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 HISTORIC 
 DEEDS 
 STDANGER 
 
 HERBERT 
 G. SMITH 
 
 B.J.FERNIE xU 
 x^ R.S.BLAIR 
 
 ^>5(? Christian Herald, Bible House, New York 
 
LIBRARY of CONGRESS 
 
 Two Copies Received 
 
 N'OV 24 1906 
 
 K CoDyficnt Entry , 
 
 ^w. >, /f U 
 
 CLASS A XXfc., No. 
 
 ccypY B. 
 
 -«?$;$j$$e$^5* 
 
 CoPYKKillT 1906, BY 
 
 LOUIS KLOPSCH 
 
 *•*•*. $.'5»V.-<ff'*»-C-< 
 
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TABLE OF CONTENTS 
 
 Hexry Hudsox, Xavigator and Discoverer.... 5 
 
 Masaxiello, "The Kingly Fisherman" 21 
 
 Myles Staxdisti, The Puritan Captain 41 
 
 Prixce Rupert, Soldier of Fortune 65 
 
 Sir Willia:m Phifs, 'J'reasure-Seeker and 
 
 Statesman 83 
 
 Bex'^yowsky, "King of Adventurers" 98 
 
 AxTHOXY Wayxe, a Plero of the Revolution.. 12S 
 
 Marixo Fai.iero, The "Fallen Doge" 151 
 
 Chevalier Bayard, The "Peerless Knight" 164 
 
 Daxiel Booxe, Pioneer and State-Founder... 184 
 Jacquei.txe de I.aguette, V Seventeenth Cen- 
 tury Heroine '. 210 
 
 Lochiel, The "Ulysses of the Highlands" 321 
 
 CouxT Froxtexac, The "Hammer of the 
 
 Iroquois" 248 
 
 William Litiigow, The Unlucky Adventurer. . 266 
 
 Casaxova, Prince of Charlatans 2S-2 
 
 Joiix' Charles Fremoxt, The "Pathfinder"... 310 
 
PREFACE 
 
 IN these days of dull materialism and prosaic 
 money-making, a volume of romantic episodes 
 and hair-breadth escapes should be welcome to the 
 lovers of adventure. The boy who has revelled in 
 the tales of the fairies, and pored over stories of 
 fierce giants, and of gallant knights who battled 
 with dragons and rescued beautiful maidens from 
 enchanted castles, finds the world dolefully im- 
 poverished when he quits school and sits at his 
 office desk. It would be beneath the dignity of the 
 budding lawyer or merchant to believe in fairies and 
 goblins, and to enthuse over the deeds of valiant 
 champions, who dared unknown perils in the days 
 of chivalry. But the qualities he admired in the 
 heroes of his childhood days, have their personifica- 
 tion in real men, whose daring exploits are the glory 
 of the histories of many lands. To glean from the 
 pages of history the stories of these illustrious men 
 of real life, and to tell the narratives of their 
 glorious achievements, has been the work of the 
 editors of this book. 
 
 The old saying that "Truth is stranger than fic- 
 tion" is certainly borne out in these remarkable 
 biographies. We see the gallant Bayard, chevalier, 
 sans peur et sans reproche, careering victoriously 
 across the battlefields of France and Spain; \ye sail 
 with Hendrik Hudson up the then unknown river 
 in quest of a new waterway to India; we stand on 
 the Bridge of Sighs with Marino Faliero, the fallen 
 Doge, whose treachery is the one dark blot on 
 Venetian history; we gallop and charge with Ru- 
 pert, the "dashing soldier of fortune"; we are 
 3 
 
PREFACE 
 
 spectators in the sublime tragedy of Masaniello's 
 rise and fall; we are fascinated and thrilled by the 
 almost magical escapades of Benyowsky, "King of 
 Adventurers"; and we revel in the pioneering of 
 Boone, the founder of States. Here are heroes — 
 American, British, French, Polish, Italian — whose 
 lives afford us every possible phase of comedy and 
 tragedy, and the perusal of whose biographies, as 
 here set forth, may encourage strugglers in other 
 spheres. 
 
 Such records may do more than interest the 
 reader and help to pass away an idle hour. They 
 serve to stimulate the indomitable spirit, that is so 
 large an element in heroic character. There are 
 men in all walks of life, who in crises of their 
 careers are confronted by difficulties apparently 
 crushing. One man overwhelmed by the flood, suc- 
 cumbs and sinks into oblivion, or makes the cow- 
 ard's exit by suicide. The braver, more manly 
 spirit, is braced by the peril to heroic effort; he 
 struggles and resists, and like the men whose deeds 
 are chronicled in this volume, rises triumphant 
 over the sea of obstacles. It is the spirit in which 
 men meet danger which shows of what metal they 
 are made. Perhaps some story of strong endur- 
 ance, of brilliant courage in these pages may in- 
 spire some reader, in his own time of crisis, to dare 
 and do. As our own American poet has said; 
 
 "Lives of great men all remind us 
 
 We may make our lives sublime. 
 And, departing, leave behind us 
 
 Footprints on the sands of time: 
 Footprints, that perhaps another 
 
 Sailing o'er life's solemn main, 
 A forlorn and shipwrecked brother. 
 
 Seeing, shall take heart again." 
 
HENRY HUDSON 
 
 NOT alone in fighting and killing and devastating 
 the face of the world is true greatness, 
 including romance, to be found. The pages of his- 
 tory, while giving precedence to warriors on land 
 and sea, contain the records of men of dauntless 
 courage, whose peaceful enterprises and achieve- 
 ments have added to the world's knowledge and 
 spread of civilization. Prominent among these is 
 Henry Hudson, the navigator and discoverer. The 
 first European to enter the Narrows and set foot 
 on the land on which now stands the proud city 
 of New York, to sail up the river which now bears 
 his name, to brave the perils of the Arctic, and at 
 last to give his life a sacrifice in the cause of 
 science — in his career truly we may find the ele- 
 ments of romance. 
 
 It is singular that of a man of whom England 
 and Holland and America have reason to be proud, 
 so little is known. Were it not for the painstaking 
 search of John Meredith Read, who has collected 
 from old records incidental references to this emi- 
 nent man, and has pieced them together with extra- 
 ordinary labor and skill, we should have known 
 scarcely anything of his family or of his early life. 
 His biographers had been forced to begin their 
 story of the man with his maturity, when he was 
 setting out on his first voyage of discovery. Even 
 now the early history of the man is a mere outline. 
 Neither he nor his contemporaries had any idea of 
 5 
 
HISTORIC DEEDS OF DANGER AND DARING 
 
 the interest the world would one day take in the 
 details of his boyhood and early years. A singu- 
 larly modest man was Hudson, who had little to 
 say of himself at any time, and even of his dis- 
 coveries said only such things as he thought might 
 be useful to future settlers. A man, too, of fine 
 unselfishness, indifferent to personal gain, content 
 that other men should grow rich on his achieve- 
 ments. 
 
 But Mr. Read's indefatigable and exhaustive 
 research has not elicited all we would know of Hud- 
 son's early years. He says: "That Hudson was an 
 Englishman, may, indeed, be readily and satisfac- 
 torily proved, but as to where and when he was 
 born we have no evidence whatever. His birth, 
 his home, his parentage, his boyhood, the early 
 days of his manhood, and the influences under 
 which the character and genius of the great dis- 
 coverer were first developed, would be to all mat- 
 ters of deepest interest. Unfortunately, we are 
 met at the very threshold of our investigations, by 
 the fact that absolutely nothing is known of Hudson 
 prior to April 19, 1607, when he suddenly appears 
 upon the stage of action as a captain in the em- 
 ploy of the Muscovy Company, and after a brief 
 period of five years of brilliant exploration in the 
 service of the English and the Dutch, prematurely 
 perishes by treachery amid the scenes of his 
 triumph. 
 
 "The story of his wonderful discoveries, his hair- 
 breadth escapes, his romantic voyages in wintry 
 seas, are familiar as household words, and we are 
 prepared to recognize in Hudson the man who, 
 three centuries ago, braving untold dangers, 
 reached a degree of northern latitude surpassed by 
 few modern explorers, and there noting the singu- 
 lar amelioration of the climate, orginated the great 
 idea of an open Polar sea, a theory which later 
 
HENRY HUDSON 
 
 investigators have adopted and fully confirmed. In 
 England, we find that his memory is perpetuated in 
 the title of a gigantic trading corporation, and 
 in America, by common consent, his name is affixed 
 to most of the great discoveries which he inaugu- 
 rated and effected. From the Capes of the Dela- 
 ware to the ice-bound shores of the Pole, our con- 
 tinent has associations connected with Hudson." 
 
 Hudson suddenly emerges on the world's stage 
 in the following record: "Anno 1607, April 19, at 
 St. Ethelburge in Bishops Gate Street [London] 
 did communicate with the rest of the parishoners, 
 these persons, seamen, purposing to goe to sea 
 foure dayes after, for to discouer a passage by 
 the North Pole to Japan and China. First, Henry 
 Hudson, master. Secondly, William CoUines, his 
 mate. Thirdly, James Young. Fourthly, John Col- 
 man. Fifthly, John Cooke. Sixtly, James Beu- 
 bery. Seventhly, James Skrutton. Eigtly, John 
 Pleyce. Nintly, Thomas Baxter. Tenthly, Rich- 
 ard Day. Elevently, James Knight. Twelfthly, 
 John Hudson, a boy." Small indeed for so haz- 
 ardous an enterprise was this little party, who, with 
 pious spirit, went to the old church to take the 
 Lord's Supper before setting out on their voyage. 
 One is glad to see the boy's name there, and to 
 think that in that lonely journey Hudson had the 
 comfort of his son's society. The good clergyman 
 who administered the sacrament, doubtless supposed 
 that every one would be familiar with the name 
 and family of the great explorer, and did nothing 
 to satisfy the curiosity of later generations. 
 
 Some clue to Hudson's family is obtained inci- 
 dentally from the public record, that in 1555, fifty- 
 two years before the good clerg\Tnan's notice. Queen 
 Mary, of hateful memory, had granted a charter 
 for the founding of the Muscovy Company, and had 
 named Henry Hudson as one of the founders and 
 7 
 
HISTORIC DEEDS OF DANGER AND DARING 
 
 first assistants of the company. Reckoning the 
 lapse of time between the two dates and the iden- 
 tity of name, we may guess that the Henry Hud- 
 son mentioned by Mary may have been the grand- 
 father of our explorer. The family was indentified 
 with the fortunes of the company, for later in its 
 journals we find a Christopher Hudson and a 
 Thomas Hudson mentioned among its chief officers. 
 In still later records there is mention of a Heard- 
 son, a Hodson, and a Hodsdon, probably referring 
 to the same persons, written by some clerk whose 
 eccentricity of spelling may account for the ortho- 
 graphical variety. The company was organized to 
 develop trade between England and Russia, and was 
 the natural society to which Sebastian Cabot went 
 with his idea of there being a northwest passage 
 to China, as a society with energy and resources 
 for an enterprise that would develop their own bus- 
 iness. In a quaint book, published in 1553, there 
 in this reference to the society as dealing with 
 Cabot: "and after much speeche and conference 
 together, it was at last concluded that three shippes 
 should bee prepared and furnished out, for the serch 
 and discouerie of the northern part of the world, to 
 open a way and passage to our men for trauaile to 
 newe and unknowen kingdomes." 
 
 The Henry Hudson mentioned by Queen Mary 
 was a man of great wealth and influence, a member 
 of the Company of Skinners or Tanners, and an 
 alderman of London, If he was the grandfather 
 of our explorer, M^e may suppose that the boy would 
 have the best education available at the time; and 
 as the company took into its service promising boys 
 as pupils or apprentices, he would be one of the 
 number, and so be qualified to go out as captain 
 or master in 1607. This Henry Hudson, alderman, 
 died of a malignant fever in 1555, and on his tomb 
 was the following quaint epitaph: 
 8 
 
HENRY HUDSON 
 
 "Here lyeth Henry Heardson his corps 
 Within this tomb of stone: 
 His soule (through Christ his death) 
 
 To God in Heaven is gone. 
 Whiles that he lived an Alderman 
 
 And Skinner was his state; 
 He had to wife one Barbara, 
 
 Which made this tombe you see: 
 By whom he had of issue store, 
 Eight sonnes and daughters three." 
 The man who quotes this epitaph, one Stow, else- 
 where in his record spells the name Hudson. This 
 man Stow, who wrote A Survey of the City of 
 London, probably a kind of guide-book, mentions a 
 son of the late Alderman Henry Heardson of the 
 name of Henry, who was probably the father of 
 our discoverer. There is another reference in a 
 book by Abacuk (Habakkuk) Prickett to a Henry 
 Hudson, a seaman, who had a house in London. 
 Van Meteren, who knew the explorer well, refers to 
 him as being a close friend of Captain John Smith, 
 who is familiar in our schoolboy reading. 
 
 Hudson's first voyage, of which we have any 
 record, the one on which he started four days after 
 Purchas noted his being at the church, was made in 
 the Hopewell, a little vessel of sixty tons burden. 
 In her he reached the eastern coast of Greenland, 
 and followed the ice-barrier around and up to lati- 
 tude 82 degrees. Having reached the neighborhood 
 of Spitzbergen without finding an outlet, he sought 
 to penetrate Davis Strait, "by the north of Green- 
 land, by Lumley's Inlet and the furious overfall." 
 Again frustrated by the ice, he returned to London 
 on September 15, 1607, having been absent about 
 five months. He had attained a higher latitude than 
 had ever been reached by any former explorer, 
 and had laid the foundation of the English whale- 
 fisheries in those waters. 
 
HISTORIC DEEDS OF DANGER AND DARING 
 
 His second voyage, also for the Muscovy Com- 
 pany, commenced on April 22, 1608, and was di- 
 rected to the discovery of the northeast passage 
 over the Pole to China and Japan. He had with 
 him again his son John. With him also was Robert 
 Juet, who went as mate; a man whom we shall meet 
 later in a deplorable capacity. He did, however, 
 render important service in this and later voyages, 
 by a diary which he kept, and which is still in 
 existence. On June 3, 1608, Hudson was off the 
 most northern point of Norway, and a week later 
 had reached the 75th degree of latitude. Four 
 days later he records a strange sight witnessed, he 
 says, by several of the crew. "This morning," he 
 writes, "one of our companie, looking overboard 
 saw a mermaid, and calling up some others of the 
 companie to see her, one more came up, and by 
 that time shee was come close to the shipp's side, 
 looking earnestly on the men; a little after, a sea 
 came and overturned her; her back and breasts 
 were like a woman's (as they say that saw her), 
 her body as big as one of us; her skin very white; 
 and long haire hanging downe behind of colour 
 blacke;^ in her going downe they saw her tayle, 
 which was like the tayle of a Porposse and speckled 
 like a macrell. Their names that saw her, were 
 Thomas Hilles, and Robert Raynor." So the sturdy, 
 truth-loving captain clears his skirts of responsi- 
 bility for the remarkable sight, and we have to 
 form our own opinion of the character of Hilles 
 and Raynor as reliable witnesses. Hudson endeav- 
 ored to pass to the northeast of Nova Zembla, but 
 "voide of hope of a northeast passage (except by 
 the Vaygats, for which I was not fitted to trie or 
 prove)," he resolved to use all means to sail to the 
 northwest once more, hoping to pass by what 
 Captain Davis named, "Lumley's Inlet and the 
 furious overfall." But having made little headway, 
 10 
 
HENRY HUDSON 
 
 he returned to England, where he arrived August 
 i36, 1608. 
 
 The fame of Hudson's courage and enterprise 
 reached the ears of the Dutch East India Company, 
 and struck consternation into their hearts. If Hud- 
 son found the new route, a heavy blow would be 
 struck at the trade then beginning to be extremely 
 profitable. So rich had been the results of the busi- 
 ness, that the company had declared a dividend 
 equal to three-fourths of the original investment, as 
 the profits of a single year. Hudson's friend. Van 
 Meteren, the Dutch Consul in London, was accord- 
 ingly instructed to detach Hudson from the Mus- 
 covy Company, and invite him to go out under the 
 auspices of the Dutch company on his next voyage. 
 For some reason, Hudson had become doubtful of 
 the Muscovy Company's - intentions, or he fancied 
 they had lost faith in his theories. He therefore 
 listened to Van Meteren, and, intent only on mak- 
 ing his discovery, was not concerned about the 
 nationality of the company willing to send him out. 
 In this he mortally offended the English company, 
 but was not aware of it at the time. He went over 
 to Holland and laid his plans before the Dutch 
 company, and they were eager to avail themselves 
 of his services. But the obligations of red tape 
 must be observed. The council could not make any 
 engagement without the consent of the committee 
 of seventeen, the next meeting of which would not 
 be held until too late to do anything that year. To 
 the vexation of Hudson, the expedition would have 
 to be postponed for a year. The facts were known 
 to the French ambassador at the Hague, who im- 
 mediately communicated with King Henry IV, who, 
 seeing the value of the opportunity, directed his 
 ambassador to make a contract with Hudson. The 
 Dutch heard of the project, and, fearing the oppor- 
 tunity would slip from their grasp, secured the 
 11 
 
HISTORIC DEEDS OF DANGER AND DARING 
 
 consent of the council of seventeen individually, 
 and reopened negotiations with Hudson. They 
 made him a formal offer to equip a ship, and agreed 
 to pay him $320 for his outfit, and in the event of 
 his losing his life on the voyage, to pay to his 
 family a further sum of $80. So lightly did they 
 estimate the value of a life worth millions to the 
 world. Hudson promptly closed with the offer. 
 Soon afterward, the French King accepted Hudson's 
 terms, but found him already pledged to the Dutch. 
 Otherwise New York, which was discovered on this 
 voyage, would have been founded under the French 
 flag instead of under the Dutch. 
 
 The contract was extremely rigid. Hudson was 
 to sail around the north side of Nova Zembla. If 
 he failed to find the long-sought passage by tha": 
 route, he was to try no other, but return to Holland, 
 and the company would then consider any other 
 route he might suggest. Thus bound, Hudson sailed 
 from Amsterdam on April 4, 1609, in the Half 
 Moon, a yacht of eighty tons burden, with a motley 
 crew of sixteen or eighteen men, partly English and 
 partly Dutch. Robert Juet went with him again, 
 this time as captain's clerk or secretary. 
 
 Hudson took with him memoranda that he had 
 received from his friend, Jodocus Hondius, an en- 
 graver and mapmaker, who was deeply interested 
 in Arctic exploration. The celebrated geographer. 
 Rev. Peter Plancius, had also given him translations 
 of Barentson's voyages in 1505, and of the treatise 
 of Ivar Bardson Boty, and the log-books of George 
 Waymouth. He also had obtained from his friend. 
 Captain John Smith, of Pocahontas fame, then in 
 Virginia, a description of a great sea, said to exist 
 in the far north, connecting with a western ocean. 
 The fact that he took these documents with him, 
 suggests the thought that he did not propose to 
 abide literally by his contract with the Dutch 
 12 
 
HENRY HUDSON 
 
 company, to return to Holland if he was unable to 
 find a passage around the north side of Nova 
 Zembla. 
 
 On reaching Nova Zembla, Hudson found the 
 channel so full of ice, that he immediately decided 
 that an attempt to find the passage by that route 
 was hopeless. According to his instructions, he 
 should then have returned, but eager to make his 
 discovery, and reluctant to return to Holland with- 
 out any result, he determined to proceed to the 
 American coast. Of course, he had no idea of the 
 extent of the continent, and he hoped that he might 
 find a channel through it to the north. 
 
 As he steered southward, and when off the coast 
 of Maine, the Half Moon was nearly wrecked, A 
 fierce gale sprang up, in which she lost her fore- 
 mast. Repairs were made with what speed was 
 possible, and preparations were nearly complete for 
 a new start, when the Half Moon was suddenly 
 surrounded by canoes of Indians, fully armed and 
 evidently hostile. The captain and the little crew 
 knew well what would be their fate should the red- 
 skins climb up the sides of the little vessel. Hud- 
 son was a humane man, and more inclined to con- 
 ciliate the Indians than to fight them, but, says Juet, 
 "we were compelled to employ our two 'stone mur- 
 derers,' to beat off the savages." We can imagine 
 what must have been the effect on the light Indian 
 canoes of the volley from the wide-mouthed cul- 
 verins. They must have been annihilated by that 
 hissing hail of stones, and the Indians, appalled by 
 the havoc of the white man's thunder-weapons, swam 
 away in terror. 
 
 Resuming his voyage southward, still looking for 
 his channel in vain, he arrived opposite James River 
 in Virginia. Then, turning about, he steered north- 
 ward to examine the coast more carefully. On 
 August 28, he entered the great bay now known as 
 13 
 
HISTORIC DEEDS OF DANGER AND DARING 
 
 Delaware Bay, where, after a fruitless quest for his 
 channel to the Pole, he continued his voyage along 
 the New Jersey coast, and on September 3 an- 
 chored outside Sandy Hook. 
 
 Hudson's journal of this momentous third voyage 
 is lost, and we have to depend on the record kept 
 by Juet, which we have reason to believe differed 
 materially from Hudson's own account. The facts, 
 however, disregarding motives and opinions, are 
 doubtless identical. Juet says that on the following 
 day (September 4, 1609), the boat was sent forward 
 to sound, and reporting five fathoms, the Half Moon. 
 entered, and found it "a very good harbor." How 
 many fleets of all nations, passing through the 
 same channel in after years, have endorsed poor 
 Juet's opinion! The vessel, however, drifted 
 aground, and "we drove on shoare," but, says the 
 pious rascal, "we tooke no hurt, thanked bee God ! 
 The people of the countrie came on boord of us, 
 seeming very glad of our comming and brought us 
 green tabacco and gave us of it for knives and 
 beads." Little did the uncultured people of the 
 "countrie" know what would be the results of that 
 "comming," otherwise a very different reception 
 would have met the Dutch secretary and his English 
 master. "They goe in deerskins loose," continues 
 the Dutchman, "and are well dressed. They desire 
 cloathes and are very civill. The countrie is full 
 of great and tall oake." On the following day the 
 vessel floated with the tide, and after waiting four 
 days and sounding, the Half Moon entered the 
 river, afterward to be known as the Hudson, and 
 found it seven fathoms. Slowly, and sending the 
 boat forward at every stage to sound, the ship 
 proceeded up the beautiful river. They found it 
 "nearly a mile wide, with very high land on both 
 sides." 
 
 It is interesting to learn what the Indians thought 
 14 
 
HENRY HUDSON 
 
 of the visitors. In a conversation some years after- 
 wards with the Rev. John Hockwelder, a Moravian 
 missionary, an Indian, who in his youth witnessed 
 Hudson's arrival in New Yorlc Bay, described the 
 sensation it caused among the redskins. The first 
 news was that there was a gigantic fish in the bay. 
 Some more intelligent Indians were at once sent to 
 see it and report. They took back word that the 
 strange visitor was a huge canoe of several stories, 
 in which there were living men of a new race. Their 
 faces were white, and there was one of them clad in 
 red (an English uniform). It was decided in sol- 
 emn council that the visitors were an embassage 
 from Manitto (the name of the Indian Supreme 
 Being), that the man in red was Manitto himself 
 and the others were his servants. It was resolved 
 to receive them with all honor. The next day Hud- 
 son, the man in red, went on shore with several 
 others, and his kind and friendly face disarmed 
 the fears of the Indians. He drank something out 
 of a cup, and gave the cup to his men, who drank 
 too. They offered some to the Indians, and one of 
 the chiefs drank it up. He was immediately seized 
 with pain, staggered around, rolled on the ground, 
 and at last fell asleep, and the Indians thought he 
 was dead. But the same night he recovered and 
 said he had suffered no hurt. 
 
 Hudson deemed it advisable to keep two of the 
 Indians who came on board as hostages. They were 
 as scared as captive birds when they found them- 
 selves detained, and first one and then the other 
 contrived after a day or two to make their escape. 
 Very few, however, were so timid. There is a 
 tradition that when the Half Moon reached a point 
 a little above the site where Yonkers now stands, 
 and waited for the return of the boat that had 
 been sent forward to sound, an old man came on 
 board and courteously signified by gestures that 
 15 
 
HISTORIC DEEDS OF DANGER AND DARING 
 
 he wanted Hudson to go on shore. Few men would 
 have been so bold as to accept an invitation which 
 might have involved his being captured and held 
 prisoner. But Hudson knew no fear, and willingly 
 went with his host. He found him to be a chief, 
 ruling over forty warriors. The chief conducted 
 him to his abode, a circular house built of oak. 
 There the forty men were assembled, with seventeen 
 women. A repast was hurriedly prepared, and 
 brought in red bowls made of wood. Mats were laid 
 for the guests to sit on, and two warriors were sent 
 out with bows and arrows to shoot game. They 
 soon returned, having shot two pigeons and a fat 
 dog. The latter was prepared for the oven, by be- 
 ing scraped with shells. Hudson and his men stayed 
 while the cooking was being done, and afterwards 
 partook of the repast with what appetite they could 
 find. He was urged to stay all night, but declined. 
 The Indians were evidently disappointed. They 
 thought Hudson feared them. To convince him of 
 their peaceful disposition, they brought in their 
 arrows and broke them in his presence and threw 
 them on the fire. But he hoped to sail farther in 
 the morning, for a favorable wind was blowing, and 
 he returned to his ship. 
 
 The next day the voyage was resumed, and 
 reached a stage vaguely described in Juet's journal 
 as "two leagues above the shoals." There the Half 
 Moon waited, while the boat went forward to sound. 
 The Indians again came on board, bringing grapes, 
 tobacco, and a few beaver skins, and seemed per- 
 fectly satisfied with some beads, knives and scissors 
 in payment. 
 
 On the twenty- second day, the Half Moon being 
 then opposite where Albany now is, the boat re- 
 turned, reporting the river "to bee at an end for 
 shipping to goe in." So they turned about and 
 sailed back toward the bay, being satisfied that this 
 16 
 
HENRY HUDSON 
 
 was not the channel to China. All through the 
 voyage they had been kindly and courteously 
 treated, and though they had not treated the Indians 
 well, they had received nothing but hospitality. As 
 they neared the northern end of Manhattan Island, 
 there was a change in the demeanor of the Indians. 
 The two men who had been held as hostages and 
 escaped, had been highly incensed by their detention, 
 and stirred up the Indians to attack the Half Moon. 
 Knowing she must eventually come down the river, 
 they lay in wait, and when she appeared greeted 
 her with a flight of arrows. The reply was a volley 
 from the muskets of the crew, and three Indians 
 fell dead. A crowd of about a hundred Indians 
 were watching the attack from the banks, and were 
 furious when they saw their brethren killed. They 
 seized canoes and raced after the ship. By that 
 time the "stone murderers" had been got ready, 
 and bellowed a thunderous peal with a hail of 
 stones. The canoes were sunk or scattered, and 
 many of the occupants were killed. The Half 
 Moon continued her course, and on October 4, a 
 month and a day after entering the Narrows, they 
 spread the mainsail and entered the open sea; 
 Hudson, during the voyage home, preparing for 
 the Dutch company a glowing account of his dis- 
 covery of "The Great River of the Mountains," 
 which later generations call by his name. 
 
 They arrived at Dartmouth, England, Nov. 7, 
 1609, having little idea of the momentous results of 
 the voyage. The Dutch company were notified, and 
 ordered the vessel to proceed to Amsterdam. This, 
 however, the English Government would not permit. 
 Hudson and the Englishmen on board were forbid- 
 den to leave England, but "to serve their own 
 country." Many persons, says the chronicler, 
 thought it rather hard and unfair that these sailors 
 should thus be prevented from laying their accounts 
 17 
 
HISTORIC DEEDS OF DANGER AND DARING 
 
 and reports before their employers, chiefly as the 
 enterprise in which they had been engaged was such 
 as to benefit navigation in general. But the English 
 Government was obdurate. They did not know, but 
 suspected, how much had been lost by the Dutch 
 gaining the result of Hudson's genius, and they 
 would not allow him in future to serve under any 
 flag but the British. They had more reason than 
 they then knew for their decision. They detained 
 the Half Moon until the summer of the following 
 year, and before it sailed, Hudson was again sent 
 under British auspices to the frozen North. 
 
 On April 17, 1610, Henry Hudson sailed on his 
 fourth and last voyage. The vessel was the Dis- 
 covery, a ship of seventy tons, and his crew a reck- 
 less, insubordinate, and dissolute gang. Again his 
 son John accompanied him, and Robert Juet was 
 again his mate. On this voyage was a young man 
 named Henry Green, who went as a guest of Hud- 
 son's. Hudson had found him naked and half- 
 starved, had fed and clothed him. Finding him a 
 young man of good education and some intelligence, 
 he had taken an interest in him. Hudson ofl'ered 
 to take him on his voyage if he could get an outfit. 
 Green's mother was appealed to. She firmly re- 
 fused to do anything for him, pronounced him an 
 unmitigated rascal, without gratitude, principle or 
 morals. Hudson should have been warned, for a 
 man must be very bad before his mother will turn 
 against him. But the great navigator was a guile- 
 less, generous man, and would not withdraw the 
 promise he had made. Besides, taken away from 
 London and its temptations, kept from liquor, which 
 was his chief temptation, the young man might 
 reform. Hudson sent a more urgent message to 
 the mother, and she finally yielded so far as to 
 advance five pounds toward an outfit, but strictly 
 on the condition that it was not to be given to the 
 18 
 
HENRY HUDSON 
 
 young man, but expended for him by some honest 
 person. With such a character Hudson could not 
 secure him employment on the ship, but was allowed 
 to take him as his guest, and he promised the young 
 man to remunerate him out of his own pocket. 
 
 The object of the voyage was as before, the dis- 
 covery of the northwest passage across the Polar 
 Sea to India and China. He hoped, as before, to 
 find it by way of Lumley's Inlet. Again he was 
 shut out by the ice. In latitude 61, he turned his 
 course along the western shore, looking for a chan- 
 nel. Finally, he entered "a great wide sea," which, 
 though he knew it not, was merely the bay that now 
 bears his name. He was full of hope and was about 
 to proceed, when a mutiny broke out among his 
 crew. Never was plight so pitable. Believing him- 
 self on the verge of the discovery which he had 
 sought so long, and thwarted by a miserable, discon- 
 tented crowd of cowards, the great man, alone in 
 that desolate sea, far from civilization, was at their 
 mercy. He made a strong appeal to them. Calling 
 all on deck, he spread his charts before them, ex- 
 plained his course, and tried to enlist their support 
 and arouse their enthusiasm. It was all of no avail. 
 They said the ship had been provisioned for eight 
 months, and they had already been ten months 
 away from home. The food was scarce and bad, 
 they would return. Hudson begged and pleaded, 
 and at last, with whispers and consultation, which 
 should have put him on his guard, they agreed to go 
 forward. 
 
 The apparent consent of the crew was a mere 
 blind. Henry Green, the young man he had be- 
 friended, was to justify his mother's estimate of 
 his character. Stealthily he went from one to 
 another, urging them to save themselves, which, he 
 said, could never be done while Hudson was in com- 
 mand. Gradually he won over the majority. One or 
 19 
 
HISTORIC DEEDS OF DANGER AND DARING 
 
 two refused to yield, and denounced the scheme. But 
 Green had sufficient supporters. One morning 
 Hudson was seized as he came on deck, and his 
 hands tied behind him. He was thrust on board 
 the boat, and with him were sent his son John, all 
 the sick, and the one or two who were faithful to 
 him. The Discovery, under Green's command, 
 spread sail, and left Hudson and his companions to 
 their fate. Even at the last, when the boat was far 
 off on the horizon, some of the crew relented, and 
 pleaded with Green to wait and take the master 
 back on board. He surlily answered that there was 
 not food enough for those on the ship, and he would 
 not wait for the best man on earth. He knew that 
 when he got back to England he might be hanged 
 for what he was doing, but he preferred to be 
 hanged in England rather than to starve to death 
 in the Arctic. In a few minutes the boat was left 
 behind, and nothing was ever again seen of Henry 
 Hudson, the bravest and noblest of British seamen. 
 
 On the way homeward, the vessel, under Green's 
 unskilful guidance, ran ashore among hostile In- 
 dians, and Green and several others were killed. 
 Juet, who had been an enemy and a leader of the 
 mutiny, then took charge and brought the Discovery 
 back to England. The crew were at once put in 
 prison, while a vessel was hurriedly sent out to 
 search for Hudson and his companions. It re- 
 turned without success. They had either been 
 drowned, captured by hostile Indians, or starved to 
 death. wSo ended a life full of self-sacrificing labor, 
 of courage undaunted, and of noble endurance in 
 the cause of science. 
 
 B. J. F. 
 
 20 
 
MASANIELLO 
 
 MASANIELLO was born at Amalfi in the year 
 1622. His father was a fisherman, and 
 the child first saw the light among the nets and 
 basivets of a little hut on the sea-coast. His 
 birth was attended by an augury. It is said that an 
 ancient monk, whose glittering eyes and snowy 
 beard had gained for him among the village folk 
 the reputation of a prophet, once visited the 
 cottage, and having looked long upon the child as 
 it lay asleep in its poor cradle, broke forth into a 
 prediction that the boy would some day rise to 
 more than kingly power, but that his empire would 
 be brief and his fall sudden. The seer who uttered 
 such a prophecy deserved his fame. The story of 
 Masaniello — one of the most romantic in the history 
 of mankind — fulfilled the oracle; with what exact- 
 ness, and by what events, we propose to call to 
 mind. 
 
 The boy was brought up to his father's trade. 
 When he was about his twentieth year he left Amalfi 
 and crossed the bay to Naples. There he took a 
 garret in a house which overhung a corner of the 
 great market square, and married a girl no richer 
 than himself; and thenceforward every morning, as 
 soon as the sun rose up behind the black peaks 
 of Vesuvius, his boat was to be seen dancing over 
 the blue waters of the bay. 
 
 The life of a fisherman is hard and poor. Masa- 
 niello went barefooted. His dress was the common 
 dress of the fisherman of Naples — loose linen 
 trousers, a blue blouse, and a red cap. But his 
 21 
 
HISTORIC DEEDS OF DANGER AND DARING 
 
 figure, though not tall, was striking; his face was 
 handsome; his eyes black, large, and glittering; and 
 there was about him a peculiar air of self-reliance, 
 the index of a bold, capable, and fiery mind. 
 
 For about four years he lived quietly, in poverty, 
 yet not perhaps in discontent. But the Spanish 
 Viceroys who ruled Naples, and who had long 
 waxed fat upon the taxes, were yearly sucking 
 deeper of the people's blood. A tax was set on fish, 
 a tax on flour, a tax on poultry, wine, milk, cheese, 
 salt. At last a tax on fruit, the fare on which the 
 lower classes chiefly lived, brought the city to the 
 brink of a revolt. Yet it is probable that, even 
 then, without a leader, the popular excitement would 
 have died away in empty threats and mutterings. 
 At this crisis, the agents of the Government hap- 
 pened to fall foul of Masaniello. A basket of his 
 fish which had not paid the tax was seized and 
 carried to the castle. The same day his wife was 
 stopped as she was carrying in her apron a small 
 quantity of flour, was dragged to the receipt of 
 custom, and being found to have no money, either 
 to pay the duty or to bribe the agents, was locked 
 up in a cell. 
 
 They had better have hanged a hundred lazza- 
 roni on the gibbet in the market-place. Masaniello 
 was stung to madness. From that moment his sole 
 thought was of revenge. 
 
 The most tremendous weapon known to man was 
 ready to his hand — a city on the verge of riot. His 
 measures were soon taken. In appearance they 
 were harmless, even trifling; but in truth they M^ere 
 most dexterously planned. He began by collecting 
 in the market-place a knot of boys. To each of 
 these he taught a phrase of words, and gave a little 
 cane, bearing on the top a streamer of black linen, 
 like a flag. Soon five hundred, and at last two 
 thousand, of these volunteers were going up and 
 22 
 
MASANIELLO 
 
 down the city. In the hovels of the lazzaroni, 
 among the stalls of the fruit-sellers, before the 
 gates of the toll-houses, under the windows of the 
 Spanish nobles, everywhere their slender ensigns 
 fluttered, and the pregnant words were heard: "God 
 be with us, and the King of Spain ! But down with 
 the Government, the fruit-tax, and the devil !" 
 
 Masaniello's scholars made a vast sensation. A 
 few of the spectators mocked and jeered; but the 
 seed was scattered in no stony soil. It sprang up 
 and flourished; and in three days it was ready to 
 bear fruit. 
 
 It was Sunday, July 7, in the year 1647. The 
 day was the festival of " The Lady of the 
 Carmes," a day which had for centuries been held 
 in celebration of an ancient victory achieved against 
 the Moors. It was the custom on that day to erect 
 in the market-place a wooden castle, which was 
 defended by a company of boys, while another 
 company, half-naked and painted red, with turbans 
 on their heads, in imitation of the Moors, assailed 
 its battlements with a storm of apples, melons, 
 cucumbers, and figs. This spectacle, which usually 
 ended in a free fight and uproar, was, as might 
 have been expected, excessively popular among the 
 lower classes; and that morning, at the hour at 
 which the fruit-growers from the villages began, as 
 usual, to pour into the city, the square was already 
 thronged with thousands of spectators. 
 
 The performance had not yet begun; the crowd 
 was waiting, idle and unemployed, ready to wel- 
 come any manner of excitement; when suddenly a 
 startling cry was heard. One of the fruit-sellers 
 had refused to pay the tax ! 
 
 The man was Arpaja of Pozzuoli, Masaniello's 
 
 cousin. The plot had been arranged between them. 
 
 On being called upon to pay the duty, Arpaja flew 
 
 into a rage. "God gives us plenty," he exclaimed 
 
 23 
 
HISTORIC DEEDS OF DANGER AND DARING 
 
 in a loud voice, "and our cursed Government a 
 famine. The fruit is not worth selling; let it go!" 
 And with the words he kicked over his baskets, and 
 sent the gourds and oranges rolling on the ground. 
 
 At that instant, as the crowd stood breathless in 
 excitement, a voice sent forth a cry of "No more 
 taxes !" The voice was Masaniello's. The crowd 
 caught up the words; they swelled into a thunder. 
 In an instant the rebellion was afoot. 
 
 Andrea Anaclerio, the elect of the people, rushed 
 out of his palace, and threatened Arpaja with the 
 whip. But a storm of sticks and melons flew about 
 his ears; a large stone struck him on the breast; 
 and he was glad to fly for refuge. 
 
 Masaniello sprang upon a fruiterer's table. The 
 crowd already recognized their leader. He began 
 to speak: and he spoke with a certain rude and 
 fiery oratory which moved his hearers more than 
 eloquence. He bade them rejoice, for the hour 
 of their deliverance was at hand. St. Peter, once a 
 fisherman, had beaten down the pride of Satan and 
 released the world from bondage; so likewise would 
 he, Masaniello, another fisherman, strike off^ the 
 bonds of the most Faithful People. Let them pay 
 no more taxes; let them win back with fire and 
 sword the ancient Privilege of Naples, the right of 
 freedom from all taxes, which the Spaniards had 
 infringed. His own life might fall; his head might 
 ride aloft upon a pole. But to die in such a cause 
 would be his glory. 
 
 There is no rhetoric which thrills its hearers like 
 that which gives the echo to their passions. The 
 crowd broke into a fierce shout, and turned with 
 exultation to the work of ravage. The first object 
 was the toll-house in the square. Faggots drenched 
 with pitch were hurled in at the windows; a lighted 
 torch was added; and the building in a few minutes 
 was a pile of raging flames. Then there was a cry 
 24 
 
MASANIELLO 
 
 for arms. A ponderous beam was brought and 
 wielded by strong men, the gates of the Carmine 
 Tower were beaten in, and the crowd rushed eagerly 
 upon the pikes and halberds. Clubs, knives, and 
 bars of iron were pressed into the service; and the 
 mob, thus armed, preceded by the banner-boys of 
 Masaniello, turned in their wild justice towards the 
 pala-e of the V^iceroy. 
 
 Their way lay past the prison of St. James. 
 They halted there to burst the doors and to add 
 the prisoners to their number. 
 
 At length they reached the palace. The guards 
 who stood at arms before the gates were swept 
 away. The Viceroy, Ponce de Leon, Duke of Arcos, 
 and those about him, strove to secure themselves 
 behind the inner doors. But the barricades were 
 broken in. The Duke was hunted like a thief from 
 room to room, and forced at last, at the peril of 
 his life, to drop from a back window by a rope, 
 and to fly in a close carriage to the castle of St. 
 Elmo. 
 
 Then the palace was sacked from floor to roof. 
 A great fire was kindled in the street. Rare and 
 costly furniture, hangings, pictures, jewels, golden 
 dishes, goblets stamped with the proud arms of 
 Ponce de Leon, were hurled out of the windows, and 
 piled into the flames. Yet in all this, and through- 
 out the whole revolt, there was no private theft. 
 These riches were held as things accursed, as treas- 
 ures purchased by the people's blood, and worthy 
 only to be sacrificed in the hour of their revenge. 
 
 And now the people, drunk with the giddy wine 
 of vengeance, required no further rousing. The 
 time had come for discipline, for order, and re- 
 straint; and Masaniello turned with all his vigor 
 to the work. Then was seen the power of a com- 
 manding mind. In a marvellously short space of 
 time, the mob became an army. Parties, each led 
 25 
 
HISTORIC DEEDS OF DANGER AND DARING 
 
 by its own captain, and missioned to its separate 
 duty, began to go forth through the city ; searching 
 the armorer's shops for weapons; tearing down the 
 Spanish standard from the Carmine Tower, and 
 planting in its place the ancient flag of Naples; 
 marching through the streets, with trumpets singing 
 and drums rolling, collecting volunteers; bursting 
 open the prisons of St. Maria and St. Archangel; 
 dragging the cannon from the bastion of San 
 Lorenzo, and setting the great bells pealing an 
 alarm. As often as the Spanish soldiers met with 
 a detachment of the rioters, a fierce fight arose; 
 lives were lost on both sides; but the guards were 
 always overpowered. All business became suspended. 
 The shopkeepers shut up their shops, and joined the 
 rebels. The nobles, and the farmers of the taxes, 
 with beating hearts and faces white with terror, 
 barred themselves inside their palaces. Only a 
 train of monks, in stoles of white, with censers in 
 their hands, ventured, about the hour of Vespers, 
 to issue from the Convent of St. Paul, and to pass 
 with prayers for peace along the streets. 
 
 When night fell, Masaniello was at the head of 
 fifty thousand men. Nor did darkness check the 
 course of his proceedings. Thousands of candles, 
 torches, cressets, watch-fires blazing at every corner 
 of the streets, made the city as bright as day. Re- 
 cruits came streaming in without cessation. And 
 all night the work went on. 
 
 As soon as day began to break, new swarms of 
 volunteers, equipped with sickles, pitchforks, scythes, 
 and even spits and pokers, came pouring in from 
 all the country round. But the arms most used that 
 day were links and torches. A platform was 
 erected in the market-place; and there Masaniello 
 sat, and gave his orders. The toll-house in the 
 square was now in cinders; but in diflferent quarters 
 of the city there were several others. Masaniello 
 26 
 
MASANIELLO 
 
 drew up a list of these, together with sixty of the 
 proudest palaces in Naples, which their owners had 
 enriched or built out of the produce of the taxes. 
 All these were ordered to be burnt; and throughout 
 that day, and far into the night, parties were going 
 forth unceasingly with faggots, pitch, and torches. 
 Women and children helped the work with sacks of 
 straw and cans of oil. In every quarter of the city 
 some haughty edifice, the home of a Mirabello or an 
 Aquavana, was turned into a heap of smoking ruins. 
 Treasures of all kinds, and of untold value, perished 
 in the flames. Pictures of the Madonna and the 
 saints were alone held sacred, were preserved, and 
 hung up in the churches. Nothing was taken by 
 the people. So strong on this point was the public 
 feeling, that one of the rioters who ventured to pick 
 up a silk scarf was instantly dragged into the 
 market-place, and hanged by a fierce crowd. 
 
 Meanwhile, the Viceroy had stolen secretly from 
 St. Elmo, and was now shut up in Castel Nuovo, 
 which was kept by a strong guard. From the castle 
 he sent out his orders. But the few bands of 
 guards which he could spare were entirelj^ useless; 
 and in truth the Duke was in a desperate pass. He 
 tried tactics, and he tried devotion. He sent out 
 the Duke of Maddaloni and the Prior of Rocella 
 with a piece of parchment, which he pretended was 
 the Privilege of Naples. But the crowd immedi- 
 ately found out the trick; the Prior was hooted, and 
 the Duke came near to being torn in pieces. He 
 then bethought himself of St. Gennaro; and in the 
 chapel of the great cathedral, the chapel in which, 
 three times a year, the holy head, enshrined in silver, 
 is still laid upon the altar, while tne priest lifts up 
 before a crowd of pilgrims the vials of sacred 
 blood, the august relics were displayed. The saint, 
 however, wrought no miracle ; and the Viceroy passed 
 the night in agonies of uncertainty and trepidation. 
 27 
 
HISTORIC DEEDS OF DANGER AND DARING 
 
 While the Duke was quaking in the castle, Masa- 
 niello's power was rising higher every hour. He 
 was already, indeed, in everything but name, the 
 governor of Naples. The proud and beautiful city 
 was at his feet. The haughty cavaliers of Spain 
 durst not wag their fingers; for the number of his 
 followers was now at least a hundred thousand. 
 His throne of timber in the market-place was sur- 
 rounded by battalions of armed men, ready to carry 
 out his slightest orders. Beside him, at a table, six 
 clerks were constantly employed in writing out his 
 edicts. One of these proclamations, which is re- 
 corded, shows that Masaniello possesed, like all born 
 leaders, a falcon's eye for details. The nobility 
 were ordered to walk out without their cloaks, 
 monks to put off their cassocks, and ladies to wear 
 no skirts that swept the ground; for in all such gar- 
 ments arms might be concealed. The Law Courts 
 were shut up. Criminals of every rank and station 
 were dragged before that strange tribunal at which 
 Masaniello was both judge and jury. In one corner 
 of the market-place a gibbet was set up; and the 
 course of justice was of the swift and ready kind. 
 
 So vast was the first change in Masaniello's 
 fortune ! Two days had sufficed to raise him from 
 the task of mending nets and hawking mullets, to a 
 throne as absolute as an emperor's. 
 
 The Viceroy was secure within the castle; but 
 the castle was kept in a close state of siege. No 
 provisions could pass in; and the Duke, and the 
 scores of lords and ladies who had found refuge 
 with him, were beginning to feel miserably in want 
 of meat and poultry, fruit and wine and snow. A 
 spy brought word that Masaniello was preparing a 
 new list of palaces to be set in flames that night. 
 The Duke's mind had been wavering; he saw no 
 hope in holding out; these tidings turned the scale; 
 and he gave way. 
 
 28 
 
MASANIELLO 
 
 It was the afternoon of Tuesday; Masaniello was 
 sitting on his bench of judgment; when a packet 
 from the Viceroy was put into his hand. He tore 
 it open before the crowd. It contained the true 
 parchment of tlie Privilege; and in a letter which 
 accompanied the parchment, the Duke expressed his 
 willingness to grant, without reserve, the prayer of 
 the most Faithful People. 
 
 The populace received the news with raptures of 
 delight. It was rapidly arranged that the Viceroy, 
 with the chief officers of state, should meet the 
 people on the morrow in the Carmine Church, when 
 the treaty should be ratified on oath, and a solemn 
 service held in celebration. The insurgents were 
 still kept under arms. But to all appearance the 
 revolt was at an end. The remainder of the day 
 passed quietly. All the city, in joyful anticipation, 
 looked forward to the morrow. 
 
 But this spirit of contentment was destined to be 
 roughly broken. Masaniello's chief subalterns were 
 Genovino, a fierce old monk, and Perrone, the cap- 
 tain of a crew of bandits who had their dens among 
 the gorges of Vesuvius. The latter, who had joined 
 the cause in the confident belief that his five hun- 
 dred desperadoes would enjoy a thieves' paradise 
 among the treasures of the palaces, had been bit- 
 terly deceived, and was at heart a traitor. His 
 opportunity was soon to come. That night he had 
 an interview with the Duke of Maddaloni and his 
 brother, Don Carafa. From that meeting the ban- 
 dit carried off a heavy bag of gold. Nor was the 
 treasure paid for nothing. Judas had received the 
 price of blood. It was agreed that on the mor- 
 row, during the ceremony in the church, and in full 
 view of the spectators, Masaniello should be shot 
 dead. 
 
 The morrow came. At noon the great church 
 of The Lady was crowded to the doors. Perrone's 
 
HISTORIC DEEDS OF DANGER AND DARING 
 
 bravos, to the number of three hundred, were 
 scattered here and there among the crowd. A gor- 
 geous canopy had been set up before the altar, 
 above the crimson cushions of the Viceroy and the 
 Bishop. Masaniello w^as standing on the altar- 
 steps, a bare sword in his right hand, surounded by 
 a host of lords and cardinals, conspicuous, among 
 robes of scarlet and tunics laced with silver, by his 
 fisherman's shirt and his cap without a feather. The 
 Viceroy had not yet arrived; but the music of his 
 bugles could be heard approaching. This was the 
 moment on which the conspirators had fixed. Per- 
 rone suddenly held up his hand; and from different 
 parts of the church seven carbines were instantly 
 fired point-blank at Masaniello. Two of these were 
 so near him that the flash of the explosion singed 
 his blouse. The others struck the altar at his side. 
 Yet, wonderful to state, not one of the seven balls 
 so much as grazed him. 
 
 The bandits had relied with confidence on the 
 fall of Masaniello, and the confusion and dismay 
 of his adherents. Their error cost them dear. 
 When the smoke cleared off, and he was seen still 
 standing on the altar-steps, their hearts misgave 
 them. And they had good cause for terror. The 
 crowd, raging with fury, turned upon them; and 
 in a moment the church was ringing with the din 
 of battle. The desperadoes, men whose whole lives 
 had been passed in fighting, now fought like wild 
 beasts brought to bay. But the contest was not 
 equal, and they fought in vain. Soon, above the 
 roar of voices and the clash of arms, were heard the 
 yells of wretches being torn in pieces in front of 
 the great altar. A part escaped into the adjoining 
 convent; but these were quickly hunted out and 
 butchered. A few got clear away into the moun- 
 tains and plunged into the darkness of their dens. 
 Perrone, who was seized alive, but covered with 
 30 
 
MASANIELLO 
 
 wounds, was dragged into the square, and impelled 
 by threats of torture to reveal the authors of the 
 plot. He had just gasped out the names of Mad- 
 daloni and Carafa when he fell back dead. 
 
 Two hundred poles were set up in a circle about 
 Masaniello's throne; the corpses of the traitors 
 were beheaded; and soon the fierce head of a 
 bandit grinned on every pole. Two poles, higher 
 than the rest, were placed before the platform, and 
 left vacant. One of these waited for the head of 
 Maddaloni; the other, for the head of Don Carafa. 
 
 The Duke had taken refuge in the monastery 
 of St. Efrem. A spy warned him that his hiding- 
 place was discovered. He stole out of the convent 
 in a monk's gown and cowl, mounted a swift horse, 
 struck the spurs up to the rowels, and galloped for 
 his life to Benevento. He was just in time. The 
 crowd, failing to find him in the convent, burnt his 
 palace to the ground, and turned in search of Don 
 Carafa. 
 
 The Don was less lucky than his brother. A 
 monk from the convent of Zoccolanti was seen 
 stealing towards the gates of Castel Nuovo. He 
 was seized, and a note found sewn into his sandal. 
 It was from Carafa to the Viceroy; he was hiding 
 in the convent; and he implored the Duke to send 
 a guard, with cannon, to protect him. The convent 
 was instantly attacked, Carafa, in a friar's frock, 
 sprang out of a window, rushed into a cottage, and 
 crawled under a bed. The woman of the cottage 
 made a signal to the crowd; and in a moment 
 Carafa was dragged out, and hacked to pieces. 
 His head was borne in triumph to the market 
 square and set up in its place; his right foot, en- 
 closed in a kind of iron cage, was fixed beneath 
 it; and under the ghastly effigy was written this 
 inscription: "This is the head and foot of Don 
 Carafa, traitor to the most Faithful People." 
 31 
 
HISTORIC DEEDS OF DANGER AND DARING 
 
 Seldom has a more terrific spectacle of warning 
 Made the blood of men run chill. 
 
