling for about an hour and a half, the work
suddenly ceased.

The lake seemed to widen on their left, for they had just passed
the tongue of land between the two lakes, and on the opposite shore
a number of fires were seen, burning brightly on the hillside. It
was Ticonderoga they were now abreast of, the advanced post of the
French. They lingered for some time before the paddles were again
dipped in water, counting the fires and making a careful note of
the position. They paddled on again until some twelve miles beyond
the fort, and then crossed the lake and landed on the French
shore.

But the canoes did not all approach the shore together, as they
had done on the previous nights. They halted half a mile out, and
Captain Rogers went forward with his own and another canoe and
landed, and it was not for half an hour that the signal was given,
by an imitation of the croaking of a frog, that a careful search
had ascertained the forest to be untenanted, and the landing
safe.

No sooner was the signal given than the canoes were set in
motion, and were soon safely hauled up on shore. Five men went out,
as usual, as scouts, and the rest, fatigued by their paddle and the
hard day's work, were soon asleep.

In the morning they were about to start, and Rogers ordered the
canoes to be hauled up and hidden among the bushes, where, having
done their work, they would for the present be abandoned, to be
recovered and made useful on some future occasion.

The men charged with the work gave a sudden exclamation when
they reached the canoes.

"What is that?" Rogers said angrily. "Do you want to bring all
the redskins in the forest upon us?"

"The canoes are all damaged," one of the scouts said, coming up
to him.

There was a general movement to the canoes, which were lying on
the bank a few yards' distance from the water's edge. Every one of
them had been rendered useless. The thin birch bark had been gashed
and slit, pieces had been cut out, and not one of them had escaped
injury or was fit to take the water. Beyond a few low words, and
exclamations of dismay, not a word was spoken as the band gathered
round the canoes.

"Who were on the watch on this side?" Rogers asked.

"Nat and Jonathan took the first half of the night," one of the
scouts said. "Williams and myself relieved them."

As all four were men of the greatest skill and experience,
Rogers felt sure that no neglect or carelessness on their part
could have led to the disaster.

"Did any of you see any passing boats, or hear any sound on the
lake?"

The four men who had been on guard replied in the negative.

"I will swear no one landed near the canoes," Nat said. "There
was a glimmer on the water all night; a canoe could not have
possibly come near the bank, anywheres here, without our seeing
it."

"Then he must have come from the land side," Rogers said. "Some
skulking Indian must have seen us out on the lake, and have hidden
up when we landed. He may have been in a tree overhead all the
time, and, directly the canoes were hauled up, he may have damaged
them and made off.

"There is no time to be lost, lads. It is five hours since we
landed. If he started at once the redskins may be all round us now.
It is no question now of our scouting round the French fort, it is
one of saving our scalps."

"How could it have been done?" James Walsham asked Nat, in a low
tone. "We were all sleeping within a few yards of the canoes, and
some of the men were close to them. I should have thought we must
have heard it."

"Heard it!" the hunter said contemptuously; "why, a redskin
would make no more noise in cutting them holes and gashes, than you
would in cutting a hunk of deer's flesh for your dinner. He would
lie on the ground, and wriggle from one to another like an eel; but
I reckon he didn't begin till the camp was still. The canoes wasn't
hauled up till we had sarched the woods, as we thought, and then we
was moving about close by them till we lay down.

"I was standing theer on the water's edge not six feet away from
that canoe. I never moved for two hours, and, quiet as a redskin
may be, he must have taken time to do that damage, so as I never
heard a sound as loud as the falling of a leaf. No, I reckon as he
was at the very least two hours over that job. He may have been
gone four hours or a bit over, but not more; but that don't give us
much of a start. It would take him an hour and a half to get to the
fort, then he would have to report to the French chap in command,
and then there might be some talk before he set out with the
redskins, leaving the French to follow."

"It's no use thinking of mending the canoes, I suppose," James
asked.

The hunter shook his head.

"It would take two or three hours to get fresh bark and mend
those holes," he said, "and we haven't got as many minutes to
spare. There, now, we are off."

While they had been speaking, Rogers had been holding a
consultation with two or three of his most experienced followers,
and they had arrived at pretty nearly the same conclusion as that
of Rogers, namely, that the Indian had probably taken two or three
hours in damaging the canoes and getting fairly away into the
forest; but that, even if he had done so, the Iroquois would be up
in the course of half an hour.

"Let each man pack his share of meat on his back," Rogers said.
"Don't leave a scrap behind. Quick, lads, there's not a minute to
be lost. It's a case of legs, now. There's no hiding the trail of
thirty men from redskin eyes."

In a couple of minutes, all were ready for the start, and Rogers
at once led the way, at a long slinging trot, straight back from
the lake, first saying:

"Pick your way, lads, and don't tread on a fallen stick. There
is just one chance of saving our scalps, and only one, and that
depends upon silence."

As James ran along, at the heels of Nat, he was struck with the
strangeness of the scene, and the noiselessness with which the band
of moccasin-footed men flitted among the trees. Not a word was
spoken. All had implicit confidence in their leader, the most
experienced bush fighter on the frontier, and knew that, if anyone
could lead them safe from the perils that surrounded them, it was
Rogers.

James wondered what his plan could be. It seemed certain to him
that the Indians must, sooner or later, overtake them. They would
be aware of the strength of the band, and, confiding in their
superior numbers, would be able to push forward in pursuit without
pausing for many precautions. Once overtaken, the band must stand
at bay, and, even could they hold the Indians in check, the sound
of the firing would soon bring the French soldiers to the spot.

They had been gone some twenty minutes only, when a distant war
whoop rose in the forest behind them.

"They have come down on the camp," Nat said, glancing round over
his shoulder, "and find we have left it. I expect they hung about a
little before they ventured in, knowing as we should be expecting
them, when we found the canoes was useless. That war whoop tells
'em all as we have gone. They will gather there, and then be after
us like a pack of hounds.

"Ah! That is what I thought the captain was up to."

Rogers had turned sharp to the left, the direction in which
Ticonderoga stood. He slacked down his speed somewhat, for the
perspiration was streaming down the faces even of his trained and
hardy followers. From time to time, he looked round to see that all
were keeping well together. Although, in such an emergency as this,
none thought of questioning the judgment of their leader, many of
them were wondering at the unusual speed at which he was leading
them along. They had some two miles start of their pursuers, and,
had evening been at hand, they would have understood the importance
of keeping ahead until darkness came on to cover their trail; but,
with the whole day before them, they felt that they must be
overtaken sooner or later, and they could not see the object of
exhausting their strength before the struggle began.

As they ran on, at a somewhat slower pace now, an idea as to
their leader's intention dawned upon most of the scouts, who saw,
by the direction they were taking, that they would again strike the
lake shore near the French fort. Nat, who, light and wiry, was
running easily, while many of his comrades were panting with their
exertions, was now by the side of James Walsham.

"Give me your rifle, lad, for a bit. You are new to this work,
and the weight of the gun takes it out of you. We have got another
nine or ten miles before us, yet."

"I can hold on for a bit," James replied. "I am getting my wind
better, now; but why only ten miles? We must be seventy away from
the fort."

"We should never get there," Nat said. "A few of us might do it,
but the redskins would be on us in an hour or two. I thought, when
we started, as the captain would have told us to scatter, so as to
give each of us some chance of getting off; but I see his plan now,
and it's the only one as there is which gives us a real chance. He
is making straight for the French fort. He reckons, no doubt, as
the best part of the French troops will have marched out after the
redskins."

"But there would surely be enough left," James said, "to hold
the fort against us; and, even if we could take it, we could not
hold it an hour when they all came up."

"He ain't thinking of the fort, boy, he's thinking of the boats.
We know as they have lots of 'em there, and, if we can get there a
few minutes before the redskins overtake us, we may get off safe.
It's a chance, but I think it's a good one."

Others had caught their leader's idea and repeated it to their
comrades, and the animating effect soon showed itself in the
increased speed with which the party hurried through the forest.
Before, almost every man had thought their case hopeless, had
deemed that they had only to continue their flight until overtaken
by the redskins, and that they must, sooner or later, succumb to
the rifles of the Iroquois and their French allies. But the
prospect that, after an hour's run, a means of escape might be
found, animated each man to renewed efforts.

After running for some distance longer, Rogers suddenly halted
and held up his hand, and the band simultaneously came to a halt.
At first, nothing could be heard save their own quick breathing;
then a confused noise was heard to their left front, a deep
trampling and the sound of voices, and an occasional clash of
arms.

"It is the French column coming out," Nat whispered, as Rogers,
swerving somewhat to the right, and making a sign that all should
run as silently as possible, continued his course.

Chapter 12: A Commission.

Presently the noise made by the column of French troops was
heard abreast of the fugitives. Then it died away behind them, and
they again directed their course to the left. Ten minutes later,
they heard a loud succession of Indian whoops, and knew that the
redskins pursuing them had also heard the French column on its
march, and would be warning them of the course which the band were
taking. The scouts were now but four miles from Ticonderoga, and
each man knew that it was a mere question of speed.