 The plot had failed. Masaniello was stronger 
 than ever. His escape was regarded by the people 
 as a miracle. Henceforth he was regarded with a 
 double honor, as the champion of the people and as 
 the favorite of Heaven. 
 
 All thought of the Privilege had, for the time, 
 been driven from men's minds. It was evening 
 when the Viceroy, who had shut himself up again 
 in Castel Nuovo, sent out a letter to disclaim all 
 knowledge of the plot. He was probably sincere; 
 for the Duke, had he conspired against an enemy, 
 was more likely to have planted a stiletto in his 
 back than to have shot him in the open. His 
 protest was accepted. Masaniello returned word, 
 that he proposed to ride next morning to the castle, 
 and to have some private conference with his Grace 
 about the public weal. 
 
 That day marked the height of Masaniello's 
 power. As soon as it was known that he proposed 
 to ride in public through the city the people pre- 
 pared for an ovation. The houses were decked 
 as for a day of festival. Garlands of flowers and 
 myrtle-branches strewed the streets, and twined 
 round every balcony and doorway. Gorgeous arras, 
 tapestries, and banners of rich stuifs, hung out of 
 all the windows; and every point of outlook, on 
 window, roof and balcony, was alive with eager 
 gazers. The procession started from the Carmine 
 Church. First came a band of heralds, waving 
 flags and blowing silver bugles; then troops of 
 mounted soldiers, glittering in coats of mail; and 
 then a company of boys and young girls, gaily 
 dressed, with baskets in their hands, tossing a 
 shower of flowers before the hero's horse. Masa- 
 niello had, that day, put off' his humble garb; and 
 the people with delight beheld their leader in a 
 32 
 
MASANIELLO 
 
 suit of silver satin, a hat witli a gay plume, and 
 a sword bestarred with jewels, prancing upon a 
 steed as white as snow equipped in gold and azure. 
 Behind him came the carriage of the Cardinal, and 
 the sedan of his chief counsellor; and the cavalcade 
 moved slowly to the castle, with the splendor of 
 the pageant of a king. 
 
 Masaniello was received at the castle gates by 
 the Captain of the Duke's Guard. He alighted, 
 and attended by the Cardinal ascended the steps 
 towards the entrance. In front of the portico he 
 turned, and in a loud voice charged his followers, 
 that if he failed to reappear within an hour, they 
 should burst with fire and sword into tlie castle, 
 and demand the reason. At this hint of treachery 
 the people shouted fiercely. Masaniello, as he 
 turned away, drew out of his breast a scroll of 
 writing. It was the parchment of the Privilege. 
 And at that sight, more eloquent than words, the 
 great crowd roared again. 
 
 Whatever treason Ponce de Leon might be hatch- 
 ing — and the suspicion did him no injustice — he 
 received his visitor with the most gracious smiles. 
 It was agreed without a word of cavil, not only 
 that all taxes should be taken off, and that a free 
 pardon should be granted to the rebels, but that 
 Masaniello should maintain his men in arms until 
 assent to the agreement could arrive from Spain. 
 Finally, with many assurances of his esteem, the 
 Viceroy pressed his enemy to accept the rank of 
 Duke St. George, at the same time hanging round 
 his neck, with his own hands, a chain of massive 
 links of gold. Masaniello, having gained his ends, 
 professed himself the Duke's most humble servant; 
 and in this pleasant comedy the time slipped fast 
 away. Presently a roar was heard outside the castle. 
 The hour was over; and the people, mindful of their 
 pledge, were preparing without more ado, to burst 
 33 
 
HISTORIC DEEDS OF DANGER AND DARING 
 
 in at the gates with fire and sword in accordance 
 with the pledge they had given to Masaniello. 
 
 Masaniello, with the Duke beside him, came out 
 into a balcony before the palace. At the sight of 
 their leader safe and sound the people broke forth 
 into loud and long huzzas. The sight was one 
 which might have swelled with pride the heart of 
 any king. Masaniello was not loath to show the 
 Duke some token of his power. He called for 
 cheers; and the vast sea of heads below them 
 Toared in succession at the names of the King, of 
 the Duke of Arcos, of the Cardinal, and of the 
 most Faithful People. When the shouting was at 
 the loudest, Masaniello laid his finger on his lips; 
 and in an instant there was the silence of the 
 grave. Finally, he bade the crowd disperse; and 
 forthwith, as if by miracle, the Largo was left 
 empty. The Duke could hardly trust his eyes as 
 he surveyed the scene. 
 
 The Cardinal had invited Masaniello to reside 
 in his own palace; and, in the Cardinal's carriage, 
 he drove thither from the castle. Throughout that 
 night the bonfires blazed, the guns thundered, and 
 the bells pealed merrily in all the steeples. And 
 Masaniello's power was at its height. 
 
 At its height, during two days, it remained. His 
 men were kept in arms; and he ruled the city like 
 a conqueror. It had been arranged that the cere- 
 mony which Perrone's plot had broken off should 
 be renewed on Saturday, the 15th of July; and on 
 that day, amidst a scene of pomp and splendor, the 
 Privilege was ratified on oath before the altar of 
 the Great Cathedral. 
 
 And now the old monk's oracle was half fulfilled. 
 Mrsaniello "had attained to kingly power." Was 
 the latter half of the prediction now to come to 
 pasS;' — was "his empire to be brief, and his fall 
 sudden"? A strange and awful answer was at hand. 
 34 
 
MASANIELLO 
 
 The Duke of Arcos was nursing in his brain a 
 scheme of vengeance which, for ingenious and in- 
 human villainy, would have been heard with rapture 
 by a crew of Dante's fiends. This scheme was now 
 mature. That night, after the proceedings in the 
 church, he arranged a splendid supper at the castle, 
 at which Masaniello and his wife were the chief 
 guests. There, either in a glas of wine, or as others 
 say, in a ripe fig, Masaniello swallowed a strange 
 poison, which had been compounded by the Duke's 
 physician, Don Majella. This drug was not in- 
 tended to take life; its eff'ect was more terrific; it 
 was of the nature of the "insane root, which takes 
 the reason prisoner." The victim, when he sat dowa 
 to the banquet-table, was a man of great and strik- 
 ing powers of mind, pre-eminently cool, wary, 
 resolute and sagacious. When he rose up from it 
 he was a madman ! 
 
 The effect of this atrocious scheme was soon 
 apparent. The supper ended; the guests departed; 
 and nothing unusual was observed. But early the 
 next morning the people in the streets were startled 
 at the spectacle of Masaniello, in a ragged shirt, 
 and with a stocking on one leg, running at full 
 speed towards the castle. At the entrance, he de- 
 manded audience of the Viceroy: the guards, who 
 knew him, durst not bar his passage; and he made 
 his way into the Duke's presence, crying aloud that 
 he was starving. The false and smiling Ponce de 
 Leon looked upon his handiwork with glistening 
 eyes. Food was brought; but the wretched man 
 would now touch nothing. A new whim had seized 
 him; they would go, the Duke and he together, 
 to Posilippo, and spend the day in pleasure. The 
 Duke eluded the proposal on the score of pressing 
 business; and Masaniello sailed alone in the Duke's 
 gondola. Forty boats of minstrels came behind 
 him. Crowds of gazers, lost in wonder, watched 
 35 
 
HISTORIC DEEDS OF DANGER AND DARING 
 
 his progr.ess from the shore. During the voyage 
 he amused himself by flinging handfuls of gold 
 coins into the water, and shouted with laughter, 
 as the sailors clived to fetch them. At Posilippo, 
 he ordered a rich feast to be set out; and it is 
 said that before the boat's head turned at evening 
 towards Naples, he had drunk twelve bottles of 
 wine. Reeling with the efl'ects of wine and poison, 
 he was taken to his bed. The next morning he was 
 raving. He called for a horse, and with a bare 
 sword in his hand, rode furiously about the streets, 
 slashing at all who ventured to oppose him. At 
 length, he found his way to the sea-shore. At sight 
 of the sea he threw himself from the saddle, and 
 shrieking out that he was in flames, rushed, dressed 
 as he was, into the waves. But all the waters of 
 the ocean could not quench the fire that burnt him 
 up. As soon as he emerged, he broke into fresh 
 freaks of violence. He swore that he would fire 
 the city; he hurled himself, sword in hand, upon 
 the bystanders. His own friends were forced to 
 seize and overpower him, to bind him with a chain, 
 and to lead him to his house, where he was placed 
 under a guard. 
 
 The plot had been most cunningly contrived. 
 There was nothing to excite suspicion; for the 
 madness of the victim was easily ascribed to over- 
 strain of mind and body, to days of ceaseless vigi- 
 lance, and nights without repose. Masaniello might 
 now be murdered almost with impunity; not as a 
 rebel to the state, but as a dangerous madman. 
 
 Four hired men were ready to put a finish to 
 the work of treason. Their names were Michael 
 Angelo Aidozzone, Andrea Rama, and Carlos and 
 Salvator Cattaneo; the last two, brothers. Early 
 on Sunday morning these four men repaired, with 
 carbines in their hands, to Masaniello's house. 
 They looked in at the door; but, to their surprise, 
 36 
 
MASANIELLO 
 
 the object of their search was nowhere to be seen. 
 His guards were asleep; his chain lay on the floor. 
 The madman, by whatever means, had gained his 
 liberty, and disappeared. 
 
 Several hours were spent in fruitless search. All 
 traces of the fugitive had vanished. Nor was it till 
 late in the afternoon that he was seen again. 
 
 It was about five o'clock; the service in the 
 cathedral was drawing to a close; the Cardinal was 
 preaching to a vast assembly; when a ghastly, 
 ragged figure, with wild eyes and matted hair, was 
 descried upon the steps of the great altar. The 
 figure carried in its hand a crucifix, to which, at 
 intervals, it muttered and gesticulated. It was 
 some time before the ghost was recognized. But 
 it was Masaniello. 
 
 The Cardinal went up to the intruder, and, with 
 great tact and management, induced him to be led 
 away into the adjoining convent. He went calmly; 
 for his violent humor had given way to a strange 
 apathy, and he was now as docile as a child. He 
 had not many minutes left the church when the 
 four assassins entered it together. They soon learnt 
 what had occurred. Attended by a small band of 
 their own party, they followed the track of their 
 prey into the convent. 
 
 Masaniello had retired alone into a quiet quarter 
 of the cloisters. He was leaning from a window, 
 and looking out across the waters of the lovely bay, 
 over which the wind of evening was now beginning 
 to blow coolly. The sound of footsteps roused him. 
 He turned round quickly, with the words, "Who 
 wants me? I am here." Before he had time to 
 speak again, or to make any movement of defense, 
 the four assassins raised their pieces and fired upon 
 him in a volley. All four shots took effect. He 
 fell back, dying, against the stonework of the win- 
 dow, and sank thence to the ground, with the faint 
 37 
 
HISTORIC DEEDS OF DANGER AND DARING 
 
 cry, "Ah, ungrateful traitors!" Almost before the 
 words were spoken, the rattle was in his throat. 
 In another moment he was dead. 
 
 Salvator Cattaneo threw himself upon the body, 
 and severed the head from the shoulders with a 
 knife. A spear was brought, the head was fixed 
 upon it, and the band of conspirators, bearing it 
 aloft, rushed out into the streets. 
 
 Nothing could illustrate more strikingly the 
 tremendous power which the dead man had wielded 
 than the sensation which was excited by the tidings 
 of his death. The news spread like wildfire through 
 the city. His own followers seemed struck with 
 stupor; his enemies went wild with fierce delight. 
 One band rushed forth into the market-place, and 
 took down from their place of infamy Carafa's head 
 and foot. Aonther hastened to the convent, sought 
 out the headless body of their enemy, and haled it 
 by a rope out of the cloisters. The Viceroy left 
 the castle and rode to the Cathedral, where doubt- 
 less he gave thanks to St. Gennaro for having 
 blessed his plot. Soon all the horde of smaller 
 tyrants and oppressors began to crawl in swarms 
 out of their cellars, caves, and convent cells, to 
 feast their eyes upon the sight of the head of the 
 terrible fisherman going up and down the city on 
 a pole, and to have a kick at his carcase as it was 
 dragged along the kennels. At length the head 
 was fixed upon a spike above the gateway of the 
 Holy Spirit; and the body was hurled into a ditch 
 near the Nolana gate. 
 
 Such was the fall of Masaniello. But it was his 
 fate to illustrate, beyond example, the mutability of 
 human things. And the last scene of the strange 
 drama was not yet. 
 
 The great mass of the people still revered the 
 name of their deliverer. The savage violence of 
 his madness had troubled and estranged them. But 
 38 
 
MASANIELLO 
 
 his death struck them with consternation; and in a 
 few hours nothing was recollected but his greatness. 
 Night had not come before tens of thousands were 
 murmuring his name with blessings, and calling 
 upon each other, with tears of shame and rage, to 
 remember all they owed to Masaniello. The hearts 
 of his enemies, which had been thrilling with de- 
 light, began to feel a chill; and soon their bands, 
 which had been going up and down so gaily, van- 
 ished like mist before the gathering of the multi- 
 tude. That night, preparations were set on foot for 
 a burial worthy of a people's hero; and before 
 morning all was ready. 
 
 The corpse was taken from the ditch into which 
 it had been thrown. The head was brought down 
 from the pinnacle above the gate, and fastened to 
 the shoulders by a thread of silver. The body, 
 washed and drenched with perfumes, was laid, 
 clothed in a vestment of white linen, upon an open 
 bier, and carried to the chapel, where it was placed 
 in front of the great altar. A crown was fixed 
 upon the head, and a sceptre set in the right hand; 
 and thus, in pomp and splendor, as at the burial of 
 a king, the corpse of Masaniello lay in state. For 
 many hours the crowd continued to stream past the 
 spot; a rain of flowers fell ceaselessly upon the 
 body; and the tolling of the bell, and the mournful 
 music of the organ, were mingled with the constant 
 sound of weeping. 
 
 At length, when the sun was sinking, the bier 
 was placed upon a lofty car, and drawn by coal- 
 black horses through the streets. Five days before, 
 along that very road, the hero of the hour had 
 passed in triumph, amid the blaze of banners and 
 the shouting of the crowd. Now, black hangings 
 drooped from every window; faces dark with sor- 
 row crowded both sides of the way. Before the 
 hearse a thousand priests, in stoles of white, walked 
 39 
 
HISTORIC DEEDS OF DANGER AND DARING 
 
 with censers in their hands and crosses lifted; be- 
 hind it, muffled drums and trumpets played a 
 solemn march. Then came a company of men-at- 
 arms, with spears reversed and colors drooping; and 
 then thousands, and tens of thousands, of the 
 people. 
 
 The solemn pageant wound its way through all 
 the quarters of the city. At length it turned again 
 towards the church. The organ broke forth into 
 the last majestic service of the dead. A stone was 
 lifted in the marble pavement; and there, with 
 more than royal splendor, amidst the blaze of 
 torches and the strains of solemn music, the dark 
 house closed for ever above the dust of Masaniello. 
 
 
 40 
 
MYLES STANDISH 
 
 TO the younger reader, the name of Myles 
 Standish is associated with the romance of 
 his courtship, by proxy, of Priscilla, "the beautiful 
 Puritan maiden," rather than with the deeds of 
 daring that made him famous among the Pilgrims. 
 We have to thank Longfellow for this change of 
 perspective, that has given one incident of his life 
 a prominence that eclipses all his battles and dan- 
 gers. It is scarcely fair to the brave warrior, that 
 we should picture him first and chiefly as the dis- 
 comfited lover, forgetting on how many fields and 
 in how many crises he won his title to the world's 
 admiration. 
 
 If he had not been so distinguished, if his manly 
 courage and valorous deeds had not been so con- 
 spicuous, it would never have occurred to him that 
 he could win the loveliest girl in the colony. It 
 was the glorious record behind him, the halo about 
 the brows of "the great Captain of Plymouth," that 
 were the charms which were to cause the gentle 
 young girl to forget disparity of age and brusque- 
 ness of manner, and to accept with gratitude the 
 position to which he could raise her. This humble 
 girl, so pretty and so graceful, would no more 
 dream of rejecting the famous captain, than of 
 cutting off one of her dainty hands. Standish, 
 according to the Longfellow legend, had assumed 
 her consent as a thing assured. He had only to 
 throw his royal handkerchief, and the humble 
 maiden would pick it up and say, "be it unto me 
 according to thy will," congratulating herself on 
 4.1 
 
HISTORIC DEEDS OF DANGER AND DARING 
 
 the happy chance that had attracted the man of 
 eminence and influence in her little world. Of 
 course, there were formalities and pretty phrases 
 that the girl would naturally consider were due 
 from a lover. Marriage is a very important thing 
 for a woman. They make more of the small com- 
 pliments and personal pledges that are the lover's 
 duty, than a busy man, who has the stern and 
 weighty affairs of the colony on his shoulders, can 
 afford to think of. But Alden knows what should 
 be said on such occasions, and how it should be 
 said. He will attend to those small matters, as a 
 stately and dignified suitor leaves the matter of 
 the settlements for his lawyer to arrange. It is a 
 small matter beneath his consideration. So he will 
 commission Alden to express the proper sentiments, 
 and get that part of the thing done with. The 
 Captain is quite satisfied that this is his wisest 
 course, and proceeds to attend to public matters, 
 on which the security of the whole colony depends. 
 
 Strange, that men of sense and experience so 
 seldom understand a woman's nature. Women 
 themselves are in part in fault. They vary so much, 
 their minds and impulses differ so much, in women 
 that look so much alike. If they would but always 
 look at a matter in the same way, if one could 
 learn from the attitude of one woman what wovdd 
 be the attitude of the remainder of her sex, how 
 many mistakes would be avoided ! Why do they 
 differ? Why do some women perceive that some 
 <*ourse will advance their own interests, and pursue 
 it with common sense, while another woman cares 
 nothing for her own interests, and refuses to marry 
 a man if she does not like him, no matter how 
 wealthy or distinguished he may be. And she has 
 no reasons worthy of the name to give for her 
 decision. She does not like him, and that is reason 
 enough for her. So Priscilla declines Standishs 
 49 
 
MYLES STANDISH 
 
 offer, and, with sweet, womanly charm, invites an 
 offer from Alden, who is not half so important a 
 figure in the world. Mysterious is the woman's way, 
 and though men have been wooing and marrying for 
 six thousand years, she is still a mystery. So the 
 valiant Captain, brave, sagacious and influential, is 
 humiliated, and goes down to history in the char- 
 acter of a discomfited lover. 
 
 The story is characteristic of the characters con-r 
 cerned. We can well imagine Standish and Pris- 
 cilla and Alden, in such circumstances, acting as 
 they are represented to have acted; but there are 
 good reasons for doubting the facts, and better 
 reasons for relegating the whole story to the realm 
 of myth and legend. When Standish lost his wife. 
 Rose, his thoughts turned to Rose's sister, who was 
 in the old country. That he should have sent her 
 the news of his wife'e death, and that she should 
 have arrived within three years of that event, to 
 marry him, leaves not enough room for the captain's 
 passion for Priscilla and his unsuccesful, indirect 
 M'ooing of her. For that reason, and for certain 
 anachronisms in the story, we may justly hold 
 Longfellow guilty of something more than poetic 
 license, while we treasure his gem and thank him 
 for the sweet conceit. 
 
 How delightful it would be for us if, in the early 
 part of the seventeenth century, there had been in 
 some simple home in Ley den, and afterwards in one 
 of the cabins of Plymouth, a sociable, gossiping, 
 letter-writing, diary-keeping man or woman who 
 had given us a picture of those old Puritan men 
 and times. We would like to know something more 
 of them than is revealed in the dry, methodical 
 records of Bradford, Winslow, and their friends. 
 Silent, modest, reserved men they were, who would 
 not boast of their heroism. They leave us to fill 
 up the outline of their lives, and to infer from the 
 43 
 
HISTORIC DEEDS OF DANGER AND DARING 
 
 record of facts the wonderfiu fortitude and en- 
 durance and courage that must have characterized 
 them. It is only by incidental references that we 
 get any idea of the appearance of the men and 
 women of the little colony, and gain occasional 
 glimpses into their homes. That they could be stern 
 and inflexible in great crises, we know, but there 
 must have been times when they unbent, and 
 when there was a sober laugh over some ludicrous 
 incident. Especially among the younger members 
 of the community there must have been social 
 gatherings, at which the "jesting M'hich is not con- 
 venient" must have been carried on, in spite of the 
 inconvenience. Not even the trials and anxieties of 
 the colony could have entirely repressed the natural 
 humor and merriment of the young folks. Gone 
 now are their quips and jokes, their social pleas- 
 ures, and nothing is left of the story but the grave, 
 sombre record that probably gives us but an inad- 
 equate notion of their character. 
 
 Of Standish himself, we have the record left by 
 one of the enemies with whom he measured himself 
 in the grim tug of life and death, that he was a 
 man of small stature, and that he had red hair. 
 That he was strongly knit, robust of frame, and of 
 great muscular strength, is evident from his deeds. 
 When he landed at Plymouth, he was thirty-six 
 years of age, a man in the prime of life, active 
 and vigorous, prompt in action, and of dauntless 
 courage; not the kind of man to be easily pro- 
 voked, but not safe to meet when his spirit was 
 aroused, or if he suspected treachery. 
 
 AVhy he M^as among the Pilgrims has never been 
 clearly explained. He identified himself with them, 
 and served them faithfully for thirty-six years; but 
 he seems to have had little sympathy with the 
 theology that was the centre and essence of their 
 lives, and he evidently took no part in the regula- 
 44 
 
MYLES STANDISH 
 
 tion of church affairs. John Robinson, the pious 
 and learned minister who Ivuew them all, and had 
 ministered to them in England and Holland, wrote 
 to Bradford, when he heard that his people in the 
 colony had found it necessary to kill some of the 
 Indians, a word of kindly admonition and implied 
 warning of Standish. He wished they had been able 
 to convert some of the Indians before they killed 
 any, and expressed the fear that the Captain had 
 been led somewhat by a love of military glory, or 
 a thirst for slaughter. Perhaps the good pastor 
 had not found Standish, when he knew him in Hol- 
 land, very attentive to his sermons, or very pro- 
 nounced in his beliefs; and so was disposed, when 
 he heard of the killing, to attribute it to the man 
 of war among his little flock. The Pilgrims seem 
 to have made the acquaintance of Standish in 
 Holland, but there is no account of the circum- 
 stances that drew them together. 
 
 The business that took Standish to Holland was 
 the war of the Dutch against Spain. He had reached 
 the rank of lieutenant, when he was sent among 
 the English troops to aid the Dutch in their strug- 
 gle. That is all that we know of his military 
 position in Europe. He had been commissioned by 
 Queen Elizabeth, who is described in the dedica- 
 tion in our old Bibles as "that bright Occidental 
 Star of most happy memory." We do not know 
 even the date of his commission, but as he was not 
 twenty years old when Elizabeth died, it must have 
 been between 1600 and 1603 that he entered the 
 English army. He remained in Holland until 
 August, 1630, when he sailed with the Pilgrims for 
 America. 
 
 The family to which Standish belonged was an 
 ancient one. It is known that they were in Lan- 
 cashire, England, soon after the Norman Conquest 
 in 1066, and that they were then noted for their 
 45 
 
HISTORIC DEEDS OF DANGER AND DARING 
 
 military exploits. The head of the family received 
 knighthood in 1381 for service against Wat Tyler. 
 The Standishes distinguished themselves in the war 
 against France, at Agincourt, and in later wars, 
 and others of them were knighted. They continued 
 prominent in the army and in the learned profes- 
 sions until the reign of Henry VIII, when the 
 family, like many others of that day, split into 
 two branches, the one adopting the principles of the 
 Reformation, and the other continuing in the 
 Roman Catholic Church. The Protestant branch 
 was known as the Standishes of Duxbury Hall, and 
 it is believed that Myles Standish belonged to this 
 part of the family, though in his will he describes 
 himself as of the house of Standish of Standish, 
 which was the title of the Roman Catholic branch, 
 It may be, however, that he was referring to the 
 family before the separation, as the particular an- 
 cestor that he mentions is his great grandfather. 
 The fact that when he built his house in this 
 country, he named it Duxbury, confirms the belief 
 that he belonged to the Duxbury Standishes. He 
 was born in the Parish of Chorley, which lies be- 
 tween Standish Hall and Duxbury Hall. The date 
 of his birth is believed to have been 1584. 
 
 Of Standish's exploits in the Spanish-Dutch War, 
 there is no record. It was war of a peculiarly 
 fierce, unrelenting type, conducted with such sav- 
 agery, as must have prepared the Captain for his 
 experiences with the Indians. The Spaniards hated 
 the Dutch, and the Dutch abhorred the Spaniards, with 
 a personal malignity seldom seen in civilized war- 
 fare. Not only in battle, but in separate encounters, 
 one combatant, if not both, must surely die. There 
 was no surrender, no prisoners taken, nothing but 
 death contented the foes. The soldier, clad in his 
 cumbrous armor, with heavy helmet, breastplate and 
 thigh-coverings over his leather leggings and jacket, 
 46 
 
MYLES STANDISH 
 
 was equipped not only with his sword, but with the 
 clumsy firearms of the period, the harquebus which 
 was fired by a match, and the snaphance with the 
 flint-lock. 
 
 How early in the discussion of the projected 
 settlement in New England Standish was taken 
 into counsel, cannot now be learned. He appears 
 to have been a silent man, as brave soldiers are apt 
 to be, a man who, like our own U. S. Grant, could 
 speak to the point, but used few words. Still, we 
 can imagine his being an interested member of the 
 council, as he was going to put his life into the 
 venture. High principle was the moving force with 
 the Pilgrims; they were expatriating themselves on 
 religious grounds, and put their trust in the God 
 whom they served. Standish never gave evidence 
 of such implicit faith, and it is doubtful if he 
 agreed with the Pilgrims on their most vital tenets. 
 That he was a studious man there can be little 
 doubt. He was certainly the most accomplished 
 linguist in Plymouth Colony. In all probability he 
 devoted some of the leisure he would have, while 
 performing garrison duty in Leyden, to studying 
 in the library of the University. There he would 
 come in contact with John Robinson, the pastor of 
 the little Pilgrim church, and the two Englishmen 
 in the Dutch city would be likely to become ac- 
 quainted. One of the biographers of Standish 
 states it as a fact, but, so far as we have been able 
 to find, without authority. He says that a cordial 
 friendship arose between the two men, and that 
 Robinson introduced Standish to Brewster, Brad- 
 ford, and several others, and eventually he began 
 to attend the meetings of the council. 
 
 The guiding hand of Providence in the selection 
 of a site for their colony would, therefore, be a 
 prominent topic of their meetings, while with Stan- 
 dish considerations of a mundane character would 
 47 
 
HISTORIC DEEDS OF DANGER AND DARING 
 
 be more weighty. It was probably due to his advice 
 that the first proposal of settling in Guiana was 
 abandoned. The mild climate and fertile soil cele- 
 brated by Raleigh were attractions, but it was too 
 near the Spanish dominions, and Standish under- 
 stood by experience the danger of such propinquity. 
 Finally, it was decided to secure, if possible, a site 
 near Delaware Bay, which was reported to be a 
 congenial climate, free from the severe cold of the 
 Maine coast, which had already proved disastrous 
 to one party of English settlers. 
 
 The Dutch offered them a site near Manhattan 
 Island, and the Virginia Company were willing to 
 give them a grant in their southern possessions, 
 which included the Carolinas and Delaware. The 
 company also held the coast north of the Dutch 
 settlement as far north as the region now known 
 as Eastport, Maine. The Pilgrims, in spite of the 
 Dutch hospitality which they had so long enjoyed, 
 desired to settle under the English flag, and ac- 
 cordingly the Virginia proposal was accepted. A 
 joint stock company was organized to raise the 
 $35,000 required, and a small vessel — the Speedicell 
 — was purchased, in which the Pilgrims set sail for 
 Southampton, where the Mayfloiver, a larger ves- 
 sel, which they had hired, was already being loaded 
 for the voyage. 
 
 "They had naturally made numerous inquries 
 about the land in the far West," says the author 
 previously quoted, and had heard of the adventures 
 of Sir Walter Raleigh and others. "They found 
 that the chief peril to colonists would arise from 
 the hordes of savage Indians, who roamed over 
 vast territories, and would not scruple to attack 
 white men, scalp them, burn them, or otherwise 
 make short work with the intruders. What was to 
 be done by way of safeguard against these savages? 
 The little company of Separatists were not fighting 
 48 
 
MYLES STAN DISH 
 
 men. They were not skilled in the use of arms, and 
 would be in a quandary if they had to plan methods 
 of attack or defence, and very soon be at the 
 Indians' mercy." Considerations of this kind doubt- 
 less led to Standish being invited to cast in his lot 
 with the Pilgrims. 
 
 At last, then, behold the two vessels sailing on 
 August 15, 16:20, out of Southampton harbor. The 
 little Speedivell, with thirty of the pilgrims on 
 board, and the Mayflower with ninety. But their 
 trials in that hemisphere were not yet ended. It 
 seemed as if Providence designed to sift them as 
 Gideon's army was sifted. The SpeedireH's captain 
 discovered, while still in the English Channel, that 
 his vessel was leaking, and put into Dartmouth 
 harbor for repairs. The leak seems to have existed 
 in the captain's imagination only, for, on examina- 
 tion, the little vessel was found to be in good 
 condition. A new start was made, but when 
 Land's End was sighted, the captain declared his 
 ship unfit for the voyage. By this time the Pil- 
 grims shrewdly suspected that it was the captain 
 himself who was unfit for the voyage, and again the 
 vessels turned eastward. No cowards or feeble- 
 minded men were wanted on such an expedition. 
 There was no time to get another captain and crew, 
 for the season was every day becoming more dan- 
 gerous. It was decided to dispense with the Speed- 
 well, which must have been a welcome relief to the 
 poor captain s mind, and proceed in the Mayfoiver 
 alone. It could not accommodate the whole burden 
 of thirty passengers, so there was a further oppor- 
 tunity for any who had misgivings to with raw. 
 Eighteen passengers were left at Plymouth, where 
 the two ships had put in. What proportion of these 
 were voluntary withdrawals, we are not told; but 
 voluntary or involuntary, the separation had to be 
 made. The other twelve went on board the already 
 49 
 
HISTORIC DEEDS OF DANGER AND DARING 
 
 crowded Mayffower, and for the third time course 
 was bent eastward. The day is memorable, Septem- 
 ber lO", (N. S.) 16:20. Who can think of that little 
 vessel, with its hundred and two single-hearted pas- 
 sengers, setting out for its unknown destination, 
 without wonder and admiration? What destinies, 
 what momentous results, were involved in that 
 voyage ! 
 
 The little company, thrice winnowed, must have 
 appeared to the world poor material for a colony. 
 In other settlements men had come alone, but in 
 this band there were women and children. Even 
 among the men there were aged men, and among 
 the women there were some who expected to become 
 mothers before the voyage was ended. It was, in 
 truth, a feeble company fo? so hazardous an enter- 
 prise, involving of a certainty many hardships and 
 probably many dangers. Like the glorious company 
 celebrated in Holy Writ, "They desired a better 
 country, that is a heavenly, wherefore God was not 
 ashamed to be called their God: for he had pre- 
 pared for them a city." 
 
 Sixty-three long days and nights the little vessel, 
 with its intrepid passengers, battled with the winds 
 and waves of the Atlantic. Huddled in the com- 
 fortless deck-houses, or cooped up below, with only 
 one fire, and that used for cooking, the voyagers 
 must have suffered severely. Bradford refers to 
 the winds by which "the ship was shrewdly shaken." 
 Then he speaks of the grievous sea-sickness, and of 
 the miseries that the sick had to bear. At one 
 time it was feared that the deck would give way, 
 but providentially there was "a great iron screw" on 
 board, with which the beams were raised, and a 
 wooden post inserted to serve as a pillar. Even the 
 sailors derided the miserable, suffering, sick women 
 as they lay on deck. One in particular Bradford 
 mentions, who taunted them, and made the cheerful 
 50 
 
MYLES STANDISH 
 
 prediction that he "expected to throw half of them 
 overboard before the end of the voyage." Brad- 
 ford noted the inhuman sailor, and records that "It 
 pleased God to smite this young man with a griev- 
 ous disease, whereof he died, and so was the first 
 to be thrown overboard." He did not exult over 
 the young man's fate, but was evidently inclined 
 to believe that Providence had something to do 
 with his sudden end. Myles Standish is not men- 
 tioned in Bradford's brief story of the voyage — the 
 only one that has survived — but we may imagine 
 that the brave soldier, inured to privation, bore the 
 journey well, and perhaps aided in cheering and 
 encouraging the others. 
 
 All things have an end, and the hardships and 
 afflictions of this voyage were no exception. On 
 the morning of November 30, 1630, the eyes of the 
 Pilgrims were gladdened by the sight of land. The 
 captain announced that the land was Cape Cod, far 
 north of the region to which they were bound, and 
 far away from the place asigned to them in their 
 charter. But it was land, and to the weary, sea-sick 
 voyagers it was a welcome sight. They fell on 
 their knees on the deck and gave thanks. A con- 
 sultation was held, and the captain was urged to 
 proceed southward toward the land covered by the 
 charter. But whether he had been bribed by the 
 Dutch to carry the Pilgrims away from the Hud- 
 son, or was really unable at that season, and with 
 his heavily-laden ship, to make the voyage, he be- 
 came entangled in "dangerous shoals and roaring 
 breakers." It was a safe bay, so he returned within 
 its welcoming arms and cast anchor. 
 
 A conference was held in the cabin of the ship to 
 discuss the untoward situation. The difficulty, that 
 their charter gave them no protection if they settled 
 on the adjacent land, could not be ignored, but it 
 would not be worth much if they were at the Hud- 
 51 
 
HISTORIC DEEDS OF DANGER AND DARING 
 
 son or at Delaware Bay. It was not a choice be- 
 tween advantages, nor of avoidance of dangers, but 
 of accepting the inevitable. The captain of the 
 Mayfloiver would not adventure farther south, and 
 was eager to return, lest his provision for the 
 voyage should be exhausted. There was no re- 
 source but to settle on the land to which Providence 
 had led them. That point being agreed upon, an 
 agreement was drawn up for their government, 
 pledging each one to obedience to laws enacted by 
 the majority, and declaring themselves loyal sub- 
 jects of King James. This instrument, the initial 
 preparation for free and constitutional self-govern- 
 ment, was signed by forty-one of the sixty-five male 
 members of the company; the other twenty-four 
 being minors, servants, or sick persons. 
 
 Reading down the names of the signers, we find, 
 sixth on the list, the sturdy signature of Myles 
 Standish, of whom nothing had been said m the his- 
 tory of the voyage. Henceforward he was to make 
 a prominent figure in the colony, a man to be con- 
 sulted in difficulties, and to be relied upon for 
 prompt action. 
 
 The first necessity was that a party should go on 
 shore and survey the coast. Fifteen men, well-armed, 
 with Standish as leader, accordingly waded out in the 
 shallow water, about three-quarters of a mile, and 
 on Saturday, November 21, (N. S.) 1620, set foot 
 on the New England shore. It needed some courage 
 to venture; for tales of the treachery and cruelty 
 of the Indians had been told them before sailing. 
 But Standish was not a man to shrink from danger, 
 and he and his followers marched boldly into the 
 unknown land. They were gone all day, and saw 
 no human being, and no evidence of occupation but 
 the significant one of a grave. They reported the 
 land much like that of Holland, but far better, as 
 good rich earth lay at no great depth. The com- 
 52 
 
MYLES STANDISH 
 
 pany longed to get on shore, and on Monday the 
 small sailboat, or shallop, was brought out. But 
 it was strained and "opened through the people's 
 lying in her." The journal of the voyage had not 
 told us of their hard bed in the shallop, but it is 
 through such hints that we learn of their hardships. 
 The carpenter was therefore set to work to repair 
 the boat, and the coming of the people on shore was 
 delayed. 
 
 Captain Standish, with his company of armed 
 men, however, began another exploration, wading 
 out as before. They had proceeded about a mile, 
 when they saw six persons and a dog, who ran into 
 the woods and were lost to view. The Pilgrim 
 company continued their march until sunset, and 
 then built a kind of fort or camp, and lay down 
 to sleep, leaving three sentinels to watch. There 
 was no alarm during the night, and at daybreak 
 the march was resumed. They passed through a 
 dense forest, the undergrowth of which tore their 
 i clothes, and caused no little fatigue. To their de- 
 I light they found a spring of fresh water, at which 
 i they "drank with as much delight as we ever drank 
 1 drink in our lives." Many wild fowl and deer were 
 seen, and they found quantities of sassafras, which 
 was an encouragement to them, as it could be sent 
 to England and sold for medical purposes. They 
 also found a grave-like mound, in which was a big 
 round basket filled with corn. This they took, 
 pledging themselves to pay for it at the first oppor- 
 tunity. At night, they slept imder guard as before, 
 and on the morrow made for the coast, and thence 
 on board the ship. 
 
 The shallop was now ready, and Standish, with 
 ten men, went on shore to make wider exploration. 
 On that day they saw ten or twelve Indians, but 
 came not nearer to them. But on the next day, as 
 they were at breakfast, they were startled by a 
 53 
 
HISTORIC DEEDS OF DANGER AND DARING 
 
 flight of arrows. Standish fired his snaphance, but 
 forbade the others shooting until they could aim. 
 The arrows continued flying, but the Indians were 
 behind trees, and none of the Pilgrims were hurt. 
 Finally, the fire-arms were discharged, and the 
 Indians fled. Returning to the shallop the search 
 for a harbor was resumed. All day Saturday and 
 Sunday was spent on Clark's Island, in Duxbury 
 Bay, and on Monday, December 21, (N. S.) they 
 landed on Plymouth Rock. Having sounded the 
 harbor, and "found it fit for shipping," the site 
 for the colony was virtually chosen, and the explor- 
 ers returned to the Mat/fJower. Four days later, 
 the Mayffower weighed anchor and made for Ply- 
 mouth Harbor. "It rained and blew exceedingly," 
 and none were able to go ashore, but on Monday, 
 December :28, the men landed, and the choice of 
 Standish and his party was ratified. 
 
 No time was lost in cutting timber for building. 
 A fort was planned on the hill afterwards known 
 as Burial Hill, plots were laid out for each family, 
 and the general plan of the settlement arranged. 
 Axes and other tools had been brought from Eng- 
 land, but handles had been omitted to save space, 
 and this deficiency had been the first remedied. 
 Work went on apace, so that there should be shelter 
 for the women and children when they could be 
 brought ashore. The first building was a big Com- 
 mon House, twenty feet square. It was covered by 
 a thatch, which caught fire, to the danger of the 
 inmates, but was speedily replaced. When this was 
 completed, the women and children, who had been 
 cooped up on shipboard since leaving Holland in 
 July, nmch to the detriment of their health, were 
 brought ashore. The first to set foot on Plymouth 
 Rock was Mary Chilton, Their first act, it being 
 Sunday, was to proceed to the Common House, 
 where divine service was held. This was on Jan- 
 54- 
 
MYLES STANDISH 
 
 uary 31, by our reckoning, but the Pilgrims, who 
 used the old style, recorded the landing as on 
 January 21, 1621. 
 
 As smoke had been seen at some distance, there 
 was a presumption that Indians were in the vicinity, 
 and Standish went in the direction in which it had 
 been seen, to try to get into communication with 
 them. He found several huts, in shape like a bee- 
 hive, but they were empty. During the work of 
 building, there were several times alarms of In- 
 dians, and Standish, on more than one occasion, 
 summoned his men, who put on their armor. But 
 the Indians always retreated before they could be 
 even spoken with. They were evidently in the 
 woods near at hand, for, if axes or tools were left 
 in the woods over night, they disappeared before 
 morning. A formal meeting was held to consider 
 this danger on Feburary 27, when Standish was 
 chosen captain. Small cannon were also brought 
 from the Mayfloiver, and planted on the hill. 
 
 Meanwhile, death had been busy in the camp. The 
 poor fare on shipboard had diminished the vitality 
 of the Pilgrims, and exposure in the rigorous cli- 
 mate, in the depth of winter, had done its fatal 
 work. Before the end of the winter, twenty-one 
 of the forty-one men who had signed the agreement, 
 had died, and of the whole company of one hundred 
 and two who had set sail in the Mayflower, only 
 fifty-one survived. Of these, thirty-two were men, 
 five were boys, twelve women, and two girls. Among 
 the deaths was that of Rose, wife of Myles Stan- 
 dish. Bradford also lost his wife. At one time, 
 says the historian, there were only seven men 
 capable of work, and these tended the sick, washed 
 the clothing and made themselves men of all work 
 in the settlement. Of these, Standish was one. It 
 is curious to think of this grim captain, with the 
 sedate oflBcers of the colony, standing washing at 
 55 
 
HISTORIC DEEDS OF DANGER AND DARING 
 
 the tubs and doing the house-work. Noble men 
 they were, who could thus lay aside their dignity 
 for the common good. 
 
 Fear of the Indians still oppressed the little 
 colony. They dreaded lest the news of their dimin- 
 ished numbers should encourage the Indians to 
 attack them. Lest the Indians should learn how 
 numerous the losses were, the graves on Burial 
 Hill were ploughed over, and the identity of those 
 hallowed resting-places was lost for ever. It was 
 necessary to form some plans for defence, in view 
 of the paucity of the men, and a meeting was called 
 for the purpose. What was their surprise when 
 an Indian, clad only in his belt, walked through the 
 settlement and entered the meeting! His first 
 word was "Welcome;" he had picked up a little 
 English from fishermen, who had come to fish, a year 
 before, on the Maine coast, and was proud of his 
 accomplishment. He introduced himself as Sam- 
 oset, and told them he was a Sagamore. Standish 
 told him of the missing tools and gave him a mes- 
 sage demanding their return. They gave him some 
 presents, and he departed, promising to return 
 with other Indians. 
 
 From Samoset the Pilgrims learned how wisely 
 Providence had directed their steps to this partic- 
 ular region. He told them that the land had 
 formerly been in possession of warike tribes, but 
 they had been almost exterminated by a deadly 
 plague which had utterly depopulated the country 
 for miles around. Thus, the Pilgrims recognized a 
 fresh proof of God's favor in bringing them, in 
 spite of their own plans, to a region unclaimed by 
 any race, where there was none to dispute posses- 
 sion with them. 
 
 A few days later Samoset returned, bringing the 
 stolen tools, and with him four other Indians, one 
 of whom, named Tisquantum, became a most val- 
 56 
 
MYLES STANDTSH 
 
 uable friend of the settlers. This man, who was 
 dubbed Squanto, had formerly been stolen and 
 sold into slavery. He had been taken to England, 
 where he had lived for several years. Here he had 
 made friends with an English captain, and ulti- 
 mately had sailed in his ship for his native land, 
 Squanto could speak English fluently, and was able 
 to render inestimable service to the colony as an 
 interpreter. His skill was soon brought into requi- 
 sition, for the approach of Massasoit, the most 
 powerful Indian chief of that region, was an- 
 nounced. Massasoit was attended by about sixty 
 warriors, hideously painted and fully armed. With 
 Squanto's assistance, he was informed that the 
 white men were friendly, and desired to make a 
 treaty of peace with him. He was conducted to the 
 settlement, and Captain Standish, clad in his best 
 armor, at the head of his little band, escorted him 
 into the presence of Governor Carver. A friendly 
 conversation ensued, Squanto translating the Gov- 
 ernor's formal speeches and Massasoit's replies. A 
 treaty of peace was then drawn up, whereby the 
 settlers and Massasoit's tribe pledged themseh^es to 
 friendly intercourse and mutual alliance in any just 
 war. 
 
 This treaty with Massasoit was evidently no mere 
 form in the eyes of the Pilgrims. They were not 
 the kind of men to think lightly of their obligations, 
 and they had unquestionably incurred serious obli- 
 gations in pledging themselves to assist an Indian 
 chief, of whom they know little or nothing, in his 
 quarrels. They qualified their pledge by insisting 
 that it must be a "just" war that should give him 
 the right to call upon them; but there has never 
 been a war yet that was not just, in the opinion of 
 those who engaged in it. Massasoit was evidently 
 pleased with his new friends, and with promises of 
 help and good-will, he and his sixty braves departed. 
 57 
 
HISTORIC DEEDS OF DANGER AND DARING 
 
 The treaty, however, led to no relaxation of vig- 
 ilance or of discipline. The duties and rights of 
 Standish were not very clearly defined, but he 
 clearly held a position of authority. An incident 
 occurred shortly after the Indian's visit, which 
 proved this. Standish gave some order to one 
 John Billington, who refused to obey. His offence 
 was aggravated by the terms of his refusal, for he 
 roundly abused and denounced the sturdy little 
 captain. Whereupon Standish had him arrainged 
 before the whole company, and he was condemned 
 to be "tied together neck and heels, and to lie thus 
 in a public place." The sentence, however, was not 
 executed, for the man, showing sincere contrition, 
 and it being the first offence, he was pardoned, not 
 without a warning. 
 
 In August, 1621, Captain Standish entered on his 
 first expedition as military chief of the colony. 
 Rumors reached the Pilgrims that Massasoit had 
 become unpopular with certain chiefs of his tribe 
 by his treaty with the white men. The leader of the 
 disaffection was said to be a chief named Corbitant. 
 Squanto and another friendly Indian were sent to 
 find out the facts. Corbitant seized both men, but 
 the friendly Indian escaped and reported that 
 Squanto was in captivity and threatened with 
 death. Instantly, Standish was commissioned to 
 march with his army, consisting of the only ten 
 men available, to rescue Sqaunto. Starting before 
 dawn, the feeble force with the gallant little captain 
 at the head reached the Indian village before night- 
 fall, and promptly surrounded the hut in which 
 Squanto was believed to be confined. With excel- 
 lent generalship, Standish assigned men to their 
 proper stations outside the house, and then boldly 
 entered the hut and demanded to see Corbitant. 
 Two men outside discharged their guns, at which 
 the Indians were taken with sudden fear, and made 
 58 
 
MYLES STAN DISH 
 
 a rush to escape, but were driven back by the 
 guards. It appeared that Corbitant was not there, 
 but Squanto was handed over unharmed. The In- 
 dians were compelled to lay down their bows and 
 arrows and depart, while Standish and his men 
 searched the hut. The house was held all night, 
 and in the morning Standish went to the middle of 
 the village, and through Squanto made a speech, 
 warning the Indians that if Massasoit was attacked, 
 the white men would inflict punishment on his as- 
 sailants. Standish also expressed regret that, in the 
 recent struggle in the hut, any Indian should have 
 been hurt, and offering the wounded the service of 
 the white men's physician. A man and woman 
 accepted the offer, and returned M'ith Squanto and 
 the others to the colony, where their hurts were 
 dressed. The boldness of the white men and their 
 championship of Massasoit, had an excellent effect 
 on the Indians, some of whom came from a distance 
 to offer friendship. 
 
 Later in the year, the force of the colonists was 
 increased by the arrival of about thirty settlers, 
 who came over in the Fortune, a vessel chartered by 
 the merchants who had advanced money for the 
 founding of the colony. The vessel came to collect 
 profits, and was sent back with a cargo of beaver 
 skins, sassafras, and such other things as the Pil- 
 grims had obtained. The thirty new immigrants 
 were not all of the best type, and a still more 
 ! serious matter was that they had brought no pro- 
 ! visions. Thus, thirty mouths were added to the 
 I company, which was already running short of food. 
 j The advantage of an accession of strength was, 
 I however, soon demonstrated. A new and dire peril 
 suddenly developed. The Narragansetts, the most 
 I powerful of the Indian tribes, conceived an enmity 
 to the new colony. The first intimation of the en- 
 mity came without preparation. An Indian arrived at 
 59 
 
HISTORIC DEEDS OF DANGER AND DARING 
 
 the settlement and asked for Squanto. He was 
 absent on some mission, so the Indian laid down a 
 package which was to be delivered to him on his 
 return. It consisted of a bundle of arrows wrapped 
 in the skin of a rattlesnake. There was no need to 
 wait for Squanto's return to explain the meaning 
 of such a missive. Standish promptly accepted the 
 challenge, by sending, as a reply, the skin of the 
 rattlesnake stuifed with powder and ball. The In- 
 dians were alarmed at the answer, and it was sent 
 from village to village, but none would receive it, 
 and it was at last sent back to Plymouth. But 
 there was no sign that the Indians had abandoned 
 their hostile intentions,- and the Pilgrims grimly 
 prepared themselves for battle. Decisive measures 
 were needed, and they were taken. A stockade was 
 built of the trunks of trees around the settlement. 
 It was flanked with bastions, and had gates to shut 
 and lock. Rising above this stockade was the sum- 
 mit of the hill, on which the little cannon were 
 placed. The genius of Standish, who had studied 
 the fortifications at Ostend, showed itself in this 
 rude protection. His administrative ability was 
 displayed in the military organization of his little 
 force. Bradford thus records the arrangements 
 made in his record: "And ye Company was by ye 
 Captaine devided into four squadrons, and every 
 one had their quarter apoynted them, unto which 
 they were to repaire upon any suddane alarme. 
 And if there should be any crie of Fire, a company 
 were apoynted for a gard, with muskets, while 
 others quenchet the same, to prevent Indean treach- 
 ery. This was accomplished very cheerfully, and 
 ye towne impayled round be ye beginning of 
 March." 
 
 About five weeks were occupied in this work. A 
 further precaution of the Captain's, showing what 
 a shrewd commander he was, consisted in his order 
 60 
 
MYLES STANDISH 
 
 for the Sunday services. It was likely that the 
 Indians, knowing the Plymouth custom of assem- 
 bling for worship on the Lord's Day, might choose 
 that day for attacking the little colony. Standish, 
 therefore, ordered his little army to assemble, fully 
 armed, on Sunday morning at his house, and thence 
 march in a body to meeting, carrying their muskets 
 with them. The Captain took his place on the left 
 of the preacher, where he could see the door, pre- 
 pared at any moment to stop the service, marshall 
 his men, and proceed to meet the foe. 
 
 No attack being made, Standish, pursuing his 
 customary policy, determined to ascertain for him- 
 self the temper of the Indians, and accordingly 
 made a visit to the tribes most suspected. It was 
 learned afterwards that the brave man had incurred 
 no slight peril of assassination on this trip. An 
 Indian chief named Wituwamet, and another named 
 Pecksuot, had plotted to murder him, and had sworn 
 an oath that he should never return to the settle- 
 ment alive. They accompanied him on hj's return 
 journey, watching for an opportunity to slay him 
 when he was off his guard. But, providentially, 
 Standish was either suspicious of them or was 
 wakeful from the cold. He was unable to sleep, 
 and sat up all night, with his weapons in his belt 
 and his eyes on the conspirators. Finally, he 
 reached Plymouth in safety. 
 
 The colony was in a state of excitement. During 
 his absence news came that Massasoit, the ally of 
 the colony was dangerovisly ill. Winslow and an- 
 other set out to visit him. They found him sur- 
 rounded by the Indian doctors, with charms and 
 incantations, making a hideous noise, according to 
 their custom in cases of sickness. Winslow took 
 charge of the case, administered some simple rem- 
 edies, and had the gratification of seeing their friend 
 and ally recover. His gratitude knew no bounds, 
 61 
 
HISTORIC DEEDS OF DANGER AND DARING 
 
 and he gave immediate proof of it. He revealed all 
 the details of the plot against the Colonists, led by 
 Wituwamet and Pecksuot, in which he had been 
 asked to join. He had given an indecisive answer, 
 but since the Englishmen had saved his life, he 
 would not hold his peace. 
 