"Throw away your meat," Rogers ordered, "you will not want it
now, and every pound tells."

The men had already got rid of their blankets, and were now
burdened only with their rifles and ammunition. The ground was
rough and broken, for they were nearing the steep promontory on
which the French fort had been erected. They were still a mile
ahead of their pursuers, and although the latter had gained that
distance upon them since the first start, the scouts knew that, now
they were exerting themselves to the utmost, the redskins could be
gaining but little upon them, for the trained white man is, in
point of speed and endurance, fairly a match for the average
Indian.

They had now descended to within a short distance of the edge of
the lake, in order to avoid the valleys and ravines running down
from the hills. The war whoops rose frequently in the forest behind
them, the Indians yelling to give those at the fort notice that the
chase was approaching.

"If there war any redskins left at the fort," Nat said to James,
"they would guess what our game was; but I expect every redskin
started out on the hunt, and the French soldiers, when they hear
the yelling, won't know what to make of it, and, if they do
anything, they will shut themselves up in their fort."

Great as were the exertions which the scouts were making, they
could tell, by the sound of the war whoops, that some at least of
the Indians were gaining upon them. Accustomed as every man of the
party was to the fatigues of the forest, the strain was telling
upon them all now. For twelve miles they had run almost at the top
of their speed, and the short panting breath, the set faces, and
the reeling steps showed that they were nearly at the end of their
powers. Still they held on, with scarcely any diminishing of speed.
Each man knew that if he fell, he must die, for his comrades could
do nothing for him, and no pause was possible until the boats were
gained.

They were passing now under the French works, for they could
hear shouting on the high ground to the right, and knew that the
troops left in the fort had taken the alarm; but they were still
invisible, for it was only at the point of the promontory that the
clearing had been carried down to the water's edge. A low cry of
relief burst from the men, as they saw the forest open before them,
and a minute later they were running along in the open, near the
shore of the lake, at the extremity of the promontory, where,
hauled up upon the shore, lay a number of canoes and flat-bottomed
boats, used for the conveyance of troops. A number of boatmen were
standing near, evidently alarmed by the war cries in the woods.
When they saw the party approaching they at once made for the fort,
a quarter of a mile away on the high ground, and, almost at the
same moment, a dropping fire of musketry opened from the
entrenchments.

"Smash the canoes," Rogers said, setting the example by
administering a vigorous kick to one of them.

The others followed his example, and, in a few seconds, every
one of the frail barks was stove in.

"Two of the boats will hold us well," Rogers said; "quick, into
the water with them, and out with the oars. Ten row in each boat.
Let the other five handle their rifles, and keep back the Indians
as they come up. Never mind the soldiers."

For the white-coated troops, perceiving the scouts' intention,
were now pouring out from the intrenchments.

A couple of minutes sufficed for the men to launch the boats and
take their seats, and the oars dipped in the water just as three or
four Indians dashed out from the edge of the forest.

"We have won the race by three minutes," Rogers said,
exultantly. "Stretch to your oars, lads, and get out of range as
soon as you can."

The Indians began to fire as soon as they perceived the boats.
They were scarcely two hundred yards away, but they, like the white
men, were panting with fatigue, and their bullets flew harmlessly
by.

"Don't answer yet," Rogers ordered, as some of the scouts were
preparing to fire. "Wait till your hands get steady, and then fire
at the French. There won't be many of the redskins up, yet."

The boats were not two hundred yards from shore when the French
soldiers reached the edge of the water and opened fire, but at this
distance their weapons were of little avail, and, though the
bullets splashed thickly around the boats, no one was injured,
while several of the French were seen to drop from the fire of the
scouts. Another hundred yards, and the boats were beyond any
danger, save from a chance shot. The Indians still continued
firing, and several of their shots struck the boats, one of the
rowers being hit on the shoulder.

"Lay in your rifles, and man the other two oars in each boat,"
Rogers said. "The French are launching some of their bateaux, but
we have got a fair start, and they won't overtake us before we
reach the opposite point. They are fresher than we are, but
soldiers are no good rowing; besides, they are sure to crowd the
boats so that they won't have a chance."

Five or six boats, each crowded with men, started in pursuit,
but they were fully half a mile behind when the two English boats
reached the shore.

"Now it is our turn," Rogers said, as the men, leaping ashore,
took their places behind trees. As soon as the French boats came
within range, a steady fire was opened upon them. Confusion was at
once apparent among them. Oars were seen to drop, and as the fire
continued, the rowing ceased. Another minute and the boats were
turned, and were soon rowing out again into the lake.

"There's the end of that," Rogers said, "and a close shave it
has been.

"Well, youngster, what do you think of your first scout in the
woods?"

"It has been sharper than I bargained for," James said,
laughing, "and was pretty near being the last, as well as the
first. If it hadn't been for your taking us to the boats, I don't
think many of us would have got back to Fort Henry to tell the
tale."

"There is generally some way out of a mess," Rogers said, "if
one does but think of it. If I had not thought of the French boats,
we should have scattered, and a few of us would have been
overtaken, no doubt; but even an Indian cannot follow a single
trail as fast as a man can run, and I reckon most of us would have
carried our scalps back to camp. Still, with the woods full of
Iroquois they must have had some of us, and I hate losing a man if
it can be helped. We are well out of it.

"Now, lads, we had better be tramping. There are a lot more
bateaux coming out, and I expect, by the rowing, they are manned by
Indians. The redskin is a first-rate hand with the paddle, but is
no good with an oar."

The man who had been hit in the shoulder had already had his
wound bandaged. There was a minute's consultation as to whether
they should continue their journey in the boats, some of the men
pointing out that they had proved themselves faster than their
pursuers.

"That may be," Rogers says; "but the Indians will land and
follow along the shore, and will soon get ahead of us, for they can
travel quicker than we can row, and, for aught we know, there may
be a whole fleet of canoes higher up Lake George which would cut us
off. No, lads, the safest way is to keep on through the woods."

The decision was received without question, and the party at
once started at a swinging trot, which was kept up, with occasional
intervals of walking, throughout the day. At nightfall their course
was changed, and, after journeying another two or three miles, a
halt was called, for Rogers was sure that the Indians would abandon
pursuit, when night came on without their having overtaken the
fugitives.

Before daybreak the march was continued, and, in the afternoon,
the party arrived at Fort William Henry.

James now determined to leave the force, and return at once to
New York, where his letters were to be addressed to him. He took
with him a letter from General Johnson, speaking in the warmest
tones of his conduct.

On arriving at New York he found, at the post office there, a
great pile of letters awaiting him. They had been written after the
receipt of his letter at the end of July, telling those at home of
his share in Braddock's disaster.

"I little thought, my boy," his mother wrote, "when we received
your letter, saying that you had got your discharge from the ship,
and were going with an expedition against the French, that you were
going to run into such terrible danger. Fortunately, the same
vessel which brought the news of General Braddock's defeat also
brought your letter, and we learned the news only a few hours
before your letter reached us. It was, as you may imagine, a time
of terrible anxiety to us, and the squire and Aggie were almost as
anxious as I was. Mr. Wilks did his best to cheer us all, but I
could see that he, too, felt it very greatly. However, when your
letter came we were all made happy again, though, of course, we
cannot be but anxious, as you say you are just going to join
another expedition; still, we must hope that that will do better,
as it won't be managed by regular soldiers. Mr. Wilks was quite
angry at what you said about the folly of making men stand in a
line to be shot at, he thinks so much of drill and discipline. The
squire and he have been arguing quite fiercely about it; but the
squire gets the best of the argument, for the dreadful way in which
the soldiers were slaughtered shows that, though that sort of
fighting may be good in other places, it is not suited for fighting
these wicked Indians in the woods.

"The squire has himself been up to London about your commission,
and has arranged it all. He has, as he will tell you in his letter,
got you a commission in the regiment commanded by Colonel Otway,
which is to go out next spring. He was introduced to the commander
in chief by his friend, and told him that you had been acting as
Colonel Washington's aide-de-camp with General Braddock, and that
you have now gone to join General Johnson's army; so the duke said
that, though you would be gazetted at once, and would belong to the
regiment, you might as well stay out there and see service until it
arrived; and that it would be a great advantage to the regiment to
have an officer, with experience in Indian fighting, with it. I
cried when he brought me back the news, for I had hoped to have you
back again with us for a bit, before you went soldiering for good.
However, the squire seems to think it is a capital thing for you.
Mr. Wilks thinks so, too, so I suppose I must put up with it; but
Aggie agrees with me, and says it is too bad that she should never
have seen you, once, from the time when she saw you in that
storm.

"She is a dear little girl, and is growing fast. I think she
must have grown quite an inch in the five months you have been
away. She sends her love to you, and says you must take care of
yourself, for her sake."

The squire, in his letter, repeated the news Mrs. Walsham had
given.

"You are now an ensign," he said, "and, if you go into any more
fights before your regiment arrives, you must, Mr. Wilks said, get
a proper uniform made for you, and fight as a king's officer. I
send you a copy of the gazette, where you will see your name."