 The party returned to the settlement, and re- 
 ported Massasoit's tidings to the Governor. Stan- 
 dish had by that time returned, and a council was 
 immediately called. The emergency was the worst 
 the colony had yet encountered, and the peril was 
 dire. Standish took the matter into his own hands 
 and decided not to wait for the Indians to attack 
 at their leisure, but to strike the first blow. Taking 
 only eight men with him, he set out for the camp 
 in which the two Indian conspirators would prob- 
 ably be found. Hobomok, a friendly Indian, ac- 
 companied as interpreter, Squanto being dead by 
 this time. Never was there a more striking evidence 
 of Standish's courage. His foes were numbered 
 by thousands, and were crafty and cruel. Yet 
 he was going into their camp with only eight com- 
 panions. A more intrepid thing was never recorded 
 in the annals of war. 
 
 On their way they halted at a village, under the 
 pretence of trading, but really to find out all they 
 could of the conspiracy. They found the Indians 
 surly and suspicious. They therefore made ail haste 
 to their destination. On their arrival, there was no 
 mistaking the temper of the Indians. Wituwamet 
 openly exhibited his knife, which had a woman's 
 face on the handle. He said he had in his tent an- 
 other with a man's face on it. "By and bye, these 
 two would marry," he said, "and they would eat and 
 not speak." Pecksuot was still more insulting, stand- 
 ing before Standish. and, towering head and shovdders 
 above the little captain, he said, "You may be a great 
 captain, but you are a very little man. Though I 
 63 
 
MYLES STANDISH 
 
 am not a sachem, I am a man of great strength 
 and courage." Standish bore the insults cahnly, 
 and invited the two men to come into the tent and 
 talk the matter over. They complied, taking with 
 them Wituwamet's brother and another fierce war- 
 rior. Standish took four of his men, leaving the 
 other four outside to prevent a surprise. 
 
 The discussion led to nothing, Pecksuot still 
 boasting and insulting Standish. At last, the sturdy 
 captain lost patience, and bade Pecksuot cease his 
 bragging and come outside and fight it out man to 
 man. Instantly both men rose in anger. Standish 
 leaped on his stalwart foe, and snatching the knife 
 from his hand, stabbed him to the heart. The other 
 colonists at the same time attacked Wituwamet, 
 and killed him and the other warrior. Wituwa- 
 met's brother was seized and rushed to the door, 
 where he was promptly hanged in the face of the 
 whole tribe. The Indians fled in consternation. 
 Though they followed Standish and his party on 
 their way back, they kept under cover of the forest, 
 and their arrows did no harm. 
 
 The Captain's return, bearing the heads of the 
 two enemies, was greeted with thankfulness. The 
 ghastly trophies were fixed on the fort as a terror 
 to other hostile Indians. The tidings of the exploit 
 flew from tribe to tribe, and the hostiles forsook 
 the region or came humbly desiring peace. By the 
 one valorous act, Standish had averted a long and 
 tedious war, and had saved the colony from extermi- 
 nation. The news, however, was not welcome to the 
 friends of the Pilgrims in Holland, who, living in 
 peace there, could not understand the desperate 
 plight of the little company surrounded by Indians. 
 Pastor Robinson wrote, deploring that any Indians 
 should have been killed before some had been con- 
 verted, and warning the colony against placing too 
 much reliance on the prowess and warlike spirit of 
 63 
 
HISTORIC DEEDS OF DANGER AND DARING 
 
 their Captain. The colonists, however, had more 
 confidence than ever in him, and realized how great 
 had been the service he had rendered them. 
 
 On his return, Standish was gratified at finding 
 the good ship Anne had arrived from Ley den, 
 bringing a hundred new colonists, and among them 
 the lady Barbara, sister of his late wife. Rose, for 
 whom he had written soon after his bereavement. 
 She had come out to marry the sturdy Captain, 
 having doubtless made his acquaintance, and formed 
 a favorable opinion of him while he was courting 
 her sister Rose, The marriage was duly celebrated, 
 and appears to have been a thoroughly happy and 
 congenial one. The union was blessed with several 
 children. Incidentally, it may be noted that there 
 is a record among the Pilgrim archives of a date 
 a score or more years afterwards of the marriage 
 of Alexander, son of Captain Myles Standish, to 
 Sarah, daughter of John Alden. If, therefore, any 
 unpleasantness ever arose between the two families, 
 it must have been eventually removed. 
 
 The remainder of Captain Standish's career was 
 uneventful. In 1625 he was deputed to go to Eng- 
 land to buy out the interest of the merchants in the 
 colony. But he was a man of war, not of affairs, 
 and he was not successful. On his return, the num- 
 ber of colonists being by that time "grown ex- 
 ceedingly," Standish removed from Plymouth Col- 
 ony to a hill on the north, thenceforth known as 
 "Captain Hill," where he cultivated a farm. He 
 retained his military leadership, by undertaking the 
 training of the militia of the colony. He died 
 October 3, 1656. He was buried with pubhc honors, 
 and the great monument on Captain's Hill was 
 erected to his memory. 
 
 B. J. F. 
 
 64 
 
PRINCE RUPERT 
 
 THE history of England contains few figures: 
 of a more peculiar interest than that of 
 Rupert, Prince of Bohemia and General of the 
 Cavaliers. The interest which belongs to his story 
 is the interest of romance. The life of Rupert 
 is an epic — as wild, as stirring, and as eventful as 
 that of any of the heroes of Homer, of Mallory, 
 or of Ariosto. In truth, with these old champions 
 of the legends he had much in common. The 
 interest which the details of his life excite re- 
 sembles the interest excited by the exploits of 
 Achilles, of Roland, or of Lancelot of the Lake. 
 Like them, he moved in a constant whirl of wild 
 adventure; like theirs, his fame is not the fame of 
 a great general — of the brain that devises and the 
 eye that foresees — it is the fame of the free hero 
 who fights for his own lance. But no Homer, no 
 Ariosto, has seized on Rupert's exploits and left 
 them "married to immortal verse." 
 
 He had no high ideals, but was rather a type of 
 the dashing soldier of fortune. What may be called 
 the first division of his life— it ended with the field 
 of Naseby — is that part of it which bears conspicu- 
 ously the color of romance. In its main events the 
 story of that period is an follows: 
 
 Rupert was born at Prague in December, 1619. 
 His race combined the splendors of two proud 
 houses. His mother was the daughter of a king 
 of England; his father, Frederic, King of Bohemia 
 and Palatine of the Rhine, traced his grey line 
 through Otho back to Charlemagne, and beyond 
 65 
 
HISTORIC DEEDS OF DANGER AND DARING 
 
 him, through the dusk of ages, to the fierce Attila, 
 who was called "the Scourge of God." Rupert's 
 birth was celebrated at an hour of passing peace. 
 But the fiery cloud of war, then wandering over 
 Europe, was already drawing threatfully towards 
 his father's kingdom. Soon the savage chime of 
 arms began to be heard about his cradle. The 
 banners of Maximilian was seen shining on the 
 slopes of the White Mountain. The battle of 
 Prague M^as fought — and lost. The beautiful city 
 fell. Frederic and his queen were forced to flee; 
 and when at last, after months of hardship, they 
 again found refuge, it was to look no more upon 
 the palaces, the gardens, the bazaars, the proud 
 spires, and the wandering waters of one of the 
 fairest cities in the world, but upon the dykes and 
 fens of Holland. The royal exiles found asylum in 
 a palace at the Hague; and there for many years 
 they continued to reside. 
 
 Rupert and his elder brother were sent to the 
 University of Leyden. Rupert hated the classics; 
 but his passion for reading books on the science of 
 war caused him to pick up French, Spanish, and 
 Italian readily. In the feats of the gymnasium he 
 was soon without a rival; while his aptitude for 
 arms was such, that at fourteen he was judged 
 capable of commanding a regiment. With the pis- 
 tol he became an unerring shot — a curious proof 
 of which is said to be existing at St. Mary's Church, 
 at Stafford, England, where, many years later, on 
 a wager Math the King, he sent two bullets in suc- 
 cession through the weather-cock on the spire. Field 
 sports of every kind were his delight. His mother 
 had always been pre-eminently fond of hunting, and 
 the boy, during his holidays, was sometimes allowed 
 to join her parties. On one of these expeditions, 
 Rupert and a favorite hound outstriped the rest 
 of the party and became lost to sight. When the 
 66 
 
PRINCE RUPERT 
 
 company reached the spot where they had vanished, 
 nothing was to be seen but a pair of boots sticking 
 out of a hole in the bank. The astonished hunters 
 pulled at the boots, and presently pulled out the 
 Prince, the Prince pulled out the hound, and the 
 hound pulled out the fox. Nor were foxes' tails 
 his only trophies. While he was still at Leyden, 
 the Prince of Orange held a tournament for the 
 knight-errants of his court. Rupert entered the 
 lists, overthrew all his opponents, and was crowned 
 at the close of the day, amidst the notes of trumpets 
 and the shouts of thousands of spectators, by a fair 
 lady, with a garland of flowers. He was then not 
 fifteen years of age. 
 
 It was the succeeding year that Rupert came, 
 for the first time, to England, on a visit to the 
 court of his uncle Charles. That court, then at 
 the height of its gay splendor, was regarded by 
 every sovereign in Europe with envy and despair. 
 A king of fine artistic taste, a beautiful and 
 pleasure-loving queen, had combined to make of it 
 a sparkling and amusing world. It was a world in 
 which genius was the slave of beauty. Vandyke 
 was painting there the beautiful and noble faces, 
 and filling his canvas wath the peaked beards, the 
 flowing locks, the jjlumed hats, the scarves, the 
 ruffs, the lace collars, and the rich armor, in which 
 his art delighted. Ferabasco was setting knights 
 and ladies dancing all night long to the strains of 
 his bright and jojous music. Inigo Jones was lay- 
 ing out his terraces. Ben Jonson was displaying 
 his masques. It is true that even then, outside the 
 palace walls, an angry sea was rising. But, hither- 
 to, the sun continued shining, though the tempest 
 muttered in its caves. 
 
 Into this world of pleasure, Charles received his 
 nephew kindly, welcomed him to all the amusements 
 of the court, and even promised to provide for him. 
 67 
 
HISTORIC DEEDS OF DANGER AND DARING 
 
 But is was not very easy to decide how this was 
 to be done. Several plans were suggested. Arch- 
 bishop Laud, with some insight both into Ru- 
 pert's character and into the good of the Church, 
 proposed to make him a bishop. Then, on Rupert's 
 refusal to deck himself in lawn sleeves and a mitre, 
 a plan was projected for sending him as Viceroy 
 to Madagascar, with charge to send home every 
 year to England an argosy of oranges, sugar, spices, 
 turtle-shells, and gold. Why this scheme fell 
 through does not appear. Rupert himself was eager 
 to accept it; but, for whatever reason, the expedi- 
 tion never sailed. It was then resolved that Rupert 
 must marry an heiress — and the daughter of the 
 Duke of Rohan was the lady selected by the King. 
 The match, however, came to nothing; and Rupert 
 remained about the court, without any very settled 
 prospects or position, hunting, dancing, sitting 
 to Vandyke, and studying the fine arts, for over 
 eighteen months. 
 
 In the meantime, affairs in Bohemia were chang- 
 ing. Frederic and his eldest son were now both 
 dead. Charles Louis, the next in age, was heir to 
 the kingdom of the Palatines, in which the decrepid 
 old Duke of Bavaria now sat. Frederic had spent 
 the last ten years of his life in futile efforts to 
 regain his crown; and, at his death, that mission 
 devolved upon his heir. But the Duke was shad- 
 owed by the banners of the Empire; and the army 
 which, with infinite exertion, Louis had at last 
 succeeded in collecting, did not, including a detach- 
 ment of the Swedes, exceed four thousand men. With 
 this array, however, such as i*^ was, he resolved to 
 fly at the throat of the old duke; and his plans for 
 the attempt were now mature. Rupert flung him- 
 self eagerly into the enterprise. Bidding adieu to 
 masques and hunting-parties, he crossed over to 
 his brother's camp, and plunged at once into the 
 68 
 
PRINCE RUPERT 
 
 smoke of war. He was placed at the head of a 
 regiment of cavalry; and presently found himself, 
 under the flags of battle, marching against Lemgo. 
 
 The road lay past a grim and scowling fortress, 
 the garrison of Rhennius. Rupert, burning for 
 battle, and careless of his enemy, was unable to 
 resist the sight. He determined to assault the 
 fortress with his troop of horse. The cavalry of 
 the garrison, in twice his numbers, rushed furiously 
 out at his approach; and then, for the first time, 
 the spectacle was seen — a spectacle afterwards to 
 be witnessed with wonder and terror on many a 
 famous field — of Rupert riding at the charge. The 
 enemy was swept away like chaflf. A few fled back 
 over the drawbridge and rushed into the town. 
 There was not much more of real resistance than a 
 rabble of camp-followers might have ofi'ered to the 
 charge of a Roman Legion, 
 
 Rupert, with colors flying and bugles singing, 
 left the garrison to its meditations, and rejoined 
 the cavalcade. The chief command of the expedi- 
 tion had been committed to Count Conigsmark; the 
 Swedes were under a Scotchman of the name of 
 King. Of these two officers. King was a traitor, 
 who was only looking for an opportunity to forsake 
 the cause; while the Count's sole thought in draw- 
 ing up a battle was how to place himself most 
 safely in the rear. It was under these auspicious 
 leaders that the Palatines at length found them- 
 selves in sight of the spires of Lemgo, but cut ofl" 
 from that city by a large and dangerous body of 
 Austrian horse. 
 
 The conduct of the two commanders, now that a 
 battle was imminent, was exactly what might have 
 been expected from their respective characters. 
 King posted his infantry and artillery at a spot 
 where they were likely to be useless, and refused to 
 stir. Conigsmark selected a narrow defile, in which 
 69 
 
HISTORIC DEEDS OF DANGER AND DARING 
 
 he drew up his forces in four lines, his own being 
 the rearguard and well within the shelter of the 
 gorge. Hardly were his lines in order, when the 
 Austrians, in close column, dashed upon him. Their 
 onset broke the first line instantly; and its flying 
 masses, hurled back upon the line behind it, wrecked 
 that also. The third line, which now came into 
 action, was thus exposed at once to the rush of fugi- 
 tives from its own side, and to the charge of the 
 enemy's horse. This line was Rupert's. 
 
 The shattered lines, instead of meeting the assail- 
 ants with a charge as fiery as their own, had chosen 
 to encounter the attack on their own ground. This 
 was an error which Rupert was in little danger 
 of committing. On seeing the ranks before him 
 waver, he turned round in the saddle, and shook 
 his drawn sword in the air. Instantly the spurs 
 flew into the flanks of the horses of his five hundred. 
 The charge that followed swept the enemy head- 
 long out of the defile into the open plain. 
 
 The brilliancy of this exploit was extreme. It is 
 half pitiful, half ludicrous, to relate the cause 
 which made it unavailing. It had now become the 
 duty of the rearguard to dart forward in support 
 of Rupert's charge; and, had this been done, the 
 chance of victory might nave been recovered. But 
 the disaster of the foremost lines had been enough 
 for Conigsmark; and the Count, with a white face 
 and a beating heart, was already retreating up the 
 gorge at the top of his speed. Rupert was left 
 alone and unsupported in the midst of tenfold odds. 
 King looked on with unconcern; the enemy had 
 time to rally; fresh troops were hurried up, and 
 though fighting every foot of ground with desperate 
 courage, Rupert's men were gradually forced back 
 into the gorge. Soon parties of the enemy began 
 to gather on the hills above them, and to steal 
 downwards among the boulders in their rear. 
 70 
 
PRINCE RUPERT 
 
 Nothing SO much resembles the spectacle which 
 followed as some wild story of the ancient legends. 
 Rupert's position was desperate; his friends had 
 forsaken him; he was caught in a trap. At the 
 foot of the only standard which still reared above 
 the tempest the colors of the Palatines, he fought 
 till every man about him fell. Then, collecting his 
 strength for a final eflfort, he burst through the 
 swords of his assailants, and put his horse at a 
 stone wall. The exhausted beast refused the leap, 
 and fell back upon his haunches. Before he could 
 recover himself a score of cuirassiers rushed up, 
 and Rupert was a prisoner. 
 
 This first experience singularly resembles that of 
 every field in which, in after years, he played a 
 part. That day was fatal to his cause; but it cov- 
 ered his own name with glory. And such was to be 
 Rupert's fate through life. He never charged an 
 enemy whom he did not scatter to the winds. At 
 Rhennius, at Lemgo, at Worcester, at Edgehill, at 
 Marston Moor, at Naseby — it was everywhere the 
 same. It was his singular destiny to fight for the 
 falling flag on every field, and yet to emerge from 
 every field with added glory. 
 
 He was now the captive of the Empire. His 
 prison was appointed in the ancient Tower of Lmtz 
 ■ — a rock-built, battlemented donjon, black with age, 
 which looked gloomily upon the waters of the 
 Danube. Except for the loss of liberty, however, 
 he was put to no great hardship. It is true that 
 Ferdinand, nettled at his abrupt refusal either to 
 ask for pardon, to turn Catholic, or to fight under 
 the Austrian banners, put him for a short time vnider 
 guard; but generally he enjoyed the freedom of the 
 castle and the castle gardens; and in course of 
 time he even obtained leave of parole for three days 
 together, during which he was free to pay visits in 
 the neighborhood of the castle, to hunt the chamois 
 Tl 
 
HISTORIC DEEDS OF DANGER AND DARING 
 
 ■among the perilous crags which overhung the river, 
 or to track, among the windings of the lower 
 valleys, a fox, a wild boar, or a stag of ten. Nor 
 was the ancient Tower a dungeon wholly given up 
 to gloom. Count Kuifstein, the governor of the 
 castle, was an old soldier, with whom it was no 
 hardship for a younger to exchange a story, of a 
 sociable disposition ; while his daughter. Mademoiselle 
 de Kuffstein, was a lovely girl, whose beauty and 
 spirit had won the hearts of numberless adorers for 
 ten miles up and down the Danube. Such society, 
 even in a prison, makes time fly; and, moreover, 
 Rupert, even when debarred from hunting, discov- 
 ered several means of lightening the burden of 
 captivity. He studied chemistry; he played tennis; 
 he practised with a rifle; he tamed a hare, as a 
 present to the Lady of the Tower; he improved, 
 with the same object, a device of Albert Durer for 
 drawing perspectives. He also spent much time 
 and patience in training a magnificent white dog, 
 of a very rare breed, whom he called Boy. This 
 dog, who afterwards accompanied him in all his 
 perils, became in time as well known in the field as 
 his master, and almost as much dreaded; for when 
 Rupert's name had grown to be a sound of terror 
 in the ears of the Roundheads, his dog was re- 
 garded by the superstitious among them as a famil- 
 iar spirit, who brought him unvarying success. 
 Various extraordinary opinions arose respecting the 
 dog's nature and power. Some declared that he 
 could swallow the deadliest poison without injury. 
 Some held that he was, in reality, a Lapland lady, 
 who had been changed by enchantment into an ani- 
 mal. Some believed that he was a powerful wizard, 
 and some that he was the devil. One thing, how- 
 ever, is certain — that no wizardry had rendered him 
 immortal; for, to Rupert's infinite regret, he was 
 killed at last in the battle of Marston Moor. 
 79 
 
PRINCE RUPERT 
 
 The Prince had need of all his devices to kill 
 time; for his captivity was long. Three years were 
 wasted in negotiations for his release. At the end 
 of that time he found himself at liberty, without 
 other condition than his word of parole that he 
 would not again take arms against the Empire. 
 
 Those years had covered England with a gloom 
 that deepened. Charles had now advanced to the 
 \erge of war. The Queen was in Holland, em- 
 ployed in pledging the crown jewels, and endea- 
 voring to raise supplies. Henrietta sent for Ru- 
 pert, informed him that the King had appointed 
 him General of the Horse, and was then expecting 
 him in England. Rupert put hastily to sea in a 
 small vessel called the Lion, which was driven back 
 by a tempest and nearly wrecked. He again set 
 sail, and landed at last at Tynemouth in the dusk 
 of an evening which, though the month was August, 
 was as cold as winter. Impatiently refusing to delay 
 his journey for an instant, he threw himself on a 
 horse and rode forward. In the midst of a dark 
 and frozen road the horse slipped, his rider was 
 thrown violently against a jagged edge of rock, and 
 dislocated his shoulder. The limb was set by a 
 surgeon who was luckily discovered within half a 
 mile of the spot. But Rupert, to his great vexation, 
 lost some hours. 
 
 At length, in spite of every misadventure, he 
 came up with the King. The place was Leicester 
 Abbey. The time was evening — the evening which 
 preceded a momentous day. War had not yet been 
 finally declared. But the next morning, upon a 
 rising ground within the park at Nottingham, the 
 King unfurled his standard. An omen attended the 
 ceremony which would have appeared to a Roman 
 soothsayer as full of warning as a sacred chicken 
 which refused its food, or bullock found at the 
 sacrifice to be without a heart. No sooner was the 
 73 
 
HISTORIC DEEDS OF DANGER AND DARING 
 
 standard raised than a fierce tempest blew it down. 
 Again the heralds raised it; and again, as if the 
 ancient elemental powers viewed with indignation 
 the folly of man, the tempest bore the stand- 
 ard away. At last it was secured with strong cords 
 to the flagstaff on the turret of the ancient castle, 
 and the little blood-red flag of battle which 
 streamed above it was seen shining afar out over 
 the windy vale of Trent. 
 
 And now, in awful and splendid succession, the 
 scenes of England's Civil War begin to pass before 
 us. At those scenes we shall glance rapidly, be- 
 holding, as in the rolling pictures of a panorama, a 
 few of the varied aspects of Rupert in the field. 
 
 The Royal Horse, to which he found himself 
 appointed, consisted of a few ranks of ragged 
 troopers, ill-equipped with corselets, casques, and 
 even swords. At the head of these, Rupert rode 
 out of Nottingham. For a month he scoured the 
 country day and night: he stormed garrisons, taxed 
 cities, despoiled the tormented Puritans of horses, 
 saddles, swords, carbines, pistols, armor, doublets, 
 plumes; and at the end of that time rode into 
 Shrewsbury at the head of more than three thousand 
 followers, all mounted on good horses, armed with 
 good swords, glittering from head to foot in coats 
 of mail, gay with crimson cloaks, gilt spurs, and 
 dancing feathers, and burning for battle, with all 
 the spirit of their chief. 
 
 With some five hundred of these troops he was 
 resting, on an autumn afternoon, in some meadows 
 outside Worcester. The day was sultry; the men 
 were hot and wearied; and they were glad to take 
 off their armor, which had become heated by the 
 sun, and to lie down at full length in the deep grass, 
 under the shadow of a clump of lime trees. No 
 enemy was suspected to be at hand; no watch was 
 kept; and the first signal of danger was given by a 
 74 
 
PRINCE RUPERT 
 
 trooper who chanced to lift his head out of the deep 
 herbage, and whose eye was caught by the sparkle 
 of a coat of mail emerging from a narrow road 
 which led towards the meadows. The alarm was 
 just in time. A thousand horse, the picked troops 
 of the enemy, clad in complete armor, had stolen 
 upon them in the silence of the autumn day, and 
 were on the point of sweeping down upon their 
 drowsy groups. Rupert snatched a sword, leapt 
 into a saddle, and dashed bare-headed upon their 
 ranks. His men flew after him. Four hundred of 
 the enemy were killed on the spot, or swept into 
 the river and drowned. The rest flew back into 
 Pershore in a panic of fear. While the sight of 
 their white faces and bloody spurs was striking 
 terror into the people of the town, Rupert, with six 
 standards and a rich prize of horses, went leisurely 
 back to pick up his armor under the lime trees. He 
 had lost only five men. 
 
 Two days later he was riding out alone, for the 
 purpose of reconnoitring the position of the enemy. 
 Their camp was posted in Dunsmore Heath. On 
 the road he came up with a country fellow, who was 
 sitting on the shaft of an apple-cart, and floggir ^ 
 his horse in the direction of the camp. Rupert 
 bribed the man with a guinea, put on his smock- 
 frock and slouched hat, took his seat on the shaft, 
 cracked his whip, and proclaiming in a loud voice 
 that his apples were the finest and the cheapest in 
 the world, drove coolly into the heart of the enemy's 
 encampment. There he inspected their position at 
 leisure, sold his apples to the troopers, and drove 
 the cart back to its owner, who was holding his 
 horse in the "road. Then, taking off his disguise, 
 and giving the man another guinea, he bade hiin 
 drive in turn into the camp and inquire of the 
 soldiers, "How they like the apples which Prince 
 Rupert had sold them?" 
 
 75 
 
HISTORIC DEEDS OF DANGER AND DARING 
 
 A month later, the full force of the King's army 
 met the full force of the Roundheads at the battle 
 of Edgehill. Rupert's share in that great action 
 may be summed up very briefly. He won one por- 
 tion of the battle. His allies lost the other. 
 
 On the morning of that day, the royal troops 
 were drawn up on the brow of the steep rising 
 which looks down upon the Vale of the Red Horse. 
 Below them, a wide plain stretched towards the 
 town of Kineton; and from the streets of the town 
 the Roundhead army came streaming forth into the 
 open ground. First came Stapleton's cuirassiers, 
 glittering in bright armor; then the troops of Denzil 
 Holies, of Lord Brook, and of Lord Mandeville, in 
 scarlet, in purple, and in blue. Rupert looked upon 
 their hosts with glistening eyes. The day was Sun- 
 day; the time was the middle of the afternoon; the 
 church bells were ringing among the elms on each 
 side of the valley; and among the enemy the forms 
 of the dark-robed preachers could be seen, moving 
 with eager gestures between the armored ranks. On 
 the King's side, the prayer of one brave man has 
 been preserved for us: "O Lord, Thou knowest how 
 busy I must be this day; if I forget Thee, do not 
 Thou forget me !" Such was the simple and noble 
 prayer of Lindsey. 
 
 Rupert, at the head of his cavalry, rode slowly 
 down the steep. The rest of the King's army fol- 
 lowed, and gathered in the plain. It is said that its 
 plumed and glittering ranks were watched from the 
 hills by a spectator, whose name is written on the 
 scroll of fame in letters more lasting than their own. 
 From the slopes above the valley Harvey, the dis- 
 coverer of the circulation of the blood, is said to 
 have watched, for many hours, the progress of the 
 battle through a glass. 
 
 As the guns began to roar, Rupert, at the head 
 of his brilliant troop, dashed forward at the charge. 
 76 
 
PRINCE RUPERT 
 
 The ranks before him were swept back into the 
 town in hopeless rout. Ramsey, their leader, drove 
 the spurs into his horse and galloped towards St. 
 Albans. Lord Wharton fled headlong into a saw- 
 pit, from which he peeped out at intervals at the 
 Cavaliers despoiling his baggage, and thanked 
 heaven that he was safe. Rupert, while his men were 
 engaged in completing the victory and collecting 
 the spoil, rode back, with a few attendants, to the 
 field. He expected, as was natural, that what his 
 wild energy had found so easy his allies had not 
 found impossible. But the event had proved far 
 otherwise. When he reached the field, he found the 
 remnants of the two armies still engaged in a bitter 
 struggle. The ground was strewn with the dead 
 and dying; the royal standard was taken; and only 
 a few noblemen were left about the King. 
 
 Rupert had no men with whom to charge. Night 
 was falling; and before either side could claim a 
 victory, darkness parted the contending armies. 
 Lord Wharton crept out of his saw-pit, and made 
 off to his own party. There was no moon; a biting 
 wind was blowing; and Rupert and the King sat all 
 that night beside a fire of brushwood, which they 
 kept burning on the hillside. When day dawned, 
 the two broken armies, like two wounded wolves, lay 
 glaring at each other, neither daring to renew the 
 fight. When night again fell, Essex drew off his 
 shattered forces, leaving the empty name of victory 
 to the King. In reality, the only victor of that day 
 was Rupert. 
 
 The King retired to Oxford; and gradually his 
 court, which was now settled there, began to re- 
 assume some likeness of its ancient splendor. Ru- 
 pert had rooms in Christchurch ; and thence was to 
 be seen, for many months, darting out at intervals, 
 over the ancient bridge at Magdalen, to skirmish 
 with the enemy, or to head the storming parties at 
 77 
 
HISTORIC DEEDS OF DANGER AND DARING 
 
 the walls of towns and garrisons. At Brentford, 
 which was the first to feel his power, his cavalry 
 was stopped by redoubts of stones, and by barri- 
 cades of carts, waggons, tables, chairs, and beds, 
 through which poured a ceaseless fire of musketry. 
 Rupert headed a troop of foot, tore the barricades 
 in pieces, rushed into the breach at the head of his 
 cavalry, and swept the enemy out of the streets. 
 At Lichiield, for the first time in English warfare, 
 he employed a powder-mine. The walls of the 
 Cathedral close, within which the enemy was en- 
 sconced, were too strong for his artillery. Rupert 
 drained the moat, constructed a mine, and filled it 
 with five barrels of powder. In the meantime the 
 mine was ready. Rupert waited for the evening. 
 The match was applied; a tremendous explosion was 
 heard; a yawning gulf, filled with smoke, appeared 
 in the walls; and the besiegers rushed in through 
 the ruins. The enemy, in terror, instantly raised a 
 w^hite flag on the Cathedral, and surrendered. Rupert 
 allowed them to march out under the honors of 
 war. 
 
 On a Sunday morning in the middle of June his 
 trumpets were heard ringing among the cloisters 
 and quadrangles of the ancient city; and presently, 
 amidst the cheering of the people, Rupert and his 
 cavalry were seen riding out across the bridge and 
 through the city gates. He first fell upon Lewknor, 
 an outpost of the enemy, where he seized a great 
 number of horses, arms, and prisoners. Thence he 
 pushed on through Chinnor, where he stormed an- 
 other outpost, and came up with the main body of 
 the enemy at Chalgrove Field. There he drew up 
 his cavalry in a wide cornfield bounded by a hedge; 
 and in this position he waited, while the enemy, 
 pouring down the slopes of Gelder's Hill, advanced 
 on the other side of the dividing barrier. Pres- 
 ently their skirmishers began to fire their carbines 
 78 
 
PRINCE RUPERT 
 
 between the roots of the low fence of thorn. That 
 sound was Rupert's signal. He instantly rushed 
 over the hedge at the head of his men and scattered 
 their ranks to the winds. 
 
 It was in attempting to resist this charge that 
 Hampden received the wound that caused his death. 
 No reader of Macaulay will have forgotten his 
 pathetic picture of the dying patriot, as "with his 
 head drooping, and his hands resting on his horse's 
 neck, he moved feebly out of the battle." Within 
 six days he was a corpse. 
 
 In the meatime, Rupert rode back to Oxford. 
 His troops were followed by a long train of pri- 
 soners, horses, captured standards, and baggage- 
 wagons heaped with spoil. The huzzas of the towns- 
 people and the smiles of the court ladies greeted 
 his return. Within a space of forty-eight hours 
 from the time he started he had ridden fifty miles, 
 taken two outposts and many standards, fought and 
 won a pitched battle, killed both the officers who 
 opposed him, left a great number of the enemy 
 dead on the field, and lost of his own party only 
 five men. 
 
 Some time after this. Lord Essex, with a body of 
 troops, was passing through the forests of Auborn 
 Chase, eager to reach Newbury before the King. 
 No enemy was suspected to be at hand, and the earl 
 rode carelessly through the flowery glades. The 
 turf was soft and spongy, and the fall of a horse's 
 hoof awoke no sound. Suddenly a troop of riders, 
 noiseless as a flight of phantoms, appeared among 
 the distant beechen boles and came sweeping over 
 the turf upon his ranks. The ghosts were Rupert 
 and his cavaliers. A sharp encounter followed. 
 Essex was beaten back to Hungerford, and the 
 King reached Newbury before him. 
 
 At sunrise the next morning, the two armies 
 marched out to the encounter. The strife was bit- 
 79 
 
HISTORIC DEEDS OF DANGER AND DARING 
 
 terly contested. AH that day the fight went on. 
 Night fell; the losses on both sides were deadly; 
 yet the victory was undecided. The King, with 
 the fragments of his army, retired into the town. 
 The enemy, equally broken, prepared to snatch a 
 few hours of rest, for the trumpets were to sound 
 for retreat at break of day. But twelve hours of 
 desperate fighting had not sated Rupert. In the 
 silence of the night he stole about the sleeping town, 
 and mustered, by the gleam of the watch-fires and 
 the torches, a small band of men and horses. Mov- 
 ing out with these in the grey light of morning, he 
 caught the enemy in a defile, as they toiled away 
 beneath their baggage, cut down a great number of 
 them, and would have killed or taken many more, 
 but that his men were dropping out of their saddles 
 with weariness, and their horses almost falling down 
 at every step. 
 
 It is in such adventures, of which these are but 
 specimens of events that happened daily, that Ru- 
 pert is best seen. In the great battles of the Eng- 
 lish Civil War, though his personal achievements 
 were not less, his glory was eclipsed by the disaster 
 of his allies. It is not by these that we can judge 
 him rightly. And yet we cannot bring ourselves to 
 turn away without one glance at the two great 
 English battle-fields which were to follow— the fields 
 of Marston Moor and Naseby. 
 
 Marston Moor! No battle-scene in history is 
 more impressive than that which is conjured up 
 before the mind at the name of that famous field. 
 We see the sun setting in angry splendor, dyeing 
 all the clouds with blood ; we see the fields of yellow 
 rye in which the Puritans were drawn up, and the 
 gorse-bushes and the broken ground which was the 
 station of the King; we see the air dark with brood- 
 ing storm; we hear the fierce hymn rolled from the 
 ranks of the Puritans, mingled with the boom of 
 80 
 
PRINCE RUPERT 
 
 thunder; we see Rupert, in his scarlet cloak, facing 
 the grim battalions of the Scots; we see Cromwell, 
 yet an unrisen meteor, praying at the head of his 
 fierce host; then we see the wild charge of Rupert, 
 and the ranks of the Tartans whirled away before 
 him like the leaves of winter; and then, in the 
 gloom of storm and darkness, the heart of the 
 King's battle breaking before Cromwell. It was 
 Rupert's constant fate — and it was so at Mars- 
 ton Moor — to find that while the enemy had been 
 flying like deer before him, his companions had 
 been flying before the enemy; and so it was to 
 be again at Naseby. It has been often stated that 
 in that last great contest of the Civil War, Rupert 
 faced the forces of Cromwell, and was beaten back. 
 This is an error. Rupert and Cromwell — the uncon- 
 quered champions of their parties — never met. It 
 is true that at Naseby Rupert eagerly sought Crom- 
 well ; but Cromwell had taken the right wing, while 
 Rupert believed that he was stationed on the left, 
 Rupert on that day, as ever, scattered his opponents 
 to the winds. Then believing, as at Edgehill and at 
 Marston Moor, that the victory was won, he rode 
 carelessly back to the field, and reined his horse on 
 the crest of the overlooking hill. He instantly dis- 
 covered his mistake. There in the vale below him 
 he saw Cromwell, at the head of his men, with his 
 helmet knocked off, and the blood streaming down 
 his face from a wound above the eye, driving the 
 Cavaliers in wild disorder among the low bushes 
 of a rabbit warren. He saw the King strive to 
 rally his men for a last charge. He saw an attend- 
 ant lay his hand on the King's bridle, and turn 
 away his horse's head. Of what followed we are 
 able, from descriptions which have come down to 
 us, to form a singularly exact idea. 
 
 Rupert spurred his horse into the press, and 
 fought his way to the King's side. They rode 
 81 
 
HISTORIC DEEDS OF DANGER AND DARING 
 
 together from the field. On the crest of the rising 
 ground which overlooked the plain, they drew rein 
 for a moment, and cast a last glance at the scene 
 below them. The Puritan soldiers, flushed with vic- 
 tory, covered the whole field with a raging flood of 
 men and horses. Such of their own party as were 
 not riding ofl^ the ground were either lying among 
 the heaps of slain or huddled together in groups of 
 guarded captives. Mingled with the sombre banners 
 of the Puritans, in which five Bibles were displayed 
 against a ground of black, there could now be seen 
 shining above the hosts of the victorious enemy the 
 crimson folds of the captured Royal Standard, and 
 the snow-white silken ensign of the Queen. From 
 that sight the two spectators turned away their 
 eyes, and rode silently together into the falling night. 
 
 The war was over. Rupert had ridden his last 
 charge in England. 
 
 The scenes at which we have been glancing, briefly 
 and rapidly as they have passed before us, may 
 have perhaps attained the purpose of denoting in 
 M^hat light the figure of Rupert ought to be re- 
 garded. He is usually dismissed by historians with 
 the remark that his character lacked the essential 
 qualities that make a general great — foresight, pa- 
 tience, tactics, discipline. But it is not as a great 
 general that we think of Rupert. The interest 
 which surounds his figure is of a different kind. 
 He is one of the seekers of adventure — a free lance, 
 a soldier of fortune. His forerunners are the an- 
 cient heroes of romance: Achilles whirling in his 
 chariot; Eviradnus darting into the cave of Hugo 
 the eagle-headed; Roland, with his sword Durandal, 
 defying the ten kings. Such are the fit compari- 
 sons of Rupert in the field — such are the com- 
 panion pictures which arise before the eye of fancy, 
 as it views his flag flying over conquered cities, or 
 his white plume shining in the front of battle. 
 
SIR WILLIAM PHIPS 
 
 WILLIAM PHIPS, who was destined in his 
 varied career to be a shepherd, ship-carpen- 
 ter, treasure-seeker, knight, governor, admiral, and 
 general, was born February 2, 1651, in the town of 
 Woolwich, Maine, near the mouth of the Kennebec 
 River. His father was a gunsmith, one of the most 
 useful occupations at that period of our colonial his- 
 tory, and had emigrated from the English town of 
 Bristol during the early days of the Massachusetts 
 Bay Colony. The Phips family was remarkable 
 for its size, and no settlement that contained it 
 could be truthfully called small. It numbered 
 twenty-eight; there were twenty-six children, four 
 daughters and twenty-one sons. The future knight 
 was the youngest of this numerous progeny, and, 
 as his father died soon after William's birth, he 
 was brought up by his mother. 
 
 When but a lad, he was put to the work of tend- 
 ing sheep on the rocky hillsides near his home, and 
 legends say that, young as he was, he chafed under 
 the monotony of his existence, and that he looked 
 with longing eyes at every sail that whitened itself 
 for a moment in the sunlight against the blue ho- 
 rizon of the sea. 
 
 The district of Maine had become, in the very 
 first days of colonial enterprise, a region noted 
 for ship-building. Its deeply indented coast of- 
 fered numerous safe harbors, and its navigable 
 rivers gave access to the interior. The great for- 
 ests provided every kind of timber necessary for 
 the construction of vessels, its pines being of such 
 83 
 
HISTORIC DEEDS OF DANGER AND DARING 
 
 value for masts that they were taken to England 
 by the shipload. Many an English man-of-war, 
 that upheld the claims of the proud mistress of the 
 seas, spread its snowy sails on spars and masts 
 from the Maine forests. 
 
 Young Phips, filled with the love of the sea and 
 of ships, gave up the prosaic life of a shepherd, 
 and apprenticed himself to a ship-carpenter. He 
 remained with him for four years, taking occa- 
 sional cruises to Boston or along the New England 
 coast. Having completed the time for which he was 
 bound to the shipwright, his relatives were anx- 
 ious to have him settle down near them, but, ac- 
 cording to his biographer, Mather, he even then 
 had visions of greatness, and wanted to go out 
 into the great world, and see if it did not hold 
 greater things for William PTiips than a fisher- 
 man's cottage on the Pine Tree Coast. 
 
 In 1773 he went to Boston to live, and while 
 working as a shipwright, spent all of his spare 
 hours learning to read and write. He was a ruddy, 
 strapping youth, and found favor in the ej^es of a 
 fair widow, who was well endowed by fortune. She 
 was also of good social position, being a daughter of 
 Captain Roger Spencer, who at one time was one of 
 the most prominent men in the colony of Massachu- 
 setts Bay. Phips married the widow, and with the 
 financial backing of his wife's fortune, he embarked 
 upon a large business venture. He made a con- 
 tract with some Boston merchants to build them a 
 trading ship on the shores of the Sheepscot River, 
 a little to the east of the Kennebec. The ship 
 was completed and launched successfully. Phips 
 secured a cargo of lumber, and was preparing to 
 sail his ship on its first voyage to Boston. The 
 lumber, however, was not to reach its destination. 
 The Eastern Indians suddenly broke from their 
 forest fastnesses, bent on the destruction of all the 
 84 
 
SIR WILLIAM PHIPS 
 
 English settlements in Maine, The frightened in- 
 habitants took refuge on Phips' ship, and, leaving 
 the lumber, Phips sailed off to Boston. The loss 
 of the lumber caused him great financial embar- 
 rassment, but he went cheerily to work to redeem 
 his fortunes. He consoled his wife, by telling her 
 that some day he would tread the quarter-deck of 
 a King's ship, and that he would make her the 
 proud mistress of "a fair brick house in the 
 Green Lane of North Boston." 
 
 Phips worked steadily at shipbuUding, and 
 made short trading voyages when good- opportun- 
 ities offered. In 1684, eleven years after his 
 first arival at the provincial capital, he saw his 
 chance to win both fame and fortune. To many, 
 his scheme would have appeared as a golden dream 
 of the night, to be smiled over and forgotten with 
 the day. He had heard about the docks and in 
 the seaside taverns, numerous tales of pirates and 
 of treasure-ships sailing the Spanish Main. For 
 Phips these tales had a peculiar fascination, and 
 he used to think them over as he laid the keel or 
 set the ribs of some stout fishing or trading boat 
 in his Boston shipyard. At last he heard a story 
 that set his heart and brain on fire. An old salt 
 told him that a Spanish ship, laden with bars of 
 silver and ingots of gold, had struck a reef off the 
 Bahama Islands some years before, and gone to the 
 bottom. The water in which the wreck lay was not 
 deep, and Phips determined to find it. Setting 
 sail in a small ship of his own, he found the 
 wreck. So far the seaman's tale was true. The 
 great wealth she was said to contain was only 
 part true. Phips managed to fish only enough 
 silver from her hold to pay the expenses of his 
 voyage. He was about to return home somewhat 
 disappointed, when he heard that off Port de la 
 Plata a great Spanish galleon, loaded from keel 
 85 
 
HISTORIC DEEDS OF DANGER AND DARING 
 
 to deck with treasure, had sunk fifty years before, 
 and he resolved to find it. 
 
 Phips' own means, however, were too small to 
 carry out such a big project, and he went to 
 England to induce the English Government to take 
 part in the search. In 1684, he was made com- 
 mander of the Rose-Algiers by the Admiralty, on 
 whom he had made a great impression with his 
 straightforward ways, and tales of hidden gold. 
 They thought if he could find one valuable ship at 
 the bottom of the sea, he could probably find 
 another. 
 
 The Rose-Algier mounted eighteen guns, and 
 carried a crew of ninety-five men. It is supposed 
 that even the king must have been interested in the 
 romantic adventure, otherwise it would seem odd 
 that Phips should have been given such a valuable 
 ship for such an enterprise. The crew, however, 
 was as bad as the one that made the famous voy- 
 age to Treasure Island, in the thrilling romance of 
 Stevenson. It was a "scratch crew," picked up 
 from everywhere, and the appearance of its mem- 
 bers was a sure warning of coming trouble. 
 
 The exact location of the treasure-ship off" Port 
 de la Plata was unknown, and many weeks were 
 spent groping about in the depth of the sea with 
 grappling irons. Sand, sea weed, and shells were 
 all the treasure that came from the bottom, and 
 the crew got tired of what they thought was a 
 fool's errand. They began to murmur against the 
 strict discipline and hard work. A committee of 
 the forecastle waited on Phips, as he was pacing 
 the quarter deck, and demanded that the ship be 
 turned into a pirate craft, and sailed to attack 
 the Spanish towns in the West Indies, where gold 
 could be got in an easier way than by diving for 
 it day after day. Phips, not a whit dismayed, 
 ordered the men back to duty, but the trouble was 
 86 
 
SIR WILLIAM PHIPS 
 
 not yet over. A little later they came back with 
 pistols tucked up their sleeves, and went into the 
 captain's quarters, Phips had laid aside his own 
 weapons, but seeing the mutineers, he rushed on 
 them and secured the ringleaders. Cowed by his 
 boldness, the rest of the crew gave up. 
 
 The malcontents, however, were loth to give up 
 their design; probably most of them had been 
 pirates before. A more elaborate plot was now 
 formed. The ship was lying at anchor off the 
 coast of a small island, and had been slightly ca- 
 reened by Phips in order to land some stores and 
 tents, for it was his intention to make the island 
 the base of his operations in that vicinity. The 
 vessel had been fastened by a large cable ta a 
 large rock, which jutted out from shore, and a 
 bridge built from the ship to the rock. The crew, 
 getting shore leave, went deep into the woods, and 
 in a solemn council, bound themselves by the most 
 desperate oaths to take the ship, and make the 
 captain and the officers prisoners. The attempt 
 was to be made at eight that evening, and Phips 
 and his men, after being secured, were to be 
 marooned on the island, while the mutineers were 
 to hoist the black flag with the skull and cross- 
 bones, and sail away for plunder in the South Sea. 
 
 It was necessary, however, for them to have the 
 ship's carpenter. Getting him into the woods on 
 some pretext, they informed him concerning their 
 design, and threatened him with death if he be- 
 trayed them or refused to join. He asked for 
 half an hour to consider their proposition, and 
 also asked for permission to go back to the ship 
 to get his tools. The conspirators consented to 
 this, but sent there three of their number with 
 him; they were to watch his every movement, and 
 if he showed any signs of betraying them, he was 
 to be instantly killed and thrown over board. 
 87 
 
HISTORIC DEEDS OF DANGER AND DARING 
 
 No sooner was the carpenter on board, than he 
 was taken violently ill, and he was permitted to go 
 down the companion-way to the medicine chest. 
 The illness was a ruse, and he made his way to 
 Phips, and hurriedly told him the danger he was 
 in. Phips told the carpenter to go back with the 
 mutineers, and, while watching their movements, 
 Phips would have time to prepare to meet them. 
 
 Phips found that all of the men left on board 
 were loyal, and he at once put them at work. 
 The guns that had been put on shore to defend 
 the supplies, were at once disabled, and all the 
 powder and shot brought back on board. The 
 bridge was then raised, and the cannon on ship- 
 board loaded and aimed toward the woods. Hardly 
 had these preparations been completed, when the 
 mutineers were seen coming out of the underbrush. 
 Phips called to them to stay where they were or he 
 would open fire. The bridge was again put down, 
 and some of the crew went ashore to bring in the 
 remainder of the supplies. Phips then told the 
 mutineers that he understood that he and his 
 officers were to be left to perish, but the tables 
 had been turned, and that they were to be left to 
 starve instead. 
 
 The mutineers at once threw down their arms 
 and implored Phips to take them back, and told 
 him that they had no cause for complaint, except 
 his refusal to turn pirate. 
 
 Phips did not have half enough men to sail the 
 ship with safety, much less fight her, if the need 
 should arise, so he let them on board, but under a 
 stout guard. Phips at once weighed anchor and 
 sailed for Jamaica, where he sent the greater part 
 of the crew ashore, and got other men in their 
 places. Again setting sail, he put in to Hispanola 
 for further information in regard to the where- 
 abouts of the sunken treasure-ship. He was for- 
 88 
 
SIR WILLIAM PHIPS 
 
 timate enough to find an old Spanish sailor who 
 knew the story, and was able to point out the reef 
 where the ship had gone down. Phips could not 
 find the wreck, and his own ship was sadly in 
 need of repair. He was compelled to sail for 
 England, leaving the treasure undisturbed at the 
 bottom of the sea. 
 
 The naval authorities, notwithstanding the ill- 
 success of the venture, received Phips with con- 
 siderable favor. Hp commanded their admiration, 
 by the way in which he had subdued his mutinous 
 crew and carried out the "secondary objects" of 
 the cruise. They could not spare him another 
 ship of war, and it would take many months to 
 properly refit the Rose-Algier. Phips at once 
 cast about for some way of securing a large 
 merchant vessel. The Earl of Albermarle took up 
 the scheme, and interested a few of his friends. 
 They bought a ship and gave Phips the command. 
 The King gave Albermarle the exclusive right to 
 any wrecks the expedition might be fortunate 
 enough to find. 
 
 Again the intrepid New Englander sailed for 
 Port de la Plata. A tender was constructed under 
 Phips' own supervision, that w^as to be anchored 
 over the reef, while the large ship remained safe 
 in port. After the tender had been moored, the 
 men got into a small row boat, and the men began 
 their explorations. Divers were sent down, while 
 the crew hung over the gunwales, watching and 
 directing them. The water was so clear, that every 
 crevice of the rocks was distinctly visible. Time 
 and again the divers plunged downward, only to 
 come puffing to the surface with the report, "No 
 signs." 
 
 The crew were ab^ut to give up the search for the 
 day, when one of the men asked an Indian diver 
 to get him a curious sea plant that had caught 
 
HISTORIC DEEDS OF DANGER AND DARING 
 
 his eye as it swayed in the current far below. 
 The Indian brought it up, and reported that near 
 it he had seen several cannon. Instantly all was 
 excitement. The divers all plunged at once, and 
 one of them soon came to the surface, bearing a 
 great bar of silver that was worth about three 
 hundred pounds in English money, or $1,500 in our 
 own. A buoy was anchored to mark the spot, and 
 the men rowed hurriedly to Phips. At first he 
 would not believe their story; but when he saw the 
 great silver bar, he exclaimed: 
 
 "Thanks be to God, we are all made." 
 
 Within a week, three hundred thousand pounds' 
 worth of gold and silver was brought to the sur- 
 face, and safely stored beneath the hatches of 
 Phips' ship. The bars and ingots of gold and 
 silver were taken first, and then the coin was dis- 
 covered. It had been tied in bags and used for 
 ballast. The bags had become overgrown with 
 incrustations of shells, and when the covering was 
 smashed with iron bars, the coins rushed out in a 
 small and shimmering stream upon the deck. Here 
 and there glittered diamonds, rubies, and other 
 precious stones. 
 
 A small vessel came down from Rhode Island 
 to carry home some of the precious cargo. Its 
 commander, Adderly, had been with Phips when he 
 discovered the other treasure-ship oflF the Bahama 
 Islands. He loaded his little craft with silver 
 to the amount of several thousand pounds, when 
 prosperity was too much for him. He went insane, 
 and died two years later in Bermuda. 
 
 Phips, on account of his stock of provisions 
 running low, had to leave the wrecl^; before all of 
 the treasure had been secured. Twenty bars of 
 silver were brought on board the last day of his 
 stay at the reef. When Phips returned a year 
 later, he found that the wreck had been completely 
 90 
 
SIR WILLIAM PHIPS 
 
 cleared, some of Adderley's men having given 
 away the secret of its location to some people in 
 Bermuda. It is said that besides the scanty sup- 
 ply of provisions, there were other reasons for 
 leaving Port de la Plata. The crew was of uncer- 
 tain make-up, or rather Phips was certain that 
 no crew of that day could be trusted with so much 
 money on board, and he wished to get it safely to 
 England with as little delay as possible. 
 
 The men were promised a certain per centage of 
 the profits of the voyage, in addition to their 
 regular wages, and, keeping careful watch over 
 them, Phips set sail and reached England in 1687. 
 He was afraid during the voyage that the crew 
 might rise and murder the officers, so it was with 
 a sense of relief that he was able to pay them off 
 and turn over the ship and her cargo to the Duke 
 of Albermarle and his associates. Phips' share of 
 the enterprise was £16,000. Albermarle sent Phips' 
 wife a gold cup, valued at $5,000, and the King 
 made William Phips a knight. He also asked 
 him to remain in England, and offered him a 
 place in the public service. Phips, however, loved 
 New England, and he returned there shortly after, 
 one of its richest and most honored citizens. 
 It is interesting to know that his wife got the 
 "fair brick house in the Green Lane" that her hus- 
 band had promised her when the sun of prosperity 
 did not shine so brightly as it did now. 
 
 During Sir AVilliam's absence, matters had been 
 going badly with his neighbors in the good town 
 of Boston. The Massachusetts Charter had been 
 annulled and Sir Edmund Andros, he of the vio- 
 lent temper, was governor of the province. The 
 governor made the laws, and no assembly was 
 elected by the people. Taxes were levied, and 
 judges and other officers removed or appointed at 
 will. Packed juries settled important cases, unless 
 91 
 
HISTORIC DEEDS OF DANGER AND DARING 
 
 the defendants compromised by paying large sums 
 into the treasury. Phips wished to help his coun- 
 trymen, and he was appointed by the Crown to the 
 otTice of Sheriff of New England. This would 
 allow him to select jurors, and otherwise aid his 
 distressed neighbors in their legal battles with Sir 
 Edmund Andros. The Governor saw to it that Sir 
 William Phips' commission was rendered useless, 
 through technicalities, of which he was master. 
 Phips could do nothing in New England, and re- 
 turned to the mother country to redress his wrongs 
 and those of his province, if it were possible. This 
 was in 1689. William of Orange was now on the 
 throne, and Sir Edmund Andros, as the appointee 
 of his predecessor, was without political influence. 
 The people of Boston, when they heard of the 
 change of government at London, rose in a body 
 and made Andros a prisoner. The old Governor 
 Bradstreet took his place, and the people began 
 to carry on public business, the government under 
 the old charter. They sent word to London of 
 what they had done. 
 
 Sir William Phips now returned to New England, 
 and on his arrival found the colony engaged in a 
 desperate war with the Indians. He asked at once 
 for a military command, although he had had but 
 little military experience on shore. He was too 
 patriotic and active a man to stay at home while 
 others were risking their lives for the defence of 
 the frontiers. 
 
 The French joined the Indians, and the war was 
 carried on with great energy and skill by Count 
 Frontenac, the Governor of New France (Canada). 
 Fort Pemaquid, one of the strongest fortifications 
 in New England, fell after a brief siege. Salmon 
 Falls, in New Hampshire, and Schenectady, in New 
 York, were taken and burned, and the people mas- 
 sacred. The colonists determined to strike a re- 
 92 
 
SIR WILLIAM PHIPS 
 
 taliatory blow, and an expedition was planned 
 against Port Royal, capital of the French province 
 of Acadia. French privateers and Abenaki Indians 
 made it a starting point for raids against the New 
 England settlements. To destroy it would be to 
 rid of the English of a hornet's nest. 
 
 The government had no money for the expedition, 
 so a number of gentlemen in the colony were al- 
 lowed to take it up as a private enterprise. The 
 order was issued in January, 1690, Sir William 
 tried to induce his friends to go into the scheme, 
 but they would not venture. At last the colony 
 saw that they must do it "at the public charge and 
 with all speed," the reason being that several 
 expeditions from Port Royal had harried the 
 frontier once more. 
 
 A fleet of eight ships was assembled off Nantas- 
 ket, near Boston. The troops, mostly volunteers, 
 embarked, and, after receiving the final order from 
 Governor Bradstreet, in the quaint language of 
 the day, "to take care that the worship of God be 
 maintained and duly observed on board all the 
 vessels," Phips set sail. 
 
 On the 11th of May, as the French Governor, 
 M. de Meneval, paced the bastions of the fort of 
 Port Royal, a distant sail, just tipping the edge 
 of the horizon, caught his eye. One from France, 
 thought he; but as he gazed, one ship after another 
 appeared in line, and from their peaks waved not 
 the lilies of France, but the crimson cross of St. 
 George of England. 
 
 The Governor was taken completely by surprise. 
 He had no ships to meet the fleet, and the garrison 
 of the fort was too small to stand a long siege. 
 He resolved to hold out for a time, notwithstanding 
 his difficult position, and refused the summons to 
 surrender. 
 
 No sooner had his answer reached Sir William 
 93 
 
HISTORIC DEEDS OF DANGER AND DARING 
 
 Phips, than a cloud of smoke burst from the side 
 of the flagship, and the ripping and crashing of 
 the palisades of the town told the Governor that 
 the New England gunners had made their shot 
 strike home. Under the steady fire of the fleet, 
 the New Englanders landed on the beach with 
 considerable pomp and display, and prepared to 
 carry the works by storm. A desperate assault 
 was made and repulsed, but the French Governor 
 saw that if another was made with such good 
 spirit, his fort would be at the mercy of the be- 
 siegers, with a chance, a likely chance,- of his men 
 being put to the sword for defending a weak po- 
 sition, the stern penalty of the laws of war. 
 
 De Meneval decided that nothing but surrender 
 would save their lives, for he saw that there was 
 no chance of relief arriving from Quebec. Sir 
 William received his surrender, destroyed the fort, 
 broke down the palisades of the town, and com- 
 pelled the inhabitants to take the oath of allegiance 
 to the King of England. One of his officers he 
 made governor of the town, and left a small 
 garrison in the place. 
 
 Sir William now sailed back to Boston in 
 triumph, receiving the submission of the French 
 seacoast towns on the way. The whole province of 
 Acadia came under the authority of the English 
 Crown, and remained so until the Peace of Rys- 
 wick gave it back to France six or seven years 
 later. The booty from Port Royal paid for the 
 expedition and left a considerable surplus. The 
 French Governor and his troops were taken pris- 
 oners to Boston. After a while they were sent 
 back, some to France, others to French possessions 
 in the West Indies. 
 
 Elated with their victory, the colonists wished, 
 under Sir William's leadership, to strike a mortal 
 blow at the French power in America, and sweep 
 94 
 
SIR WILLIAM PHIPS 
 
 the lilies forever from the American continent. The 
 plan was made to send a fleet and army up the St. 
 Lawrence and capture Quebec. 
 
 A fleet of forty-two ships was collected, and over 
 two thousand men mustered for the expedition. 
 They had no pilots who knew the St Lawrence, 
 nor a sufficient supply of ammunition, but neverthe- 
 less the expedition set sail in high spirits. An 
 army was also to go up Lake Champlain from 
 Connecticut and New York, and attack Montreal 
 in order to divide the attention of the French and 
 keep reinforcements from Quebec. This latter 
 expedition was a failure, and Sir William had to 
 depend on his forces alone. The siege of Quebec 
 was a picturesque afi^air, in which the troops 
 showed the most distinguished bravery, but their 
 ammunition ran short, and defeat was inevitable. 
 Sir William had bombarded the city to no effect, 
 the balls bounding back into the water from the 
 thick stone w'alls of the houses of the "Lower 
 Town." 
 
 The return trip was even "more disastrous than 
 the voyage out." A great storm arose, and the 
 fleet became separated. "One vessel was never 
 heard of after the separation; another was 
 wrecked, though the crew was saved; and the 
 third, a fire ship, was burnt at sea. Four ships 
 were blown so far from the coast that they did not 
 reach Boston for five or six weeks after the arrival 
 of Sir William, when they had been given up for 
 lost." 
 
 After the failure of the expedition against Que- 
 bec, the finances of the Bay Colony were in a de- 
 plorable condition. Sir William, feeling that per- 
 haps some blame for the failure might be laid at his 
 door, gave liberally from his private fortune to 
 sustain the public credit, but even then notes of the 
 face value of a pound only passed in trade for a 
 95 
 
HISTORIC DEEDS OF DANGER AND DARING 
 
 few shillings. The people were still in a state of 
 unrest, as their old charter had not been restored 
 to them as they had hoped it would. In consequence, 
 the government of the colony was unsettled, and the 
 value of any notes or money issued was affected. 
 The Indians to the eastward came in and asked for 
 peace, and a treaty was signed. Phips now saw 
 that there was no more chance at present to dis- 
 tinguish himself in the public service in that direc- 
 tion, and so he determined to go to England and 
 interest the King in a new project to drive the 
 French from Canada. He found the King too busy 
 with his war in Holland to take much interest, and 
 the plan had to be given up. 
 
 The famous Increase Mather was now in London, 
 and he secured the interest of Sir William in his de- 
 sign for securing a new charter for their colony. 
 The new charter was secured, but it was far from 
 being the instrument the two petitioners had hoped 
 for, Mather saying at one time he would rather die 
 than accept it. Mather now recommended to the 
 Council that Sir William Phips be appointed the 
 new governor under the charter. After a short 
 delay he was commissioned, with the title of Cap- 
 tain-General and Governor-in-Chief of the Province 
 of Massachusetts Bay, in New England, and also 
 Captain-General of the colonies of Connecticut and 
 Rhode Island. 
 
 The witchcraft delusion had been at its height 
 while Sir William had been absent in England, and 
 hundreds of innocent people were thrown into pris- 
 on and a number executed. When Sir William ar- 
 rived in Boston, he found the jails crowded with 
 accused persons. The story is told by one writer 
 that "in Sir William's absence, his lady, I suppose 
 on account of her name's being Mary (the same as 
 the Queen's) was solicited for a favor in behalf 
 of a woman committed by one of the judges, on 
 96 
 
SIR WILLIAM PHIPS 
 
 accusation of witchcraft, by a formal warrant under 
 his hand and seal, and in close trial for the next 
 assizes, then not far off. The good lady granted and 
 signed a warrant for the said woman's discharge, 
 which was obeyed by the keeper." Sir William 
 issued an edict pardoning accused persons, and the 
 delusion gradually subsided. 
 
 Sir William's career as governor was stormy 
 even for that day. He had frequent quarrels with 
 officers and people, but always maintained a certain 
 amount of popularity. On a charge made by his 
 enemies, he was ordered by the King to come to 
 England and explain certain acts of his administra- 
 tion. Sir William triumphed, and received assur- 
 ance of being restored to power, but this was never 
 carried out. 
 
 Phips took up again the idea of treasure-hunting, 
 and laid his plans for finding a ship that had been 
 cast away in the West Indies, but he was prevented 
 from sailing by a severe illness, and in February, 
 1695, he passed away. His body was interred with 
 ceremony in the ancient church of St. Mary, Wool- 
 noth, and one of the most active and picturesque 
 figures in American colonial history was at rest. 
 
 R. S. B. 
 
 97 
 
BENYOWSKY 
 
 OTHELLO'S narrative sums up, with singular 
 exactness, the story of the strange career 
 which we are now about to trace. The iiistory of 
 the Count de Benyowsi^y is a tale 
 
 "of most disastrous chances. 
 Of moving accidents by flood and field. 
 Of being taken by the insolent foe 
 And sold to slavery." 
 It is a tale which, as it tells 
 
 "of his redemption thence, 
 And portance in his travel's history," 
 
 whirls the reader round the globe, through every 
 kind of peril and adventure, through scenes that 
 change at every instant like the aspects of a dream. 
 It is this swift succession of events, so varied and 
 so striking, that imparts to Benyowsky's story its 
 peculiar color of romance. He is the Candide and 
 the Monte Christo of real life. 
 
 He was born in the year 1741 at Verbowa, the 
 family estate in Hungary, was baptized by the 
 names of Maurice Augustus, and, as the son of a 
 magnate, was brought up at the court of Vienna. 
 The fortunes of his early years were well adapted to 
 call forth his character. His father was a general 
 of the Emperor's Horse; and the boy, being des- 
 tined for the same profession, received at fourteen 
 the rank of lieutenant, marched against Prussia, 
 and fought in four pitched battles before he was 
 seventeen. While he was absent in Lithuania, his 
 father died, and he became the Count de Benyow- 
 98 
 
BENYOWSKY 
 
 sky. But his brothers, during his absence, seized 
 on his estate. He instantly flew home, raised and 
 armed a party of -his vassals, and drove off the 
 birds of prey. But the interloping heirs had friends 
 at court. He was accused as a rebel and a rioter. 
 His castle and domains were taken from him by the 
 State and given over to the clutch of the usurpers. 
 In anger and disgust he turned his back upon his 
 country, and having a desire to study seamanship, 
 repaired to Amsterdam, and thence to Plymouth. 
 There he found time to learn, not only how to sail 
 a ship, but how to play a game of chess, and how 
 to twang the harp. 
 
 He then resolved to see the world; but as he 
 was about to step on board a vessel bound for the 
 West Indies, the States of Poland sent him an 
 appeal to join their confederation against Russia. 
 His bold, restless, and adventurous spirit leaped 
 at the proposal. He crossed to Warsaw, took the 
 oaths, and held himself in instant readiness for 
 action. But before he was required to draw his 
 sword he chanced to fall into a fever, while staying 
 at the house of a gentleman of Zips named Hensky, 
 was nursed back into health by his host's three 
 daughters, fell in love with one of them, and mar- 
 ried her. The honeymoon was scarcely over when 
 he was summoned by the States to Cracow, which 
 a Russian force was marching to besiege. With- 
 out venturing to tell his bride where he was going, 
 he rode away upon that strange enterprise which 
 was destined to prove fruitful of so many strange 
 vicissitudes. 
 
 Benj'owsky was now twenty-seven ; a soldier and 
 a sailor, master of a handsome face and figure, a 
 constitution of iron, a manner which, according to 
 occasion, could sway the minds of men or steal 
 away the hearts of women, a ready wit, a tongue 
 which spoke six languages with equal ease, a spirit 
 99 
 
 L or c 
 
HlhlORIC DEEDS OF DANGER AND DARING 
 
 to which peril and adventure were as the breath of 
 life. Such a man was likely to turn out a danger- 
 ous enemy. And so the Russians were to find. 
 
 He arrived at Cracow just as Count Parrin, with 
 the Russian force, appeared before the walls. He 
 was at once appointed colonel-general of the cav- 
 alry; and speedily his troop of horse became a name 
 of terror. Provisions from the first were scarce, 
 and soon ran very low. Benyowsky dashed out of 
 the town, stormed and took the fort of Landscron, 
 and fought his way again into the city with thirty 
 prisoners, a herd of oxen, and sixty baggage- 
 wagons heaped with grain. The Russians, stung 
 with rage, drew close their lines of siege. In vain. 
 Benyowsky, with his troop, stole out at dead of 
 night, swam across the Vistula, gained the open 
 country, collected wagons in the villages, and loaded 
 them with spoil. The point was then to lodge them 
 in the town. It was three o'clock at night, and a 
 dim moon was rising. Benyowsky placed the con- 
 voy with a party under Baron de Kluscusky, set 
 himself at the head of the remainder, and dashed 
 upon the camp. The Russians, as he expected, 
 flew forth like angry hornets. His charge was 
 beaten off, half his little band were killed or taken, 
 and he himself was cut down from his saddle, 
 wounded in two places, and secured. But mean- 
 time the Baron had slipped softly through the lines, 
 and the wagons were all safe within the city. 
 
 Benyowsky was ransomed for a thousand pounds 
 — a disastrous bargain for the Russians — and re- 
 turned into the town. When next he issued forth, 
 he was alone and in disguise; but six hundred 
 troopers were prepared to join him at a given sig- 
 nal. He made his way to Lublau Castle, beguiled 
 the governor with a glib pretext, and looked about 
 him at his leisure. His plans for seizing on the fort 
 were ready, his six hundred men were on the march, 
 100 
 
BENYOWSKY 
 
 when their commander let the secret slip within the 
 hearing of a spy. The spy flew with the tidings 
 to the governor, Benyowsky was instantly made 
 captive, and sent in irons to the Russian general. 
 
 A band of his own troops released him on the 
 road. At the head of these he set himself to scour 
 the country, his ranks swelling as he went. The 
 Russians, in reprisal, put a price upon his head, 
 and sent out a party to secure him, dead or living. 
 Benyowsky kept his scouts on the alert, concealed 
 his infantry in a wood beside the road near Sokul, 
 and himself lay watching with his troopers oppo- 
 site, behind a little hill. All one day and half the 
 night he lay in ambush. At length, in the grey 
 light of morning, the scouts came rushing in. The 
 enemy, three thousand men, were marching down the 
 road. Benyowsky watched his moment, darted out 
 of his retreat, and killed or captured the whole 
 party. 
 
 At last a troop of Cossacks came upon him by 
 surprise at Szuka. They had with them a howitzer, 
 stuffed to the muzzle with old iron, stones, and 
 rubbish. This piece was fired off in the skirmish, 
 and Benyowsky was struck down by the hail of 
 missies. Stunned, bruised and bleeding from no 
 less than seventeen wounds, he was seized by the 
 exultant enemy, and carried off in chains. And 
 then began his tribulations. 
 
 Wounded as he was, no surgeon was allowed 
 him. He was fed on bread and water; he was 
 forced to march all day in heavy chains. His 
 guards at first were bound for Kiov; but believ- 
 ing when they reached Polone that their prisoner 
 was dying, they were obliged to leave him in the 
 hospital. As soon as he began to mend his chains 
 were once more fastened on him, and he was con- 
 ducted to the dungeon of the city fortress. 
 
 The dungeon was a den, far underneath the 
 101 
 
HISTORIC DEEDS OF DANGER AND DARING 
 
 ground, where eighty captives were cooped up to- 
 gether. No ray of light could penetrate the dark- 
 ness; sighs, .groans, the noise of clanking chains 
 alone disturbed the silence. The den was never 
 cleaned; the foul air cherished pestilence; and in 
 one corner stood a pile of cor])ses, which grew 
 larger day by day. Within this fetid hole, Benyow- 
 sky wore away three weeks of living death. 
 
 On the twenty-second day of his captivity the 
 survivors, leaving thirty-five dead bodies in the den, 
 were led forth into the Place of Arms, where 
 several hundred prisoners were assembled. These 
 were chained in rows together, and started on the 
 march to Kiov. The hardships of that journey were 
 such as would have tasked a strong man in full 
 health; and Benyowsky was half-famished, wounded, 
 limping on a crutch. The roads were steep and 
 rugged; but the prisoners were beaten forward by 
 the guards like cattle. To increase their miseries, 
 the commander of the guards turned out a greedy 
 thief, who stole the prisoners' bread, sold it, and 
 put the proceeds in his pocket. At nightfall, he 
 accepted from the villagers, among whose huts the 
 prisoners ought to have been quartered, petty bribes 
 to leave them imdisturbed; and Benyowsky and his 
 fellow-captives were lodged on the bare ground and 
 left to shiver in the snow and rain. The result was 
 such as might have been expected. The road was 
 strewn with dead and dying. Out of near nine 
 hundred prisoners who left Polone, less than a hun- 
 dred and fifty scarecrows crawled, half-alive, into 
 the gates of Kiov. 
 
 Benyowsky, on arriving, fell into a fever, and for 
 ten days was raving in delirium. The moment he 
 began to mend he was sent forward to Cazan. 
 There he was lodged in the house of a goldsmith 
 named Vendischor, and found himself at liberty to 
 move about the town, to pay visits and make friends. 
 102 
 
BKNYOWSKY 
 
 A bold idea struck him; he would organize in 
 secret all the exiles in the cit}^ attack the governor 
 and the garrison, and regain his freedom vi et 
 armis. He went instantly to work. One by one 
 conspirators were sworn; the design grew, and 
 promised well; when one night two of the in- 
 triguers quarreled. One of them went straight to 
 the governor, revealed the whole plot, and named 
 Benyowsky as the leading spirit. 
 
 The next night, about eleven o'clock, as Benyow- 
 sky was just stepping into bed, a loud knocking was 
 heard at the street-door. He lighted a candle, 
 wrapped himself in a dressing-gown, went down- 
 stairs, and opened the door. An officer with 
 twenty soldiers stood without, who had been sent to 
 take him. A curious freak of fortune saved him. 
 The officer, who did not know his features, took 
 him for a servant, and demanded whether the Count 
 de Benyowsky were within; then, without waiting 
 for an answer, he snatched the candle from his 
 hand, and darted up the stairs to seize his prisoner. 
 Benyowsky, left alone below, took in the situation 
 at a glance. He drew his dressing-gown about him, 
 and slipped away into the night. 
 
 He hastened to the house of Major Wynblath, 
 one of the companions of his plot. The two resolved 
 to risk their lives on a bold venture. They stole 
 out of the town, procured horses at the nearest 
 village, and the sentries believing they were offi- 
 cers with dispatches from the governor of Cazan, 
 they got safely to St. Petersburg. There they 
 found a skipper due to sail next day for Holland. 
 They booked a passage with him for five hundred 
 ducats, and arranged to meet at midnight on the 
 bridge across the Neva. 
 
 Midnight came; the fugitives were at the bridge. 
 The skipper was behind his time; but in a few 
 minute^ they descried him coming. He appeared to 
 103 
 
HISTORIC DEEDS OF DANGER AND DARING 
 
 be alone; but as he stepped up to Benyowsky, 
 twenty soldiers started out of the darkness at his 
 back, knocked them both down, and made them fast. 
 The honest skipper had been seized with a sus- 
 picion, and had sold his passengers for a round 
 sum to the police. 
 
 Benyowsky, separated from the Major, was con- 
 ducted to the fortress and locked up in a solitary 
 cell. The place might have been a dungeon in the 
 Tower of Famine. For three days not a soul came 
 near him. He had neither bread nor water. When 
 at the close of the third day a jailer entered with a 
 pitcher and a crust, he found a gaunt-eyed specter, 
 weaker than a child. 
 
 Benyowsky was dragged before the Council, 
 questioned, and again remanded to his cell. But 
 his fate was apparently sealed. Ten days later, in 
 the dead of night, an officer with seven soldiers 
 opened the cell-door, clothed him in a dress of 
 sheep-skins, loaded him again with chains, and led 
 him forth. Outside the fort, a two-horsed sledge 
 wajs waiting. Benyowsky was placed beside it, a 
 soldier took the seat beside him, and the horses in- 
 stantly flew forward into the darkness of the night. 
 By the tinkling noise of sledge-bells on the road 
 behind him, the Count judged that he was not 
 alone; and when day dnwned he discovered that 
 the train was one of sixteen sledges, which were 
 carrying six prisoners, under a guard of Cossacks, 
 across the vast Siberian regions of eternal ice to 
 lifelong exile in Kamchatka. 
 
 The distance from St. Petersburff to Kamchatka 
 is, as the crow flies, full four thousand miles. The 
 journey through that arctic wilderness was, at the 
 best of times, a task of many months and of the 
 bitterest privations. Sometimes the exiles were so 
 happy as to pass a night among a nest of Tartar 
 huts ; but in general they encamped among the snow. 
 104 
 
BENYOWSKY 
 
 When provisions were in plenty, they broke their 
 fast on fish or horse-flesh, with a pitcher of mare's 
 milk; but more than once they were reduced to 
 birch-bark sopped in water, while the horses fed on 
 moss. At first their course lay over boundless level 
 plains of snow, broken here and there by grim low 
 hills and swept by icy whirlwinds, over which they 
 passed in sledges, sometimes drawn by horses, some- 
 times flying at the heels of elks. Then the road ran 
 through gigantic woods and over mountains where 
 no sledge could travel, and where they tramped on 
 foot, frozen with the cold and dropping with fatigue. 
 On one such mountain-top two of the conductors 
 sank down beside the way, and never rose again. 
 Thence they moved through rugged passes where 
 the sledges could be only drawn by dogs. To drive 
 a team of dogs requires much practice; and so 
 Benyowsky, who knew nothing of the art, dis- 
 covered to his cost. More than once, sledge, team, 
 and driver went rolling down a precipice together 
 from a height of sixty feet. Luckily, the snow was 
 soft and yielding; and man and beast were hoisted 
 out again, scared, bruised, and shaken, but with no 
 broken bones. 
 
 At last, in spite of every misadventure, they 
 arrived at Okotsk on the coast, whence they were 
 to cross by ship to the peninsula of Kamchatka. 
 They embarked; the ship weighed anchor; but 
 scarcely was she out of sight of land when the 
 captain and the officers broached a brandy-cask, 
 and speedily all were drunk. The mate was in the 
 hold in irons; and in this position of affairs a storm 
 sprang up, which raged with increasing fury every 
 hour. The crew were helpless; no officer was cap- 
 able of giving orders. In the middle of the night 
 the mainmast sprung. The captain, roused by the 
 uproar, came tumbling up the hatchway from his 
 drunken sleep, was struck by the falling wreck of 
 105 
 
HISTORIC i)p:p:ds of danger and daring 
 
 spars, knocked down the steps, and broke his arm. 
 The shock aroused him to a sense of danger; and, 
 finding that the Count could navigate the ship, 
 he gave him charge of her, and went below. All 
 that night Benyowsky kept the ship before the 
 wind. Next morning the gale slackened. A stay 
 was stretched from the mast's stump to the bow- 
 sprit; a foresail was rigged up; and Benyowsky, 
 finding the ship manageable, began to think of at- 
 tempting to escape. He first endeavored, but in 
 vain, to gain the crew. Then he placed a lump of 
 iron on the binnacle, which magnetized the com- 
 pass, so that the ship appeared to sail due east, 
 when in reality she was sailing south. How this 
 device might have succeeded is not known; for un- 
 luckily a gale of wind sprang up from the south- 
 west, which drove the ship directly to Kamchatka, 
 and into the harbor of the river Bolsha. 
 
 The prisoners were disembarked, and taken up 
 the river in a boat to the town of Bolsoretskoy 
 Ostrogg. Here they were conducted to the fortress, 
 and the rules of their life in exile were explained to 
 them. They would be set at liberty, supplied with 
 a musket, a lance, powder, lead, an axe, knives, 
 tools for building cabins, and provisions for three 
 days, after which they were expected to maintain 
 themselves by hunting, in the dreary wastes, er- 
 mines, wolverines, and sables. Every exile was com- 
 pelled to report himself once daily to the guards; 
 and disobedience to a guard was punished by 
 starvation. 
 
 The little village of the exiles was situated at a 
 league's distance from the town. It consisted of 
 eight cabins, in which lived fifty men and women. 
 Thither the Count and his companions were now 
 led, and were received into the huts of their fellow- 
 exiles until they should be able to build cabins for 
 themselves. Benyowsky was quartered in the hut 
 106 
 
BENYOWSKY 
 
 of M. Crustiew — a person of much influence among 
 the exiles. That evening, as they sat before the 
 fire, Benyowsky began to sound his new companion 
 on the chances of escape. Crustiew had a few books 
 in his cabin, among which was Anson's Voyages. 
 It was natural that such a book should have sug- 
 gested the sole project of escape which in truth 
 was possible. To attempt to cross the awful wild- 
 erness through which they had come thither was 
 quite hopeless. But Crustiew believed that it might 
 be possible to seize a ship, and to escape by sea. 
 Benyowsky listened; and from that moment the de- 
 sign was never absent from his mind. 
 
 Next day the governor, whose name was Xilow, 
 sent for Benyowsky to the fort. An agreeable 
 surprise awaited him. Nilow, hearing that the 
 Count spoke several languages, desired to appoint 
 him tutor to his family, which consisted of three 
 daughters and a son; Benyowsky being still to 
 occupy his cabin in the exile village, but to be 
 exempted from the duties of his comrades, and to 
 receive the pay and rations of a soldier. 
 
 The Count accepted the proposal with great 
 willingness. But the scheme had a result which 
 neither he nor Nilow had foreseen. Next day he 
 met his pupils, gave them their first lesson, and 
 afterwards amused them with an account of his 
 adventures. The youngest girl, Aphanasia, a lovely 
 damsel of sixteen, listened as Desdemona listened 
 to Othello, and with a like result. Aphanasia fell 
 in love with Benyowsky. 
 
 Chance, as it happened, was to throw them still 
 more intimately together. Aphanasia's mother 
 desired her to learn music, and Benyowsky under- 
 took to be her music-master. Unfortunately, the 
 Count could only play the harp; and no harp 
 existed in the whole peninsula. Benyowsky, in this 
 predicament, volunteered to make one. He formed 
 107 
 
HISTORIC DEEDS OF DANGER AND DARING 
 
 the frame of wood, twisted strings of deers' gut, 
 and produced an instrument which, although in his 
 own phrase "not very lively," enchanted all the 
 people at the fort, and Aphanasia most of all. She 
 and her harp thenceforward were inseparable com- 
 panions. 
 
 Nilow, a drunken, brutal despot, had betrothed 
 his daughter to a rich Kuzina, as drunken and as 
 brutal as himself. Benyowsky heard this story. 
 He could not wed her himself, being already mar- 
 ried, but he determii.^d, if it were possible, to 
 rescue her from the Kuzina, whom she detested. 
 
 Meantime, he chanced to make acquaintance with 
 a Hetman of the Cossacks named Kolassow, who 
 had lost large sums in playing chess for wagers. 
 Discovering that Benyowsky was a skilful player, 
 Kolassow matched the Count against two wealthy 
 merchants, Casarinow and Csulosinkow. Benyowsky 
 was to play a set of fifty games against whatever 
 champions these two might choose to bring. The 
 games were played; the stakes were heavy, and 
 Benyowsky and his backer swept in several thou- 
 sand roubles. But this gambling episode was one 
 which very nearly cost the Count his life. 
 
 Csulosinkow took his losses badly. One night he 
 lay in wait, together with his cousin, as Benyow- 
 sky was returning to his cabin. The pair sprang 
 out upon him, armed with knives and bludgeons. 
 Benyowsky had no weapon but a stick, and at the 
 first onset he M^as badly wounded. With one blow 
 he split the cousin's skull; and Csulosinkow there- 
 upon fell on his knees and roared for mercy. Ben- 
 yowsky let him go, — and himself crawled home- 
 ward to his cabin, where during the next ten days 
 he lay in bed. The cousin died. 
 
 Casarinow took a stealthier method of revenge. 
 On New Year's Day the prisoners arranged a 
 humble festival among themselves. Casarinow sent 
 108 
 
BENYOWSKY 
 
 Ihem, on the occasion, a present of some sugar, 
 which the exiles put into their tea. The sugar had 
 been poisoned; and in a few minutes the whole 
 company were rolling on the ground in convulsions. 
 Benyowsky, who had only sipped his cup, found 
 himself quaking like a man with ague. Copious 
 draughts of whale oil gave the sufferers relief. 
 But one of them, who had drunk largely, died on 
 the spot, while another recovered only from the 
 jaws of death. 
 
 The sugar was suspected. A sample, wrapped 
 up in a piece of fish, was tested on a dog and on a 
 cat. The animals went into strong convulsions, 
 and in ten minutes both were dead. 
 
 Next morning Benyowsky called upon the gov- 
 ernor, and accused Casarinow of the crime. Nilow 
 was at first incredulous; but Benyowsky hit upon 
 a simple proof. Casarinow was invited to drink 
 tea at the fort that afternoon. He came; the tea 
 was brought, and Casarinow was about to put it 
 to his lips when Nilow mentioned, with a careless 
 air, that he had received his sugar from the exiles, 
 who had passed it to him as a New Year's gift. 
 Instantly Casarinow turned as white as ashes. 
 "Why, Casarinow," said his host, "you look ill. 
 But drink; the tea will cure you." The wretched 
 man put down the cup, and turned away. His guilt 
 was manifest. Nilow made a sign, the guards rushed 
 in, and he was seized and dragged away to prison. 
 
 This adventure was well over. But another 
 cause of trouble was at hand. One of Benyowsky's 
 fellow-exiles, Hippolitus Stephanow, had caught a 
 glimpse of Aphanasia, and had lost his heart. 
 With envy, he saw the Count rise into favor. 
 Thenceforth, to plot and cavil against Benyowsky 
 became the business of his life. He began by in- 
 sulting him among the exiles; then he challenged 
 him to fight. The Count accepted. The assailants 
 109 . 
 
HISTORIC DEEDS OF DANGER AND DARING 
 
 met with broadswords, and Stephanow was speedily 
 disarmed. Benyowsky spared his life; and Ste- 
 phanow broke into a flood of gratitude, which 
 afterwards proved to be worth nothing. 
 
 While these events were passing, the Count's 
 resolution to escape had never for an instant fal- 
 tered. He had formed, in secret, a council of the 
 exiles, of which he was himself the ruling spirit. 
 He was waiting only for an opportunity to play a 
 desperate game; and at last the chance arrived. 
 
 A captain of the name of Csurin was in harbor 
 with his ship, with which he was engaged to sail to 
 Okotsk. But he durst not sail to Okotsk, where a 
 process was abroad against him on a charge of 
 having mutinied two years before. In this predic- 
 ament Benyowsky gained his ear. It was not diffi- 
 cult to persuade a desperate man to share the lot of 
 men as desperate as himself. It was agreed to man 
 the ship with Benyowsky's comrades, and to escape, 
 if possible, together in the darkness of the night. 
 
 The risks of the attempt were great. And 
 everything depended on success. If the attempt 
 failed, the adventurers would wear away the rem- 
 nant of their lives in chains and dungeons, and the 
 last state of their captivity would be bitterer than 
 the first. Yet a chance so golden could on no ac- 
 count be missed. Benyowsky resolved to get on 
 board, if it were possible, without awakening sus- 
 picion — but, if he were discovered and opposed, to 
 fight to his last man, and either reach the ship or 
 perish. 
 
 Preparations for the attempt at once began. But 
 before everything was ready an incident occurred 
 which nearly ruined all. By some means, the gov- 
 ernor's suspicions were aroused, and he was prepar- 
 ing to arrest the conspirators in a body. The Count 
 heard of this and instantly made ready; the exiles 
 were assembled, arms in hand, in Benyowsky's 
 110 
 
BENYOWSKY 
 
 cabin. It was a desperate enterprise; and the 
 hearts of the little band beat high within them, as 
 they awaited the beginning of events which were 
 to end in death or freedom. 
 
 The day — the ;20th of April — was closing into 
 dusk, when a corporal with four grenadiers was 
 reported to be approaching from the town. The 
 corporal came up to the cabin door and called on 
 Benyowsky to attend him to the fortress. The 
 Count thrust his head out of a window and in a 
 pleasant voice invited the corporal to step in. The 
 corporal loved a glass of wine. He entered. In- 
 stantly the door was shut, four pistols were pre- 
 sented, and he was bidden, on his life, to summon 
 his soldiers one by one into the hut. As they 
 entered, they were seized and bound; and in three 
 minutes all five men were lying safely in the cellar. 
 
 Four hours passed; it was nine o'clock, and 
 almost dark, when a strong body of soldiery, armed 
 with a cannon, was announced to be approaching. 
 A single cannon-shot would have sufficed to blow 
 the hut and all within it into atoms. Benyowsky 
 ottlled upon his comrades. Filled with the fire of 
 men whose lives were in their hands, they rushed 
 forth upon the foe. The soldiers, panic-striken at 
 that furious onset, left the cannon and ran like 
 hares into the neighboring woods. 
 
 Dragging the cannon with them, the conspirators 
 stole forward to the fort. The sentinel, seeing in 
 the dusky light a troop approaching with a cannon, 
 imagined that his own companions were returning. 
 He gave the challenge; but Benyowsky, with a 
 pistol in his hand, bade a prisoner return the coun- 
 terword. The man obeyed; the sentinel let fall the 
 drawbridge; the exiles rushed across it, blew down 
 the grating with a petard, and burst into the fort. 
 
 Then the fight was fierce and brief. Nilow, 
 refusing to accept his life, was in the act of firing 
 111 
 
HISTORIC DEEDS OF DANGER AND DARING 
 
 his pistol at Benyowsky, when he was struck down. 
 'J'he guards, of whom twelve only had been left 
 within, were killed or taken. And the fort was in 
 the hands of the exiles. 
 
 By this time all the town was rising — at least 
 three hundred Cossacks were in arms; and soon a 
 storming-party, with Kolassow at its head, appeared 
 before the gate. But the ramparts were alive with 
 fiery eyes, the bridge was up, the castle-guns were 
 roaring. Kolassow was compelled to change his 
 tactics; he drew off beyond the reach of shot, to 
 the heights which overlooked the castle, and pre- 
 pared to starve them out. 
 
 But the Count was ready with a counter-scheme. 
 No sooner was Kolassow gone, than he sent a band 
 of men into the streets to gather the women and 
 children together into the church. Nearly a thou- 
 sand were soon mustered, and locked in. Chairs, 
 tables, railings, doors, were broken up and piled 
 at the four corners of the building. Three women 
 and twelve girls were then despatched as envoys 
 to Kolassow, announcing that unless the Cossacks 
 instantly laid down their arms, the building would 
 be set in flames and every soul within it perish. 
 
 Benyowsky, who had no real intention of per- 
 petrating such an atrocity, had relied on the bare 
 threat to prove effectual; but time passed, and still 
 Kolassow gave no sign. Benyowsky bade a pile 
 be kindled. In an instant, as the flames shot up, 
 the heights became alive with handkerchiefs and 
 white-fluttering flags of truce. Soon fifty Cossacks, 
 fiery-hot with haste, came racing in advance, cry- 
 ing aloud that all the troups were following, and 
 had laid down their arms. The aspect of the flames 
 — mere idle menace as it was — had wrought like 
 magic. The Count received into the fort as host- 
 ages fifty-two of the chief townsmen, and ordered 
 the church-doors to be thrown open. 
 112 
 
BENYOWSKY 
 
 And now Benyowsky was master, not only of tlie 
 castle, but of the town itself. He was able to com- 
 plete at ease his preparations for the voyage. He 
 had, during the assault, received a wound in the 
 right leg; and he was forced to lie in idleness for 
 several days. 
 
 It was the 11th of May, 1771, when the exiles, 
 ninety-six in all, embarked on board of the St. 
 Peter and St. Paul. Every other ship in the harbor, 
 which might be used in the pursuit, was set in 
 flames. The hostages were sent ashore, the flag of 
 Poland ran up to the peak; and a salute of twenty 
 cannon, thundering from the port-holes, proclaimed 
 that the bold exiles had gained their freedom! 
 
 And then began "the moving accidents" of sea. 
 The ship stood out of harbor among masses of 
 rough ice, through which at times a way was only 
 to be forced by firing cannon at the floes. At 
 night, the deck was covered with a sheet of ice two 
 inches thick; and huge fires, flaming round the 
 masts, were required to thaw the sails, wliich froze 
 as stiff as iron. In spite of all precautions the 
 vessel, battered by the floating bergs, sprang a leak; 
 the pumps had to be kept going day and night; and 
 before the rift was stopped the crew were dropping 
 with fatigue. Then the water-barrels froze and 
 burst; Benyowsky was compelled to limit the sup- 
 ply; and thereon Stephanow, still ripe for mischief, 
 stirred up certain of the crew to mutiny. These 
 men, in search of water, tapped a brandy-barrel 
 by mistake, drank themselves into a frenzy, and 
 staved in every water-cask but two. When, next 
 day, the mutineers grew sober and realized their 
 folly they turned on Stephanow in fury, and would 
 have hanged him from the yards. The Count, how- 
 ever, once more saved the life of his insidious 
 enemy; and Stephanow was made a scullion. 
 
 But the mischief was achieved. The ship was 
 113 
 
HISTORIC DEEDS OF DANGER AND DARING 
 
 nearing warmer regions. No land was in sight; 
 and food, as well as water, ran so low that a little 
 bread made out of salted fish ground into powder 
 was all that could be served out daily. Famine 
 forced the crew to strange expedients. At one 
 time beaver-skins, chopped into mince-meat, were 
 stewing in whale oil; at another, twenty pairs of 
 boots were boiling in the pot. On the 14th of 
 July — nine weeks after their departure — the ship 
 was still a fortnight from Japan; and the water 
 was all gone. j 
 
 And now, for the first time in his career, Ben- I 
 yowsky gave up everj^thing for lost. Ill health, 
 following on his wound, had shaken him; and he 
 believed that he was dying. He resigned his office 
 as commander, gave some last instructions, crawled 
 into his hammock, and lay down to wait for death. 
 
 But in the middle of that night the Count's dog 
 Nestor was seen standing on the forecastle, thrust- 
 ing out his nose at the horizon, and barking like a 
 dog gone frantic. Nestor was a prophet. When 
 day dawned, a line of land was lying like a cloud 
 on the horizon. It was a desert island, rich in fruit 
 and game. In a few hours the crew were shooting 
 goats and boars, breaking open cocoa-nuts, and 
 eating delicious fruits. 
 
 The water-casks were filled; the ship's larder 
 was replenished; and the sails were once more 
 given to the wind. A fortnight later the ship 
 sailed safely into Usilpatchar Bay; and the voy- 
 agers found themselves surrounded by almond eyes 
 and yellow faces, gaudy fluttering dresses and twirl- 
 ing parasols. Benyowsky waited on the king. He 
 found that potentate seated on a yellow sofa in a 
 rich saloon, apparelled in a robe of blue and green, 
 and girdled with a yellow girdle. The king re- 
 ceived the Count with great hospitality. The visitor 
 was invited to a royal feast; and Benyowsky tried, 
 lU 
 
BENVOWSKY 
 
 but tried in vain, to eat a bird's nest with a pair of 
 chop-sticks. In return, he taught the monarch how 
 to use a musket, with which his majesty, to his 
 infinite delight, killed a horse at the first shot. The 
 king presented Benyowsky with a jeweled sabre, a 
 string of pearls, and a box of gold and gems. 
 
 The ship revictualed; and the voyagers stood 
 away for China. Twelve days later they touched 
 in passing at the island of Usmay Ligon. Ben- 
 yowsky put to land the ship's boat. A high sea 
 was running; the boat was swamped, and the crew 
 were swept into the surf. The Count was dashed 
 upon a rock, and was with difficulty dragged by his 
 companions to the shore, where for some time he 
 lay senseless, and to all appearance dead. But at 
 length his eyes opened, and he returned to life. 
 
 The natives of the island had been civilized to 
 some extent by a Jesuit missionary named Ignatio 
 Salis, who had lived long among them. Ignatio was 
 now dead; but his memory was still held in the 
 profoundest reverence. His breviary, borne upon 
 a carpet, was regarded as a talisman; his ashes 
 rested in an earthen urn upon the altar of the na- 
 tion's savage temple. The present chieftain was a 
 captain of Tonquin who had been Ignatio's fellow- 
 worker. This man, whose name was Nicolo, re- 
 ceived the voyagers with great kindliness, placed 
 huts at their disposal while the ship was undergo- 
 ing some repairs, and did his best, indeed, to per- 
 suade -Benyowsky to settle with him on the island. 
 But for his wife at home Benyowsky might have 
 yielded. He replied, in fact, that he must first see 
 Europe, but that very probably he might then 
 return. 
 
 Again the ship set sail. Two days afterwards 
 
 she touched Formosa. An exploring party landed, 
 
 and came across a tribe of natives, headed .by a 
 
 Spaniard, Don Hieronimo Pacheco, whose appear- 
 
 115 
 
HISTORIC DEEDS OF DANGER AND DARING 
 
 ance must have strikingly resembled Robinson 
 Crusoe's in his dress of skins. This man's history 
 was itself a dark and strange romance. He had 
 been a Grandee of Manila, had committed a crime, 
 had fled in a small vessel manned by six of his own 
 slaves, had landed at Formosa, and during the last 
 seven years had been a savage chief. Don Hiero- 
 nimo came on board the ship, and welcomed Ben- 
 yowsky with great friendship. But meantime a 
 party of the crew on land had come across a hostile 
 tribe; and presently the ship's boat was seen re- 
 turning from the shore with several of the crew 
 stuck full of arrows, and three men dead or dying 
 at the bottom. 
 
 Benyowsky had not meant to tarry at the island. 
 But the slaughter of their comrades roused the crew 
 to fury. The Count and Don Hieronimo put their 
 men together, descended on the hostile tribe, slew 
 a vast number of them, and burnt their village to 
 the ground. 
 
 Prince Huapo, one of the greatest chieftains of 
 the country, seeing this achievement, offered Ben- 
 yowsky a rich prize to march against his enemy. 
 Prince Hapuosingo. The Count accepted this pro- 
 posal, marched with forty men upon the nest of 
 wigwams which Ilapuasingo called his city, seized 
 him as he was hiding, like Achilles, in his tent, 
 and brought him back a captive. Huapo, in his 
 gratitude, presented Benyowsky with silver, gold, 
 and jewels. This barbaric treasure the Count shared 
 among his followers. "A generous gift" — as he 
 remarks in point — "is worth a thousand speeches, 
 of whatever eloquence." 
 
 Once more the sails were spread; and thence the 
 ship made way without adventure. A few days 
 later, on the morning of the 22d of September, she 
 sailed safely into the harbor of Mecao. The escape 
 was finally accomplished ; the voyage was at an end. 
 116 
 
BENYOWSKY 
 
 Benyowsky claimed protection from the flag of 
 France, and at once obtained a passage on the 
 Dauphin. But before the exiles separated a mis- 
 fortune fell upon him. Stephanow, who had taken 
 service with the Dutch Company, broke open the 
 Count's chest, robbed him of all the presents and 
 mementos which he had gathered on the voyage, 
 sold them for a trifle to a Jew, and disap- 
 peared. 
 
 Benyowsky now sailed for France. He landed, 
 waited on Due d'Aiguillon, and was at once invited 
 to enter the French service. The Count accepted 
 the proposal, and sent off" an equerry to bring his 
 wife from Zips. Through all his perils and advent- 
 ures — in the battle against Russia, in the den at 
 Cazan, with the snow-surrounded sledges, among 
 the exiles' cabins, in the lands of savage tribes — 
 her form had ever been a pole-star, cheering, guid- 
 ing, glittering before his inner eye. She came with 
 all the speed that could be urged; and what that 
 meeting was must be imagined. 
 
 The Due d'Aiguillon, at the King's desire, pro- 
 posed that Benyowsky should proceed to Mada- 
 gascar, with the design of planting on the island a 
 French settlement. No proposal could have better 
 suited his adventurous spirit. A ship was fitted 
 out; three hundred men were sent on board; and 
 on the 23d of March, 1773, the Count, together 
 with his wife, set sail from Europe. It was the 
 last and strangest venture of his life. 
 
 The ship first anchored at the Isle of France. 
 The Count was armed with letters to the governor, 
 who was charged to aid the expedition with all 
 requisite supplies. But Benyowsky, on handing in 
 his papers, found himself received with howls of 
 rage. The merchants of the Isle looked jealously 
 on the projected settlement, which threatened to 
 interfere with their own trade. Impediments of 
 117 
 
HISTORIC DEEDS OF DANGER AND DARING 
 
 every kind were brought against him; and at length 
 he was compelled to sail for Madagascar, without 
 the stores he had expected, and with faint prospect 
 of receiving more. 
 
 He landed at Louisburg in Antimaroa. And his 
 calamities at once began. That night, the native 
 chieftains, twenty-eight in number, came, attended 
 by two thousand black retainers, to listen to his 
 scheme. To this assembly Benyowsky painted in 
 a speech of glowing colors the profit to be gathered 
 from a trade with France. The dusky kings ap- 
 peared to acquiesce, and dispersed. But next 
 day all was changed. A chief named Siloulout 
 demanded to confer with Benyowsky in a neighbor- 
 ing wood. The Count sent forward spies; three 
 hundred men were lying in an ambush, ready to 
 murder him. Benyowsky, with a troop, burst sud- 
 denly upon them, and sent them flying to the winds. 
 Next day the river was dyed red with the heavy- 
 fruited branches of the tanguin tree, which turned 
 the water into deadly poison. Benyowsky cleared 
 the river, burnt down all the tanguins in the dis- 
 trict, and once more cheated his insidious foes. 
 But thenceforward ceaseless vigilance was needed; 
 and there were dangers against which no vigilance 
 could avail. The climate, at that season, was, to 
 Europeans, almost as perilous as a poisoned stream. 
 A little village of log-huts was built with toil, to- 
 gether with a fortress and a hospital. The hospital 
 was soon required. The air was charged with fever, 
 the stores were poor, the stock of drugs was scanty, 
 and the colonists, by some strange oversight, had 
 with them no physician. At one time Benyowsky 
 and his wife, both stricken by miasma, were lying 
 at death's door together. From the Isle of France 
 no aid could be obtained. The recruits sent out, 
 ostensibly to swell the little force, turned out to 
 be thieves and cut-throats from the dungeons, or 
 118 
 
BENYOWSKY 
 
 dying men out of the hospital. And in this position 
 the tiny colony was compelled to keep perpetually 
 alert against the Saphirobai and the Seclaves, two 
 tribes which every day grew bolder and more 
 insolent. 
 
 For several months the struggle was kept up with 
 heroic resolution. But disasters thickened; the 
 natives could be kept at bay no longer; the com- 
 plete destruction of the settlers seemed inevitably 
 at hand; when an event, unexcelled in strangeness 
 among all the visions of romance, in an instant 
 changed the scene as by enchantment. 
 
 Benyowsky had brought over from the Isle of 
 France an old, half-crazy negress called Susanna, 
 who had been sold in childhood to the French. 
 Among Susanna's fellow-captives had been the 
 daughter of the Ampansacabe, the supreme king of 
 Madagascar, Ramini Larizon. The race of Ramini 
 were both seers and kings. They claimed to trace 
 their descent from a kinsman of Mahomet, the 
 Clreat Prophet; and their power over their sub- 
 jects was absolute. Since the death of Larizon 
 sixty-six years before, there had been no heir to 
 take the rank and oflSce. His daughter, indeed, 
 had, during her captivity, borne a son; but the 
 boy had become lost to sight; and the great name, 
 at which fifty thousand dusky worshippers had 
 once hushed their breath, now seemed to have be- 
 come extinct for ever. 
 
 But now there came a marvel. The lost heir 
 was rediscovered. By certain marks which could 
 not be mistaken, Susanna, who had lived in serfdom 
 with his mother, had recognized his person. A 
 vision from on high, she said, impelled her to pro- 
 claim the tidings. Raving like a prophetess in 
 frenzy, she began to cry aloud a word which made 
 the ears of the natives tingle. The lost heir was 
 Benyowsky ! 
 
 119 
 
HISTORIC DEEDS OF DANGER AND DARING 
 
 The strange hallucination spread like wildfire. 
 The tribe of the Sambarives, to which the Ramini 
 belonged, rose up in tumult. One of their chiefs, 
 Ciewi by name, was instantly despatched, attended 
 by two hundred tribesmen, to invite the Count to 
 take possession of his ancestral throne; and Ben- 
 yowsky, at the very moment of despair, saw him- 
 self hailed king of fifty thousand savage warriors, 
 every man of whom regarded him with an awe and 
 reverence far stronger than the love of life. 
 
 He fell in with their delusion, and instantly ac- 
 cepted the position. The French had, in his eyes, 
 betrayed and wronged him. He sent in his resig- 
 nation to the Service, took off his uniform, and put 
 on the skins and feathers of a savage king. The 
 ceremony of his installation must have been a 
 truly striking scene. Thirty thousand warriors were 
 drawn up in a circle, tribe by tribe, in the midst of 
 a vast plain, having the women in the outer ring. 
 Before each tribe an ox stood ready for the sacri- 
 fice. Seven chiefs conducted Benyowsky from his 
 pavilion to the plain; and as he came before them, 
 the great multitude flung themselves together on 
 their faces. The oxen were then slaughtered, the 
 heads of spears were dipped in blood, and on these 
 the warriors took the oath of loyalty by licking with 
 their tongues the scarlet points. An aged chief 
 placed in the new king's hand an assegai by way 
 of scepter; and once again the vast assembly fell 
 together on their faces, before the feet of the great 
 white Ampansacabe. 
 
 Nor was his wife without her dignity. That same 
 evening, before the beginning of the dances which 
 were to last all night, the women of the tribes swore 
 fealty to Queen Benyowsky, to obey her in all quar- 
 rels in which men had no concern. 
 
 Such was the last strange change in Benyowsky's 
 fortune. He had been a captive in the lands of 
 120 
 
BENYOWSKY 
 
 everlasting ice; he was now the sovereign of a 
 kingdom where no snowflake ever fell. His power 
 over his black subjects was supreme. It was for 
 him to use it well. A scheme of great and wide 
 beneficence arose before him. He resolved to civ- 
 ilize his nation; to found, in his own right, a trade 
 with Europe; to bring into the island farmers, 
 carpenters and blacksmiths, who should teach his 
 people how to build and plough. With these ob- 
 jects, he resolved himself to visit Europe. His 
 empire was committed to a council of the chiefs; 
 a brig, the Belle Arthur, was obtained and fitted 
 for the voyage; and amidst the tears and cries of 
 the vast dusky throngs who followed with their 
 eyes his fading sails, he put once more to sea. 
 