Mr. Wilks's letter was a long one.

"I felt horribly guilty, dear Jim," he said, "when the news came
of Braddock's dreadful defeat. I could hardly look your dear mother
in the face, and, though the kind lady would not, I know, say a
word to hurt my feelings for the world, yet I could see that she
regarded me as a monster, for it was on my advice that, instead of
coming home when you got your discharge, you remained out there and
took part in this unfortunate expedition. I could see Aggie felt
the same, and, though I did my best to keep up their spirits, I had
a terrible time of it until your letter arrived, saying you were
safe. If it had not come, I do believe that I should have gone
quietly off to Exeter, hunted up my box again, and hired a boy to
push it for me, for I am not so strong as I was. But I would rather
have tramped about, for the rest of my life, than remain there
under your mother's reproachful eye. However, thank God you came
through it all right, and, after such a lesson, I should hope that
we shall never have repetition of such a disaster as that. As an
old soldier, I cannot agree with what you say about the uselessness
of drill, even for fighting in a forest. It must accustom men to
listen to the voice of their officers, and to obey orders promptly
and quickly, and I cannot but think that, if the troops had gone
forward at a brisk double, they would have driven the Indians
before them. As to the whooping and yells you talk so much about, I
should think nothing of them; they are no more to be regarded than
the shrieks of women, or the braying of donkeys."

James smiled as he read this, and thought that, if the old
soldier had heard that chaos of blood-curdling cries break out, in
the still depth of the forest, he would not write of them with such
equanimity.

"You will have heard, from the squire, that you are gazetted to
Otway's regiment which, with others, is to cross the Atlantic in a
few weeks, when it is generally supposed war will be formally
declared. Your experience will be of great use to you, and ought to
get you a good staff appointment. I expect that, in the course of a
year, there will be fighting on a large scale on your side of the
water, and the English ought to get the best of it, for France
seems, at present, to be thinking a great deal more of her affairs
in Europe than of her colonies in America. So much the better, for,
if we can take Canada, we shall strike a heavy blow to her trade,
and some day North America is going to be an important place in the
world."

The letters had been lying there several weeks, and James knew
that Otway's regiment had, with the others, arrived a few days
before, and had already marched for Albany. Thinking himself
entitled to a little rest, after his labours, he remained for
another week in New York, while his uniform was being made, and
then took a passage in a trading boat up to Albany.

Scarcely had he landed, when a young officer in the same uniform
met him. He looked surprised, hesitated, and then stopped.

"I see you belong to our regiment," he said. "Have you just
arrived from England? What ship did you come in?"

"I have been out here some time," James replied. "My name is
Walsham. I believe I was gazetted to your regiment some months ago,
but I only heard the news on my arrival at New York last week."

"Oh, you are Walsham!" the young officer said. "My name is
Edwards. I am glad to meet you. We have been wondering when you
would join us, and envying your luck, in seeing so much of the
fighting out here. Our regiment is encamped about half a mile from
here. If you will let me, I will go back with you, and introduce
you to our fellows."

James thanked him, and the two walked along talking together.
James learned that there were already five ensigns junior to
himself, his new acquaintance being one of them, as the regiment
had been somewhat short of officers, and the vacancies had been
filled up shortly before it sailed.

"Of course, we must call on the colonel first," Mr. Edwards
said. "He is a capital fellow, and very much liked in the
regiment."

Colonel Otway received James with great cordiality.

"We are very glad to get you with us, Mr. Walsham," he said,
"and we consider it a credit to the regiment to have a young
officer who has been, three times, mentioned in despatches. You
will, too, be a great service to us, and will be able to give us a
good many hints as to this Indian method of fighting, which
Braddock's men found so terrible."

"It is not formidable, sir, when you are accustomed to it; but,
unfortunately, General Braddock forced his men to fight in regular
fashion, that is, to stand up and be shot at, and that mode of
fighting, in the woods, is fatal. A hundred redskins would be more
than a match, in the forest, for ten times their number of white
troops, who persisted in fighting in such a ridiculous way; but,
fighting in their own way, white men are a match for the redskins.
Indeed, the frontiersmen can thrash the Indians, even if they are
two or three to one against them."

"You have been in this last affair on the lake, have you not,
Mr. Walsham? I heard you were with Johnson."

"Yes, sir, I was, and at the beginning it was very nearly a
repetition of Braddock's disaster; but, after being surprised and,
at first, beaten, the column that went out made such a stout fight
of it, that it gave us time to put the camp in a state of defence.
Had the Indians made a rush, I think they would have carried it;
but, as they contented themselves with keeping up a distant fire,
the provincials, who were all young troops, quite unaccustomed to
fighting, and wholly without drill or discipline, gradually got
steady, and at length sallied out and beat them decisively."