 At this point the Count's own Memoirs, which 
 thus far we have been following, break off. The 
 brief remainder of the story must be gleaned from 
 various sources. The broken pieces, set together, 
 come to this — 
 
 The ship reached Europe safely. But the Count 
 could find no State prepared to aid him, at the risk 
 of war with France. He then resolved to try 
 America; and at Baltimore he made arrangements 
 with a firm of merchants, who supplied him with a 
 vessel, the Intrepid, of four hundred and fifty tons 
 and thirty guns; in which, with a rich cargo, he 
 spread his sails again for Madagascar. His faith- 
 ful wife, who was in poor health, he was compelled 
 to leave in Baltimore. She never saw his face 
 again. 
 
 Instantly on his arrival in his kingdom, he de- 
 clared hostilities against the French. At the head 
 of his black warriors, he first seized their store- 
 house at Angoutci. He then set off, attended only 
 by a hundred men, to storm their factory at Foul 
 Point. But the French had there a ship with sixty 
 troopers, of which he had received no warning. On 
 121 
 
HISTORIC DEEDS OF DANGER AND DARING 
 
 the morning of the 23d of May, 1786, they landed, , 
 nnd attacked him. 
 
 The Count had barely time to throw up a redoubt, 
 defended by two guns, when the enemy were upon 
 him. The affair was over in a moment. He who 
 had escaped alive out of so many perils had now 
 reached his last. As the French rushed forward, 
 firing in a volley, a musket-bullet struck Benyow- 
 sky in the breast. He instantly sank back behind 
 the rampart. His black troops, seeing their king 
 fall, fled panic-stricken; and the French soldiers, 
 bursting over the redoubt, seized his dead body by 
 the hair, and dragged it forth into the open ground. 
 
 192 
 
ANTHONY WAYNE 
 
 AMONG the many brave patriots that fought 
 their way to undying military renown during 
 the American Revolution, none was more pictur- 
 esque than General Anthony Wayne, the "Mad 
 Anthony" of Stony Point, and a score of other 
 well-fought and well-won fields. He was the Prince 
 Rupert of the American forces. 
 
 If a man comes of fighting stock, he is apt to 
 make a good fighter himself when the time comes 
 that his country needs him. Wayne's grandfather 
 was a Yorkshireman, who moved from England to 
 County Wicklow, Ireland. As a stanch Protest- 
 ant, he espoused the cause of William of Orange 
 when he came to win a throne in Britain. When 
 William landed in Ireland, Grandfather Wayne was 
 in command of a troop of dragoons, and distin- 
 guished himself at the battle of the Boyne. In 1722 
 he emigrated to Pennsylvania. His son, the father 
 of the dashing Anthony, was a man of wealth and 
 position. He owned 15,000 acres, was a member 
 of the assembly, and, what was of more importance 
 in those colonial days, a noted Indian fighter. An- 
 thony Wayne, who was to win greater military 
 fame than any of his ancestors, was born in the 
 township of Eastown, Pennsylvania, on New Year's 
 day, 1745. From his earliest childhood the stories 
 he heard were of battle and siege in the wars with 
 the French, and the outrages inflicted on the Eng- 
 lish settlers by the Indians. Father and neighbors 
 were repeatedly called out to repulse some inroad 
 of the enemy, so that he was really bred up amid 
 the alarms of war. 
 
 123 
 
HISTORIC DEEDS OF DANGER AND DARING 
 
 The Indians, led by French officers, burned and 
 massacred to within forty miles of Philadelphia, 
 where many a good Quaker felt it necessary, while 
 carrying on his peaceful meditations on brotherly 
 love, carefully to tend to the priming of his recently 
 purchased musket, and to keep his flints in order. 
 Whole villages were laid waste; men, women, and 
 children were butchered in cold blood. The troops 
 sent against the French on the western frontier of 
 the colony often passed through Waynesboro. 
 
 Anthony was sent early to a school conducted by 
 his uncle, and his scholarship at first was hardly 
 sufficient to keep him there. He was constantly 
 drilling his comrades, and putting them through the 
 manual of arms. At ever}^ recess, conflicts, planned 
 after those in the school histories, raged about the 
 playground. They were not sham battles in the 
 true sense of the word, for the good schoolmaster 
 felt called upon to complain to the lad's father 
 that Anthony's troops were supplied frequently with 
 black eyes and bloody noses. He also wrote that, 
 unless the youngster applied himself more dili- 
 gently to his books, he would have to leave school. 
 Wayne at this dire threat put himself manfully to 
 work to learn his distasteful tasks. Nevertheless, 
 in spare hours the shout of battle would be heard 
 about the neighborhood, and the startled villagers 
 would throw up their windows to see part of the 
 town boys go whooping by as red Indians, while 
 Anthony, as a doughty leader of colonial troops, 
 charged boldly on the retreating ranks of the dis- 
 comfited foe. These days showed that the boy had 
 the making of a masterful and strong-willed man, 
 for his influence over his schoolmates was such that 
 he had but to suggest and they would follow. He 
 was also master of Anthony, which was the greater 
 achievement of the two, and studied so hard, that 
 at the end of eighteen months his uncle, the school- 
 124 
 
ANTHONY WAYNE 
 
 master, had to acknowledge that he could teach the 
 boy no more, and that he was well fitted to pass on 
 to a school of higher grade. 
 
 Young Wayne went to an academy in Philadel- 
 phia, and in two years was a well educated civil 
 engineer, dragging chain and instruments through 
 the pathless forests of Pennsylvania. Unlike many 
 youths with longings for a military career, math- 
 ematics was to him one of the most interesting of 
 studies, and accounted for the final choice of his 
 profession. A new vista was opened for the young- 
 man by Benjamin Franklin, who was the head of 
 an association organized for the purpose of buying 
 lands in Nova Scotia, and settling them with Eng- 
 lish colonists. Wayne, then but twenty years old, 
 was chosen to manage the enterprise in the field. 
 
 Wayne took a numerous company of settlers to 
 Nova Scotia, and placed them on a tract ofl land 
 near the St. John's River. The tract was a hundred 
 thousand acres in extent. He also took up another 
 large grant on the banks of the Piticoodzock. In 
 the records in the old Crown Land Office, in the 
 ancient city of Quebec, may yet be seen old deeds 
 and transfers, to which is attached the name of 
 Anthony Wayne. 
 
 The young manager surveyed the enormous tracts 
 allotted to the company, found convenient places 
 for ferries, and explored the country in search of 
 mineral springs, iron and coal mines, mast lands 
 and limestone deposits. He made his report to 
 the company in December, in Philadelphia, and they 
 were entirely satisfied with the way in which he 
 had conducted the venture. He was made perma- 
 nent resident manager for the company in Nova 
 Scotia, and returned there the following spring. 
 The trouble with the mother country had grown so 
 threatening, that it was soon seen that it would be 
 unsafe for the Philadelphia company to continue 
 125 
 
HISTORIC DEEDS OF DANGER AND DARING 
 
 the enterprise. Accordingly, Wayne and his colo- 
 nists had to abandon their settlement and return 
 home. When he arrived in Philadelphia, he married 
 his sweetheart, Mary Penrose, who belonged to a 
 prominent family of the colony, and took her to his 
 home at Waynesboro, where young Wayne set him- 
 self up in business as a tanner. 
 
 He went into the political life of Pennsylvania, 
 and was soon filling various local offices. He was 
 one of the representatives sent from Chester 
 County to the Pennsylvania Assembly that met in 
 Philadelphia in 1T74. He took a leading part in the 
 assembly, and we find him acting both as member 
 and chairman of important committees appointed 
 by that body. 
 
 When the news of the battles of Lexington and 
 Concord reached Chester County, W^ayne foresaw 
 that a long and bloody conflict was imminent. He 
 was active in the Committee of Safety, in forming 
 military companies, and arranging with the local 
 authorities for supplies of arms and ammunition. 
 He secured from Philadelphia all the books that could 
 be bought there dealing with military subjects. He 
 became drill master to the raw but patriotic re- 
 cruits of his home county, who were as interested 
 as he in the great game that all felt they must 
 soon play against opponents better trained and bet- 
 ter equipped than themselves. John Adams wrote 
 from Philadelphia that one "would burst to see 
 whole companies of armed Quakers in that city, in 
 uniforms, going through the manual." 
 
 At the first outbreak of the Revolution, Wayne 
 was made colonel of the Fourth Pennsylvania. It 
 was at first a rather turbulent organization, but 
 their commander soon brought them into a state 
 of dicipline; and the spirit that would have caused 
 trouble to a less resolute officer was developed into 
 an esprit de corps, a soldierly pride, that sent the 
 126 
 
ANTHONY WAYNE 
 
 regiment forward into places of danger considered 
 untenable by the enemy. Wayne was soon sent 
 North to the recently conquered fortress of Ticon- 
 deroga and then on to Canada. He arrived too late 
 to take part in the siege of Quebec, but joined the 
 forces under General Sullivan. It war, in the expe- 
 dition against Three Rivers that Wayne fought his 
 first battle of the war. A report was brought in 
 by scouts, who had been hanging about the Eng- 
 lish outposts, that about eight hundred of the enemy 
 had established themselves at Three Rivers. Colo- 
 nel Arthur St. Clair received permission to attempt 
 a surprise with a force of six hundred. Hardly 
 had his men disappeared down the forest road when 
 General Sullivan decided to send re-enforcements 
 under General Thompson, lender him went Colonel 
 Wayne with two hundred and two men. They 
 overtook St. Clair at Nicolet, crossed the river in 
 the night, and in the mirk of the morning formed 
 for the attack. The entire force now numbered a 
 little less than fifteen hundred. Most of them were 
 Pennsylvanians and men from New Jersey. A large 
 portion of the officers and men, it is interesting to 
 note, were of Scottish blood, the divisions, with the 
 exception of Wayne's, being led by Maxwell, St. 
 Clair, and Irvine. 
 
 The expedition now learned that instead of hun- 
 dreds to oppose them, there were thousands sup- 
 ported by warships. To make matters worse their 
 guides were not certain of the road, and they did 
 not get to the vicinity of the town until the next 
 day. After resting the men, the order to advance 
 was given. They tightened their belts, shouldered 
 their muskets, and plunged into the swamp lands 
 that stretched between them and Three Rivers. 
 Wayne, "the dandy," led, sinking at times in the 
 ooze, and spattering his immaculate white broad- 
 cloth uniform with mud. He was a great stickler 
 127 
 
HISTORIC DEEDS OF DANGER AND DARING 
 
 for the pageantry of war, and laughingly acknowl- 
 edged that he could fight better if he and his men 
 had a smart and soldierly appearance. 
 
 At last, after a toilsome struggle, the men 
 marched out upon the fields near the town, and, 
 though the Americans hardly expected to effect a 
 surprise after their long and delayed march, they 
 found General Frazer's force entirely unprepared 
 to meet them. Why some scouting party, at a time 
 when the armies were in such close touch, had not 
 seen the advancing force and given the alarm was 
 one of the mysteries of the campaign. General 
 Frazer himself dashed out of the camp and down 
 to the shore. Standing on the high bank he called 
 out to the officers of the warships that were lying 
 close in: 
 
 "Wake up, and send ashore all the guns you 
 possibly can. The rebels are coming, two or three 
 thousand of them. They are within three miles of 
 the town." 
 
 Frazer then hurried back, and a moment later 
 appeared marching at the head of his troops, to 
 meet the oncoming Americans. He had enough 
 soldiers to sweep them away in a moment if they 
 had not been disorganized by surprise. Wayne 
 found himself confronting this superior force; and, 
 at the same moment that he sent forward a com- 
 pany of light infantry, to skirmish with the ad- 
 vance, the shots from the British men-of-war began 
 to drop across his front. He formed his battalion 
 in line of battle; it had been impossible to get 
 through the swamp in any but narrow column 
 formation. He marched his men straight forward 
 until close to Frazer's leading files, then he swung 
 in his wings until they made a crescent about the 
 head of the English column. A sharp command, 
 and the Americans poured in a well directed fire. 
 Front and flank the balls came hissing, and after 
 128 
 
ANTHONY WAYNE 
 
 a few moments of conflict the red line broke and 
 fell back towards the camp they had left so proudly 
 a few moments before. Suddenly a heavy column, 
 supported by artillery, attacked Wayne's right. 
 Nothing daunted he led his men forward as Max- 
 well came up out of the sv/amp at his left and 
 brought his men on at a run. The other American 
 regiments were also emerging from another part 
 of the morass and forming to meet the force that 
 was firing on Wayne's advancing infantry. Wayne 
 charged on until he saw that the enemy was waiting 
 behind some hastily constructed breastworks and 
 that he was greatly outnumbered. When he got 
 within a short distance of the earthworks, Wayne 
 glanced back, and the sight that met his gaze was 
 enough to discourage the heart of the bravest of 
 men. Hundreds of scarlet coated troops were 
 pushing Maxwell's men back into the swamp, though 
 the latter were fighting desperately and falling 
 back with their face to the foe. At a little dis- 
 tance the two divisions that were under the imme- 
 diate command of General Thompson were also 
 being forced from the field. The fire from the 
 English infantry in front and a cross fire from the 
 warships, to which the men had no means of reply- 
 ing, left them no alternative but to retreat. 
 
 In a few moments it was a battle between Wayne 
 with two hundred determined men against three 
 thousand of the enemy, supported by a powerful 
 fleet. Slowly the two hundred retired, giving ball 
 for ball. In the edge of the forest Wayne found 
 the reserves, and collecting all the men he could 
 from the other regiments, he stood ofi" the enemy 
 until almost their entire force, with colors flying 
 and drums beating, charged to drive him out of 
 his cover in the forest edge. The American force 
 how marched ofi^ toward the rear in good order, 
 while Wayne, with twenty marksmen and six oflficers 
 129 
 
HISTORIC DEEDS OF DANGER AND DARING 
 
 who had volunteered, remained behind to cover the 
 retreat. 
 
 And now came one of those scenes that makes 
 the blood of men tingle in their veins and brings 
 the cheer to their lips for the heroes, though their 
 banner bears an insignia different from their own. 
 For one long hour the little band of twenty-seven 
 held three thousand fighting men at bay. Through 
 the clouds of smoke and dust, the hiss of bullets 
 and of shot from musket and cannon, would come 
 sharp and clear the cheer of the American riflemen, 
 as with rifles against their cheeks they swept the 
 field in front. At last waving their weapons 
 vauntingly above their heads they plunged deep into 
 the woods where hounds alone could follow. 
 
 Wayne, when he reached the outskirts of the 
 swamp, rallied seven hundred soldiers and forming 
 them into line started them on the backward road 
 to the main army. Some miles from Three Rivers 
 they were attacked by a force numbering fifteen 
 hundred men, but the Americans beat the British 
 back, and for the rest of the march they were not 
 molested. Wayne's boats had been taken away by 
 the guards left in charge, as they were in danger 
 of capture by the British warships beating about 
 in the St. Lawrence. In consequence, Wayne was 
 compelled to march for three days on the upper side 
 of the river until he came opposite Sorel. Here he 
 was able to cross, and reported to General Sullivan 
 with eleven hundred men. Of the American force 
 engaged in the expedition one hundred and fifty 
 had been taken prisoners, including General Thomp- 
 son, while fifty had been killed or wounded. Wayne 
 received a slight wound in the leg. 
 
 At Sorel it was found that a British army of 
 
 thirteen thousand regulars was advancing from 
 
 Montreal, and a prompt retreat was the only course 
 
 left open for the little army under the command of 
 
 130 
 
ANTHONY WAYNE 
 
 General Sullivan. He started his troops up the 
 Sorel River toward Lake Champlain, to avoid the 
 large fleet that had appeared oif the American 
 camp. In spite of the necessary haste in the pres- 
 ence of a superior force, the Americans managed to 
 get away with their complete camp outfits. It was 
 storming, and some of the regiments became dis- 
 organized in the darkness and rain. 
 
 A messenger arrived from Arnold, who was in 
 command at Montreal, asking that re-enforcements 
 be sent to him, in order that he could make suffi- 
 cient front against the enemy, to bring oif his men 
 in safety. The messenger found the rear of the 
 army straggling badly; and he was informed by one 
 of the general officers that it would be exceedingly 
 difficult to get the troops required. The messenger 
 soon saw Wayne and his men marching calmly, and 
 as if on parade. Wayne, as soon as he found what 
 was wanted, drew his men across the road and 
 stopped every man who appeared capable of active 
 service. In a short time, a well organized body of 
 troops was formed and on the march to Montreal. 
 Arnold, it was found, after the troops had been 
 marching north for a while, had managed to escape 
 with his men without the aid of additional troops, 
 and Wayne turned back on the way to Chambly 
 and St. John's. After stopping at Crown Point, 
 the army took up its position in the works at 
 Ticonderoga. 
 
 For several months Wayne was in command of 
 the fortress, and strengthened it with additional 
 batteries, block houses and an abatis. If his advice 
 had been taken, and the neighboring mountain fort- 
 ified, it would have never been necessary for Amer- 
 ican troops to evacuate the place, as they did do 
 after Wayne left. 
 
 Sickness made its appearance within the walls, 
 and there were neither beds nor proper medical 
 131 
 
HISTORIC DEEDS OF DANGER AND DARING 
 
 attendance for those who were stricken. Dead and 
 dying lay side by side in the hospitals. A less 
 courageous spirit than Wayne would have been 
 crushed by the long train of disasters. 
 
 A mutiny broke out, that was quelled by Wayne, 
 who stopped the men at the muzzle of his pistol. 
 The time had expired for the mutineers, who de- 
 clared they were going home. Wayne, however, felt 
 that in this emergency he nuist keep them to their 
 colors. Many of the soldiers serving were mere 
 boys twelve to fifteen years old. Wayne was now 
 promoted to be a brigadier general for his services 
 in Canada and at the fort, and placed in command 
 of eight regiments of the Pennsylvania line. With 
 these he joined Washington in New Jersey in May, 
 1777. 
 
 While in command of the Pennsylvania line, 
 Wayne came one day into close proximity to the 
 boastful English general. Grant, who had said, at 
 the opening of the war, that he would march through 
 America at the head of five thousand men. Grant 
 had seven hundred and Wayne had five hundred. 
 Six times did Wayne offer battle, marching his men 
 on the English line, but the latter would fire a few- 
 volleys and then break in confusion, Wayne would 
 never return the fire, but tried to close with Grant's 
 men. The enemy, when he rushed at them for the 
 sixth time, left the field to Wayne. The English 
 general had his horse's head taken off, and was 
 himself dirted and bruised by rolling about in the 
 mud. 
 
 Wayne led his men with his usual skill and dash 
 at the battle of Brandywine, holding the point of 
 danger for four hours, and only retreating when he 
 discovered an entire division of Cornwallis march- 
 ing down on his rear. He brought off his men in 
 such good order, however, that the enemy watched 
 them go without offering to attack them. 
 132 
 
ANTHONY WAYNE 
 
 After the repulse at Brandywine, the Americans 
 pulled themselves together, and in a few days were 
 again on the march to meet the British forces. One 
 night while Wayne was encamped near a force of 
 the enemy, with the expectation of attacking them 
 in the morning, he was himself attacked by the 
 British under Grey, and, after a desperate con- 
 flict, was compelled to retreat. Wayne was accused 
 by jealous officers of not having taken proper pre- 
 cautions, and he at once demanded a court martial, 
 to clear himself. 
 
 The court convened and heard the evidence. It 
 found that the surprise was due to the negligence 
 of the principal accusing officer, and at once ac- 
 quitted Wayne. 
 
 At Monmouth, Wayne kept the British line in 
 play, until Washington arrived and ordered back 
 the troops that had been thrown into confusion by 
 Lee's command to retreat. The British Grenadiers 
 were picked to drive Wayne from the field, and 
 their commander, the brave Monckton, in a brief 
 speech urged them to make victory certain by their 
 valor. Wayne was so close to the opposing line that 
 he heard every word of Monckton's speech. The 
 Grenadiers responded to their commander's appeal 
 with a ringing cheer. The charge was made, and 
 repulsed, Monckton being killed. Time and again 
 his men came on in the endeavor to recover his 
 body. They were repeatedly thrown back by the 
 counter charges of Wayne and his men, and at last, 
 completely exhausted, were compelled to beat a 
 retreat. 
 
 After Monmouth, Wayne made enemies in the 
 Assembly of Pennsylvania and in Congress by liis 
 insistant demands for supplies for his needy troops. 
 At last Arthur St. Clair was placed over him, and 
 he asked for a leave of absence and went to his 
 home in Pennsylvania. He asked Washington to 
 133 
 
HISTORIC DEEDS OF DANGER AND DARING 
 
 form a light corps of which he could have the sole 
 command. The request was granted, and shortly 
 after Washington sent for Wayne to lead them in 
 an attempt on the famous fortress of Stony Point. 
 
 Wayne arrived post haste from Pennsylvania, and 
 took immediate command of the light corps. He 
 made his headquarters at Sandy Beach, a mile up 
 the river from Fort Montgomery. Two of his regi- 
 ments were in camp at Sandy Beach, on the farm 
 belonging to Benjamin Jaques, a soldier who had 
 helped to defend Fort Montgomery at the time of 
 the assault and massacre in 1777. The other two 
 regiments oi) the light corps were camped east of 
 the Hudson. None of the officers of the brigade 
 knew of the plans for the bold enterprise that was 
 to occupy such a brilliant place in the record of 
 American military achievements. 
 
 W^ayne, after consulting with Washington, care- 
 fully made his preparations to surprise the fortress 
 of Stony Point, and to carry it by storm. He as- 
 cended the Donderberg, in order to look down upon 
 the enemies' works, and was for the moment dashed 
 by their apparent strength. It seemed as if nothing 
 human could attack them and live; but his usual 
 desire to attempt a venture that would be considered 
 almost an impossibility, again returned to him. He 
 took AVashington with an escort of light infantry 
 to reconnoitre the works. Together they decided 
 that the attack should be made by night. To make 
 the attempt by day would mean a great loss of life 
 and with little hope of success. 
 
 Stony Point was an oblong island of one hundred 
 acres, close to the west bank of the Hudson River, 
 twelve miles below West Point. It was a natural 
 fortress, rocky and rugged, the side toward the 
 shore, from which any attacking party might come, 
 being very precipitous. At its highest point it 
 was one hundred and forty feet above the water. 
 134 
 
ANTHONY WAYNE 
 
 A channel, deep enough for light boats, and form- 
 ing a good moat or fosse, cut between the island 
 and the main land. On each side of the waterway 
 the ground was swampy for a long distance. An 
 elevated causeway had been built across the marsh 
 to the island at the time when the Americans had 
 first held the island. This causeway had obstructed 
 the channel, and the waves had washed up the sand 
 at both ends of the swamp, making a narrow beach 
 that connected the west shore and the island at 
 low tide. The English troops had constructed on 
 the heights fourteen breastworks thsLt covered every 
 possible approach. Three of them faced the land 
 side in such a way that the cannon would sweep 
 both beach and causeway. 
 
 In front of the breastworks an abatis of pointed 
 stakes and trees, felled so that their sharpened 
 branches would point outward, was stretched clear 
 across the island, and another was constructed 
 reaching out beyond the farthest redoubts. Mounted 
 on the works were twenty-two cannon, heavy and 
 light, mortars and howitzers. To defend the post there 
 were six hundred and seven men, under Lieutenant- 
 Colonel Henry Johnson, of the Seventeenth Regi- 
 ment of Foot. He referred proudly to his fortress 
 as the "Little Gibraltar." 
 
 Wayne wanted to leave nothing undone that would 
 insure the success of his hazardous venture. He 
 asked that better uniforms be provided for the men, 
 but this could not be done in the straightened state 
 of the army's finances. He also asked that each 
 oiRcer be provided with a copy of Baron Steuben's 
 book of military instructions. He got a few of 
 these. He also requested Washington to secure 
 fifty espontoons for the company officers. These 
 were half pikes or short spears, the blades being 
 broad and well fitted for ^e hand-to-hand combat, 
 such as would result from a night attack upon an 
 135 
 
HISTORIC DEEDS OF DANGER AND DARING 
 
 entrenched position. He received them greatly to 
 his satisfaction, and also to that of the officers, who 
 had expected to do their part with the light side 
 arms usually worn in the Revolutionary campaigns. 
 
 Washington arranged the general plan of the 
 attack, and Wayne was to change any details he 
 saw fit in case of emergency. On the 11th of July 
 parties of riflemen began to scout about Stony 
 Point, keeping the garrison in a constant state of 
 alarm, and preventing the officers from sending out 
 spies or the usual patrols. "Light Horse" Harry 
 Lee with a hundred and fifty troopers rode back 
 and forth on the landward side, to see that no re- 
 enforcements or information could be got through 
 to the fort. The troopers killed every dog within 
 three miles of the garrison so that no unusual bark- 
 ing, caused by the appearance of marching men, 
 would come on the evening air to the alert ears of 
 the sentries on the ramparts of the fort. 
 
 One of the officers arrested the "Widow Calhoun 
 and another widow going to the enemy with chickens 
 and greens," and kept them quietly secluded until 
 there had been a change of market and customers 
 at the Point. 
 
 Two days later, the light infantry, that had been 
 camped in the hills on the east bank of the Hudson, 
 were brought across the river to join their com- 
 rades on the shore at Sandy Beach. They were 
 sheltered temporarily in huts of brush and bark. 
 
 Towards noon the next day every battalion of the 
 light infantry corps was ordered out to parade. 
 They were commanded to appear "fresh shaved and 
 well powdered," Every button and brass shone 
 with much rubbing, while the gun barrels and bayo- 
 nets of the rank and file glittered and glinted in 
 the July sun. Every officer had done his utmost 
 to get his uniforms and trappings in the best pos- 
 sible condition to pass muster under the watchful 
 136 
 
ANTHONY WAYNE 
 
 eye of their fastidious leader. Wayne and his field 
 officers strode up and down the line, every gun was 
 presented; the ramrods were rung in the barrels, 
 and every haversack opened to show that it con- 
 tained the rations allotted for a brief campaign. 
 Until noon not one of Wayne's force knew definitely 
 that an expedition was really in the orders of the 
 day. The officers of the scouting parties alone had 
 been informed of the work they were to do. 
 
 The inspection over, the soldiers had expected that 
 the order would be given to break ranks and return 
 to their company kitchens for dinner. In place of 
 this, however, they were formed into column and 
 marched off southward to Fort Montgomery, with 
 two small field pieces under picked artillerymen, 
 clanking along behind. At the Fort they wheeled 
 to the right, and in a long thin line entered the 
 narrow pass that reaches into the hills between Torn 
 Mountain on the right and Bear Mountain on the 
 left. 
 
 It was a memorable march, and one to be told 
 for many a long year at veterans' firesides among 
 the snowy hills of New Hampshire, in homes along 
 the bleak coast of New England, and in the quiet 
 valleys of Pennsylvania and Virginia; wherever the 
 soldiers of Wayne finally pitched their tents, and 
 waited for a louder trumpet than ever rose in battle 
 among the dark mountains of the Hudson. They 
 advanced in deep silence, a silence broken only at 
 long intervals by a muttered order, whispered from 
 rank to rank, or the rattle of a sword <scabbard or 
 a musket butt as they caught in some low bush, or 
 dislodged some stone that fell noisily into the 
 mountain stream below. About them lay the un- 
 broken woods bathed in the July sun; back of them 
 and on each hand rose the great mountains that 
 cast black shadows across the blue and brown 
 ranks; once an eagle rose, soaring in a great circle. 
 137 
 
HISTORIC DEEDS OF DANGER AND DARING 
 
 Late in the afternoon the troups debouched upon 
 a small platoon where they could look down on 
 Stony Point a mile and a half away. The men were 
 now formed into three columns, Colonel Febiger 
 commanding the first, Butler the second, and Major 
 Murfree the third. From each of the two first 
 columns were picked one hundred and fifty men. 
 These were placed twenty paces in front of their 
 respective divisions. Every man of the entire com- 
 mand was given a piece of white paper, to place in 
 his hat in order to distinguish one another in the 
 darkness. 
 
 In a low voice the order of battle was then read 
 to the expectant soldiers, who until that moment 
 had no information as to what the night's work 
 was to be. The men of the two heaviest columns 
 were to keep their muskets unloaded and to depend 
 entirely on the bayonet. Murfree's men, however, 
 were to have their pieces charged with ball. The 
 officers were to use their recently acquired espon- 
 toons in the melee that was to come at the crest of 
 the hill. 
 
 Wayne in his orders said: "The General has the 
 fullest confidence in the bravery and fortitude of 
 the corps. Should there be any soldier so lost to 
 the feeling of honor as to attempt to retreat one 
 single foot or skulk in the face of danger, the offi- 
 cer next to him is immediately to put him to death 
 — that he may no longer disgrace the name of a 
 soldier, or the corps or State he belongs to. The 
 misconduct of one man is not to put the whole corps 
 in danger or disorder, and to be suffered to pass 
 with life." 
 
 Wayne then had it announced that, to show his 
 appreciation of special acts of valor, that the first 
 five men who entered the works of the enemy were 
 to receive $500, $400, $300, $200, and $100; the first 
 man, in addition to the money, to be promoted. 
 138 
 
ANTHONY WAYNE 
 
 Colonel Febiger and Colonel Butler chose twenty- 
 men each that were to clear the way for their 
 columns. These men slung their muskets across 
 their backs and were given axes and hooks, to cut 
 down the abatis. If any of them survived, they 
 were to charge over the breastworks with the rest. 
 All of the younger officers were so anxious to have 
 the honor of leading these "forlorn hopes," that the 
 question was settled by drawing lots. 
 
 Febiger was to march down until he reached the 
 south end of the swamp that protected the land- 
 ward side of the Point, cross the sand-bar and then 
 charge up the south side of the hill. Wayne himself 
 was to go with this detachment. Colonel Butler was 
 ordered to go to the north end of the swamp, make 
 his way across the sand-bar and charge up the north 
 side. While these columns were making their as- 
 saults, Murfree was to march his men, their muskets 
 loaded, down the causeway and over the bridge on 
 the regular road into the fortress. As soon as the 
 British opened fire, he was to dash over the bridge 
 and open fire, the object being to make the enemy 
 believe that the main attack was being made along 
 the causeway. When the first line was carried, the 
 troops of all three divisions were to call "the fort is 
 ours," and to keep it up until all opposition was 
 crushed. 
 
 Late in the evening Wayne, accompanied by a few 
 of his staff officers, made his final reconnoisance and 
 carefully examined the three routes to be taken by 
 his men. 
 
 Everything indicated that the enemy had no sus- 
 picion of the coming attack and felt perfectly se- 
 cure in their "Little Gibraltar." 
 
 At half past eleven, Wayne took his position in 
 front of Colonel Fibiger's column. Only the fore- 
 most ranks could make out his form as they waited 
 in the darkness. Then they saw him draw his sword 
 139 
 
HISTORIC DEEDS OF DANGER AND DARING 
 
 and the well known voice rang sharp and clear: 
 
 "Forward ! March !" 
 
 With a rattle and heave the long line of men 
 put themselves in motion and marched down the 
 slope. After they had gone a half mile and were 
 a mile from the fortress the three divisions sepa- 
 rated and hurried swiftly forward to their desig- 
 nated positions. 
 
 AVhen Wayne and the column he was leading 
 reached the sand-bar at the south end of the 
 swamp, they found that tlie tide was coming in, 
 and the water nearly three feet deep. Nothing 
 daunted the men plunged in. 
 
 It was a half hour after midnight when the ear 
 of the sentry on the heights above heard a sus- 
 picious splashing of the waters of the moat. Peer- 
 ing forward he saw something dark moving toward 
 the bank on which his picket was placed. He threw 
 up his musket and the next moment the crash of 
 the piece sent the echoes rolling and vibrating along 
 the shore and among the foothills of the Donder- 
 berg. 
 
 Murfree's men at once rushed the causcAvay, 
 firing as they came on. Wayne's men splashed 
 across, all thought of concealing their movements 
 abandoned. They had to wade across a stretch of 
 six hundred feet, and before they had gone half 
 that distance the enemy had waked up, formed be- 
 hind the breastworks and opened fire with small 
 arms and cannon. Through a rain of shot Wayne 
 and his men plunged forward. As they reached 
 the abatis seventeen of the intrepid advance squad 
 were killed. Wayne was struck in the head by a 
 bullet that caused him to fall headlong. He was 
 up in a moment, and cried: 
 
 "March on!" 
 
 He then called to his aides: "Help me into the 
 fort. Let me die at the head of my column." 
 140 
 
ANTHONY WAYNE 
 
 The riflemen swarmed over the parapets, and 
 without attempting to load and fire, drove the de- 
 fenders back toward the parade ground with cold 
 steel. The French volvmteer, Fleury, and several 
 others who had been the first to reach the crest, 
 dashed after the grenadiers, and raised the shout: 
 
 "The fort is ours ! The fort is ours !" 
 
 All of the men took up the cry until it reechoed 
 among the mountains and told the distant camps 
 the kind of work that M'as being done. Butler's 
 troops, at the moment the shout was raised, came 
 vaulting over the obstructions at the north of the 
 Point, and the English foot at once gave ground. 
 
 As the cry "the fort's our own" began to swell 
 into a roar of triumph, the defenders threw down 
 their arms and called for quarter. The Americans 
 accepted the surrender and placed a guard over the 
 prisoners, who numbered nearly six hundred. One 
 man only had escaped by swimming ofi". Fleury 
 rushed to the flag-stafi^ and hauled down the colors. 
 The captured cannon were loaded and then trained 
 on the British ship Vulture, which was moored in 
 the river. 
 
 The victory of Stony Point, coming in one of 
 the dark hours of the Revolution, raised the wildest 
 enthusiasm throughout the country. Congress voted 
 a gold medal to Wayne, and silver medals to Fleury 
 and vSeward. Three of the men who had displayed 
 the most reckless daring, were brevetted captains. 
 Congress also commended Wayne "for his brave, 
 prudent, and well conducted attack at Stony Point." 
 
 The famous light infantry continued its existence 
 for only a year after it had swept over the works 
 at Stony Point. It was disbanded, and the men, 
 for the most part, became members of other corps. 
 They were picked soldiers, used to the trade of war, 
 and not ready to give it up while there was work 
 to be done. 
 
 14.1 
 
HISTORIC DEEDS OF DANGER AND DARING 
 
 Wayne for a while was on waiting orders and 
 returned home, but came back to duty in May, 1780. 
 He was given a brigade of Pennsylvania troops. 
 General St. Clair being his commanding officer, as 
 commander of the Pennsylvania line. Wayne had 
 not been back long before he took his men on a raid 
 down the Hudson into New Jersey. He attacked 
 a block house on Bergen Heights that was filled 
 with Tories, and made it so warm for them that 
 three thousand British troops were sent across the 
 Hudson from New York City to drive off the 
 American force. They did not land, however, and 
 the raiders went off with most of the cattle and 
 forage in the vicinity. The British claimed a great 
 victory as the attackers had gone, leaving the block 
 house in the possession of the Tories, but Wayne 
 had used his attack on this outpost only to keep the 
 enemy busy while he gathered up supplies for the 
 American army. It also gave the British com- 
 mander such a scare that he gave up a contemplated 
 raiding expedition among the Connecticut towns. 
 
 Wayne was one of the men on whom Washington 
 felt he could rely in the dark hours immediately 
 following Arnold's treason. Arnold had weakened 
 the garrison at West Point so that an attempt on 
 it, even by a small British force, must have been 
 successful. Washington sent a messenger post haste 
 to Tappan, where Wayne had his headquarters. 
 The aide rode up to Wayne's tent an hour after 
 midnight, and a few moments later the rattle of 
 drums woke the sleeping men and they came run- 
 ning, musket in hand, to the colors. A brief word 
 of command and the two brigades headed up the 
 river on their march to save West Point. They 
 covered the sixteen miles in four hours, marching 
 in the dark, an almost vmequaled feat in a similar 
 country. At five in the morning they were at the 
 entrance to the Haverstraw Pass, that is the gate- 
 142 
 
ANTHONY WAYNE 
 
 way through the mountains to West Point. Not one 
 inan was reported missing. 
 
 West Point was placed under the command of 
 Wayne, who wrote to a friend: 
 
 "I shall not throw myself into the works, but will 
 dispute the approaches inch by inch and at the point 
 of the bayonet, and decide the fate of the day in the 
 gorge of the defiles at every expense of blood." 
 
 Some time later a revolt broke out among the 
 troops of the Pennsylvania line who were without 
 money, proper food or sufficient clothing. Shoes 
 were at a premium, and some of the men were 
 forced to march with their feet bound up with rags. 
 Thirteen hundred of them marched off for Phila- 
 delphia to demand assistance from Congress. Wayne 
 followed them, and found them keeping military 
 order and perfectly loyal to their country, but de- 
 termined to have their wrongs redressed. Congress 
 became frightened, anmesty was proclaimed to the 
 mutineers and the troops were supplied with neces- 
 sities. In fact, it was a good experience for the 
 Continental Congress, who had long neglected the 
 troops on the Hudson. 
 
 In 1780, Wayne went South with eight hundred 
 men, with orders to join General Greene, who was 
 opposing the army of Ivord Cornwallis. He was 
 not able to do this, but at Fredericksburg, Virginia, 
 Wayne met Lafayette and his forces. The latter, 
 with the re-enforcements of Wayne and one other 
 general, found himself at the head of six thousand 
 men, and he at once followed Cornwallis down the 
 peninsula, Wayne leading the advance guard. On 
 July 6, 1781, it was found that the enemy was at 
 Green Spring, on the James River. Wayne at once 
 took his eight hundred men, and advanced rapidly 
 over a corduroy road, that formed a causeway 
 through a large swamp, in the hope of surprising 
 the rear guard. 
 
 143 
 
HISTORIC DEEDS OF DANGER AND DARING 
 
 Wayne found himself, when he emerged from the 
 swamp, in one of those positions in which fate 
 seemed to throw him, in order that he might, by 
 some desperate achievement,^ win glory where lesser 
 men would fail. He found not only the rear guard, 
 but the entire army of Cornwallis, cavalry, infantry, 
 and artillery, drawn up, waiting confidently to an- 
 nihilate the presumptions troops that had hung so 
 long upon their track. 
 
 Sending an aide to Lafayette to come at once 
 with his troops, Wayne strung out a small force of 
 skirmishers to keep the British troops in play. The 
 latter in a few moments began to march down upon 
 Wayne's advance line. Five thousand men, their 
 arms glistening in the sun, snowy cross belts, and 
 brass-faced bear-skin hats, making a martial show 
 to impress any but such war-hardened veterans as 
 were facing them several hundred yards in front. 
 
 On they came with their bands playing, ten 
 thousand white-gaitered legs moving as one. Sud- 
 denly they saw the American commander rise in 
 his stirrups with his sword held high above his 
 head. Then a voice, that many a grenadier re- 
 membered to have heard ring in the din of battle 
 at Monmouth, Brandywine and Stony Point, gave 
 the word to charge. Down went eight hundred bay- 
 onets, forward dashed the blue line, cheering as it 
 ran. Cornwallis thought that these bold warriors 
 who were dashing on him at the double, must be 
 only a fraction of a force that would follow from 
 the woods. He ordered his five thousand to halt, 
 and Wayne and his men wheeled off in perfect 
 order, without the loss of a man. 
 
 Is it a wonder that such feats as these endeared 
 Mad Anthony to his men, and made them feel that, 
 if he but led, numbers were not necessary to win 
 their country's battles? 
 
 The first of the next year Wayne was sent to 
 144 
 
ANTHONY WAYNE 
 
 recover Georgia for the patriot cause. The country- 
 had been helpless, and at the mercy of Tories 
 and German mercenaries. The inhabitants were in 
 constant terror of having their houses burned over 
 their heads and themselves shot if they offered the 
 least resistance to the exactions of their oppressors. 
 The Indians also had been called in to add the 
 terrors of the warwhoop, the tomahawk and the 
 scalping knife. Wayne was greatly outnumbered, 
 but he cut off the enemy's source of supplies, and 
 laid siege to the city of Savannah. He captured, 
 through a ruse, a number of the Indian chiefs, and 
 compelled them to remain neutral. He heard after 
 a time that a thousand British troops were to march 
 out of the city to unite with some Creek Indians 
 coming up towards the city. Wayne started out 
 to interce])t the first force before it could unite 
 with the re-enforcements. Again, as on two pre- 
 vious occasions, the march to the enemy was through 
 a swamp. Reaching the Ogeechee road, he drew up 
 his men. Wayne was outnumbered five to one, but 
 drove the enemy at the point of the bayonet into 
 the swamp. A few days later Wayne was attacked 
 by the Indians, who charged his camp in the night. 
 The Indian general, Guirstersiji, attacked Wayne 
 in person, and was cut down by the ever ready 
 sword of Mad Anthony. The fall of their chief 
 disheartened the Indians, and, raising the wailing 
 cry that precedes the retreat, streamed from the 
 American works, Wayne's men assisting their rear 
 guard over the breastworks with the points of 
 their bayonets. On July 11th, the British left the 
 city to the victorious Wayne, and the State of Geor- 
 gia voted him a plantation and a large sum of money. 
 
 The war ended in October, 1783, and Wayne put 
 
 his energy to develop his recently acquired estate, 
 
 but gave it up to satisfy some protested notes. He 
 
 returned to Chester, Pennsylvania, and became a 
 
 145 
 
HISTORIC DEEDS OF DANGER AND DARING 
 
 member of the State Board of Censors, appointed 
 to review public acts, the records of officials and the 
 work of the legislature. Later he was a member 
 of the assembly. Greater work, however, was in 
 store for him, work to be done alone for his coun- 
 try, and for which he would not have to share the 
 glory with other statesmen or other generals. 
 
 The country could not let a man of Wayne's 
 ability and courage long remain a private citizen, 
 and the first great national crisis after the close of 
 the Revolution at once called him into the saddle. 
 The people of the colonies, at the close of hostil- 
 ities, were again imbued with the spirit for west- 
 ward exploration and settlement, that they had 
 shown since the days they began to spread out a 
 network of towns from Plymouth on Massachusetts 
 Bay, and Jamestown, in Virginia. The Northwest 
 Territory was organized in 1787, and General St. 
 Clair was appointed governor. He tried to buy 
 the Indian titles to the lands within his jurisdiction. 
 Treaties were made, but those who agreed to them 
 represented but a small portion of the redskins who 
 held sway over the forest country, and the treaties 
 were worthless. In fact, the greater part of the 
 tribes were already on the warpath while the treaties 
 were being ratified. Marietta and Cincinnati felt 
 secure with the protection of their forts, but hostile 
 war parties laid waste village after village north of 
 the Ohio, in Western Pennsylvania and in Kentucky. 
 St. Clair was finally sent against the Indians, one 
 general already having been repulsed. His army 
 was composed of raw recruits enlisted for six 
 months. Of course, the inevitable happened. St. 
 Clair was encamped in the fall in what is now 
 Mercer County, Ohio. One morning from the dark 
 shadows of the neighboring woods there came a cry, 
 and then whooping and yelling the whole Indian host 
 broke over the white camp and swept the defenders 
 146 
 
ANTHONY WAYNE 
 
 from the ground. Only fifty escaped unharmed. 
 The entire western frontier was now defenceless, 
 and the victorious Indians had the settlers at their 
 mercy. Settlement of the territory was for the 
 time entirely out of the question. 
 
 In April, 1792, Washington called Wayne from 
 his retirement, and entrusted him with the command 
 of the American forces. With the poorest material, 
 the intrepid general began to organize his army at 
 Pittsburg. Most of the troops sent him were en- 
 tirely without any military experience; were gath- 
 ered up anywhere in the East, and had no stomach 
 for facing bloodthirsty Indians on the warpath. 
 Wayne seemed to have almost superhuman ability 
 in making conquering soldiers from any body of 
 men, and in imbuing them, after a few months, 
 with a fighting spirit, catching, as it were, the re- 
 flection of his own. He could teach them to stand 
 fire, trusting in the wisdom of his orders, or to 
 deliver a crushing charge with the lowered bayonet, 
 the favorite weapon of Mad Anthony for finishing 
 battles. He took his men some miles down the 
 Ohio River, encamped for the winter, and then 
 worked like a drill sergeant to get them into the 
 first semblance of a disciplined force. Officers were 
 inexperienced, most of those who were trained to 
 Indian fighting having perished in the rout of St. 
 Clair's army. 
 
 Spring found Wayne leading his now well drilled 
 battalions to Fort Washington (Cincinnati, Ohio). 
 His men had been taught many things not found 
 in the drill books of the old days of flint-lock and 
 muzzle-loader. They were instructed to load and fire 
 repeatedly as they charged to close quarters with 
 the bayonet; they were taught to load and fire while 
 running at top speed through the woods, without 
 resting the musket butts upon the ground. He 
 trained them to cheer together as they swept madly 
 147 
 
HISTORIC DEEDS OF DANGER AND DARING 
 
 forward on the ranks of an imaginary enemy. His 
 dragoons were compelled to ford rivers at the flood, 
 and, like the troopers of Frederick the Great, to 
 tide through, or over, anything. One amusing story 
 is told of his sending them sword in hand across 
 the private garden of a distinguished oificer, to the 
 damage of the cabbages, but to the increased ex- 
 perience of the cavalry. Every conceivable emer- 
 gency was thought out by Wayne, and his men 
 shown how to meet it. They grew in confidence 
 day by day, and in the minds of the troops there 
 was no doubt of the result when the time came to 
 measure their prowess with that of the enemy. 
 
 It was in August, 1794, that Wayne was to fight 
 his last battle and crush forever the power of the 
 tribes in the Northwest Territory. He camped on 
 the 18th at the head of the rapids at Roche de 
 Bout, built a small fort, and sent out scouts to 
 discover the whereabouts and numbers of the 
 enemy. He knew that they could not be far dis- 
 tant, as they were in communication with the 
 British fort. He discovered that they had forti- 
 fied themselves tit a spot called Fallen Timbers. A 
 tornado had swept through the woods some time 
 previously and left thousands of trees uprooted, 
 and as they lay with twisted and interlacing 
 branches it made an almost impenetrable abatis. 
 In these the enemy lay concealed, waiting for the 
 coming of the white warriors. At eight o'clock on 
 the morning of the nineteenth, the drums beat to 
 arms. Wayne was so ill that he was unable to 
 mount alone, and four men placed him in the sad- 
 dle. A battalion of mounted men from Kentucky 
 led the advance, and at six miles from the camp 
 saw the advance outposts of the enemy. The horse- 
 men at once charged in among the trees with a 
 ringing cheer, but the fire that met them forced 
 them back upon the supporting column. Wayne at 
 148 
 
ANTHONY WAYNE 
 
 once ordered General ^cott to force back the right 
 of the Indian line and the cavalry to attack their 
 left. Then raising his sword he gave the word to 
 charge. The infantry had formed in a long thin 
 line; the bugles blared, the drums beat, and with 
 a rolling cheer the men rushed headlong, jumped 
 over the logs and broken stumps, and bayoneted 
 the savages wherever they could be found. For 
 two miles they drove them belter skelter, even by 
 the English fort, and then the cava^iVy took up 
 the chase, hacking and hewing upon the rear of the 
 once proud warriors of Miami and Powatamie. 
 
 When the men rallied that night around their 
 victorious leader, only a few bands of skulking 
 savages, cowed and disheartened, were within many 
 miles of the battle field. Ever after in the language 
 of the red Pottawattamies was Wayne known as 
 the Tornado, for as such had he driven them as 
 the wind drives the red leaves of autumn, and by 
 the Miamis he was called the Black Snake who had 
 hunted them among the tree trunks of the forests. 
 
 After the victory Wayne built Fort Industry on 
 the spot where now stands the city of Toledo, Ohio. 
 With this post garrisoned he cleaned up the entire 
 valley of the Maumee. There were a great many 
 Indian villages and a vast number of corn fields 
 in the district, but these were destroyed to bring 
 the Indians to terms. At the head of the Maumee 
 he built Fort Wayne. He then went to Greenville, 
 where he encamped for the winter. 
 
 On August 3, 1T95, Wayne made a treaty with 
 fifteen tribes, its object being to put an end to 
 a. destructive war, and to settle all controversies. 
 It established a boundary line between the settlers 
 and the Indians, and its provisions were respected 
 for fifteen years. Wayne carefully explained all 
 points in the treaty so that there could be no doubt 
 in the minds of the warriors as to what they were 
 149 
 
HISTORIC DEEDS OF DANGER AND DARING 
 
 doing. Wayne told them, however, that they were 
 "children and no longer brothers." It was well 
 deserved. The treaty not only settled the Indian 
 question, but prevented a second war with Great 
 Britain, and led to the evacuation of the frontier 
 posts still held by the British soldiers. 
 
 The treaty of Greenville opened all the country 
 for settlement between the Great Lakes, the Ohio 
 and Mississippi Rivers, and was of epoch-making 
 importance. 
 
 In 1796 General Wayne was appointed to receive 
 the surrender of the British forts on American 
 territory, Congress having voted appropriations to 
 carry out the treaty made with England by Jay. 
 Wayne had saved the frontier, and the honor of 
 hoisting the stars and stripes over the fortifications 
 was one he well merited. He was received with the 
 greatest consideration by the British posts. In 
 November all of the transfers were completed, and 
 Wayne left Detroit for Presque Isle. While on the 
 way he was taken seriously ill. He was carried to 
 the fortress at Presque Isle, and everything possible 
 was done to alleviate his suffering. But all efforts 
 made by his devoted attendants were in vain, and 
 early in the morning of December 15, 1796, the 
 hero answered his last roll call. In accordance with 
 his own request he was buried by the flag-staff of 
 the fort, so that the colors he had served so faith- 
 fully and valiantly might still wave over him. 
 
 In 1809 his bones were disinterred, at the request 
 of his son. Colonel Isaac Wayne, and carried to 
 the old churchyard of St. David's, at Radnor, Penn- 
 sylvania. A monument was raised to his memory 
 by the Society of the Cincinnati, and at Erie a 
 monument and block-house, surmounted by a flag- 
 staff, have been built by the State of Pennsylvania, 
 above the spot where his body once rested. 
 
 R. S. B. 
 150 
 
MARINO FALIERO 
 
 ON the evening of the Thursday before I^ent, 
 in the year 1355, tlie Palace of the Doge of 
 Venice was flaring with the lights of a masqued 
 ball. A festival was in the ocean-city. The gondolas 
 of all her proudest palaces shot everywhere across 
 the glistening waters; and every gondola set down 
 a gorgeous company at the steps of St. Mark's 
 Place. The grand hall, where the Doge received 
 his guests, ablaze with lamps and torches, and hum- 
 ming with the strains of festal music, was thronged 
 that night with ail that was most gallant and most 
 beautiful in Venice. All the sights and sounds of 
 carnival were there; cavaliers and lovely ladies, 
 flowers and gems, magnificent attires, light feet 
 whirling in the dances, bright eyes gleaming through 
 the velvet masks. Venice — night — a masquerade ! 
 — who could dream that this was the first scene of 
 a most dark and awful drama? 
 
 Marino Faliero had been Doge of Venice hardly 
 more than half a year; but he was already an old 
 man. At the time of his election he was seventy- 
 six; and the long life on which he could look back 
 had been one brilliant course of triumphs. From 
 the proud and ancient house of Faliero two Doges 
 had, in former centuries, already sprung; but that 
 house could show no name more splendid than his 
 own. He had been a soldier — and had seen the 
 King of Hungary with eighty thousand men flee 
 before his army. He had been commander of the 
 fleet, and had forced the haughty standard of 
 Capo d'Istria to stoop before his flag. He had been 
 a senator, and had filled with high distinction all 
 151 
 
HISTORIC DEEDS OF DANGER AND DARING 
 
 the loftiest offices of state. He had been ambas- 
 sador at Genoa and at Rome. It was while on em- 
 bassy at the latter city that he received intelligence 
 of his election, during his absence, and without his 
 solicitation, to the crowning dignity of Doge. 
 
 But, high-born, brave and gifted as he was, 
 Faliero was not one of those fine spirits who bear 
 greatness with simplicity. His character, by nature 
 quick and fiery, had become, by life-long habits 
 of command, imperious, fierce and arrogant. Oppo- 
 sition, of whatever kind, aroused within him a tor- 
 nado of vindictive passion which swept everything 
 before it. No rival had been found of power enough 
 to stand before him; no opponent was so small as to 
 escape his anger. He resembled in courage, but not 
 in magnanimity, the lion who flies with savage joy 
 at the elephant or the tiger, but who disdains to 
 crush the mouse that runs across his paw. Once, in 
 a chapel at Trevisto, where the bishop kept him 
 waiting for the cup and wafer, he flew upon the 
 holy man and boxed his ears. Hotspur was not 
 more jealous in honor — Mercutio was not more 
 quick in quarrel — than the grey-bearded Doge. And 
 his jealous honor had one very vulnerable point. 
 He was an old man married to a young and lovely 
 wife. Such was the man who stood, that night, 
 amidst the bright assembly of his guests. It was, 
 although he little dreamed it, the last scene on earth 
 on which he was to look with peace of mind. 
 
 Among the masqueraders was a certain handsome 
 youth, a patrician of high rank, named Michael 
 Steno. Steno had selected as his partner one of 
 the Dogessa's waiting-ladies, into whose ears he was 
 now earnestly employed in breathing vows of ador- 
 ation. At length, he began to press his suit too 
 ardently. The dame drew back, in real or feigned 
 displeasure. The Doge beheld the little scene. With 
 eyes aflame, he strode up to the offender, and com- 
 152 
 
MARINO FALIERO 
 
 manded him, in full view of the bystanders, in- 
 stantly to quit the hall. 
 
 Michael Steno was one of the favorites of the 
 nation. He left the chamber; but his blood boiled 
 at the indignity which had so publicly been put 
 upon him. His oflFense — a trifling indecorum at 
 most — was one which the intoxication of the hour 
 might have excused. Raging with resentment, he 
 wandered aimlessly about the place. At length, 
 whether by design or accident, he found himself 
 alone in the great senate-hall — a hall which our 
 imagination peoples with immortal phantoms; the 
 ball where Portia pleaded, where Shylock whetted 
 his keen knife, and where Othello taught another 
 Doge and senate the charms which had won the 
 heart of Desdemona. 
 
 The hall, when Steno entered it, was lonely and 
 unlighted. Around the semicircle at the upper end 
 were set the seats of honor of the senators, arrayed 
 on each side of the Doge's throne. Steno, smitten 
 with a thought of vengeance, went forward in the 
 dusky light, and with a piece of chalk, such as the 
 dancers used to prevent their shoes from slipping 
 on the glassy floors, wrote up a dozen words, in 
 staring characters, across the Doge's throne. That 
 done, he stole away. 
 
 The masque broke up; the guests departed; and 
 Steno's handiwork remained undiscovered. But 
 early the next morning an official of the palace, on 
 entering the senate-chamber, was stunned with 
 horror and amazement at the sight of this inscrip- 
 tion, chalked across the throne in letters a foot 
 long: "The Doge has a lovely wife — but she is not 
 for him." The man, half-scared out of his senses, 
 went instantly to seek his master. Faliero hastened 
 to the council-chamber, and read with his own eyes 
 the startling words. What truth there was in Steno's 
 innuendo is not known; it was in all likelihood 
 153 
 
HISTORIC DEEDS OF DANGER AND DARING 
 
 groundless, and the result of pique; but the pois- 
 oned arrow of his vengeance struck the mark. The 
 effect of such an insult upon such a mind is not 
 to be described. Shj^^lock raging against Jessica — 
 Lear cursing in the tempest- -are but faint and 
 feeble types of Faliero as he looked upon the 
 writing on the throne. 
 
 It was not difficult to guess his enemy. An officer 
 was instantly sent out, and Michael Steno was ar- 
 rested. A tribunal of the Forty was convened 
 with speed; and the culprit was brought up before 
 his peers. Their task was easy. Steno instantly 
 admitted his offense, left the facts to answer for 
 themselves, and stood for judgment with a certain 
 nonchalance which was not without an air of dignity. 
 
 The court passed sentence of two months' impris- 
 onment, to be followed by a j^ear of exile. The 
 decree was certainly not too severe; for the fault 
 was gross and glaring. Yet the act had been a 
 freak of passing passion; the provocation had been 
 cruel; and the confession had been frank and open. 
 Nor was the punishment a light one. A patrician 
 locked up in a dungeon-cell suffered, in wounded 
 honor, far more than in privation; and a year of 
 exile was a bitter penance. On the whole, fairly 
 weighed, the sentence of the Signory hardly seems 
 to have erred grossly on the side of mercy. But 
 the Doge was blind with anger. He appears to 
 have taken it for granted that his insulter would 
 lose his head. The verdict stung him to the quick. 
 Instantly his rage was turned from Steno to the 
 Signory — to those false and wicked judges who had, 
 in order to protect their fellow, flagrantly betrayed 
 their trust. The white heat of his passion was of 
 a kind of which the colder races of the North can 
 hardly dream. In one moment the entire patrician 
 order became transfigured, in his eyes, to the like- 
 ness of a single mighty foe. 
 154 
 
MARINO FALIERO 
 
 No foe, however mighty, had ever yet opposed 
 him with success. But now, for the first time in his 
 long life, he found himself confronted by an adver- 
 sary more powerful than himself. The sense of 
 impotence increased his frenzy. His rage became 
 the image of Caligula's, when he wished that the 
 Roman people had a single head, that he might cut 
 it oflF. But with what weapon could he hope to 
 strike that many-headed Hydra, the Signory of 
 V^enice ? 
 
 In this temper he was brooding in his chamber, 
 that same evening, gloomy and alone, when a man 
 came panting to the palace gates, and desired to see 
 liim on a case of justice. The Doge bade him be 
 shown in; and speedily a startling figure stood be- 
 fore him. The man's dress was a plebeian's, torn 
 and ruffled; the blood was streaming down his face; 
 and the fierceness of his passion shook him like an 
 aspen, as he burst into a flood of angry speech. His 
 name was Israel Bertuccio; he was a workman in the 
 arsenal; he had quarreled with a certain noble of 
 high rank, who had struck him in the face. And he 
 appealed for justice. 
 
 "Justice !" said the Doge, with bitter emphasis, 
 "Justice against a member of the Signory ! I cannot 
 gain it for myself." 
 
 "Then/' said Bertuccio, fiercely, "We must avenge 
 ourselves — as I will." And he turned to leave the 
 chamber. 
 
 The man's implacable resentment struck in with 
 the Doge's humor. He called him back, encouraged 
 him to speak, and presently discovered, with a fierce 
 delight, that chance had put a weapon in his hands. 
 Bertuccio was a member of a secret brotherhood, 
 which held the Signory in deadly hatred. A thou- 
 sand fiery spirits of the lower class, stung to mad- 
 ness by a sense of wrongs, were ripe and ready for 
 revolt. Faliero heard this news with glittering eyes. 
 155 
 
HISTORIC DEEDS OF DANGER AND DARING 
 
 A gigantic scheme of vengeance rose before him. 
 Bertuccio's horde of plotters might be used; and he 
 resolved to use it. 
 
 Anger, like misery, acquaints a man with strange 
 companions. Hours went by; and still the pair of 
 strange associates sat together in the Doge's cham- 
 ber, deep in consultation. When at length Bertuccio 
 left the palace, it was late at night; and he was 
 imder an engagement to return in secret on the 
 night succeeding. 
 
 Night came; and Bertuccio, bringing with him a 
 companion, stole up the Doge's private stair. This 
 companion was Philippo Calendaro, a sculptor em- 
 ployed upon the palace buildings. The Doge, 
 attended by his nephew, Bertuce Faliero, was wait- 
 ing for them. These four men sat down together, 
 and drew up between them the details of the most 
 tremendous scheme of vengeance that ever filled the 
 brain of man. 
 
 Sixteen men, the fieriest spirits of the league, 
 were first selected for the part of leaders. Each 
 leader was to be assured of sixty followers, deter- 
 mined and well armed. At sunrise on the day 
 appointed, the great bell of St. Mark's — the bell 
 which never sounded except by order of the Doge 
 — was to peal a loud alarm; and at that signal, the 
 sixteen parties of conspirators, issuing from their 
 posts in various quarters of the city, were to flock 
 together to St. Mark's, crying aloud that the 
 Genoese fleet had been descried at sea. Then, as 
 the senators, roused by the tumult and summoned 
 by the bell, came hastily to council, they were to 
 be assailed in the Piazza, and cut down to the last 
 man. 
 
 Such was the Doge's scheme; a scheme without 
 a parallel in history; a plot in which a gray patri- 
 cian, crowned with age and honors, linked himself 
 with desperadoes against the lives of his 3wn peers, 
 156 
 
MARINO FALIERO 
 
 of men with whom for more than half a century 
 he had lived in close and friendly intercourse, with 
 whom he had drunk and feasted, sat in conference 
 and bled in battle. Anger, said the wise Greek, is 
 a brief madness. The annals of the world contain 
 no stranger instance than the plot of Faliero of the 
 madness which is anger in excess. 
 
 Three days were judged sufficient to complete 
 all preparations. It was then the 11th of April. 
 The hour of sunrise, April the 15th, was appointed 
 for the execution of the design. Bertuccio and 
 Calendaro went instantly to work. During the next 
 three days they toiled with speed and secrecy. The 
 leaders were selected ; the bands of myrmidons were 
 drilled and armed; the places of assembly were 
 arranged. If all proved true, the hours of the 
 proud Signory were numbered. And the hearts of 
 the conspirators beat high. 
 
 But there was one exception. One of their num- 
 ber was tormented by a conscience which would not 
 let him rest. This man was named Bertrando. By 
 trade he was a furrier; and among the nobles who 
 had brought his sable-skins and robes of ermine the 
 chief was Niccolo Lioni, a member of the Senate. 
 Lioni had not only bought Bertrando's furs, but had 
 shown him many favors; and Bertrando at this 
 crisis desired in gratitude to warn his patron of the 
 deadly peril that hung over him. But Bertrando 
 trembled to convey his warning. P^yes jealous of a 
 sign of wavering were around him; the knives of a 
 himdred desperadoes were ready, at an inkling of 
 his purpose, to plunge into his heart. Fifty times a 
 day he strove to screw his courage to the sticking- 
 place, and to face the hazard of discovery. But 
 time flew by; the day before the enterprise arrived; 
 the sun set — the sun which at his next arising was 
 to behold the stones of the Piazza heaped with 
 corpses and crimson with the noblest blood in 
 , 157 
 
HISTORIC DEEDS OF DANGER AND DARING 
 
 VenicCo And still Bertrando quaked and vacillated. 
 
 Midnight came; and now in a few flying hours I 
 the deed would be accomplished. Bertuccio, Calen- 
 daro, and the other leaders were at the waiting- 
 places with their gangs. Bertuce Faliero, watching 
 for the sun to peer above the gray lagoons, was 
 ready in the turret of St. Mark's to wake the voice 
 of the great bell. The Doge himself was in his 
 own apartment — waiting in sleepless solitude for the 
 signal which should sound the hour of his revenge. 
 
 At last the waverer had fixed his purpose. Ber- i 
 trando, muffled in a cloak and a slouched hat, aghast 
 lest a fellow-plotter should espy him, crept along 
 the byways of the city to Lioni's door. Lioni, when 
 Bertrando reached his palace, had not yet retired to 
 rest. A visit at that hour surprised him. He bade 
 his men admit the visitor, but to linger within call 
 in case of need; and Bertrando, slouched and muf- 
 fled to the eyes, was accordingly ushered into the 
 apartment. He paused till they were left alone ; and 
 then, with all the mystery of an oracle, gave forth 
 his voice of warning. "My Lord," he said, "it is 
 Bertrando come to warn you. Ask me no questions 
 — I can answer none. But as you love your life, 
 let nothing tempt you to go forth to-morrow." 
 
 If Bertrando expected his hearer to rest satisfied 
 with such a warning, his ignorance of human nature 
 must have been surprising. I^ioni, as was to be i 
 expected, instantly poured forth a stream of ques- 
 tions. What was the threatened danger? Why was 
 this need of mystery? Was there treason in the 
 wind? Bertrando answered not a word, but turned 
 away and would have left the room. But he mis- 
 took his patron's character in expecting to escape 
 so easily. Lioni's suspicions were now wide awake. 
 He raised his voice; his lackeys seized the conspira- 
 tor as he made his exit, and brought him back a 
 prisoner. "Come, Bertrando," said Lioni, "speak no 
 158 
 
MARINO FALIKRO 
 
 riddles. I must know all the windings of this mys- 
 tery before I let you go." 
 
 Bertrando, thus finding himself taken, resolved 
 to make a virtue of necessity. He bargained, not 
 only for his safety, but to be well rewarded for his 
 service. If he turned king's evidence to save the 
 State, it was but just that he should have his recom- 
 pense. Lioni gave his pledge ; and Bertrando, throw- 
 ing off his air of mystery, told everything he knew. 
 
 Lioni listened in amazement. There was not an 
 instant to be lost. Leaving Bertrando still a pris- 
 oner, he drew his mantle round him, and hurried 
 forth into the night. He first aroused another 
 senator, named Gradenigo; and the pair then stole 
 together to the house of Marc Conaro. These three 
 nobles, creeping stealthily as thieves from house to 
 house, rapidly roused all the members of the Coun- 
 cil. They assembled, in the dead of night, in a 
 chamber in the Convent of St. Saviour's. Bertrando 
 was brought in; and the Signory of Venice heard, 
 with inexpressible amazement, of the sword that had 
 been hanging by a thread above their heads. 
 
 All had been done so quietly that none of the 
 conspirators had received the least alarm. It was 
 now near morning; already a crimson tinge was 
 glowing in the east. Two bands of guards were 
 instantly sent out; one to the Doge's palace, the 
 other to St. Mark's Tower. 
 
 The Doge was sitting, at that breathless hour, 
 alone in his apartment, straining his ears for the 
 expected bell. The signal of alarm delayed to 
 sound; but as he vainly listened for its summons, 
 another sound struck on his ear — a sound that 
 checked the current of his blood. It was the tramp 
 of men-at-arms along the corridor outside his cham- 
 ber. In a moment more, the door flew open, and 
 he was in the grasp of soldiers. 
 
 And all was lost; and hope had vanished in an 
 159 
 
HISTORIC DEEDS OF DANGER AND DARING 
 
 instant; and all that now remained was to endure 
 with lofty fortitude what was to follow. The plot 
 had failed ; the dream was • over. He was in the 
 hands of those whom he had plotted to destroy. 
 
 It was held fitting that an offender of such emi- 
 nence should answer to his charge before a more 
 august tribunal than the hasty council gathered at 
 the Convent of St. Saviour's. His captors therefore 
 left him, for the time, alone in his own chamber, 
 the door of which was kept by a strong guard, 
 there to experience, in the sense of failure, an expia- 
 tion which, to such a spirit, must have been far 
 bitterer than the bitterness of death. 
 
 Meantime, Bertuccio and Calendaro were brought 
 in chains before the council. They had been seized 
 among their gangs with weapons in their hands. 
 At first, on being questioned, they refused to speak. 
 But a rack was brought; the prisoners were 
 stretched upon it; the rollers began to turn and the 
 cords to tighten; and speedily, with gasps and 
 groans, the details of the plot came out. When the 
 coimcil had learned everything they wished, the 
 ropes were loosened, and the culprits carried to a 
 cell. But their respite was of short duration. As 
 soon as the day had dawned, a gibbet was erected 
 in a gallery of the ducal palace overlooking the 
 Piazza; and soon the whispering and excited crowd 
 saw the conspirators brought forth to die. The 
 bodies, left to hang like scarecrows, as a terror to 
 all traitors, were long to be seen twirling in the 
 wind. 
 
 More than four hundred of their companions 
 were arrested; but the punishment of these was for 
 a while delayed. For now the great culprit was to 
 come to judgment. The preparations for his trial 
 at once began. A tribunal of peculiar dignity was 
 formed. The Council of Ten, by whom all crimes 
 against the State were tried, elected twenty of the 
 160 
 
MARINO FALIERO 
 
 Signory to sit in consultation with them. The court 
 of thirty judges thus composed was known by the 
 title of the Giunta. 
 
 By the time that all was ready, it was evening. 
 The Doge's door was opened ; he was conducted, 
 in the midst of soldiers, to the hall of council; and 
 the mighty traitor stood among the men whom he 
 had schemed to massacre. It was a scene to put 
 to proof the sternest spirit. The hall was crowded 
 with familiar faces; among them many which, a 
 week before, had worn the smiles of guests at his 
 own festival. But every face was now morose and 
 scowling. Eyes were glittering with the fire of 
 hatred. Voices wexe muttering that he should be 
 racked. There was not one among the thirty judges 
 — there was, perhaps, not one in all the crowd of 
 gazers, who, had the plot succeeded, would not at 
 that hour have been a corpse. 
 
 But neither altered faces, nor the imminence of 
 death itself, could shake the fiery spirit of the 
 Doge. In truth, no penalty could now disturb I'm 
 — and death the least of all. His care for life was 
 over. From the instant when the soldiers of the 
 Signory had burst into his chamber, life had no 
 more to offer. He had staked everythinar upon 
 the hazard of the die— and everythin^r was lost. All 
 this world and all the glory of it had vanished 
 from him like an exhalation. He had fallen, like 
 Lucifer, for ever from his high estate. He knew it 
 well; and he looked round upon the faces of his 
 foes with stern composure, as of one beyond the 
 reach of hope or fear. 
 
 The President of the Council rose, and demanded 
 of the prisoner whether he confessed the charge 
 against him. Faliero answered, with contemptuous 
 brevity, that the charge was true. The interroga- 
 tion, and indeed the trial itself, was but the form 
 and pageantry of justice. His guilt was manifest. 
 161 
 
HISTORIC DEEDS OF DANGER AND DARING 
 
 One of his accomplices had turned informer; two 
 others had confessed upon the rack. To all intents 
 and purposes, his doom was sealed before the court 
 assembled. 
 
 And nothing now remained but to proceed to 
 judgment. The thirty judges were agreed upon 
 their sentence. Every voice among the thirty was 
 for death. The culprit was to be conducted to 
 the landing of the Giants' Stairs, and there to be 
 beheaded. The place of execution was not idly 
 chosen. It was the spot on which succeeding Doges 
 were, by ancient custom, invested, in the midst of 
 pomp and splendor, with the robe and crown of 
 state. 
 
 But the sentence of the Senators contained yet 
 another count. The place of the prisoner's portrait 
 in the Hall of Council was to be left void, and veiled 
 with black. More than five hundred years have 
 passed since that decree was spoken; but still the 
 line of painted Doges in the council-hall of Venice 
 contains not one of so profound and strange an 
 interest as the veil of vacant black which fills, in 
 place of portrait, the space of Marino Faliero, 
 Doge and Traitor. 
 
 It was now late at night. The prisoner was con- 
 ducted back to his apartment, where he was left 
 alone with his confessor. The minutes of his life 
 were numbered. At daybreak the next morning, he 
 must die. 
 
 At sunrise all the city was astir. The gates below 
 the Giants' Stairs were closed and fastened; but a 
 vast crowd thronged the Piazzetta, and fought for 
 places at the grated bars. Thence could be plainly 
 seen the landing of the topmost stair — the spot 
 where, only a few months before, the head that now 
 had stooped as low as death, had put on the Doge's 
 crown. Now, all the place was draped and hung with 
 black; and in the center stood the block and sword. 
 
MARINO FALIERO 
 
 And now the sun was rising, and the hour was 
 come. The mournful train emerged from the in- 
 terior of the palace, and came out upon the landing 
 of the, stair. First appeared the members of the 
 Ten, the Senate, and the Forty; then came a guard 
 of soldiers; and then the fallen Doge. His confes- 
 sor, holding up the crucifix, walked at his right 
 hand. At his left hand marched the headsman. It 
 was observed that the prisoner still wore the ducal 
 cap and robe. It had been ordered by the Council 
 that he should carry to the scene of infamy these 
 emblems of his lost supremacy. It was their pur- 
 pose to afflict that haughty spirit with a last humil- 
 iation. As he reached the block, the headsman 
 stripped the sovereign mantle from his shoulders and 
 plucked the crown of empire from his brows. At 
 the same moment, the great bell of St. Mark's— 
 the bell designed to sound the doom of his opponents 
 — began to toll the knell for his own death. 
 
 The Doge threw himself upon his knees and laid 
 his head upon the block. As the headsman raised 
 his sword, the gates below were thrown wide open. 
 The crowd rushed in with tumult— and saw the 
 gray head rolling down the Giants' Steps. 
 
 163 
 
CHEVALIER BAYARD 
 
 PIERRE DU TERRAIL was born in 14T6, at 
 Castle Bayard in Dauphiny, France The 
 house of Terrail belonged to the Scarlet of the an- 
 cient peers of France. The Lords of Bayard, dur- 
 ing many generations, had died under the flags of 
 battle. Poictiers, Agincourt, and Montlehery had 
 taken in succession the last three; and in 1479, when 
 Pierre was in his nurse's arms, his father, Aymon 
 du Terrail, was carried from the field of Guinegate 
 with a frightful wound, from the effects of which, 
 although he survived for seventeen years to limp 
 about his castle with the help of sticks, he never 
 again put on his shirt of mail. 
 
 The old knight was thus debarred from bringing 
 up his son as his own squire. But the Bishop of 
 Grenoble, his wife's brother, was a close friend of 
 Charles the Warrior, the great Duke of Savoy. 
 When Pierre was in his fourteenth year, it was pro- 
 posed that he should begin his knightly education 
 among the pages of the Duke. The Bishop promised 
 to present him. A little horse was brought; a 
 tailor was set to work to make a gorgeous suit of 
 silk and velvet; and Pierre was r'^ady to set out. 
 On the morning of his departure all the inmates of 
 the castle were called together, and looked with 
 wonder and delight on the little cavalier, his cap 
 decked with a gay feather and his eyes bright with 
 pride, making his small steed gallop and curvet 
 about the castle court. The scene is one to be re- 
 membered. It must be borne in mind that those 
 were the days of Knighthood, and that courage and 
 
 In 
 164 
 
CHEVALIER BAYARD 
 
 after days, nothing so much delighted lords and 
 ladies as the memory of little Bayard caracoling on 
 his steed. 
 
 His father gave the boy his blessing; his mother 
 put into his hand a little purse containing six gold 
 crowns; and Pierre set off beside the Bishop to the 
 Duke's palace at Chambery. Duke Charles, with a 
 company of knights and ladies, had left the banquet- 
 table and was sitting in an open gallery, when Pierre 
 came prancing over the sward beneath them. The 
 Duke was enchanted. The Bishop's proposal was 
 eagerly accepted, and Pierre was at once enrolled in 
 the list of the Duke's pages. 
 
 During six months the palace at Chambery became 
 his home. The lovable and handsome boy soon won 
 all hearts about him. The Duke with delight saw 
 him leap and wrestle, throw the bar, and ride a 
 horse, better than any page about the court. The 
 Duchess and her ladies loved to send him on their 
 dainty missions. His temper was bright and joyous; 
 his only fault, if fault it can be called, was an over- 
 generosity of nature. His purse was always empty; 
 and when he had no money, any trifling service of 
 a lackey or a groom would be requited with a silver 
 button, a dagger, or a clasp of gold. And such was 
 to be his character through life. Time after time, 
 in after years, his share of treasure, after some 
 great victory, would have paid a prince's ransom; 
 yet often he could not lay his hand on five gold 
 pieces. 
 
 When Pierre had lived at the palace about half a 
 year, the Duke made a visit to Lyons, to pay his 
 duty to the French King. That king was Charles the 
 Eighth, then a boy of twenty, who was making his 
 days fly merrily with tilts and hawking-parties, and 
 his nights with dances and the whispers of fair 
 dames. The Duke desired to carry with him to 
 his sovereign a present worthy of a King's accept- 
 165 
 
ance. A happy notion struck him. He resolved 
 to present the King with Ba3^ard and his horse. 
 
 King Charles had a frequent custom of sailing up 
 the Saone to Ainay, to the meadows where the tour- 
 naments were held. There the young Bayard made his 
 first appearance. The King, the moment he drew 
 rein, cried out in ecstasy over his horsemanship: 
 "Piquez, piquez ! — spur again !" The crowd of 
 knights and equerries caught up the words; and, 
 amidst a storm of voices crying "piquez," the bold 
 and graceful boy flew round the field. That day 
 he gained a new name and a new master. Thence- 
 forth, all his companions called him Piquez; and his 
 master was the King. 
 
 Charles placed his new page Piquez in the palace 
 of Lord Ligny, a prince of the great house of 
 Luxemburg; and there for three years he continued 
 to reside. During that time his training was the 
 usual training of a page. But the child was the 
 father of the man. Thoughts of great deeds, of 
 tilts and battle-fields, of champions going down 
 before his lance, of crowns of myrtle — such already 
 were the dreams which set his soul on fire. 
 
 At seventeen, Pierre received the rank of gentle- 
 man. Thenceforward he was free to follow his own 
 fortune; he was free to seek the fame of his dreams 
 — a fame as bright and sparkling as his sword. 
 And thereupon begins to pass before us, brilliant 
 as the long-drawn scenes of a dissolving-view, the 
 strange and splendid series of his exploits. He 
 had not ceased to be a page ten days before the 
 court was ringing with his name. 
 
 Sir Claude de Vauldre, Lord of Burgundy, was 
 regarded as the stoutest knight in France. He was 
 then at Lyons, and was about to hold a tilt, with 
 lance and battle-ax, before the ladies and the King. 
 His shield was hanging in the Ainay meadows; and 
 beside it Mont joy, the King-at-arms, sat all day 
 166 
 
CHEVALIER BAYARD 
 
 with his book open, taking down the names of those 
 who struck the shield. Among these came Piquez. 
 Montjoy laughed as he wrote down his name; the 
 King, Lord Ligny, and his own companions, heard 
 with mingled trepidation and delight that Piquez 
 had struck the blazon of Sir .Claude. But no one 
 had a thought of what was coming. The day 
 arrived, the tilt was held, and Piquez, by the voice 
 of all, bore oflF the prize above the head of every 
 knight in Lyons. 
 
 The glory of this exploit was extreme. It quickly 
 spread. Three days later. Bayard went to join the 
 garrison at Ayre. He found, as he rode into the 
 little town, that the fame of his achievement had 
 arrived before him. Heads were everywhere thrust 
 out of windows; and a band of fifty of his future 
 comrades issued on horseback from the garrison to 
 bid him welcome. A few days after his arrival, he 
 held a tilt in his own person, after the example 
 of Sir Claude. The prizes were a diamond and a 
 clasp of gold. Forty-eight of his companions struck 
 his shield, and rode into the lists against him. Bay- 
 ard overthrew the whole band one by one, and was 
 once more hailed at sunset by the notes of trumpets 
 as the champion of the Tourney. 
 
 It is not in tournaments and tilts, however, that a 
 knight can win his spurs. Bayard burned for battle. 
 For many months he burned in vain; but at last the 
 banners of the King were given to the wind, and 
 Bayard, to his delight, found himself marching 
 under Lord Ligny against Naples. 
 
 The two armies faced each other at Fornova. 
 The odds against the French were heavy, and the 
 fight was long and bloody. When the victory was 
 at last decided. Bayard was among the first of 
 those called up before the King. That day, two 
 horses had dropped dead beneath him; his cuirass 
 and his sword were hacked and battered; and a 
 167 
 
HISTORIC DEEDS OF DANGER AND DARING 
 
 captured standard, blazing with the arms of Naples, 
 was in his hand. At the King's order, he knelt 
 down, and received upon the spot the rank of 
 knight. At one bound he had achieved the height 
 of glory — to be knighted by his sovereign on the 
 field of" battle. 
 
 Bayard was not yet nineteen. His figure at that 
 age was tall and slender; his hair and eyes were 
 black; his complexion was a sunny brown; and his 
 countenance had something of the eagle's. 
 
 He was now for some time idle. He was left in 
 garrison at Lombardy; and at Carignan, in Pied- 
 mont, was the palace of the Duchess of Savoy, the 
 widow of that Charles the Warrior who had been 
 his former master. Bayard visited the Duchess, 
 and discovered at her palace, among other old ac- 
 quaintances, a young lady with whom, when he had 
 been a page, he had exchanged vows of everlasting 
 love. Three years had passed since they had met; 
 but the former lovers still found themselves fast 
 friends. After supper, while the rest were dancing, 
 they talked of old times together in a corner. The 
 lady had heard of Bayard's feat of arms against 
 Sir Claude de Vauldre; and Bayard vowed that 
 before he left the palace he would hold a tourney 
 of the same kind in her honor. 
 
 Next day, a trumpeter proclaimed his challenge 
 through the neighboring towns. The prize of vic- 
 tory was to be a lady's token, together with a ruby 
 worth a hundred ducats. Fifteen knights took up 
 the challenge; and four days later the event was 
 held. Bayard, led by his lady in a golden chain, 
 and wearing her ribbon flying from his crest, ap- 
 peared, for the first time, in the noble vesture of 
 a knight-at-arms — the figured armor, the white 
 floating plume, the scarlet mantle, and the spurs of 
 gold. A gorgeous company sat round the lists and 
 watched the progress of the contest. The result 
 168 
 
CHEVALIER BAYARD 
 
 was the counterpart of the tilt at Ayre. Bayard 
 overthrew all his assailants, won the tournament, 
 and kept his lady's token. 
 
 But fierier fields were soon to call him. Ludovico 
 Sforza took Milan. At Binasco, Lord Bernardino 
 Cazache, one of Sforza's captains, had three hun- 
 dred horse; and twenty miles from Milan was 
 Bayard's place of garrison. With fifty of his com- 
 rades hfe rode out one morning, bent on assaulting 
 Lord Bernardino's force. The latter, warned by a 
 scout of their approach, armed his party, and 
 rushed fiercely from the fort. The strife was fought 
 with fury; but the Lombards, slowly driven back 
 towards Milan, at length wheeled round their horses 
 and galloped like the wind into the city. 
 
 Bayard, darting in his spurs, waving his bare 
 blade, and shouting out his battle-cry of "France,'* 
 was far ahead of his companions^ Before he knew 
 his danger, he had dashed in with the fugitives at 
 the city gates, and reached the middle of the square 
 in front of Sforza's palace. He found himself 
 alone in the midst of the fierce enemy — with the 
 White Crosses of Frances emblazoned on his shield ! 
 
 Sforza, hearing a tremendous uproar in the 
 square, came to a window of the palace and looked 
 down. The square was swarming with the soldiers 
 of Binasco, savage, hacked, and bloody; and in the 
 center of the yelling tumult, Bayard, still on horse- 
 back, was slashing at those who strove to pull him 
 from his seat. 
 
 Sforza, in a voice of thunder, bade the knight be 
 brought before him. Bayard, seeing that resistance 
 was mere madness, surrendered to Lord Bernardino, 
 and was led, disarmed, into the palace. Sforza was 
 a soldier more given to the ferocity than to the 
 courtesies of war. But when the young knight 
 stood before him, when he heard his story, when 
 he looked upon his bold yet modest bearing, the 
 169 
 
HISTORIC DEEDS OF DANGER AND DARING 
 
 fierce and moody prince was moved to admiration. 
 "Lord Bayard," he said, "I will not treat you as a 
 prisoner. I set you free; I will take no ransom; 
 and I will grant you any favor in my power." 
 "My Lord Prince," said Bayard, "I thank you for 
 your courtesy with all my soul. I will ask you only 
 for my horse and armor." The horse was brought; 
 Bayard sprang into the saddle; and an hour later 
 was received by his companions with raptures of 
 surprise and joy, as one who had come alive out of 
 the lion's den. 
 
 Milan fell; Sforza was taken; and Bayard went 
 into garrison at Monervino. At Andri, some miles 
 distant, was a Spanish garrison under the command 
 of Don Alonzo de Sotomayor, one of the most 
 famous knights in Spain. Bayard, with fifty men, 
 rode out one morning, in the hope of falling in with 
 some adventure. It happened that he came across 
 Alonzo, with an equal party, abroad on the same 
 quest. Their forces met; both sides flew joyously 
 to battle; and for an hour the victory hung in the 
 balance. But at last Bayard, with his own sword, 
 forced Alonzo to surrender; and liis party, carrying 
 with them a large band of prisoners, rode back in 
 triumph to the garrison. 
 
 The best apartments in the castle were assigned 
 to Don Alonzo. No guard was put upon him; and 
 Bayard demanded only his parole not to escape. 
 Alonzo, thus put upon his word of honor, broke 
 his pledge. He bribed a rogue named Theode, an 
 Albanian, to be ready with a horse at sunrise at the 
 castle gates, stole out in the gray morning, and was 
 off before the garrison was stirring. He had been 
 gone two hours when Bayard discovered his escape. 
 Le Basque, a man of great trust, strength, and 
 spirit, sprang on a swift horse, spurred after the 
 fugitive, came up with him two miles from Andri, 
 as he was stopping on the road to mend his horse's 
 170 
 
CHEVALIER BAYARD 
 
 girths, and brought him back a prisoner. Bayard 
 trusted no further to Alonzo's honor. The captive 
 was locked up in a tower; and there, until his 
 ransom, of a thousand crowns, arrived from Andri 
 ten days later, he remained. 
 
 Sotomayor, on his release, beguiled his friends at 
 Andri with a completely false account of his cap- 
 tivity. Bayard, he said, had used him badly — a 
 statement which excited much surprise. A soldier 
 of Bayard's garrison, who had been a prisoner at 
 Andri, brought him the tidings of Alonzo's infamy. 
 Bayard, though at that moment he was shaking 
 with the ague, instantly dispatched a herald, charg- 
 ing Alonzo to confess that he had lied, or to prepare 
 to meet him in the lists of battle. Alonzo replied 
 with insolence, and the combat was fixed to take 
 plfice within twelve days. 
 
 The day came; the lists were set; and Bayard, 
 dressed entirely in white velvet, and attended by a 
 crowd of lords and knights, appeared upon the 
 ground. The contest was to have been decided 
 upon horseback; but Don Alonzo, at the last mo- 
 ment, declared that he would fight on foot. The 
 antagonists, accordingly, armed with sword and 
 dagger, and wearing no armor but a gorget and a 
 cap of steel, advanced on foot into the lists. 
 
 The clarions sounded; both combatants threw 
 themselves upon their knees and breathed a prayer 
 to Heaven; then rose, made the sign of the cross, 
 and advanced towards each other. At the distance 
 of a dozen paces they stood still, and gave the 
 question and reply: "I^ord Bayard, what do you 
 demand of me?" "I demand," responded Bayard, 
 "to defend my honor." Then they met. 
 
 The partisans of each looked on in breathless 
 
 silence. It was a combat to the death between 
 
 two skilful swordsmen; and for some time the strife 
 
 seemed equal. All at once, Alonzo made a pass 
 
 171 
 
HISTORIC DEEDS OF DANGER AND DARING 
 
 which left his throat exposed. In an instant, Bay- 
 ard's weapon struck him, went clean through his 
 gorget, and stood out behind his neck. A cry of 
 rage and consternation went up from the Spaniards. 
 The fight was over. Don Alonzo, with the sword 
 still in his throat, hurled himself upon the victor, 
 dragged him to the ground, and fell upon him — 
 dead. 
 
 The Spaniards, grim and scowling, carried oif 
 their champion. Bayard, who would willingly have 
 spared his life, looked sorrowfully upon the body. 
 But his companions, wild with triumph, set all their 
 banners flying and their bugles singing, and bore 
 him off the field in exidtation. 
 
 A few days later, the Spaniards, panting for 
 reprisal, proposed to meet a party of the French in 
 combat, for the glory of their nations. Bayard 
 received the challenge with delight. On the ap- 
 pointed day, thirteen knights of either side, glitter- 
 ing in full harness, armed with sword and battle- 
 ax, and prepared to contest to the death, rode forth 
 into the lists. 
 
 By the laws of such a tilt, a knight unhorsed, or 
 forced across the boundary, became a prisoner, and 
 could fight no longer. The Spaniards, with great 
 cunning, set themselves to maim the horses; and by 
 these tactics, eleven of the French were soon dis- 
 mounted. Two alone were left to carry on the con- 
 test. Bayard and Lord Orose. 
 
 Then followed such a feat-of-arms as struck the 
 gazers dumb. For four hours these two held good 
 their ground against the whole thirteen. The Span- 
 iards, stung with rage and shame, spurred till their 
 heels dripped blood. In vain. Night fell; the 
 bugles soimded; and still the unconquerable pair 
 rode round the ring. 
 
 But great as this feat was, it was soon to be 
 succeeded by a greater. A few weeks afterwards, 
 173 
 
CHEVALIER BAYARD 
 
 the French and Spanish camps were posted on 
 opposite sides of the river Gargliano. Between 
 them was a bridge, in the possession of the French; 
 and some way further down the river was a ford, 
 known only to the Spanish general, Pedro de Paez. 
 A stranger-looking knight than Pedro never sat a 
 horse. He was a dwarf a yard in height, with a 
 hump like a camel's on his back, and a frame so 
 small and wizen that when he was hoisted up into 
 his huge saddle nothing but his head appeared 
 above it. But within this grotesque figure dwelt 
 the cunning of the fox. Paez proposed to lure the 
 French guards from the bridge, and then to seize 
 it. And his stratagem was ready. 
 
 Early in the morning the French soldiers at the 
 bridge were startled to perceive a party of the 
 enemy, each horseman bearing a foot-soldier on his 
 crupper, approach the river at the ford and begin to 
 move across it. Instantly, as Paez had intended, 
 they left the bridge and rushed towards the spot. 
 Bayard, attended by Le Basque, was in the act of 
 putting on his armor. He sprang into the saddle, 
 and was about to spur after his companions, when 
 he perceived, across the river, a party of two hun- 
 dred Spaniards making for the bridge. The danger 
 was extreme; for if the bridge were taken the camp 
 itself would be in the most deadly peril. Bayard 
 bade Le Basque gallop for his life to bring assist- 
 ance. And he himself rode forward to the bridge,, 
 alone. 
 
 The Spaniards, on seeing a solitary knight ad- 
 vance against them, laughed loudly at his folly. 
 Their foremost horsemen were already half-way 
 over, when Bayard, with his lance in rest, came fly- 
 ing down upon them. His onset swept the first 
 three off the bridge into the river; and instantly 
 the rest, with cries of vengeance, rushed furiously 
 upon him. Bayard, not to be surrounded, backed 
 173 
 
HISTORIC DEEDS OF DANGER AND DARING 
 
 his horse against the railing of the bridge, rose up 
 in his stirrups, swung his falchion with both hands 
 above his head, and lashed out with such fury that 
 with every blow a bloody Spaniard fell into the 
 river, and the whole troop recoiled in wonder and 
 dismay, as if before a demon. While they still 
 stood, half-dazed, two hundred glaring at one man, 
 a shout was heard, and Le Basque, with a band of 
 horsemen, was seen approaching like a whirlwind. 
 In two minutes, the Spaniards were swept back 
 upon the land in hopeless rout — and the French 
 camp was saved. 
 
 Bayard received for this great feat the blazon of 
 a porcupine, with this inscription, Unus agmini.s 
 vires habet — "One man has the might of an army." 
 
 And still came exploit after exploit in succession 
 — exploits of every kind of fiery daring. At Genoa, 
 when the town revolted. Bayard stormed the fort of 
 the insurgents, quelled the riot, forced the city to 
 surrender, and hanged the leader. At Agnadello, 
 against the troops of Venice, he waded with his 
 men through fens and ditches, took the picked bands 
 of Lord d'Alvicino on the flank, scattered them to 
 the winds, and won the day. At Padua, during the 
 long seige, he scoured the country with his band of 
 horse, and frequently rode back to camp at night- 
 fall with more prisoners than armed men. At Mi- 
 randola, where he faced the Papal armies, he laid 
 a scheme to take the Pope himself. A snow-storm 
 kept the fiery Julius in his tent, and thus saved 
 him. A few days afterwards the pontiff's life was 
 in his hands. A traitor offered, for a purse of gold, 
 to poison the Pope's wine. But Bayard was not a 
 knight who would fight with poison; and the slippery 
 Judas had to flee in terror from the camp, or 
 Bayard would infallibly have hanged him. 
 
 So far, amidst his life of perils. Bayard had 
 escaped without a wound. But now his time had 
 174 
 
CHEVALIER BAYARD 
 
 come. Brescia was taken by the troops of Venice, 
 Gaston de Foix, the "Thunderbolt of Italy," marched 
 with twelve thousand men to its relief. Bayard 
 was among them. At the head of the storming- 
 party he was first across the ramparts, and was 
 turning round to cheer his men to victory when a 
 pike struck him in the thigh. The shaft broke 
 off, and the iron head remained imbedded in the 
 wound. 
 
 Two of his archers caught him as he fell, bore 
 him out of the rush of battle, and partly stanched 
 the wound by stripping up the linen of their shirts. 
 They then tore down a door, on which they laid 
 him, and bore him to a mansion close at hand. The 
 master of the house, who seems to have been a 
 person of more wealth than valor, had disappeared, 
 and was thought to be hiding somewhere in a con- 
 vent, leaving his wife and his two daughters to 
 themselves. The girls had fled ir.to a hay-loft, and 
 hid themselves beneath the hay, but, on the thunder- 
 ous knocking of the archers, the lady of the house 
 came trembling to the door. Bayard was carried 
 in, a surgeon was luckily discovered close at hand, 
 and the pike-head was extracted. The wound was 
 pronounced to be not dangerous. But Bayard, to 
 his great vexation, found that he was doomed to lie 
 in idleness for several weeks. 
 
 According to the laws of war, the house was his, 
 and all the inmates were his prisoners. And the 
 fact was well for them. Outside the house existed 
 such a scene of horror as, even in that age, was 
 rare. Ten thousand men lay dead in the great 
 square; the city was given up to pillage; and it is 
 said that the conquerers gorged themselves that day 
 with booty worth three million crowns. The troops 
 were drunk with victory and plunder. Bayard set 
 his archers at the doorway. His name was a talis- 
 man against the boldest; and in the midst of the 
 175 
 
HISTORIC DEEDS OF DANGER AND DARING 
 
 fierce tumult that raged all round it, the house in 
 which he lay remained a sanctuary of peace. 
 
 The ladies of the house were soon reassured. 
 Bayard refused to regard them as his prisoners or 
 to take a coin of ransom. The daughters, two 
 lovely and accomplished girls, were delighted to 
 attend the wounded knight. They talked and sang 
 to him. In such society the hours flew lightly by. 
 ^i'he wound healed; and in six weeks Bayard was 
 himself again. 
 
 On the day of his departure the lady of the 
 house came into his apartment, and besought him, 
 as their preserver, to accept a certain little box of 
 steel. The box contained two thousand five hun- 
 dred golden ducats. Bayard took it. "But five 
 hundred ducats," he said, "I desire you to divide 
 for me among the nuns whose convents have been 
 pillaged." Then turning to her daughters, "La- 
 dies," he said, "I owe you more than thanks for 
 your kind care of me. Soldiers do not carry with 
 them pretty things for ladies; but I pray each of 
 you to accept from me a thousand ducats, to aid 
 your marriage portions." And with that he poured 
 the coins into their aprons. 
 
 His horse was brought, and he was about to 
 mount, when the girls came stealing down the steps 
 into the castle court, each with a little present, 
 worked by their own hands, which they desired him 
 to accept. One brought a pair of armlets, made of 
 gold and silver thread; the other, a purse of crim- 
 son satin. And this was all the spoil that Bayard 
 carried from the great wealth of Brescia — the little 
 keepsakes of two girls whom he had saved. 
 
 The scenes of Bayard's life at which we have 
 been glancing have been chiefly those of his great 
 feats of arms. And so it must be still; for it is 
 these of which the details have survived in history. 
 And yet it was such incidents as these at Brescia 
 176 
 
CHEVALIER BAYARD 
 
 which made the fame of Bayard what it was, and 
 what it is. To his foes, he was the jflower of 
 chivalry; but to his friends he was, besides, the 
 most adored of men. It is said that in his native 
 province of Dauphiny, at his death, more than a 
 hundred ancient soldiers owed to him the roofs 
 that covered their old age; that more than a hun- 
 dred orphan girls had received their marriage 
 portions from his bounty. But of such acts the 
 vast majority are unrecorded; for these are not the 
 deeds which shine in the world's eye. 
 
 Gaston de Foix with his army was now before 
 Ravenna. Bayard rode thither with all speed; he 
 was just in time. Two days after his arrival came 
 the battle. Weak though he still was from his long 
 illness, Bayard on that day was seen, as ever, "shin- 
 ing above his fellgw-men." He turned the tide of 
 victory; he tore two standards from the foe with 
 his own hand; and he was first in the pursuit. 
 
 He emerged from the great strife unscathed; but 
 he nearly lost a friend. The horse which he was 
 riding was a favorite called Carmen — a steed al- 
 most as accomplished as the Bucephalus of Alexan- 
 der, or as the speaking Xanthus of Achilles. In 
 the thick of the battle, it was said, he would fight 
 with fury, would shake a foeman like a mastiff, 
 and break swords and lances with his teeth. When 
 the fight was over, he would stand before the sur- 
 geon to have his wounds dressed like a man. In 
 this battle Carmen fell, and with two pike wounds 
 in his flank, and more than twenty sword-cuts on 
 his head, was left for dead upon the field. Bayard's 
 sorrow was extreme; but the next morning, to his 
 great delight. Carmen was found grazing, and began 
 to neigh. The animal was brought into his master's 
 tent, his wounds were dressed, and he was soon as 
 well as ever. 
 
 Two months after, Bayard was at Pavia. The 
 177 
 
HISTOKIC DEEDS OF DANGER AND DARING 
 
 little troop with which he was then serving had 
 there sought refuge under Louis d'Ars. The armies 
 of the Swiss burst in upon them. Bayard, with a 
 handful of soldiers in the market-place, held, for 
 two hours, their whole force at bay, while his 
 companions were retreating from the town across a 
 bridge of boats. As he himself was crossing, last 
 of all, a shot struck him in the shoulder, and 
 stripped it to the bone. No surgeon was at hand. 
 The wound, roughly stanched with moss, brought 
 on a fever, and for some time he lay in danger of 
 his life. 
 
 When next he buckled on his battle-harness, it 
 was to play a part in that renowned encounter 
 which is known in English history as "the Battle of 
 the Spurs." Henry the Eighth of England had laid 
 seige to Therouane. Bayard was among the army 
 sent to raise the seige. Lord Piennes, the com- 
 mander of the expedition, weakly halted for some 
 days in sight of the besieging camp. While he 
 wavered and procrastinated. Bayard devised an 
 expedition of his own. It happened that the Eng- 
 lish had a dozen cannon, which the King had 
 christened by the names of the Apostles, from St. 
 Matthew down to Judas. Bayard mustered a small 
 band, darted out of camp, fell on the party which 
 had charge of the Apostles, and dragged off one 
 of its guns. 
 
 Meanwhile, the inmates of the town were starv- 
 ing. At last a party, having Bayard with them, 
 Avas told off to force a passage to the city walls, and 
 to throw meat into the fosse. The scheme leaked 
 out; a spy flew with the tidings to the English 
 camp; and when the party, each man with half a 
 pig behind his saddle, pushed forward to the walls, 
 an overwhelming force of the besiegers fell upon 
 them. They fled. Bayard was left with only 
 fifteen men. He took his stand upon a lictle bridge, 
 178 
 
CHEVALIER BAYARD 
 
 and fought till all but three were killed or taken. 
 Then, loath to sacrifice brave men in vain, he deter- 
 mined to surrender. 
 
 As he looked about him, in search of an officer 
 to receive his svi'ord, he descried at some distance an 
 English captain, sitting alone beneath the shadow 
 of a lime tree. The officer, panting with exertion, 
 and thinking that the fight was over, had thrown 
 himself upon the turf beside his horse, sheathed his 
 sword, pulled off his helmet, and was enjoying the 
 cool air. All at once, to his amazement, Bayard, 
 bursting through the swords of assailants, came 
 spurring down upon him and bade him instantly 
 surrender. The officer, having no alternative, gave 
 up his weapon. 
 
 "And now," said Bayard, as he received it, "take 
 my sword; I am your prisoner. But remember 
 that you first were mine !" 
 
 By this bold and ready act he saved his ransom. 
 The pair rode back together to the English camp. 
 The case was laid before the King of England; and 
 Henry decided, with kingly justice, that the officer 
 was Bayard's prisoner, and that Bayard must go 
 free. 
 
 And now Bayard was to follow a new master. 
 Louis the Twelfth of France died; Francis the 
 P'irst received the crown; and Bayard, with the 
 young King, marched to Milan, which the Swiss had 
 seized and held. 
 
 On Thursday, the 13th of September, in the 
 year 1515, King Francis pitched his camp at 
 Marignano, before the City of the Spires. No 
 danger of attack was apprehended; the King sat 
 calmly down to supper in his tent; when all at 
 once the Swiss, aroused to madness by the fiery 
 eloquence of Cardinal de Sion, broke like a tempest 
 from the city, and fell upon the camp. The 
 French, by the red light of sunset, flew to arms, 
 179 
 
HISTORIC DEEDS OF DANGER AND DARING 
 
 and fought with fury till night fell. Both armies 
 sat all night on horseback, waiting for the dawn; 
 and with the first streaks of morning, flew again to 
 battle. It was noon before the bitter contest ended, 
 and the Swiss, still fighting every inch of ground, 
 drew slowly back towards the city. It had been 
 indeed, as Trevulzio called it, a Battle of the 
 Giants. And the greatest of the giants had been 
 Bayard and the King. 
 
 That evening Francis held, before his tent, the 
 ceremony of creating knights for valor. But be- 
 fore the ceremony began, a proclamation by the 
 heralds startled and delighted all the camp. Fran- 
 cis had determined to receive the rank in his own 
 l^erson. Bayard was to knight the King! 
 
 In the days of the primeval chivalry, when even 
 princes were compelled to win their spurs, such a 
 spectacle was not uncommon. But not for ages 
 had a king been knighted by a subject on the field 
 of battle. Nor was any splendor wanting that 
 could make the spectacle impressive. Nowhere in 
 Ariosto is a picture of more gorgeous details than 
 is presented by this scene of history; the great 
 crimson silk pavilion, the seat spread with cloth of 
 gold, the emblazoned banners, the heralds with their 
 silver trumpets, the multitude all hushed in wonder, 
 the plumed and glittering company of knights and 
 men-at-arms. Such were the surroundings among 
 which Francis knelt, and Bayard, with his drawn 
 sword, gave the accolade — the order of knighthood. 
 
 Bayard's glory had long been at such a height 
 that hardly any exploit could increase it. And yet 
 an exploit was at hand at which, even when Bayard 
 was the actor of it, all France and Germany were 
 to stand in wonder. The German Emperor, march- 
 ing with a powerful army on Champagne, took 
 Monson by surprise, and advanced against Me- 
 zieres. If Mezieres were taken, the whole province 
 180 
 
CHEVALIER BAYARD 
 
 wduld be in the most deadly peril. And yet de- 
 fense seemed hopeless; the place had no artillery, 
 and the ramparts were in ruins. At this crisis. 
 Bayard volunteered to hold the crazy city. "No 
 walls are weak," he said, in his own noble style, 
 "which are defended by brave men." 
 
 With a small but chosen band he hastened to 
 Mezieres. Two days after his arrival, the Count of 
 Nassau, M'ith a vast array of men and cannon, 
 appeared before the walls. The siege began — a 
 siege which seemed impossible to last twelve hours. 
 But day by day went by, and still the town was 
 standing. Every day the ramparts gaped with 
 cannon-shot; but every night, as if by miracle, they 
 rose again. The defenders suffered from wounds, 
 pestilence, and famine; but Bayard had put every 
 man on oath to eat his horse, and then his boots, 
 before he would surrender. Three weeks passed; 
 and when at last the King arrived with forces 
 to relieve the town, he found a few gaunt specters 
 still glaring defiance from their battered ramparts 
 against a hundred cannon and more than forty 
 thousand men. 
 