"I will not detain you, now," the colonel said; "but I hope, ere
long, you will give us a full and detailed account of the fighting
you have been in, with your idea of the best way of training
regular troops for the sort of work we have before us. Mr. Edwards
will take you over to the mess, and introduce you to your brother
officers."

James was well received by the officers of his regiment, and
soon found himself perfectly at home with them. He had to devote
some hours, every day, to acquiring the mysteries of drill. It was,
to him, somewhat funny to see the pains expended in assuring that
each movement should be performed with mechanical accuracy; but he
understood that, although useless for such warfare as that which
they had before them, great accuracy in details was necessary, for
ensuring uniformity of movement among large masses of men in an
open country.

Otherwise, the time passed very pleasantly. James soon became a
favourite in the regiment, and the young officers were never tired
of questioning him concerning the redskins, and their manner of
fighting. There were plenty of amusements. The snow was deep on the
ground, now, and the officers skated, practised with snowshoes, and
drove in sleighs. Occasionally they got up a dance, and the people
of Albany, and the settlers round, vied with each other in their
hospitality to the officers.

One day, in February, an orderly brought a message to James
Walsham, that the colonel wished to speak to him.

"Walsham," he said, "I may tell you, privately, that the
regiment is likely to form part of the expedition which is being
fitted out, in England, against Louisbourg in Cape Breton, the key
of Canada. A considerable number of the troops from the province
will accompany it."

"But that will leave the frontier here altogether open to the
enemy," James said in surprise.

"That is my own opinion, Walsham. Louisbourg is altogether
outside the range of the present struggle, and it seems to me that
the British force should be employed at striking at a vital point.
However, that is not to the purpose. It is the Earl of Loudon's
plan. However, it is manifest, as you say, that the frontier will
be left terribly open, and therefore two companies of each of the
regiments going will be left. Naturally, as you are the only
officer in the regiment who has had any experience in this forest
warfare, you would be one of those left here; but as an ensign you
would not have much influence, and I think that it would be at once
more useful to the service, and more pleasant for yourself, if I
can obtain for you something like a roving commission. What do you
think of that?"

"I should greatly prefer that, sir," James said gratefully.

"The general is a little vexed, I know," the colonel went on,
"at the numerous successes, and daring feats, gained by Rogers and
the other leaders of the companies of scouts, while the regulars
have not had an opportunity to fire a shot: and I think that he
would, at once, accept the proposal were I to make it to him, that
a company, to be called the Royal Scouts, should be formed of
volunteers taken from the various regiments, and that you should
have the command."

"Thank you, sir," James said, "and I should like it above all
things; but I fear that we should have no chance, whatever, of
rivalling the work of Rogers and the other partisan leaders. These
men are all trained to the work of the woods, accustomed to fight
Indians, equally at home in a canoe or in the forest. I have had,
as you are good enough to say, some experience in the work, but I
am a mere child by their side, and were I to lead fifty English
soldiers in the forest, I fear that none of us would ever
return."

"Yes, but I should not propose that you should engage in
enterprises of that sort, Walsham. My idea is that, although you
would have an independent command, with very considerable freedom
of action, you would act in connection with the regular troops. The
scouts are often far away when wanted, leaving the posts open to
surprise. They are so impatient of any discipline, that they are
adverse to going near the forts, except to obtain fresh supplies.
You, on the contrary, would act as the eyes of any post which you
might think threatened by the enemy. At present, for instance, Fort
William Henry is the most exposed to attack.

"You would take your command there, and would report yourself to
Major Eyre, who is in command. As for service there, your letter of
appointment would state that you are authorized to act
independently, but that, while it would be your duty to obey the
orders of the commanding officer, you will be authorized to offer
such suggestions to him as your experience in Indian warfare would
lead you to make. You would train your men as scouts. It would be
their special duty to guard the fort against surprise, and, of
course, in case of attack to take part in its defence. In the event
of the provincial scouts making any concerted movement against a
French post, you would be authorized to join them. You would then
have the benefit of their skill and experience, and, in case of
success, the army would get a share of the credit. What do you
think of my plan?"

"I should like it above all things," James replied. "That would
be precisely the duty which I should select had I the choice."

"I thought so," the colonel said. "I have formed a very high
opinion of your judgment and discretion, from the talks which we
have had together, and I have spoken strongly in your favour to the
general, who had promised me that, in the event of the army moving
forward, you should have an appointment on the quartermaster
general's staff, as an intelligence officer.