 Nothing can more strikingly describe the part of 
 Bayard than the testimony of his enemies them- 
 selves. Some time after, Mary of Hungary asked 
 the Count of Nassau in disdain how it came to pass 
 that with a host of troops and guns he could not 
 take a crazy pigeon-house. "Because," replied the 
 Count, "there was an eagle in it." 
 
 It was Bayard's last great exploit. It had been 
 his lifelong wish that he might fall upon the field of 
 battle. And so it was to be. 
 
 Early in the spring of 15:24, the French camp 
 was posted at Biagrassa. I^ord Bonnivet, who was 
 in command, found himself, after a prolonged re- 
 sistance, at last compelled by famine and sickness 
 to retire before the Spaniards. It was Bayard's 
 181 
 
HISTORIC DEEDS OF DANGER AND DARING 
 
 constant custom to be first in an advance and last 
 in a retreat; and that day he was, as usual, in the 
 post of danger. It was for the last time. Friends 
 and enemies were to hear, before night fell, the 
 thrilling tidings that Bayard was no more. 
 
 On both sides of the road which the retreating 
 army had to traverse the Spaniards had placed in 
 ambush a large force of arquebusiers. It was a 
 weapon which Bayard held in detestation; for 
 while skill and courage were required to wield a 
 spear or sword, any skulking wretch could pull a 
 trigger from behind a stone. From one of these 
 hated weapons he received his death. As he was 
 retreating slowly, with his face towards the foe, a 
 stone from a cross-arquebus struck him on the side. 
 He instantly sank forward on his saddle-bow. His 
 squire helped him from his horse, and he was laid 
 beneath a tree. His spine had broken in two places ; 
 and he felt that he was dying. He took his sword, 
 and kissed the cross-hilt, murmuring a prayer. 
 
 The Spaniards were approaching. His friends 
 made some attempt to raise him and to bear him 
 from the field. But the least movement made him 
 faint with agony; and he felt that all was vain. He 
 charged his companions, as they loved him, to turn 
 his face towards the enemy, and to retire into a 
 place of safety; and he sent, with his last breath, 
 his salutation to the King. With breaking hearts 
 they did as he desired, and he was left alone. 
 
 When the Spaniards reached the spot, they found 
 him still alive, but sinking fast. The conduct of 
 Lord Pescara, the Spanish general, towards his 
 dying foe, was worthy of a great and noble knight. 
 He bade his own pavilion to be spread above him; 
 cushions were spread beneath his head. Soon all 
 was over. It was the hour of sunset, April the 
 30th, in the year 15:24, when he passed away. 
 The Spaniards raised the corpse, and bore it with 
 1S2 
 
CHEVALIER BAYARD 
 
 deep reverence to a neighboring church. There it 
 rested till the morning, when a band of his compan- 
 ions, displaying a white flag, came from the French 
 camp, and carried it away. It was determined that 
 the bones of the dead knight should rest in his 
 own land. The body, apparelled in white velvet, 
 was placed in an oak coffin, and covered with a 
 purple pall; a band of bearers was appointed; and 
 the funeral train set forth across the mountains 
 into France, By day, the bier advanced upon its 
 journey; by night, it rested in the churches on the 
 M'ay. At length it reached the borders of his own 
 Dauphiny; and thence it traveled through a land 
 of lamentation. From the city of Grenoble, when 
 the bier arrived within a distance of a league, a 
 mourning multitude came forth to meet it. Bish- 
 ops, knights, and nobles, mingled with the common 
 people, walked before the coffin to the great cathe- 
 dral, where it rested for a night, and where a solemn 
 requiem was sung. On the morning after, the body 
 was borne, in mournful splendor, to the church of 
 the Minims, and there committed to the ground. 
 
 The grave lies just before the chancel steps, in 
 front of the great altar. On the wall to the right 
 hand, a graven stone records, in Latin characters, 
 the deeds of the great knight; and above the stone 
 his effigy, carved in white marble, and adorned with 
 the collar of his order, looks down upon the grave. 
 
 ■^ 
 
 183 
 
DANIEL BOONE 
 
 i '/^F all men- 
 
 ho passes for in life and death most lucky. 
 Of the great names which in our faces stare. 
 Is Daniel Boone, backwoodsman of Kentucky." 
 Thus wrote Lord Byron in the early part of the 
 last century of an American pioneer who, though 
 never seeking fame, found it while doing what he 
 considered his simple duty in defending the fron- 
 tiers of his country against a savage and relentless 
 foe, and who did more than any other man of his 
 day to make the beautiful Kentucky country a land 
 of peace, where the wilderness has truly blossomed 
 as the rose. 
 
 Daniel Boone was of English descent, his ances- 
 tors having been settled for some generations at 
 Bradwinch, eight miles from Exeter, England. His 
 grandfather, George Boone, came to Philadelphia 
 with his wife and eleven children in 1717. In Eng- 
 land the family had been Episcopalians, but in 
 Pennsylvania they were considered Quakers. Shortly 
 after his arrival George Boone bought a large 
 estate in Bucks County, and called it Exeter after 
 the English town he had known so well in his youth. 
 He continued to purchase land until his holdings 
 included tracts in Virginia and Maryland, including 
 a portion of what is now the District of Columbia. 
 It is said that he laid out the town of Georgetown, 
 and gave it his own name. Squire Boone was the 
 father of Daniel, his wife being Sarah Morgan. 
 Daniel, the most famous of pioneers, was born in 
 Exeter on the 11th of February, 1735. 
 
 Exeter, in the first half of the eighteenth century, 
 184 
 
DANIEL BOONE 
 
 was just the place in which to develop in the heart 
 of the boy the love of nature and the pathless 
 woods. It was a small frontier settlement, nestling 
 in green forests filled with game that were hunted 
 with great zest by the adventure-loving Boones. 
 From time to time an Indian war party headed out 
 from the forest, hunting with equal zest some white 
 inhabitant of the flourishing village of Exeter. The 
 town in Boone's boyhood was composed almost en- 
 tirely of log houses, placed near which, at points 
 of vantage, were two or three loopholed block- 
 houses to which the inhabitants could retreat in 
 times of danger. 
 
 A biographer of Boone gives a graphic sketch of 
 one or two adventures that illustrate what sort of 
 a father the boy was to be to the man. 
 
 "At Exeter they (the Boones) lived for ten 
 years; and it was during this time that their son 
 Daniel began to show his passion for bunting. He 
 was scarcely able to carry a gun when he was 
 shooting all the squirrels, raccoons, and even wild- 
 cats that he could find in that region. As he grew 
 older, his courage increased, and then we find him 
 amusing himself with higher game. Other lads in 
 the neighborhood were soon taught by him the use 
 of the rifle, and were able to join him in his ad- 
 ventures. On one occasion, they started out for a 
 hunt, and, after amusing themselves till it was 
 almost dark, they were returning homeward, when 
 suddenly a wild cry was heard in the woods. The 
 boys screamed, 'A panther ! a panther !' and ran off 
 as fast as they could. Boone stood firmly, looking 
 round for the animal. It was a panther indeed. 
 His eye lighted upon it just in the act of springing 
 toward him; in an instant he leveled his rifle and 
 shot the beast through the heart. 
 
 "But this sort of sport was not enough for him. 
 He seemed resolved to go away from men, and live 
 185 
 
HISTORIC DEEDS OF DANGER AND DARING 
 
 in the forest with the animals. One morning he 
 started off, as usual, with his rifle and dog. Night 
 came on, but Daniel did not return to his home. 
 Another day and night passed away, and still the 
 boy did not make his appearance. His parents were 
 now greatly alarmed. The neighbors joined them 
 in making a search for the lad. After wandering 
 about a great while, they at length saw smoke ris- 
 ing from a cabin in the distance. The floor of the 
 cabin was covered with the skins of such animals 
 as young Boone had slain, and pieces of meat were 
 roasting before the fire for his supper. Here, at a 
 distance of three miles from any settlement, he 
 had built .his cabin of sods and branches, and shel- 
 tered himself in the wilderness, and he was never 
 so happy as when at night he came home laden with 
 game. He was a tireless wanderer." 
 
 What little schooling the future colonel was to 
 receive was acquired in a few short months in the 
 little log school house on the head waters of the 
 Schuylkill. The schoolmaster was a wandering 
 teacher from Ireland, who had appeared at the 
 settlement, and was at once hired by the progressive 
 inhabitants, to teach their children the rudiments 
 of the three r's. The teacher seems to have been 
 capable of instructing his students when he was 
 sober, but his love of strong drink proved his ruin. 
 When in his cups he would beat his scholors un- 
 mercifully, whether they behaved or misbehaved, 
 or knew their lessons. Boone, was the ringleader 
 in a practical joke played upon the schoolmaster. 
 A scuffle ensued in which the teacher was thrown 
 down. The children at once voted themselves a 
 holiday and w^ent off rejoicing. Boone was rebuked 
 by his parents, but the schoolmaster received his 
 dismissal. 
 
 It is not probable that the lad shed many tears 
 over the loss of his primitive educational advan- 
 ]86 
 
DANIEL BOONE 
 
 tages. The woods called to him, and he joyfully 
 took down his beloved rifle, called his dog, and be- 
 came a hunter once more. "Hunting seemed to be 
 the only business of his life." 
 
 About 1752 Squire Boone removed his family to 
 North Carolina, young Boone being then about 
 eighteen. They took up their residence at Roman's 
 Ford, on the Yadkin River, eight miles from 
 Wilkesboro, North Carolina. The State still cherishes 
 the memory of Daniel Boone, and claims him as 
 one of her own illustrious sons, and the capital of 
 Watauga County was named in his .honor in 1849. 
 Daniel married in North Carolina the beautiful 
 Rebecca Bryan, and the romantic story is told that 
 on one dark night young Boone mistook the bright 
 eyes of the young lady for those of a deer, a mis- 
 take that nearly proved fatal, for he threw up his 
 rifle to his shoulder in readiness to fire. Luckily 
 the young lady found her voice and screamed, and 
 instead of a tragedy there was, within a short time, 
 a frontier wedding. 
 
 For a while after his marriage Boone settled down 
 to the quiet routine of farm work, varying it with 
 excursions now and then in search of a bear or 
 panther that had shown too much fondness for his 
 small stock of sheep and cows. 
 
 When the French wars were over and the Chero- 
 kee outbreaks suppressed, the people of the eastern 
 colonies began to turn their eyes longingly toward 
 the West. Indians from beyond the great moun- 
 tains had filled the border settlements with tales of 
 the wonders that lay to the westward, the great 
 hills, the herds of bufi'alo, numerous as the leaves 
 on the trees, the fertile plains and clear rivers. 
 AVhile the French had been in control any systematic 
 exploration by the English, or any thought of mak- 
 ing permanent settlements, had been entirely out of 
 the question. 
 
 187 
 
HISTORIC DEEDS OF DANGER AND DARING 
 
 Boone was determined to visit this unlvnown re- 
 gion, and at the head of a company of hunters from 
 North Carolina went as far as the vicinity of 
 Laurel Mountain in Kentucky. Some writers be- 
 lieve that he had hunted in that district the year 
 before, as there was found in the valley of Boone's 
 Creek, on the road between Jonesboro and Boons- 
 ville, A tree bearing the following inscription: 
 D. Boon 
 CillEd A Bar On 
 
 in ThE Tres 
 
 yEAIl 1760 
 
 The site of his old camp on the creek that bears 
 his name, a tributary of the Watauga, is still 
 identified by the people of the locality. 
 
 Boone was exploring the country for a firm 
 called Henderson & Company. In liis party was a 
 relative named Callaway, "Callaway was at the 
 side of Boone," writes Wheeler, in his interesting 
 history, "when approaching the spurs of the Cum- 
 berland Mountain, and in view of the vast herds 
 of buffalo grazing in the valleys between them, he 
 exclaimed : 
 
 " 'I am richer than the man mentioned in Scripture, 
 M^ho owned the cattle on a thousand hills; I own 
 the wild beasts of more than a thousand valleys,' " 
 
 Inspired by an account brought by the hunter 
 Findley in 1767, Boone organized a party of six 
 to explore the land now known as the State of 
 Kentucky, It was to be a long journey, and the 
 preparations took some time. It was in May, 1769, 
 that he started, as he st?tes in his autobiography, 
 "in quest of the country of Kentucky." His sons 
 were now old enough to carry on the work of the 
 farm, so that the intrepid hunter had little to 
 worry him in regard to supplies for his family dur- 
 ing his absence. 
 
 Peck has given a vivid sketch of Boone's first 
 188 
 
DANIEL BOONE 
 
 view of Kentucky that can well be quoted here. 
 "It was on the 7th of June, 1769, that six men, 
 weary and wayworn, were seen winding their way 
 up the steep side of a rugged mountain in the 
 wilderness of Kentucky. Their dress was of the 
 description usually worn at that period by all forest 
 rangers. The outside garment was a hunting shirt, 
 or loose open frock, made of dressed deer skins. 
 Leggins or drawers, of the same material, covered 
 the lower extremities, to which was appended a pair 
 of moccasins for the feet. The cape or collar of 
 the hunting shirt, and the seams of the leggings were 
 adorned with fringes. The under garments were 
 of coarse cotton. A leather belt encircled the body; 
 on the right side was suspended the tomahawk, to 
 be used as a hatchet; on the left side was the 
 hunting-knife, powder-horn, bullet-pouch, and other 
 appendages indispensable for the hunter. Each 
 person bore his trusty rifle; and as the party slowly 
 made their toilsome way amid the shrubs, and over 
 the logs and loose rocks that accident had thrown 
 into the obscure trail which they were following, 
 each man kept a sharp lookout, as though danger 
 or a lurking enemy were near. Their garments 
 were soiled and rent, the unavoidable result of long 
 traveling and exposure to the heavy rains that had 
 fallen; for the weather had been stormy and most 
 uncomfortable, and they had traversed mountainous 
 wilderness for several hundred miles. The leader 
 of the party was of full size, with a hard}^ robust, 
 sinewy frame, and keen, piercing hazel eyes, that 
 glanced with quickness at every object as they 
 passed on, now cast forward in the direction they 
 were traveling for signs of an old trail, and in the 
 next moment directed askance into the dense thicket 
 or into the deep ravine, as if watching some con- 
 cealed enemy. The reader will recognize in this man 
 the pioneer Boone, at the head of bis companions. 
 189 
 
' HISTORIC DEEDS OF DANGER AND DARING 
 
 "Toward the time of the setting sun, the party 
 had reached the summit of the mountain range, up 
 which they had toiled for some three or four hours, 
 and which had bounded their prospect to the west 
 during the day. Here new and indescribable scenery 
 opened to their view. Before them, for an immense 
 distance, as if spread out on a map, lay the rich 
 and beautiful vales watered by the Kentucky 
 River; for they now reached one of its northern 
 branches. The country immediately before them, 
 to use a Western phrase, was 'rolling,' and, in 
 places, abruptly hilly; but far in the vista was seen 
 a beautiful expanse of level country, over which the 
 buffalo, deer, and other forest animals roamed un- 
 molested, while they fed on the luxuriant herbage 
 of the forest. The countenances of the party lighted 
 up with pleasure, congratulations were exchanged, 
 the romantic tales of Findley were confirmed by 
 ocular demonstration, and orders were given to 
 encamp for the night in a neighboring ravine. In 
 a deep gorge of the mountain a large tree had 
 fallen, surrounded with a dense thicket, and hidden 
 from observation by the abrupt and precipitous 
 hills. This tree lay in a convenient position for the 
 back of their camp. Logs were placed on the right 
 and the left, leaving the front open, where fire 
 might be kindled against another log; and, for 
 shelter from the rains and heavy dews, bark Vas 
 peeled from the linden trees." One day when 
 Stewart and Boone were in pursuit of buffalo, 
 pausing now and then to wonder at the great trees 
 that towered high above their heads, they suddenly 
 found that other hunters beside themselves had found 
 this Eden of the New World. Without a moment's 
 warning, before they could cock their guns, a party 
 of Indians swooped silently from the cane brake, 
 disarmed them, threw them down and bound them 
 tightly with thongs made from the hide of the deer. 
 190 
 
DANIEL BOONE 
 
 Boone, up to this time, had seen but few Indians, 
 and probably none on the warpath. He had been 
 told by hunters that there were no Indians living 
 in the eastern part of Kentucky, and that one was 
 as safe as if he were within the palisades of a 
 white settlement. While it was true that none of 
 the savages had pitched their village tepees in the 
 rich lands about the Kentucky River, it had been 
 a debatable land in which war parties of the Shaw- 
 nees, Cherokees and Chickasaws had fought one 
 another until, even in their own tongues, it was 
 called "the Dark and Bloody Ground." These war 
 parties, however, in recent years had been seldom 
 seen, and hunters had not been molested. Boone 
 knew from border tales that in the end one of 
 two fates awaited them, if they were unable to 
 escape. They would either be put to death by 
 torture, or adopted into tiie captors' tribe. 
 
 The two captives took their misfortune with such 
 apparent indiiference that after a few days the 
 vigilance of the Indians began to relax, and the 
 whites were less securely fastened when the party 
 camped for the night. One evening, a week later, 
 the Indians stopped for the night in the midst of 
 a great cane-brake. They built a large fire and 
 roasted some of the venison taken from the carcass 
 of a recently killed deer. At last, after binding 
 the two white men, the Indians threw themselves 
 down to sleep, leaving a sentry, a somewhat unus- 
 ual precaution, by the way, to watch over the camp. 
 The sentry, however, was weary after the long and 
 arduous march, which had included a long detour 
 in pursuit of a herd of buffalo, and soon became 
 drowsy. 
 
 Boone, who had not allowed himself to sleep a 
 
 moment since they had encamped that night, saw 
 
 the sentry settle himself comfortably on a log. 
 
 The Indian blinked drowsily at the fire, that had 
 
 191 
 
HISTORIC DEEDS OF DANGER AND DARING 
 
 already begun to die down, leaving the thickets 
 round about in deep shadow. Then the Indian's 
 head fell forward on his breast, and he slipped off 
 the log in a heap on the ground. He was fast 
 asleep. 
 
 Boone looked carefully for a few moments at 
 each quiet figure, and saw by their regular and deep 
 breathing that not one was awake or sleeping 
 lightly. Carefully he worked at the thongs that his 
 captors had put on him for the night, slipped them 
 off, and stepping carefully over the Indians that 
 lay between him and Stewart shook the latter 
 gently, and held at the same time his hand tightly 
 over his friend's mouth to prevent him from making 
 a startled outcry as he came back to consciousness. 
 When Stewart realized the situation, Boone told 
 him in a whisper to, get one of the rifles, Boone 
 had already secured his, and follow him with the 
 utmost precaution. 
 
 The two men now plunged silently into the depths 
 of the thicket, crawled over logs until they reached 
 an opening, and then, guided by the stars and the 
 moss on the trees, started swiftly on the back-track 
 towards the place where they had left their four 
 comrades in camp. It was a long and weary jour- 
 ney, through ravines and over hill tops. They lived 
 on berries and wild plants, as they did not dare to 
 hunt game, as the report of their rifles would have 
 directed the Indians to their locality if they still 
 hung on their trail. 
 
 At last they reached the neighborhood of their 
 camp. All was quiet, not a voice broke the still- 
 ness. They must have gone hunting, thought Boone, 
 and the two men hurried through the underbrush 
 to the camp. Not a soul was to be seen. The camp 
 had every appearance of having been plundered. 
 Their shouts brought no answer but the frightened 
 call of some forest bird. The little spring gurgled 
 192 
 
DANIEL BOONE 
 
 from beside the bark hut as if it had never beerr 
 disturbed by hunter or lapping hound. From that 
 day to this, the fate of Finlay and his companions 
 has remained a frontier mystery, to be solved per- 
 haps in the tales told about the fires of some 
 distant encampment of the Chickasaws. 
 
 Boone and Stewart, though depressed by the loss 
 of their comrades, resumed their hunting, only 
 hiding themselves carefully at night now that they 
 had found themselves in such a dangerous neigh- 
 borhood. In the winter, they were overjoyed by the 
 sudden appearance in their camp of Squire Boone, 
 Daniel's younger brother, and a companion. Boone 
 saw two strangers approaching and catching up his 
 gun called the backwoods challenge: 
 "Hello! strangers, who are you?" 
 "White men and friends !" came the reply. 
 With a shout the brothers ran to greet each other, 
 the anxiety of the moment turned to joy. Squire 
 Boone told them their safety was feared for back 
 in the North Carolina settlements, and that he and 
 his companion had volunteered to discover what 
 had become of them. They brought a supply of 
 ammunition, of which the hunters were then greatly 
 in need. They also announced that several times 
 on their journey they had seen tracks made by 
 Indians, though they had seen no warriors them- 
 selves. 
 
 The four men were hunting a few days later 
 two and two, when a party of Indians attacked 
 Boone and Stewart. After a fierce fire Stewart 
 pitched forward dead, and his scalp was taken. 
 Daniel fell back towards camp, firing steadily and 
 keeping; the Indians at bay, until at last he came 
 up with the other two men of his party. A few 
 days later the hunter who had come with Squire 
 Boone went off into the woods for a hunt, and was 
 never seen again. The Boones searched for him, 
 193 
 
HISTORIC DEEDS OF DANGER AND DARING 
 
 but could not discover any traces that would tell 
 what his end had been. Years later a skeleton was 
 found in the forests, which, from certain marks, 
 led them to believe was that of the lost hunter. 
 
 Daniel and his brother were yet unwilling to give 
 up their hunting trij) that had proved one of such 
 ill omen to six men who had come with them from 
 the settlements. Daniel sent his brother back home, 
 a distance of several hundred miles, for more am- 
 munition, while he remained alone in the woods 
 until he returned. He seems to have been fascinated 
 by the loneliness, the danger of this unknown wilder- 
 ness, where death seemed nearer than life itself. 
 His brother was gone three months, but returned 
 in July, 1770. During that time Daniel explored the 
 center of Kentucky. No better account can be 
 given of his life during this period when the 
 l)rother hunted with him, and also after his de- 
 ])arture, than the one he has left us, phrased in his 
 own quaint and picturesque language: 
 
 "Thus situated, many hundred miles from our 
 families in the howling wilderness, I believe few 
 would have equally enjoyed the happiness we experi- 
 enced. I often observed to my brother, 'You see how 
 little nature requires to be satisfied. Felicity, the 
 companion of content, is rather found in our own 
 breasts than in the enjoyment of external things; 
 and I firmly believe it requires but a little philoso- 
 phy to make a man happy in whatsoever state he 
 is. This consists in a full resignation to Providence, 
 and a resigned soul finds pleasure in a path strewed 
 with briars and thorns. 
 
 ''We continued not in a state of indolence, but 
 hunted every day, and prepared a little cottage to 
 defend us from the winter storms. We remained 
 there undisturbed during the winter; and on the 
 first of May, 1770, my brother returned home to 
 the settlement by himself for a new recruit, horses 
 191. 
 
DANIEL BOONE 
 
 and ammunition, leaving me by myself, without 
 bread, without salt, or sugar, without company of 
 my fellow creatures, or even a horse or dog. I 
 confess I never before was under greater necessity 
 of exercising philosophy and fortitude. A few days 
 I passed uncomfortably. The idea of a beloved 
 wife and family, and their anxiety on account of 
 my absence and exposed situation made sensible 
 impressions on my heart. A thousand dreadful 
 apprehensions presented themselves to my view, and 
 had undoubtedly disposed me to melancholy if 
 further indulged. 
 
 "One day I undertook a tour through the country, 
 and the diversity and beauties of nature I met with 
 in this charming season expelled every gloomy and 
 vexatious thought. Just at the close of day the 
 gentle gales retired, and left the place to the dis- 
 posal of a profound calm. Not a breeze shook the 
 most tremulous leaf. I had gained the summit of 
 a commanding ridge, and, looking round w^ith de- 
 light, beheld the ample plains, the beauteous tracts 
 below. On the other hand I surveyed the famous 
 river Ohio, that rolled in silent dignity, marking the 
 western boundary of Kentucky. At a vast distance 
 I beheld the mountains lift their venerable brows 
 and penetrate the clouds. All things were still. I 
 kindled a fire near a fountain of sweet water, and 
 feasted on the loin of a buck, which a few hours 
 before I had killed. The fallen shades of night 
 soon overspread the whole hemisphere, and the earth 
 seemed to gape after the hovering moisture. My 
 roving excursion this day had fatigued my body, 
 and diverted my imagination. I laid me down to 
 sleep, and I awoke not until the sun had chased 
 away the night. I continued this tour, and in a few 
 days had explored a considerable part of the coun- 
 try, each day equally pleased as the first. I returned 
 to my old camp, which was not disturbed in my 
 195 
 
HISTORIC DEEDS OF DANGER AND DARING 
 
 absence. I did not confine my lodging to it, but 
 often reposed in thick cane-brakes to avoid the 
 savages, who I believe often visited my camp, but 
 fortunately for me in my absence. In this situa- 
 tion I was constantly exposed to danger and death. 
 How unhappy such a situation for a man tormented 
 with fear, which is vain if no danger comes, and, if 
 it does, only augments the pain. It was my happi- 
 ness to be destitute of this afflicting passion, with 
 which I had the greatest reason to be affected. The 
 prowling wolves diverted my nocturnal hours with 
 perpetual bowlings; and the various species of ani- 
 mals in this vast forest in the daytime were con- 
 tinually in my view. 
 
 "Thus, I was surrounded with plenty in the midst 
 of want. I was happy in the midst of dangers and 
 inconveniences. In such a diversity it was impossi- 
 ble I should be disposed to melancholy. No pop- 
 ulous city, with all the varieties of commerce and 
 stately structures, could afford so much pleasure 
 to my mind as the beauties of nature I found here. 
 
 "Thus through an uninterrupted scene of sylvan 
 pleasures I spent the time until the 27th day of 
 July following, when my brother, to my great fe- 
 licity, met me according to appointment, at our old 
 camp. Shortly after we left this place, not think- 
 ing it safe to stay there any longer, and proceeded 
 to Cumberland River, reconnoitering that part of 
 the country until March, 1771, and giving names to 
 the different waters. 
 
 "Soon after, I returned home to my family, with 
 a determination to bring them as soon as possible 
 to live in Kentucky, which I esteemed a second para- 
 dise, at the risk of my life and fortune. I returned 
 safe to my old habitation, and found my family in 
 comfortable circumstances." 
 
 Boone spent two years at his home on the Yadkin, 
 but never altered his determination to take his 
 196 
 
DANIEL BOONE 
 
 family to settle in Kentucky at the first opportunity. 
 He sold his farm for enough to pay the expenses 
 of his new venture, and in September, 1774, Boone, 
 with his wife and children and his brother Squire 
 Boone, started on the journey that was to result in 
 the foundation of a State. They drove their cattle 
 and sheep with them, and their baggage was carried 
 on pack-horses. They were joined on the way by 
 five families which numbered forty brave frontiers- 
 men, a force that would be more than a match for 
 any war-party that they thought they would be 
 likely to encounter. But they were not to pass 
 beyond the mountains without trouble. Near Cum- 
 berland Gap the rear guard, who were in charge of 
 the cattle, was attacked by redskins, and six of the 
 frontiersmen killed. The main body was six miles 
 in advance, but heard the firing and returned, beat 
 off the attackers, and recovered their cattle, which 
 had begun to scatter in the woods. Among the slain 
 was a son of Boone. The party now returned forty 
 miles and settled temporarily on the banks of the 
 Clinch River. This was in obedience to the wishes 
 of the majority, as Boone and his brother Squire 
 wished to push on, even if they were to fight Indians 
 on the way. The attack proved to be one of the 
 forerunners of the bloody border conflict known as 
 "Dunmore's War," from the Governor of Virginia 
 who directed the colonial forces. 
 
 Boone, at the order of the Governor, took a party 
 of surveyers to the falls of the Ohio. On his return 
 he was made commander of three frontier garrisons, 
 with a commission as Captain, his first military 
 title. The war ended with the defeat of the Indians 
 at Point Pleasant. They sued for peace, and gave 
 up all claim to Kentucky. 
 
 Boone was now one of the noted men of the 
 frontier country. His reports of the beauties of 
 the Kentucky country had spread all over the Caro- 
 197 
 
HISTORIC DEEDS OF DANGER AND DARING 
 
 linas and Virginia, and land companies were formed 
 to make settlements. The largest was under Colonel 
 Henderson. Boone, as his commissioner, purchased 
 all land claims of the Indians to the vast tract be- 
 tween the Kentucky, Cumberland and Ohio Rivers. 
 He took charge of the first party of settlers, and, 
 after a dangerous march, during which several of 
 his men were killed and a number wounded, reached 
 the banks of the Kentucky River in April, 1775. 
 He built a fort called Boonesborough, the first set- 
 tlement in Kentucky, and which was destined to be 
 one of the most famous fortresses during the Indian 
 wars in that region. 
 
 "It was situated adjacent to the river, with one 
 of the angles resting on its bank near the water, 
 and extending from it in the form of a parallelo- 
 gram. The length of the fort, allowing twenty feet 
 for each cabin and opening, must have been about 
 two hundred and sixty, and the breadth one hundred 
 and fifty feet. In a few days after the work was 
 commenced, one of the men was killed by the In- 
 dians. The houses being built of hewn logs were 
 bullet proof. They were of a square form, and one 
 of them projected from each corner, being connected 
 by stockades. The remaining space on the four 
 sides was filled up with cabins built of rough logs, 
 placed close together. The gates were on opposite 
 sides, made of thick slabs of timber, and hung on 
 wooden hinges." 
 
 Boone gives in his autobiography a vivid account 
 of the dangers the people encountered in the early 
 days at Boonesborough. "On the fourteenth of July, 
 1776," he writes, "two of Colonel Calaway's daugh- 
 ters and one of mine were taken prisoners near the 
 fort. I immediately pursued the Indians with only 
 eight men, and on the sixteenth overtook them, killed 
 two of the party, and recovered the girls. The same 
 day on which this attempt was made, the Indians 
 198 
 
DANIEL BOONE 
 
 divided themselves into different parties, and at- 
 tacked several forts, which were shortly before this 
 time erected, doing a great deal of mischief. This 
 was extremely distressing to the new settlers. The 
 innocent husbandman was shot down, while busy 
 cultivating the soil for his family's supply. Most 
 of the cattle around the stations were destroyed. 
 They continued their hostilities until the fifteenth of 
 April, 1777, when they attacked Boonesborough with 
 a party of above one hundred in number, killed one 
 man, and wounded four. Their loss in the attack 
 was not certainly known to us. 
 
 "On the 4th day of July following, a party of 
 about two hundred Indians attacked Boonesborough, 
 killed one man and wounded two. They besieged us 
 forty-eight hours, during which time seven of them 
 were killed, and, at last, finding themselves not 
 Hkely to prevail, they raised the siege and departed. 
 
 "The Indians had disposed their warriors at this 
 time and attacked different garrisons, to prevent 
 their assisting one another, and did much injury to 
 the distressed inhabitants. 
 
 "On the 19th of the month. Colonel Logan's fort 
 was besieged by a party of about two hundred 
 Indians. During this dreadful siege, they did a 
 great deal of mischief, distressed the garrison, in 
 which were only fifteen men, killed two, and 
 wounded one. The enemy's loss was uncertain, 
 from the common practice which the Indians have 
 of carrying off' their dead in time of battle. Colo- 
 nel Harred's fort was then defended by only sixty- 
 five men, and Boonesborough by twenty-two, there 
 being no more forts or white men in the country, 
 except at the Falls, a considerable distance from 
 these; and all, taken collectively, were but a handful 
 to the numerous warriors that were everywhere 
 dispersed through the country, intent upon doing 
 all the mischief that savage barbarity could invent. 
 199 
 
HISTORIC DEEDS OF DANGER AND DARING 
 
 Thus we passed through a scene of suffering that 
 exceeds description. 
 
 "On the i25th of this month, a reenforcement of 
 forty-five men arrived from North Carolina, and 
 about the 20th of August fbllowing, Colonel Bow- 
 man arrived with one hundred men from Virginia. 
 Now we began to strengthen; and hence, for the 
 space of six weeks, we had skirmishes with the 
 Indians, in one quarter or another, almost every 
 day. The savages now learned the superiority of 
 the 'Long Knives,' as they called the Virginians, by 
 experience; being out-generaled in almost every 
 battle. Our affairs began to wear a new aspect, and 
 the enemy, not daring to venture on open war, 
 practised secret mischief at times. 
 
 "On the 1st of January, 1778, I went with a party 
 of tliirty men to the Blue Licks, on Licking River, 
 to make salt for the different garrisons of the 
 country. On the 7th day of February, as I was 
 hunting to procure meat for the company, I met 
 with a party of one hundred and two Indians, and 
 two Frenchmen, on their march against Boonesbor- 
 ough, that place being particularly the object of 
 the enemy. They pursued and took me; and 
 brought me on the 8th day to the Licks, where 
 twenty-seven of my party were, three of them hav- 
 ing previously returned home with the salt. I, 
 knowing it was impossible for them to escape, capit- 
 ulated with the enemy, and at a distance, in their 
 view, gave notice to my men of their situation, with 
 orders not to resist, but surrender themselves cap- 
 tives. 
 
 "The generous usage the Indians had promised 
 before in my capitulation, was afterward fully com- 
 plied with, and we proceeded with them as prisoners 
 to Old Chilicothe, the principal town on Little Miami, 
 where we arrived, after an uncomfortable journey, 
 in very severe weather, on the 18th day of Feb- 
 200 
 
DANIEL BOONE 
 
 ruary, and received as good treatment as prisoners 
 could expect from savages. On the 10th day of 
 March following, I and ten of my men were con- 
 ducted by fort}^ Indians to Detroit, where we ar- 
 rived the 30th day, and were treated by Governor 
 Hamilton, the British commander at that post, with 
 great humanity. 
 
 "During our travels, the Indians entertained me 
 well, and their affection for me was so great, that 
 they utterly refused to leave me there with the 
 others, although the Governor offered them one 
 hundred pounds sterling for me on purpose to 
 give me a parole to go home. Several English gen- 
 tlemen there, being sensible of my adverse fortune, 
 and touched with human sympathy, generously 
 offered a friendly supply for my wants, which I 
 refused, with many thanks for their kindness, add- 
 ing, that I never expected it would be in my power 
 to recompense such unmerited generosity. 
 
 "The Indians left my men in captivity with the 
 British at Detroit, and on the 10th day of April 
 brought me toward Old Chilicothe, where we ar- 
 rived on the 35th day of the same month. This 
 was a long and fatiguing march, through an ex- 
 ceedingly fertile country, remarkable for fine 
 springs and streams of water. At Chilicothe I 
 spent my time as comfortably as I could expect, 
 and was adopted, according to their custom, into a 
 family, where I became a son, and had a great 
 share in the affection of my new parents, brothers, 
 sister and friends. I was exceedingly familiar and 
 friendly with them, always appearing as cheerful 
 and satisfied as possible, and they put great con- 
 fidence in me. I often went a hunting with them, 
 and frequently gained their applause for my activ- 
 ity at their shooting matches. I was careful not to 
 exceed many of them in shooting, for no people are 
 more envious than they in this sport. I could ob- 
 201 
 
HISTORIC DEEDS OF DANGER AND DARING 
 
 serve, in their countenances and gestures, the great- 
 est expressions of joy when they exceeded me; and, 
 when the reverse happened, of envy. The Shawnese 
 king took great notice of me, and treated me with 
 profound respect and entire friendship, often en- 
 trusting me to hunt at my liberty. I frequently 
 returned with the spoils of the woods, and as often 
 presented some of what I had taken to him, expres- 
 sive of duty to my sovereign. My food and lodg- 
 ing were in common with them; not so good, indeed, 
 as I could desire, but necessity makes everything 
 acceptable. 
 
 "I now began to meditate an escape, and care- 
 fully avoided their suspicions, continuing with them 
 at Old Chilicothe until the first day of June follow- 
 ing, and was then taken by them to the salt springs 
 on Scioto, and kept there making salt ten days. 
 During this time I hunted some, and found the 
 land, for a great extent about this river, to exceed 
 the soil of Kentucky, if possible, and remarkably 
 well watered. 
 
 "When I returned to Chilicothe I was alarmed to 
 see four hundred and fifty Indians, their choicest 
 warriors, painted and armed in a fearful manner, 
 ready to march against Boonesborough. I deter- 
 mined to escape the first opportunity. On the 16th, 
 before sunrise, I departed in the most secret man- 
 ner, and arrived at Boonesborough on the 20th, 
 after a journey of one hundred and sixty miles, 
 during which I had but one meal. 
 
 "I found our fortress in a bad state of defense; 
 but we proceeded immediately to repair our flanks, 
 strengthen our gates and posterns, and form double 
 bastions, which we completed in ten days. In this 
 time we daily expected the arrival of the Indian 
 army; and at length, one of my fellow-prisoners, 
 escaping from them, brought the information to us 
 that the enemy had, on account of my departure, 
 202 
 
DANIEL BOONE 
 
 postponed their expedition three weeks. The In- 
 dians had spies out viewing our movements, and 
 were greatly alarmed with our increase in number 
 and fortifications. The grand council of the nations 
 was held frequently, and with more deliberation 
 than usual. They evidently saw the approaching 
 hour when the Long Knife would dispossess them 
 of their desirable lands, and anxiously concerned 
 for futurity, determined to utterly extirpate the 
 whites of Kentucky. We were not intimidated by 
 their movements, but frequently gave them proofs 
 of our courage. 
 
 "About the first of August, I made an incursion 
 into the Indian country with a party of nineteen 
 men, in order to surprise a small town of Scioto, 
 called Paint Creek Town. We advanced within four 
 miles thereof, when we met a party of thirty In- 
 dians on their march against Boonesborough, in- 
 tending to join the others from Chilicothe. A smart 
 fight ensued between us for some time; at length 
 the savages gave way and fled. We had no loss 
 on our side; the enemy had one killed and two 
 wounded. We took from them three horses, and all 
 their baggage; and being informed by two of our 
 number, who went to their town, that the Indians 
 had evacuated it, we proceeded no further, and 
 returned with all possible expedition to assist our 
 garrison against the other party. We passed by 
 them on the sixth day, and on the seventh we 
 arrived safe at Boonesborough. 
 
 "On the 8th, the Indian army arrived, being four 
 hundred and forty-four in number, commanded by 
 Captain Duquesne, eleven other Frenchmen, and one 
 of their own chiefs, and marched up within view of 
 our fort, with British and French colors flying, 
 and having sent a summons to me, in his Britannic 
 Majesty's name, to surrender the fort, I requested 
 two days' consideration, which was granted. 
 203 
 
HISTORIC DEEDS OF DANGER AND DARING 
 
 "It was now a critical period with us. We were 
 a small number in the garrison — a powerful army 
 before our walls, whose appearance proclaimed 
 inevitable death, fearfully painted, and marking 
 their footsteps with desolation. Death was prefer- 
 able to captivit}^; and, if taken by storm, we must 
 inevitably be devoted to destruction. In this situ- 
 ation we concluded to maintain our garrison, if 
 possible. We immediately proceeded to collect what 
 we could of our horses and other cattle, and bring 
 them through the posterns into the fort; and, in 
 the evening of the 9th, I returned answer that we 
 were determined to defend our fort while a man 
 was living. 'Now,' said I to their commander, who 
 stood attentively hearing my sentiments, 'we laugh 
 at your formidable preparations; but thank you 
 for giving us notice and time to provide for de- 
 fense. Your efforts will not prevail; for our gates 
 shall forevei deny you admittance." Whether this 
 answer affected their courage or not I cannot tell; 
 but, contrary to our expectations, they formed a 
 scheme to deceive us, declaring that it was their 
 orders, from Governor Hamilton, to take us cap- 
 tives, and not to destroy us; but, if nine of us 
 would come out and treat with them, they would 
 immediately withdraw their forces from our walls, 
 and return home peaceably. This sounded grateful 
 in our ears; and we agreed to the proposal. 
 
 "We held the treaty within sixty yards of the 
 garrison, on purpose to divert them from a breach 
 of honor, as we could not avoid suspicions of the 
 savages. In this situation the articles were formally 
 agreed to and signed; and the Indians told us that 
 it was customary on such occasions for two Indians 
 to shake hands with every white man in the treaty, 
 as an evidence of friendship. We agreed to this 
 also, but were soon convinced that it was their 
 policy to take us prisoners. They immediately 
 204 
 
DANIEL BOONE 
 
 grappled us; but, although surrounded by hundreds 
 of savages, we extricated ourselves from them, and 
 escaped all safe into the garrison, except one that 
 was wounded, through a heavy fire from their army. 
 They immediately attacked us on every side, and 
 a constant heavy fire ensued between us, day and 
 night, for the space of nine days. 
 
 "In this time the enemy began to undermine the 
 fort, which was situated sixty yards from the Ken- 
 tucky River. They began at the water mark, and 
 proceeded in the bank some distance, which we 
 understood by their making the water muddy with 
 the clay; and we immediately proceeded to disap- 
 point their design, by cutting a trench across their 
 subterranean passage. The enemy, discovering our 
 countermine by the clay we threw out of the fort, 
 desisted from that stratagem; and, experience now 
 fully convincing them that neither their power nor 
 policy could effect their purpose, on the i?Oth day 
 of August they raised the siege and departed. 
 
 "During this siege, which threatened death in every 
 form, we had two men killed and four wounded, 
 besides a number of cattle. We killed of the 
 enemy thirty-seven, and wounded a great number. 
 After they were gone we picked up one hundred 
 and twenty-four pounds' weight of bullets, besides 
 what stuck in the logs of our fort, which is cer- 
 tainly a great proqf of their industry. Soon after 
 this, I went into the settlement." 
 
 In 1780 the Indians came down in force on the 
 Kentucky country. They were sent by the English 
 Governor Hamilton to offset the daring expedi- 
 tions of Clark. The Indian army numbered six 
 hundred men, supported by two field-pieces. They 
 halted first before the little outpost at Ruddles 
 Station. It was in no condition to offer success- 
 ful resistance and surrendered. The Indians, unre- 
 strained by the officers who had accompanied the 
 205 
 
HISTORIC DEEDS OF DANGER AND DARING 
 
 expedition, butchered or made prisoners at will. 
 After capturing another wooden fort, they beat a 
 hasty retreat. The prisoners were compelled to 
 carry the burdens of their captors, and when they 
 fell from exhaustion, they were at once toma- 
 hawked. The whole frontier seemed ablaze, and 
 Kentucky resolved to save herself. Clark was 
 appointed commander-in-chief of the State Militia, 
 and Boone one of the lieutenant-colonels, and the 
 Indians were hunted without mercy, for they showed 
 none. Boone was one of the officers that hurried 
 to the relief of Bryant's Station when it was at- 
 tacked by a large Indian force under Girty, a 
 white renegade, who dipped his hands in a thousand 
 crimes against his own race. The Indians were 
 finally repulsed, with the loss of thirty men. He 
 took up his march for the Blue Licks, marking 
 their trail with strokes of their tomahawks as if 
 inviting the relieving force to follow. 
 
 The troops poured into the Station the morning 
 after the siege was raised, until they numbered 
 nearly two hundred. Colonel Boone had a large 
 party from Boonesborough, including his brother 
 Samuel and his son Israel. It was determined to 
 pursue the savages without waiting for re-enforce- 
 ments, although some were expected. The Indians 
 set a trap for the pursuers, and, contrary to Colo- 
 nel Boone's advice, a dash was made for the enemy's 
 camp, which resulted in the fearful repulse at Blue 
 Licks. Among the slain was young Israel Boone, 
 who fought with great gallantry during the early 
 part of that fatal day. Colonel Boone collected as 
 many as possible of the retreating troops, and get- 
 ting them into some order saved many lives. He 
 met Logan's re-enforcements and together they 
 buried the slain. 
 
 For several years the Indians continued their 
 depredations and Boone as often met them, some- 
 206 
 
DANIEL BOONE 
 
 times with a few of his neighbors, sometimes with 
 a regiment. He became feared throughout the 
 Indian country, imtil his appearance in battle would 
 be instantly followed by a weakening of the Indians 
 in his vicinity, and their retreat, unless they were 
 greatly superior in numbers to Boone's force. 
 
 Boone was rewarded for his military services by 
 the State of Virginia, and he bought great tracts 
 of land in Kentucky for himself and his sons. After 
 the end of the Indian hostilities, he became a 
 farmer, though never laying aside his rifle for long. 
 
 Shortly before 1790 Colonel Boone lost the last 
 of his extensive possessions in Kentucky. His farm 
 near Boonesborough was taken from him by money 
 sharks, who had juggled with the defective titles 
 of his land. He moved in 1790 from Kentucky, 
 the region that owed its very existence to his dar- 
 ing and foresight, and made his home in Virginia 
 near Point Pleasant, on the banks of the Kene- 
 hawa River. Here he remained a number of years, 
 tilling his farm and hunting when fall came on. 
 Boone had heard from a party of hunters about the 
 fertility and beauty of the land west of the Mis- 
 souri River, and also, says one writer, "of the 
 absence of lawyers," and he determined to try his 
 fortunes in this favored region. Missouri then be- 
 longed to Spain. The authorities had heard much, 
 as had every civilized part of America, concerning 
 the exploits of Colonel Boone, and the Lieutenant 
 Governor of the Spanish Province, who lived in 
 St. Louis, promised him lands for himself and his 
 sons. Boone settled forty-five miles west of St. 
 Louis, and was made military and civil commandant 
 of the Osage District. He held the position until 
 the country was purchased by the United States 
 Government. Audubon, the famous naturalist, 
 visited Boone in Missouri, in 1810, and has left us 
 an entertaining sketch of Boone as he saw him. 
 207 
 
HISTORIC DEEDS OF DANGER AND DARING 
 
 "Daniel Boone, or as he was usually called in the 
 Western country, Colonel Boone, happened to spend 
 a night with me under the same roof more than 
 twenty years ago. We had returned from a shoot- 
 ing excursion, in the course of which his extraordi- 
 nary skill in the management of the rifle had been 
 fully displayed. On retiring to the room appro- 
 priated to that remarkable individual and myself 
 for the night, I felt anxious to know more of his 
 exploits and adventures than I did, and accordingly 
 took the liberty of proposing numerous questions to 
 him. The stature and general appearance of this 
 wanderer of the Western forests approached the 
 gigantic. His chest was broad and prominent; his 
 muscular powers displayed themselves in every 
 limb; his countenance gave indication of his great 
 courage, enterprise and perseverence ; and, when 
 he spoke, the very motion of his lips brought the 
 impression that whatever he uttered could not be 
 otherwise than strictly true. I undressed, whilst he 
 merely took off his hunting-shirt, and arranged a 
 fev/ folds of blanket on the floor, choosing rather 
 to lie there, he observed, than on the softest bed." 
 
 Boone was given ten thousand arpents of land by 
 the Spanish government. He did not reside on it, 
 a necessary qualification for holding, but which was 
 dispensed with by the Spanish government. When 
 the United States gained possession of the country, 
 Boone's claims were rejected, and for a second 
 time he found himself without an acre he could 
 call his own, after a reasonable expectation that all 
 of his necessities would be provided for. He pe- 
 titioned Congress, and asked the Assembly of Ken- 
 tucky to aid him. That body instructed the Senators 
 of the State to look out for his interests. The 
 claims, however, were neglected by Congress, but at 
 last it voted him one thousand arpents, the amount 
 any other settler was entitled to. 
 208 
 
DANIEL BOONE 
 
 Ten years before his death, age compelled him 
 to lay aside his favorite rifle and take up less 
 arduous employment. "His time at home," says one 
 biographer, "was usually occupied in some useful 
 manner. He made powderhorns for his grand- 
 children, neighbors and friends, many of which 
 were carved and ornamented with much taste. He 
 repaired rifles, and performed various descrip- 
 tions of handicraft with neatness and finish. Mak- 
 ing powderhorns, repairing rifles, employments in 
 pleasing unison with old pursuits, and by the asso- 
 ciations thus raised in his mind, always recalling 
 the pleasures of the chase, the stilly, whispering 
 hum of the pines, the fragrance of wild-flowers, 
 and the deep solitude of the primeval forest." 
 
 In the fall of 1830 Colonel Boone, then in his 
 eighty-sixth year, ended his lonely journey. Simple 
 and trustful in his faith, he believed ever in a 
 watchful Providence which had guided him through 
 trackless wilds and untold dangers to the end. 
 
 R. S. B. 
 
 209 
 
JACQUELINE DE LAGUETTE 
 
 AT Mandres, not far from Paris, stood, in the 
 . year 161:2, a little house like a toy castle, 
 with turrets and a moat. Its owner was a retired 
 officer named Meurdrac, a soldier who had fought 
 in more than twenty battles under Henri Quatre, 
 but who had become lame with rheumatism and com- 
 pelled to leave the army. He was now a man of 
 forty-five, with a red beard, a huge mustache, a 
 face tanned to parchment, and keen sparkling eyes. 
 He wore, summer and winter, a buff coat, top-boots, 
 and a rapier. His character was quick and fiery. 
 His cane was the terror of his groom and lacquey; 
 and he woidd rather have laid his head upon the 
 block than have changed the least of his opinions. 
 
 Monsieur Meurdrac had built himself a house at 
 Mandres in order to be near the Castle of the Due 
 of Angouleme, his oldest friend. When his house 
 was finished, he looked about him for a wife. He 
 chanced to meet at Paris a lady of twenty-five, 
 good, lovely, and sweet-tempered. They married; 
 and in the month of February, 1613, a little girl 
 was born, whom they called Jacqueline. 
 
 This child's life was destined to be distinguished 
 from the common lot. 
 
 She combined her mother's beauty with her 
 father's fiery spirit. As she grew up, Jacqueline, 
 like other maidens, stitched and spun, worked pic- 
 tures on her tambour-frame, and woke the strings 
 of her guitar; but her heart's delight was to fire off 
 her father's musket, to practise with her fencing- 
 master, to sw^'m across the river Yeers, or to mount 
 her palfrey and scour the country like the wind. At 
 
 no 
 
JACQUELINE DE LAGUETTE 
 
 eighteen she had grown into a girl of much beautr 
 — the admiration of rival cavaliers for ten miles 
 round. On Sundays, when she went to church, the 
 little churchyard glittered like a palace court, with 
 the horses and white plumes of her adorers. But 
 Jacqueline was modest. Her eyes were never lifted 
 from her missal to shoot back a speaking glance. 
 Admirers came in crowds to seek her hand of 
 Monsieur Meurdrac; but Jacqueline declared that 
 she would never marry, and the suitors were sent 
 sighing away. At length she became known through- 
 out the province as the Maid of Mandres — the fair 
 one who had vowed to live and die unwed. But 
 here the gossips were in error. These candidates 
 were merely what the Prince of Morocco and the 
 Prince of Arragon were to Lady Portia. Bassanio 
 had not yet appeared. 
 
 But it so happened one day the Meurdracs 
 visited the Due of Angouleme at the Castle of 
 Gros-Bois. Among the company was an officer 
 whom Jacqueline had never before seen. His name 
 was Marius de Laguette, a cavalier of eight-and- 
 twenty, tall and handsome, who had just returned 
 from the wars in Lorraine. He looked at Jacque- 
 line and, for the first time, she blushed and trembled. 
 They did not speak a word together; Ijut when she 
 left the Castle the Maid of Mandres was no longer 
 fancy-free. 
 
 Some days later she was sitting at her window, 
 when she saw her father returning from the chase 
 of a wild boar. To her surprise and joy, Laguette 
 was with him; the pair had made acquaintance at 
 the hunting-party, and old Meurdrac had invited 
 his companion home. The young man stayed two 
 hours, gazing at Jacqueline and talking to her 
 father. For three or four days after, he came 
 every morning; and at last, as they were walking 
 in the garden, he found a chance to speak to her alone. 
 211 
 
HISTORIC DEEDS OF DANGER AND DARING 
 
 "Mademoiselle," he said, "I am a plain man, and 
 cannot beat about the bush. I am here to tell you 
 that I love you. I have often vowed that I would 
 never marry; but the moment I beheld you I felt 
 the folly of my vows." 
 