"Since I heard that the main portion of the army is to sail to
Louisbourg, I have been thinking this plan over, and it certainly
seems to me that a corps, such as that that I have suggested, would
be of great service. I should think that its strength should be
fifty men. You will, of course, have another officer with you. Is
there anyone you would like to choose, as I may as well take the
whole scheme, cut and dried, to the general?"

"I should like Mr. Edwards, sir. He is junior to me in the
regiment, and is very active and zealous in the service; and I
should greatly like to be allowed to enlist, temporarily, two of
the scouts I have served with in the force, with power for them to
take their discharge when they wished. They would be of immense
utility to me in instructing the men in their new duties, and would
add greatly to our efficiency."

"So be it," the colonel said. "I will draw out the scheme on
paper, and lay it before the general today."

In the afternoon, James was again sent for.

"The earl has approved of my scheme. You will have temporary
rank as captain given you, in order to place your corps on an equal
footing with the provincial corps of scouts. Mr. Edwards will also
have temporary rank, as lieutenant. The men of the six companies,
of the three regiments, will be paraded tomorrow, and asked for
volunteers for the special service. If there are more than fifty
offer, you can select your own men."

Accordingly, the next morning, the troops to be left behind were
paraded, and an order was read out, saying that a corps of scouts
for special service was to be raised, and that volunteers were
requested. Upwards of a hundred men stepped forward, and, being
formed in line, James selected from them fifty who appeared to him
the most hardy, active, and intelligent looking. He himself had,
that morning, been put in orders as captain of the new corps, and
had assumed the insignia of his temporary rank. The colonel had
placed at his disposal two intelligent young non-commissioned
officers.

The next morning, he marched with his command for Fort William
Henry. No sooner had he left the open country, and entered the
woods, than he began to instruct the men in their new duties. The
whole of them were thrown out as skirmishers, and taught to advance
in Indian fashion, each man sheltering himself behind a tree,
scanning the woods carefully ahead, and then, fixing his eyes on
another tree ahead, to advance to it at a sharp run, and shelter
there.

All this was new to the soldiers, hitherto drilled only in solid
formation, or in skirmishing in the open, and when, at the end of
ten miles skirmishing through the wood, they were halted and
ordered to bivouac for the night, James felt that his men were
beginning to have some idea of forest fighting. The men themselves
were greatly pleased with their day's work. It was a welcome change
after the long monotony of life in a standing camp, and the day's
work had given them a high opinion of the fitness of their young
officer for command.

But the work and instruction was not over for the day. Hitherto,
none of the men had had any experience in camping in the open.
James now showed them how to make comfortable shelters against the
cold, with two forked sticks and one laid across them, and with a
few boughs and a blanket laid over them, with dead leaves heaped
round the bottom and ends; and how best to arrange their fires and
cook their food.

During the following days, the same work was repeated, and when,
after a week's marching, the force issued from the forest into the
clearing around Fort William Henry, James felt confident that his
men would be able to hold their own in a brush with the Indians.
Major Eyre, to whom James reported himself, and showed his
appointment defining his authority and duties, expressed much
satisfaction at the arrival of the reinforcement.

"There are rumours, brought here by the scouts," he said, "that
a strong force will, ere long, come down from Crown Point to
Ticonderoga, and that we shall be attacked. Now that the lake is
frozen, regular troops could march without difficulty, and my force
here is very inadequate, considering the strength with which the
French will attack. None of my officers or men have any experience
of the Indian methods of attack, and your experience will be very
valuable. It is a pity that they do not give me one of these
companies of scouts permanently. Sometimes one or other of them is
here, but often I am without any of the provincials, and, although
I have every confidence in my officers and men, one cannot but feel
that it is a great disadvantage to be exposed to the attack of an
enemy of whose tactics one is altogether ignorant.

"You will, of course, encamp your men inside the fort. I see you
have brought no baggage with you, but I have some spare tents here,
which are at your service."

"Thank you, sir," James replied; "I shall be glad to put the men
under cover, while they are here, but I intend to practise them, as
much as possible, in scouting and camping in the woods, and,
although I shall always be in the neighbourhood of the fort, I do
not propose always to return here at night. Are any of Captain
Rogers's corps at present at the fort?"

"Some of them came in last night," Major Eyre replied.

"I have authority," James said, "to enlist two of them in my
corps."

Major Eyre smiled.

"I do not think you will find any of them ready to submit to
military discipline, or to put on a red coat."

"They are all accustomed to obey orders, promptly enough, when
at work," James said, "though there is no attempt at discipline
when off duty. You see them at their worst here. There is, of
course, nothing like military order in the woods, but obedience is
just as prompt as among our troops. As to the uniform, I agree with
you, but on that head I should not be particular. I can hardly
fancy any of the scouts buttoned tightly up with stiff collars; but
as, after all, although they are to be enlisted, they will be
attached to the corps, rather than be regular members of it, I do
not think I need insist upon the uniform."

After leaving the major, James saw to the pitching of the tents,
and the comforts of his men, and when he had done so strolled off
towards a group of scouts, who were watching his proceedings, and
among whom he recognized the two men for whom he was looking.

He received a cordial greeting from all who had taken part in
his previous adventures with Captain Rogers's band.

"And so you are in command of this party?" Nat said. "I asked
one of the men just now, and he said you were the captain. You are
young to be a captain, but, at any rate, it's a good thing to have
a king's officer here who knows something about the woods. The rest
ain't no more idea of them than nothing."

"I want to chat to you, Nat, and also to Jonathan, if you will
come across with me to my tent."

"I'm agreeable," Nat said; and the two scouts walked across to
the tent with James.

Lieutenant Edwards, who shared the tent with him, was inside,
arranging a few things which Major Eyre had sent down for their
use.

"Edwards, these are the two scouts, Nat and Jonathan, of whom
you have often heard me speak. Now, let us sit down and have a
chat.

"There is some first-rate rum in that bottle, Nat. There are two
tin pannikins, and there is water in that keg.

"Now, Nat," he went on, when the party were seated on blankets
laid on the ground, "this corps of mine has been raised, specially,
to act as scouts round this or any other fort which may be
threatened, or to act as the advanced guard of a column of
troops."

"But what do they know of scouting?" Nat said contemptuously.
"They don't know no more than children."

"They don't know much, but they are active fellows, and ready to
learn. I think you will find that, already, they have a pretty fair
idea of fighting in Indian fashion in the woods, and, as I have
authority to draw extra supplies of ball cartridge, I hope, in a
few weeks, to make fair shots of them. You have taught me something
of forest ways, and I shall teach them all I know; but we want
better teachers, and I want to propose, to you and Jonathan, to
join the corps."

"What, and put on a red coat, and choke ourselves up with a
stiff collar!" Nat laughed. "Nice figures we should look! No, no,
captain, that would never do."

"No, I don't propose that you should wear uniform, Nat. I have
got a special authority to enlist you and Jonathan, with the
understanding that you can take your discharge whenever you like.
There will be no drilling in line, or anything of that sort. It
will be just scouting work, the same as with Captain Rogers, except
that we shall not make long expeditions, as he does, but keep in
the neighbourhood of the fort. I should want you to act both as
scouts and instructors, to teach the men, as you have taught me,
something of woodcraft, how to find their way in a forest, and how
to fight the Indians in their own way, and to be up to Indian
devices. You will be guides on the line of march, will warn me of
danger, and suggest the best plan of meeting it. You will, in fact,
be scouts attached to the corps, only nominally you will be members
of it. I know your ways, and should not exact any observance of
discipline, more than that which you have with Rogers, and should
treat you in the light of non-commissioned officers."

"Well, and what do you say, Jonathan?" Nat said, turning to his
tall companion. "You and I have both taken a fancy to the captain
here, and though he has picked up a lot for a young 'un, and will
in time make a first-rate hand in the woods, I guess he won't make
much hand of it, yet, if he hadn't got someone as knows the woods
by his side. We have had a spell of hard work of it with Rogers
lately, and I don't mind if I have a change, for a bit, with the
redcoats."

"I will go, of course," Jonathan said briefly.

"Very well, then, that's settled, captain," Nat said. "Rogers
will be in tonight, and I will tell him we are going to transfer
ourselves over to you."

"He won't mind, I hope," James said.

"He won't mind," Nat replied. "We ain't very particular about
times of service in our corps. We just comes and goes, pretty well
as the fancy takes us. They would never get us to join, if they
wanted to get us to bind down hard and fast. Sometimes they start
on an expedition fifty strong, next time perhaps not more than
thirty turns up.

"Is there anything to do to join the corps?"

"Not much, Nat. I give you each a shilling and attest you, that
is to say, swear you in to serve the king, and, in your case, give
you a paper saying that you are authorized to take your discharge,
whensoever it pleases you."

"Very well, captain. Then on those terms we join, always
understood as we don't have to put on red coats."

The two men were sworn in, and then Nat, standing up, said:

"And now, captain, discipline is discipline. What's your
orders?"