 "I also," replied Jacqueline, "have made such 
 vows;" and in a lower tone she added, "and I also 
 have repented." 
 
 It was arranged, before they parted, that La- 
 guette should speak to Monsieur Meurdrac the next 
 day. But their course of true love was not destined 
 to run smooth. The next day came; Jacqueline sat 
 watching at her window; but no Laguette appeared. 
 Hours passed, and she was trembling with a thou- 
 sand vague misgivings, when a farmer's boy brought 
 her a billet from her lover. She tore it open; it 
 told her in despair that he was ordered to rejoin 
 his regiment, and had the sorrow of departing 
 without bidding her farewell. 
 
 Jacqueline at first burst into tears; but her lover 
 was a soldier, and his honor was her own. To kill 
 time till his return she fenced and swam, she shot 
 the deer in the Due's park, she galloped her courser 
 over fence and field. Three months went slowly 
 by; the campaign ended gloriously; Laguette came 
 home; and Jacqueline, with delight, beheld her 
 hero at her feet once more. 
 
 In the meantime, she had told her mother. Ma- 
 dame Meurdrac gave the pair her warm approval; 
 but her husband's humor was by no means certain. 
 It was determined by the three in council that 
 Lagouette should speak to him without delay. 
 
 Both ladies urged upon the suitor the need of 
 deference and soft speech in dealing with the chol- 
 eric old man. Laguette promised to obey; but 
 in truth, though gallant and frank-hearted, he was 
 fiery-tempered. Hotspur would not have made a 
 worse ambassador. And in this lay their chief peril. 
 212 
 
JACQUELINE DE LAGUETTE 
 
 Monsieur Meurdrac was in his study, engaged 
 in casting up some figures with his agent, when 
 Laguette knocked and entered, and, signing to the 
 old man not to interrupt himself, took his seat in a 
 corner till the business should be over. His visit 
 was unfortunately timed. Monsieur Meurdrac 
 hated to be disturbed at business. He continued 
 his employment; but his attention was distracted, 
 and his figures soon began to go astray. .At length 
 he flung his pen into the agent's face, " bade him 
 return later, and, turning with ill-coneealed im- 
 patience to Laguette, desired to know how he could 
 serve him. 
 
 "Monsieur Meurdrac," said the young man; "I 
 have come to ask for your advice. I wish to marry 
 — if my income justifies my doing so." And he 
 thereupon explained his prospects, which were good, 
 but not magnificent. 
 
 "Well," said the old man, "you should explain 
 all this to the young lady's father." 
 
 "Monsieur," replied the suitor, "you are he." 
 
 The delicacy with which this news was broken 
 did not gain its object. The old man answered, 
 with forced courtesy, that his family were greatly 
 honored, but that Laguette was there a week too 
 late; he had promised his daughter to another 
 suitor, and would not break his word. Laguette 
 argued; but in vain. The tempers of both disput- 
 ants began to rise. 
 
 "No doubt," said Laguette bitterly, "my rival 
 is a richer man than 1 am." 
 
 "You are insulting, sir," said Meurdrac. "But 
 let this suffice you — you shall never have my 
 daughter. Leave the house, sir!" and he thundered 
 down his fist upon the table. 
 
 Then all was in an uproar; the swords of both 
 flew out like lightning; Jacqueline and Madame 
 Meurdrac rushed in screaming. While the old lady 
 213 
 
HISTORIC DEEDS OF DANGER AND DARING 
 
 seized her husband round the neck, Jacqueline 
 hustled her lover from the room. Laguette, with 
 her reproaches ringing in his ears, rode off, vexed 
 at his own folly; old Meurdrac was left raging 
 like a madman; and the hopes of the two lovers 
 seemed destroyed forever. 
 
 Some days passed, and affairs were still in this 
 position when Laguette was once more summoned 
 to his flag. This time the lovers made a scheme 
 to correspond — a friend of Jacqueline engaging to 
 receive their letters. All further steps toward their 
 marriage had to be suspended till Laguette's return. 
 
 But in the meantime her father had no thought 
 of resting idle. Laguette had not been gone a week 
 when a letter came for Monsieur Meurdrac from his 
 friend the Abbess of the Convent of Brie-Comte- 
 Robert. He sent word aloud that he would call, 
 together with his daughter, the next day. Jacque- 
 line heard this message with a beating heart. A 
 convent ! Did they mean to force her to become a 
 nun? She plagued her father with inquiries; but 
 he would tell her nothing. Early the next morning 
 a carriage took them to the convent. The Abbess 
 welcomed them in her apartment, in which dinner 
 was laid out for several guests. Among the com- 
 pany were three or four young cavaliers, one of 
 whom her father greeted with surprising heartiness. 
 A sudden light broke in on Jacqueline. She had 
 been brought to take a husband, not the veil ! 
 
 At the table the young man sat beside her, and 
 pressed her with polite attentions. After dinner, as 
 the guests were strolling in the convent-garden, 
 Monsieur Meurdrac whispered that his name was 
 Voisenon, that he was rich, and that he loved her. 
 Among the roses and the hollyhocks the cavalier 
 renewed his gallantries; but at night, as they were 
 waiting for the carriage, she seized a moment, while 
 her father was intent upon the horses, to inform 
 214 
 
JACQUELINE DE LAGUETTE 
 
 him of the truth. She was, she told him, already 
 plighted to another. He might trouble her by his 
 attentions, but he could never win her hand; and 
 she appealed to his sense of honor. Voisenon re- 
 plied, that he was not the man to urge a wedding 
 against her will, however greatly he admired her. 
 Jacqueline responded gratefully; and the two parted 
 on the best of terms, as friends, but nothing more. 
 
 Laguette was at that moment at the siege of 
 Lamotte. Jacqueline, in her next letter, told him 
 what had happened. She added that she ran no 
 danger. But lovers' fears are keen; Laguette, in 
 much disturbance, hurried to the Marshal's tent, 
 gained leave of absence for a month, and hastened 
 home. He visited Jacqueline and urged her to 
 marry him at once in secret. At last she yielded, 
 but on one condition — she would not leave her 
 father's house until Laguette and he were recon- 
 ciled. 
 
 The marriage took place and the secret was well 
 kept; but something in his daughter's manner 
 touched old Meurdrac with suspicion. 
 
 Jacqueline at last consented that the Due of 
 Angouleme, who had assisted the young pair, should 
 be asked to break the tidings to her father, and to 
 endeavor to appease his anger. 
 
 The Due agreed. A messenger was dispatched 
 to invite the old man to step up to the castle. He 
 come, suspecting nothing. Laguette was posted in 
 an antechamber of the Due's apartment, where he 
 could overhear what passed. The Due began by 
 asking Monsieur Meurdrac for what reason he 
 objected to Laguette. 
 
 "For no reason," replied the choleric old gentle- 
 man, "except that I detest him." 
 
 "Come," said the Due, "be reasonable. He is 
 your son-in-law; your daughter is married." 
 
 The old man reeled back as if he had been shot. 
 215 
 
HISTORIC DEEDS OF DANGER AND DARING 
 
 Then he burst into such a storm of fury that La- 
 guette, fearing that Jacqueline herself would not 
 be safe, rushed out of the castle, took a couple of 
 horses from the stables, rode at full gallop to her 
 father's house, bade her leap into the saddle, and 
 carried her out of danger to his own chateau. '; 
 
 Scarcely were they out of sight, when the indig- 
 nant father came galloping to the door, inquiring 
 for his daughter. A trembling lacquey stammered 
 out that she had ridden away with Monsieur de 
 Laguette. The old man, locking himself up in his 
 own chamber, gave way to an access of fierce re- 
 sentment which for a long time nothing could 
 appease. 
 
 But time is a great reconciler. Some months 
 passed; and still, to Jacqueline's extreme distress, 
 her father steadfastly refused to see her. Madame 
 Meurdrac and the Due assailed him with entreaties 
 ■ — with reproaches; but in vain. But, although the 
 obstinate old man held out firmly in appearance, in 
 spirit he began to waver; and at last he wanted 
 nothing but a fair pretext for yielding with good 
 grace. In this position of affairs, the Duchesse of 
 Angouleme fell ill. She sent for Monsieur Meur- 
 drac, and besought him, as a last request, to see his 
 daughter and forgive her. He replied that there 
 was nothing which he could refuse her Grace. 
 Jacqueline was in the next apartment. She burst 
 into the room, and in a moment more was sobbing 
 in his arms. 
 
 Laguette then entered with the Due. The two 
 disputants shook hands; but the interview passed 
 off so stiffly that they were evidently far from being- 
 reconciled. It was left for a freak of fortune to 
 render them fast friends when every other means 
 had failed. 
 
 As Laguette, after the interview, was passing 
 through the castle-court, he observed a group of 
 216 
 
JACQUELINE DE LAGUETTE 
 
 gentlemen belonging to the Due, who seemed to be 
 
 exceedingly amused. He demanded what diverted 
 
 them so highly. "Your reconciliation," answered 
 
 1 one of them, who had been present; "to see you 
 
 \ and Monsieur Meurdrac shaking hands ! you were 
 
 like the couple in the comedy: 'we were reconciled, 
 
 j we fell into each other's arms — and from that time 
 
 I forth we have been deadly foes !' " And the\' 
 
 laughed more boisterously than ever. 
 
 Their laughter stung Luguette to frenzy. "What!" 
 he cried, "am I and Monsieur Meurdrac hypocrites? 
 Are we to be insulted by a pack of jack-a-dandies? 
 I will teach you better. manners. I tell you that I 
 honor Monsieur Meurdrac; I respect him — I esteem 
 him." And in an instant he was rushing, sword in 
 hand, against the whole fifteen. 
 
 Monsieur Meurdrac and the Due came running 
 to the spot — and the old man heard, to his infinite 
 amazement, his son-in-law proclaiming at the sword's 
 point that he honored and esteemed him. He 
 whipped out his rapier in an instant, and darted 
 to his side. The Due was forced to throw himself 
 between the combatants. His authority at length 
 appeased the tumult. The cavaliers apologized; but 
 the insulted pair walked off together arm in arm, 
 breathing forth execrations against the coxcombs 
 who had dared to turn them into ridicule. At Man- 
 dres they agreed to dine together. 
 
 Such was the wooing and wedding of Jacqueline 
 Meurdrac. Two centuries and a half have passed 
 away; Jacqueline and her little world have long 
 been dust; but here are the joys and sorrows of her 
 love-story still vividly surviving. "The unfathom- 
 able sea whose waves are years" has swallowed in 
 its depths much mightier things; and this glimpse 
 into the darkness of the past would never, in all 
 probability, have been open to us, but for the ad- 
 venture which was to make the name of Jacqueline 
 21T 
 
HISTORIC DEEDS OF DANGER AND DARING 
 • 
 familiar far beyond the village of her birth. And 
 this brings us to the second of our scenes. 
 
 Over the happy but eventful days which sue- i 
 ceeded to the marriage of the lovers we pass to the 
 year 1648— the year of the rebellion of the Fronde. 
 All the great names of France took sides in the 
 contending ranks of loyalists and rebels. Laguette 
 threw in his portion with the latter, and rode away 
 to battle under the banners of Prince Conde. I 
 
 Jacqueline was left alone in the chateau at Suilly. | 
 
 ^ The vivacity of her spirit loved excitement ; and ; 
 excitement, even in the village, was not wanting. 
 Sometimes she was awakened at the dead of night 
 by the noise of drums and trumpets, or • by the I 
 church-bells pealing an alarm. Sometimes she was 
 compelled to arm her servants, to turn her house 
 into a fortress against a party of besiegers, or to j 
 dash upon a band of foragers who were busy with 
 their sacks and sickles in her cornfield. But, in 
 spite of these diversions, she found the separation 
 from her husband more than she could bear. One 
 day she took into her head a wild resolve. She 
 determined to ride off in search of him, and to tell 
 him simply, when they met, that she had come to 
 share all perils at his side. 
 
 She immediately made ready for the venture. 
 Without adopting, like the Maid of Arc, a helmet 
 and a coat-of-mail, she presented none the less a 
 gallant figure. She kept her woman's dress; but 
 she wore, besides, long boots and gauntlets, a belt, 
 sword, and pistols, a grass-green scarf, and a hat 
 with three green plumes. Thus arrayed, and 
 mounted on a fiery horse, with two armed servants 
 riding at her heels, she cantered out of Suilly on the 
 road to Paris. 
 
 Although she was about to join her husband in 
 
 the army of the rebels, Jacqueline, like most women, 
 
 was a Royalist at heart. She burned to exert her 
 
 318 
 
JACQUELINE DE LAGUETTE 
 
 influence — the influence of love, eloquence, and 
 beauty — to convert her husband to the royal cause. 
 Nay, more. She and Prince Conde were already 
 friends. Some time before, the Prince, while on the 
 march through Mandres, had stopped for a few 
 minutes at her husband's house, and had, on his 
 departure, laughingly invited Jacqueline to become 
 his aide-de-camp. What if she could win the Prince 
 himself? 
 
 But as yet her husband and the Prince were far 
 away. And before she could be with them many 
 things were to befall. 
 
 As she now rode forward on the road to Brie, 
 there appeared before her the advance guard of a 
 band of rebels. The Duke of Lorraine was at their 
 head. The men were loosening their swords and 
 looking to their firelocks; for the scouts had 
 brought intelligence of a troop of Royalists who 
 were endeavoring to retreat across the river near 
 at hand, and the Duke, naving twice their strength 
 of numbers, made sure of cutting them to pieces. 
 From the summit of a limekiln Jacqueline covdd 
 plainly see the standards of the King. A sudden 
 impulse set her blood on fire. She resolved to save 
 the royal army by a stroke of woman's wit. 
 
 She rode up to a captain of the rebel force. 
 
 "Monsieur," she said, "I come from Gros-Bois, 
 and can give you tidings of importance. A band 
 of Royalists is lurking in the forest; this force is 
 only a deco}'. Beware how you advance too quickly, 
 or you will run your head into a trap." 
 
 The captain bade her follow him at once into the 
 presence of the Duke. Lorraine listened, and was 
 much disturbed. The order of attack was counter- 
 manded; and scouts were instantly sent out to 
 scour the forests. While these were prying into 
 brakes and dingles, the royal army gained the time 
 they needed, crossed the river, and were saved. 
 219 
 
HISTORIC DEEDS OF DANGER AND DARING 
 
 Jacqueline attempted to ride forward; but- she 
 soon found out that she was watched. With a 
 bold appearance, though with a fluttering heart, she 
 pushed her horse towards a bridge which crossed 
 the river. An officer commanded her to halt. 
 "Advance no further, Madam," he said, "or I must 
 bid my soldiers fire upon you." "Fire, then," said 
 Jacqueline. "Heaven will defend me. I have served 
 my country and my King." At the same instant 
 she drove the spurs into her horse, and dashed 
 across the bridge. A storm of bullets whistled round 
 her; but by a miracle of fortune she escaped scot 
 free. 
 
 An hour afterwards she galloped into Paris. 
 
 She learnt that Prince Conde and her husband 
 were at that moment in Guienne. She prepared 
 to follow them; but she had friends at Paris whom 
 she wished to visit; and before she started all the 
 town was talking of the trick by which the band of 
 rebels had been cheated of their prey. Soon her 
 part in the aifair leaked out; she was recognized as 
 she was walking in the street, was carried off to the 
 Palais Royal by some gentleman belonging to the 
 court, and ushered into the presence-chamber of the 
 Queen. Anne of Austria received her with the 
 most signal marks of favor, and not only thanked 
 her publicly for her service to the royal cause, but 
 invited her to spend a week at court. Jacqueline, 
 as was to be expected from a loyal subject, accepted 
 with delight. She feasted in the palace-gardens 
 under the shadow of the lime-trees, she angled for 
 gold-carp in the Queen's fish-ponds. 
 
 The week went by; and Jacqueline, attended by 
 a guide, rode out of Paris on the road to Guienne. 
 And then began a journey of adventures. The 
 country, troubled by the civil war, was in no 
 pleasant state for travelers; and so Jacqueline was 
 soon to find. On one occasion she was seized by 
 220 
 
JACQUELINE DE LAGL'ETTE 
 
 a party of Royalists, who took her for Count 
 Marsin escaping in disguise; at another, while 
 riding on a lonely road, eight brigands started from 
 a coppice, and bade her stand and deliver. These 
 rascals went off with her horse, her valise, and 
 every piece of money she possessed. Her guide 
 had fled in terror; and thence she was obliged to 
 make her way alone — as poor a pilgrim as a begging 
 friar. But nothing could subdue her resolution. 
 Sometimes she was able to obtain a ride for a few 
 miles in a charcoal-burner's cart, or on a gipsy's 
 donkey; but for the most part she was forced to 
 trudge on foot. Sometimes she begged a bed at 
 night at the cottage of some friendly rustic; but 
 often she was glad to lie down, after a supper 
 of black bread, to sleep in a granary among the 
 straw. 
 
 At last, one morning, after all her misadventures, 
 she had reached the margin of a river, and was 
 about to cross the vvater by a ferry, when suddenly 
 the sound of trumpets and the roll of drums struck 
 on her ear. A troop of cavaliers appeared, ap- 
 proaching at a gallop ; the first among them was 
 Prince Conde. 
 
 "What, Madame de Laguette !" he cried, in 
 wonder and delight. "Are you looking for your 
 husband?^ — he is behind us — or have you come, as I 
 desired, to be my aide-de-camp?" 
 
 "Both, Prince," said Jacqueline, "if you will 
 provide me with a horse." 
 
 [ A horse was brought, Jacqueline mounted, and 
 { the band rode forward. A quarter of a league 
 I before them a party of the enemy were lying in a 
 I gorge among the hills. A sharp skirmish followed, 
 I in which the Royalists were put to flight. A bullet 
 : cut off one of Jacqueline's green plumes; and in 
 return, although she could not bring herself to 
 ; shoot a Royalist, she shot the horse of their cora- 
 i 221 
 
HISTORIC DEEDS OF DANGER AND DARING 
 
 mander with her pistol. Before the rider could 
 shake off his stirrups, she rode up and bade him 
 yield, 
 
 "Yield," said Conde, riding up. "And yield 
 your heart together with your sword, for your vic- 
 tor is a woman." 
 
 The aifair was over; the Prince's officers came 
 crowding round her with congratulations; and the 
 Prince himself declared that he would knight her. 
 But amidst this storm of compliment she heard, in 
 a familiar voice, an exclamation of surprise. She 
 turned, and saw her husband, who had just ridden 
 to the spot. 
 
 Laguette's astonishment may be imagined. But 
 he was a man to feel a proud delight in the posses- 
 sion of a wife of so much spirit. The day passed 
 off in feasting and rejoicing for the victory. 
 
 But half of Jacqueline's project still remained 
 to be achieved: it was her dream to win the Prince 
 to his royal allegiance. Next day, she seized a 
 chance to touch upon the subject. To her sur- 
 prise and joy, she found her eloquence work 
 wonders. The truth was, although she did not 
 know it, that at the time of her arrival, Conde, 
 owing to desertions from the rebel ranks, had al- 
 ready determined to throw up the contest, and 
 submit to the Queen's grace. But it pleased him 
 to give his fair acquaintance the delight of think- 
 ing that her power had won him over; and he 
 succeeded perfectly. He made a show of holding 
 out, but pledged himself at last to send in his 
 submission. And Jacqueline had the pleasure of 
 believing — a belief which lasted to her dying day— 
 that she alone had softened the great rebel leader, 
 and furled the flags of battle of the Fronde. 
 
 A few days later she set out, together with her 
 husband, on the return to Suilly. The journey 
 was not quite without adventures; at one place 
 222 
 
JACQUELINE DE LAGUETTE 
 
 her horse slipped and threw her, and she put her 
 shoulder out of socket; at another, she was nearly 
 drowned by falling from a boat into a river. At 
 last the towers of Gros-Bois came in sight; and 
 she found herself a public character. All the village 
 had heard with pride and wonder how she had 
 tricked the army of Lorraine. When, some time 
 after, the report began to spread that it was she 
 who had recalled Prince Conde, the admiration of 
 her circle knew no bounds. The fame of Barbe St. 
 Belmont was eclipsed, and even Joan of Arc had 
 found a rival. 
 
 Such was the second of the scenes — the scene 
 of her adventures — by which the tenor of her life 
 diverged into romance. 
 
 And now we pass again a space of many un- 
 eventful years. Children were born to the chateau 
 at Suilly — two boys and then a girl. While her 
 children were growing into men and women, the 
 life of Jacqueline was happy, calm, and undisturbed 
 beyond the common lot. Then suddenly there came 
 a time of tribulation — a time in which disasters 
 ramed as heavily upon their wretched house as when 
 the great wind of the wilderness smote the man- 
 sion of Job's sons. Almost at the same time she 
 lost her husband by a fever, her daughter died 
 while on a visit to a friend, and her eldest son 
 was killed in battle by a cannon-shot. Her second 
 son, a brave and handsome youth, alone was left 
 to her., And through this son, on whom was settled 
 all the strength of her affections, it was destined 
 that she should meet with her own death. 
 
 And this brings us to the last of our three 
 scenes. 
 
 The young man was the favored suitor of a cele- 
 brated beauty of the town of Gand. His fiery and 
 impetuous temper — the temper of his race — made 
 him an object of hatred and terror to a score of 
 
HISTORIC DEEDS OF DANGER AND DARING 
 
 jealous rivals. Linked by a common enmity, they 
 combined together to destroy him. The young man 
 was passionately fond of hunting, and was often i 
 to be found alone in the most solitary recesses of j 
 the forests. One morning, while her son as usual 
 was out hunting, Jacqueline was awakened before ^ 
 daybreak by a strange alarm. A peasant, panting 
 with the speed with which he had been running, j 
 was hammering at the door of the chateau. The 
 man turned out to be the keeper of the village 
 tavern: and his story was a strange one. Late the 
 night before, three ruffians had slouched into his 
 hotel, and had called for liquor. Over their tank- 
 ards he had heard them muttering together of a 
 person whom they had been hired to murder in the 
 morning at a certain corner of the forest. To his 
 amazement, he had caught the name of the intended 
 victim. He knew it well; it was the son of Madame 
 de Laguette. He had dared not, for his life, 
 detain the villains, or awaken their suspicions; but 
 as soon as they had left the tavern he had rushed 
 off with the tidings. Help still might be in time; 
 but there was not an instant to be lost. 
 
 Jacqueline, though struck with terror, did not 
 lose her sense or spirit. She siezed a sword and 
 pistols, called her lacqueys to bring horses, and 
 sprang into the saddle. In five minutes the whole 
 troop, with the tavern-keeper at their head, were 
 racing over fields and hedges towards the bandits' 
 place of ambush. 
 
 When they reached the spot, however, to their 
 amazement not a living thing was to be seen. Yet 
 clearly they were not too late: the earth was no- 
 where trampled, the grass and bushes showed no 
 traces of a struggle. The peasant stared about him, 
 scratched his skull, and began to stammer that he 
 must have blundered. But Jacqueline was seized 
 with a new terror — the brigands might have 
 224 
 
JACQUELINE DE LAGUETTE 
 
 changed their lurking-place; at that very instant,, 
 when help was close at hand, her son might be 
 in peril of his life. She bade the party separate 
 in haste, and scour the neighborhood in all di- 
 rections; and she herself rode forward into the 
 woods, alone. 
 
 Presently her eye was caught by hoof-prints 
 marked upon a piece of boggy ground. Galloping 
 at full speed along this track she came upon a 
 group of horses fastened to a tree. Close by them, 
 the three brigands were seated on the turf. It was 
 apparent at a glance that she was yet in time. 
 
 Prudence was a virtue of which Jacqueline knew 
 nothing. She instantly rode up to the assassins, 
 and demanded what they did there. They stared at 
 her in wonder. 
 
 "Pass on your way," said one of them, "and do 
 not meddle with us. We have a piece of work to 
 do this morning." 
 
 "I know it, villains," she said fiercely; "you are 
 here for murder; but I will prevent it!" And, 
 driving the spurs into her horse, she dashed among 
 them, firing her pistol as she went. The shot 
 struck one of them in the right hand; her horse 
 knocked down another, and left him rolling on the 
 ground; but in another instant all three were upon 
 her, sword in hand, and mad with fury. The skill 
 with which she wheeled her horse prevented them 
 from striking; but, before she could present another 
 pistol, one of them threw down his weapon, and 
 running to the tree where they had left their 
 horses, snatched up a musketoon, and fired upon 
 her. The piece was loaded with twelve balls. One 
 of the shots struck her. Her arms dropped; and 
 she sank out of the saddle to the ground. 
 
 The villains, struck with consternation at their 
 handiwork, and fearful of the consequences, fled 
 into the forest. An hour later, Jacqueline was 
 .925 
 
HISTORIC DEEDS OF DANGER AND DARING 
 
 found where she had fallen — shot through the 
 heart. She had died, of all deaths possible, the 
 death by which she would have wished to die. She 
 had saved her son's life with her own. 
 
 
 236 
 
LOCHIEL 
 
 THIl romance of the ancient Scottish Highland 
 kingdoms has a color of its own. Its themes 
 are not, like those of the romance of chivalry, of 
 love and love's adventures; its tales are not of 
 vows and tokens, of soft lutes sighing in the bowers 
 of ladies, of knights in golden armor glittering in 
 the lists. Its scenes are, like its own deep forests 
 and dark mountain gorges, full of Gothic gloom 
 and savage splendor. The fiery cross wandering 
 like a meteor over hills and valleys, the gathering 
 of the warlike clans, the glowing tartans, the 
 badges, the terrific slogan, the glitter of the dirks 
 and battle-axes — all its sights and sounds have in 
 them something wild and weird, from the fierce 
 shriek of the pibroch in the front of battle, to the 
 mournful wailing of the coronach above the dead 
 man in his shroud — from the minstrel touching his 
 rude harp to music of barbaric sweetness, to the 
 wild-eyed wizard girding on his robe of raw bull's- 
 hide and lying down to catch prophetic voices in 
 the roaring of the lone cascade. 
 
 Among such sights and sounds a boy was born, 
 in February, 1639, at Kulchorn Castle, Scotland, a 
 pile of grey towers rising under the shadow of Ben 
 Cruachan, on an island of Loch Awe. His mother 
 was a Campbell. His father, who died before the 
 boy was old enough to recollect him, was the eldest 
 son of Cameron of Lochiel, one of the most famous 
 of the Gaelic kings, a shrewd and fierce old chief, 
 who for seventy years had lived amidst a whirl of 
 wild adventures, and who had been long regarded 
 with a double terror, partly as a warrior and partly 
 a J 7 
 
HISTORIC DEEDS OF DANGER AND DARING 
 
 as a seer. His ancestry went back, through times 
 of history, into times of fable — from a chief who 
 fought for Mary at Corrichy, to a chief who fought 
 for James at Flodden Field; from John of Ochtry, 
 who bore at Halidon the Bloody Heart of Douglas, 
 to that Angus, who, three hundred years before, is 
 said to have rescued Fleance from the vengeance of 
 Macbeth. The old man desired to give his grand- 
 son a more courtly education than he had himself 
 received; and Ewen, as the boy was called, was 
 brought up by the Marquis or Argyle, who placed 
 him, at the age of twelve, under a tutor of his own 
 choice at Inverary. But Ewen had no taste for 
 books; and too often his preceptor saw, in agony of 
 spirit, his pupil rush away from spelling-books and 
 grammars, to hunt foxes and red hares among the 
 neighboring glens, to fill his creel with fish out of 
 Loch Fyne, or to listen, for half a summer's day 
 together, to some tattered pilgrim, the Homer of 
 the villages, who could pour forth endless stories of 
 the ancient heroes — of Wallace at the Brig of 
 Stirling, of Bruce swimming from the blood-hound, 
 of Black Donald's exploits over the Lords of the 
 Isles, or of the vengeance of Allan-a-Sop. In spite, 
 however, of his tutor's lamentations, at sixteen 
 Ewen was, in mind and body, worthy of his race; 
 tall, well-built, fresh-colored, eagle-eyed; and of 
 that high temper to which dishonor is more terri- 
 ble than death. 
 
 While he was still at Inverary, the old warrior 
 died. Ewen, at sixteen, found himself the chieftain 
 of his clan. He did not, for some months, however, 
 put on the eagle's feather, or take command of his 
 wild tribe among the hills. Argyle desired that he 
 should go to Oxford. The Marquis was about to 
 make a journey into England. Donald Cameron, 
 Ewen's uncle, took, for the time, his nephew's place 
 as leader of the clan; and Lochiel, as he must now 
 228 
 
LOCHIEL 
 
 be called, set out among the men-at-arms who rode 
 with Argjde's carriage. The party never saw the 
 oriels and quadrangles of the ancient city; but 
 Lochiel, within the space of a few months, saw 
 much stirring life, and gained a kind of knowledge 
 which is very little to be learnt from deans and 
 doctors. One of the first of his adventures might, 
 however, very well have proved to be the last. At 
 Stirling, where the party halted, the pestilence was 
 raging. The utmost care was necessary. Argyle 
 himself, with a prudence quite his own, refused to 
 stir outside his coach. But when the party was 
 about to start, Lochiel had disappeared. The 
 Marquis was in terror; squires and pages ran wildly 
 up and down the city; and presently the object of 
 their agitation was discovered affably conversing 
 with the inmates of a hovel, every one of whom was 
 struck with the plague. At Berwick, where the 
 party made a longer stay, Lochiel cheered the time 
 by fighting duels in the streets with the gay youths 
 of the city. But this amusement was soon inter- 
 rupted. The marquis of Montrose was marching 
 with an army into Fife, and Argyle was compelled 
 to mount in haste and gallop at full speed to 
 Castle Campbell. That ancient pile, which stood in 
 a wild glen among the Ochil hills, had once been 
 known, together with its stream, by names of 
 strange romantic sound. The castle had been Castle 
 Gloom, and the waters which rolled past its walls, 
 the waters of the stream of Grief. Within this 
 ominous tower, Lochiel had some experience of a 
 siege. A fierce band of the Macleans attacked the 
 fort. It was not taken; but the defenders showed 
 themselves so little lion-hearted that Lochiel bluntly 
 told the governor that his quaking poltroons de- 
 served hanging, and himself among them. Then 
 came, as in Othello's story, battles, fortunes, and 
 disastrous chances. At Kilsyth, Lochiel saw Ar- 
 229 
 
HISTORIC DEEDS OF DANGER AND DARING 
 
 gyle's trim troops fly like hares before the clansmen 
 of Montrose. A month later, by a turn of fate, he 
 formed part of that soft-footed band who stole 
 upon Montrose at Philiphaugh, and started like 
 ghosts out of the morning mist upon his sleepy camp. 
 
 Among the prisoners taken at that action was Sir 
 Robert Spottiswood, an ancient friend of Lochiel's 
 father, and of his grandfather before him. The old 
 man was brought up for judgment at St. Andrews, 
 and condemned to be beheaded. Lochiel, who was 
 present at the trial, watched the proceedings with 
 the keenest interest, and was, like all the rest of the 
 spectators, struck with wonder and admiration at 
 the calm and noble bearing of the prisoner, and by 
 the moving eloquence of his defense. On the night 
 before the execution he made his way to the cell- 
 door. The jailor had strict ^orders to admit no 
 visitor. But Lochiel was the favorite of Argyle. 
 The door opened, and he entered. 
 
 Before he left the cell Lochiel's whole destiny was 
 altered. Sir Robert, finding him the son of his old 
 friend, spoke with him long and earnestly about the 
 cause for which he was condemned to suffer. He 
 found a willing hearer. I.ochiel was by natural bent 
 a cavalier. In secret, Montrose had long been his 
 hero. And his own sagacity had taught him that 
 Argyle was false, cunning, and cold-hearted. These 
 things he now heard solemnly impressed upon him 
 by a voice which was no longer of this world. He 
 left the cell at midnight, his heart beating, and the 
 tears streaming from his eyes. The next morning, 
 from a window opposite the scaffold, he saw the 
 prisoner, with cheek still ruddy, and with eagle eyes 
 that looked proudly on the crowd, mount the steps, 
 and lay his grey head on the block. The death of 
 a brave man confirmed his words. From that 
 moment Lochiel determined to follow his own 
 course, to cast off Argyle's authority, and to take, 
 230 
 
LOCHIEL 
 
 without delay, command of his own wild kingdom 
 on the uplands of Ben Nevis, and along the rocky 
 ranges of Glen Roy. 
 
 Indeed, there were reasons why he should not 
 linger. His uncle Donald, acting chief in his ab- 
 sence, had turned out a sluggard; and his clan, 
 which had received some tidings of his character, 
 were already looking for him eagerly. Argyle, 
 finding his mind fixed, made no attempt to thwart 
 him; and in December, 1646, Lochiel started for the 
 Highlands. At the news of his approach, his 
 tribesmen mustered and marched out to meet him; 
 and thus, with colors flying and pipes playing, he 
 came to his ancestral residence, Toor Castle, on 
 Loch Lochy. He was not yet quite eighteen. 
 
 And now the eyes of friends and of enemies were 
 bent alike upon him. A chief, at the beginning of 
 his reign, was virtually on his probation. His 
 empire over his wild clansmen had to be established 
 by his own capacity. A coward or a fool, set over 
 that fierce host, was not regarded simply with con- 
 tempt, but was fortunate if he escaped, to use 
 Dalgetty's phrase, a dirk-thrust in his midst. On 
 the other hand, a great chief was the idol of his 
 tribe. The minstrels were never weary of singing, 
 nor the people weary of hearing, of the spleiidor of 
 his rush to victory, or of the craft and skill with 
 which he could stalk the wariest mountain-stag, or 
 thrust his spear into the fiercest wolf. But first 
 his powers as a warrior and a hunter had to be set 
 clear before all eyes. Lochiel had now to show 
 what sort of leader he was. 
 
 An opportunity was not likely to be wanting. 
 The little realm of the clan Cameron was girdled 
 on all sides by the estates of rival chiefs, Camp- 
 bells, Stewarts, Gordons, Macintoshes, Macpher- 
 sons, Macdonalds, and Macleans. Every one of 
 these sovereigns was either at daggers drawn with 
 231 
 
HISTORIC DEEDS OP DANGER AND DARING 
 
 all the rest, or ready at any moment to become so. 
 No reader of the Legend of Montrose will have 
 forgotten the gathering of the clans at the Castle of 
 Darnlinvarach: the assembly of the chiefs, the fire 
 glittering in their eyes, the dirks ready at every 
 instant to fly out of the scabbards, the rival pipers 
 strutting up and down, each piping for his life to 
 drown the rest, the sleeping-quarters settled jeal- 
 ously apart in the barn and the stables, the malt- 
 kiln and the loft. Some of the feuds between the 
 clans were as old as the quarrel on which, two cen- 
 turies and a half before, Lochiel's ancestors and the 
 ancestors of ^Macintosh had fought their immortal 
 fight at Perth, in the days of the Fair Maid. Others 
 were disputes of yesterday; and one of these Lo- 
 chiel found ready to his hands. 
 
 Macdonald of Keppoch owed him a sum of money 
 for a piece of moorland which he rented in Glen 
 Roy. This is the. same Keppoch who once, it is 
 related, gained a curious wager from an English 
 lord, as to which of them possessed the finest candle- 
 sticks. The Englishman's candlesticks were of 
 massive silver; Keppoch's turned out to be two 
 brav/ny Highlanders, each grasping in his fist a 
 blazing torch. This wily potentate had speedily 
 discovered that, against Lochiel's uncle, it was an 
 easier policy to bluster than to pay; and, on 
 Lochiel's arrival, he soothed his soul with the re- 
 flection, that against so young a leader that policy 
 would certainly prove easier still. He soon found 
 out his error. Before he knew it, Lochiel, with 
 five hundred men behind him, was marching down 
 on his domain. Keppoch, who began with his old 
 policy of bluster, wavered, put his claymore back 
 into its scabbard, and sent a herald with the money. 
 
 Lochiel, burning for battle, regarded such a 
 victory with disgust. But he was soon to have his 
 heart's desire. The Earl of Glencairn, after the 
 232 
 
LOCHIEL 
 
 defeat of Worcester, summoned the clans, as volun- 
 teers, to fight for their Uncrowned King, Prince 
 Charles, "the Pretender." Lochiel with seven hun- 
 dred swordsmen, was the first to join him. Then 
 came adventures thick and fast. Wherever the 
 thickest of the fighting fell, there was Lochiel with 
 his seven hundred. 
 
 Glencairn had one evening pitched his camp at 
 Tulloch, a village approached only by a steep and 
 narrow pass, in which Lochiel was posted. A large 
 force of the enemy was known to be at hand; but 
 an immediate attack was not expected. On a 
 sudden, in the twilight of the morning, the scouts 
 came running in. The enemy were approaching 
 in great numbers, evidently resolved to force their 
 way through the ravine. 
 
 Lochiel, who had lain down on the heather, 
 wrapped up in his plaid, was instantly aroused. 
 The night was frosty, and a thin veil of mist hung 
 above the valley. He climbed a lofty pinnacle of 
 rock, from which he could plainly see the horses, 
 the red coats, the glittering mail, and the dancing 
 colors of the English soldiers. The peril was ex- 
 treme; for their mere numbers were, in open 
 ground, sufficient to cut Glencairn's entire force to 
 pieces. Lochiel sent off a messenger to warn the 
 general to retire into a place of safety. Then he 
 prepared to hold the way to his last man. 
 
 Scarcely had he set his force in order, when the 
 enemy dashed gaily forward, confident of victory. 
 They found themselves confronted by a grim array 
 of targets, behind each of which a savage soldier, 
 armed with a glittering claymore, was quivering 
 lake a greyhound in the leash. Twenty times the 
 horsemen charged that wall of warriors — and twenty 
 times went reeling back, stabbed, hacked, and 
 broken. Lochiel himself fought in front of his 
 array; and at every charge his voice was heard, 
 233 
 
HISTORIC DEEDS OF DANGER AND DARING 
 
 above the clash of battle, sending forth the slogan 
 Four hours passed in desperate conflict; and stil 
 the little band held fast the gorge against the mos 
 furious efforts of the English. 
 
 At last, when the men were weary, drenched ii 
 blood, and weak from wounds and bruises, a herah 
 came from Glencairn. He had retired into i 
 swamp, some two miles distant, where it was im 
 possible that a horse could follow, and was now ii 
 perfect safety. 
 
 Lochiel instantly drew off his men. But he re 
 treated, not towards the village, but up the sides oi 
 the ravine, where nothing but a wildcat or a High 
 lander could cling. Lilburn, the English com 
 mander, to his amazement, found the enemy sud 
 denly above his head, and the passage through th< 
 gorge left open. He pushed forward at full speed 
 but Glencairn was now safe beyond his reach, anc 
 he was compelled at last, to his extreme vexation 
 to drag his horses from the quag, and to marcl 
 back through the pass. There, as his tormentec 
 troopers made their way, every' boulder, everj 
 heather-tuft, along the walls of the ravine, seemec 
 to have turned itself into an enemy shooting ar 
 arrow, or hurling down a stone; and with ever\ 
 stone and arrow came the notes of a terrific chorus 
 "Wolves and ravens, come to me, and I will give 
 you flesh!" 
 
 It was the war-song of Lochiel. 
 
 This exploit raised his fame to a great height 
 For every man he lost, the enemy lost six. Glen- 
 cairn welcomed him as a deliverer; and not long 
 afterwards the King himself sent him a letter, whict 
 acknowledged in the warmest terms the signa 
 service which his valor had rendered to the roya 
 cause. But as yet his fame was only in its dawn. 
 
 General Monk marched into Scotland. It was that 
 234 
 
LOCHIEL 
 
 generars policy to fight with gold as often as with 
 teel. He tried to bribe Lochiel; but on the young 
 chief's blunt refusal, he resolved to plant a fortress 
 in the heart of his domains. Lochiel received in- 
 telligence that five ships, carrying three thousand 
 Soldiers and a colony of workmen, were sailing up 
 Loch Eil towards Ben Nevis. 
 
 He instantly marched homewards along the 
 rnountain ranges, and looked down on Inverlochy. 
 The ships were riding off the shore, the troops were 
 landed, the garrison was already fortified against all 
 danger, and the fort was rising fast. To attack 
 them would have been mere madness, and Lochiel 
 iwas forced to lie in watch for an opportunity of 
 avenging their presumption. With thirty-five picked 
 men he posted himself upon the woody heights 
 above Achdalew, having the lake and the garrison 
 beneath his eye. His men were grieviously in want 
 of forage; and he was compelled to send out the 
 remainder of his party to drive in cattle from some 
 distance round. 
 
 The men were scarcely gone, when a boat be- 
 longing to the garrison put forth upon the lake, 
 and stood over the water to the shore beneath him. 
 A hundred and fifty soldiers were on board. Their 
 purpose was to strip the village and to cut down 
 wood. Lochiel resolved that they should not touch 
 a girdle-cake or break a twig. His men were ready 
 to follow him through any peril. But the risk of 
 an attack was fearful; the enemy were more than 
 four to one against them; and they besought him 
 not to expose his life to such a hazard. Lochiel 
 replied that if he fell, his brother Allan, who was 
 with them, would take his place as chief. But the 
 lives of both must not be jeopardized; and Allan 
 positively refused to be left out of the adventure. 
 It was found necessary, for his own security, to 
 lash Allan to a tree, where he was left under the 
 235 
 
HISTORIC DEEDS OF DANGER AND DARING 
 
 guard of a young bo,y. And then the little ban<i 
 prepared for the attack. 
 
 By this time the English soldiers had landed, an( 
 were busy in the village, stripping the hovels o: 
 eatables and putting the ducks and the hens int( 
 their sacks. While they were thus employed, i 
 scout dashed in among them. They had scarceb 
 time to draw up in rough order on the shore, whei 
 Lochiel at the head of his party came rushing ou' 
 of the wood upon their ranks. 
 
 A desperate fight ensued. The English had i 
 vast superiority of numbers. But the first fire oi 
 their muskets did no injury; and before they coulc 
 reload, the enemy were among them. The clans- 
 men, after their manner, caught the sword-cuts and 
 the bayonets on their targets, and stabbed upwards 
 from beneath them; and the English, thus fighting 
 at great disadvantage, were slowly driven down the 
 strand into the water. 
 
 Lochiel himself had driven three or four assailants 
 into the wood, where after a sharp contest he had 
 left them lying in a heap. He was returning at full 
 speed towards the shore, eager to rejoin his men. 
 when a gigantic officer, who had concealed himself 
 in a thicket, sprang out upon him with a cry of 
 vengeance. Their blades were instantly opposed. 
 And then came a combat which, under a slight 
 disguise, was destined to become famous over all 
 the world. It was the fight between Fitz-James 
 and Roderick Dhu. 
 
 The parts of the Gael and the Saxon are, how- 
 ever, interchanged. Lochiel in the Fitz-James; the 
 officer is Roderick Dhu. With this fact borne in 
 mind, the words of Sir Walter Scott, the poet, set 
 the fight before our eyes: — 
 
 "Three times in closing strife they stood. 
 And thrice the Saxon blade drank blood. 
 236 
 
LOCH I EL 
 
 "Fierce Roderick felt the fatal drain, 
 And showered his blows like winter rain — 
 And as firm rock or castle-roof 
 Against the winter shower is proof. 
 The foe, invulnerable still. 
 Foiled his wild rage by steady skill — 
 Till, at advantage ta'en, his brand 
 Forced Roderick's weapon from his hand, 
 And, backward borne upon the lea, 
 Brought the proud chieftain to his knee. 
 
 " 'Now yield thee, or by Him that made 
 The world, thy heart's blood dyes my blade !' — 
 'Thy threats, thy mercy, I defy ! 
 Let recreant yield, who fears to die!' — 
 Like adder darting from his coil. 
 Like wolf that dashes through the toil. 
 Like mountain-cat who guards her young. 
 Full at Fitz-James's throat he sprung; 
 Receiv^ed, but recked not of a wound. 
 
 And locked his arms his foeman round. — ■ 
 Now^ gallant Saxon, hold thine own ! 
 No maiden's hand is round thee thrown ! 
 That desperate grasp thy frame might feel 
 Through bars of brass and triple steel! — 
 They tug, they strain ! — down, down they go. 
 The Gael above, Fitz-James below." 
 
 Lochiel and his antagonist, however, fell not on 
 oft heather. Locked in the deadly conflict, they 
 tottered, wavered, and rolled together down a steep 
 oank into the dry gulley of a brook. Lochiel, who 
 kas undermost, wedged between rocks, and crushed 
 gainst the pebbles by the weight of his huge foe, 
 was unable to stir hand or foot. But as his enemy 
 Stretched forth his hand to reach his dagger, which 
 lad fallen out of his belt, Lochiel, with a last effort, 
 237 
 
HISTORIC DEEDS OF DANGER AND DARING 
 
 darted his head upwards and fixed his teeth in his 
 opponent's throat. He fell back, writhing, and 
 Lochiel stabbed him with his dirk. 
 
 "Unwounded from the dreadful close. 
 But breathless all, Lochiel arose." 
 
 But his adventures were not ended. 
 
 As he was issuing from the wood, a soldier, who 
 was skulking in the thicket, leveled his musket at 
 him through the branches, and in another instant 
 would have shot him dead. But again his fortune 
 saved him. While he had been engaged with his 
 opponent, his brother Allan, who had been left 
 lashed, in fancied safety, to the tree, had bribed 
 the boy who attended him to cut his cords. At 
 this instant he came running up, and espjing the 
 musket-barrel peeping from the bush, instantly 
 fired his own piece in that direction. The soldier 
 tumbled dead into the thicket, and the brothers 
 hurried down the shore together. 
 
 The combatants, who were now of almost equal 
 numbers, were fighting in the water. Lochiel, in 
 a loud voice, offered quarter to all who would 
 throw down their arms. The offer was accepted; 
 and both parties began to wade ashore. Among 
 the first to surrender was an Irishman, who must 
 have been a fellow of delightful humor. As soon 
 as this worthy felt himself on land, he cast down 
 his weapon, seized Lochiel's hand in a friendly 
 grasp, bade him adieu, and was off like the wind. 
 Before the victors had done staring at one another 
 he was half way back to Inverlochy. 
 
 He reached the fort in safety, with the tidings 
 of the fray. His escape was narrower than he 
 imagined. While he was turning his hearers into 
 stone with horror, his late companions were in 
 evil plight. Lochiel's offer of quarter had been 
 accepted; the men v/ere laying down their arms, 
 238 
 
LOCHIEL 
 
 when one of their party, who had swam out to 
 the boat, found there a loaded firelock. He rested 
 the barrel on the gunwale, and aimed deliberately 
 at Lochiel. Lochiel's foster-brother, who stood 
 beside him, saw the action. He threw himself 
 before his chief, and the next instant was shot 
 through the heart. 
 
 His blood was instantly and bitterly avenged. 
 Lochiel himself, with his sword between his teeth, 
 dashed through the water to the boat, and drove 
 his blade into the soldier's heart. There was no 
 more thought of mercy. The English soldiers 
 snatched up their arms and fought with despera- 
 tion for their lives. But the mountaineers, breath- 
 ing forth vengeance, cut them down to the last 
 man. 
 
 That night Lochiel himself bore in his arms the 
 body of his preserver over three miles of crag 
 and moorland, to the dead man's home among 
 the hills; and there the coronach (death lament) 
 which was wailed above his bier, ere he was laid 
 among the graves of his own people, doubtless had 
 in it as much of pride as of sorrow, as for one 
 who had died for his chief. 
 
 And now the fight was over — a fight of which 
 the incidents of self-devotion, of single combat, of 
 hair's-breath escapes, of victory achieved against 
 appalling odds, resemble some wild fable of ro- 
 mantic story rather than events of history. The 
 whole of the English force, except a single fugi- 
 tive, lay dead upon the shore or in the wood. 
 Lochiel, though nearly all his band were bruised 
 and wounded, had lost only five men. Some of 
 his wild warriors had that day set eyes for the 
 first time on Saxon soldiers. 
 
 Next morning Colonel Bryan, the governor of 
 the garrison, marched out two thousand soldiers, 
 thirsting for revenge. In vain. He could see the 
 
HISTORIC DEEDS OF DANGER AND DARING 
 
 Camerons on the lofty crags, their colors flying 
 and their bagpipes yelling in triumph; but he could 
 no more reach them than if they had had wings. 
 On the other hand, whenever parties of his men 
 were to be seen, the mountaineers came swooping 
 from the hills, attacked them, slew them, and rose 
 again, uninjured, like a flight of eagles, into their 
 wild heights and inaccessible ravines. For some 
 days this war went on. But Lochiel, who could 
 no longer absent himself from the main army, at 
 last drew off his men. The Colonel instantly told 
 off a strong troop to pursue him. The man who 
 took Lochiel, alive or dead, was to receive promo- 
 tion and a bag of gold. 
 
 Lochiel marched by day over the mountain- 
 ranges, and slept by night upon the heather, or 
 in the little sheilings (huts) made of turf and 
 branches, which the mountain shepherds built on the 
 bare moors. In one of these he lay one night 
 among the hills of Braemar. No enemy was known 
 to be at hand, and the watch was kept with negli- 
 gence. In the dead of night he had a vision. Tra- 
 dition says it was the figure of a small red-bearded 
 man, with troubled features and wild eyes, who 
 struck the sleeper on the breast, and bade him in- 
 stantly arise. Lochiel awoke, and gazed about him; 
 but he could see nothing, and soon fell asleep once 
 more. Immediately the figure reappeared, and 
 awoke him with the same alarming cry. Lochiel, 
 in some amazement, roused his henchman, who lay 
 beside him. The man had seen no visitor; and Lo- 
 chiel, for the third time, sunk to slumber. But 
 now the ghost, appearing with an angrj^ aspect, 
 struck him more sharply than before, and cried in 
 a compelling voice, "Arise, arise, Lochiel!" With 
 the accent ringing in his ears, Lochiel sprang up 
 and looked forth at the doorway of the cabin. To 
 his unspeakable surprise, the moor was covered 
 240 
 
LOCHIEL 
 
 with the red coats of EngHsh soldiers. His pur- 
 suers had stolen between his outposts, and were 
 creeping up to seize him in his sleep. 
 
 Whoever the red-bearded ghost might be, his 
 warning was delivered just in time. Lochiel in- 
 stantly dashed out of the hut, and favored by the 
 dusky light of morning, got clear away among the 
 trackless hills. His men soon gathered round him; 
 l)ut two or three were missing; and Lochiel, more- 
 over, had lost all his baggage, in which were some 
 unset diamonds, and a dozen silver spoons engraven 
 with the ten commandments. 
 
 He joined his allies without misadventure. But 
 the campaign was nearly over; and he was soon at 
 liberty to revisit his old foes. He marched back 
 in deep secrecy to Inverlochy. It chanced that on 
 the day of his arrival about a hundred of the offi- 
 cers were celebrating his absence by holding a hunt- 
 ing-party in his forests, and killing his red deer. 
 They were destined to enjoy, that day, the excite- 
 ment both of the hunter and of the game. In the 
 midst of their amusement Lochiel came suddenly 
 upon them, hunted them out of the forest, and left 
 only ten of them alive. 
 
 Nor did he confine himself to Inverlochy. Some 
 days later three colonels, with their guards and 
 servants, who had been sent out to survey the 
 country, were drinking their wine at evening in 
 their inn at Portuchrekine. The door was well 
 guarded; no danger was thought possible; when 
 suddenly the party was electrified to perceive a 
 hole appear among the rafters of the roof. Through 
 the hole Lochiel, with a string of men behind him, 
 came tumbling into the room. In a moment he 
 had made every man of them a prisoner. They 
 ^\ere conducted, under the darkness of the night, 
 to the shores of Loch Ortuigg, where a boat was 
 waiting, and lodged in a crazy cabin on an island 
 241 
 
HISTORIC DEEDS OF DANGER AND DARING 
 
 in the middle of the lake. Except for their lodg- 
 ings, however, they had little to coniplain of. Their 
 servants were permitted to attend them; and every 
 day, as long as they were prisoners, their table was 
 loaded with venison and wild-fowl. Lochiel, though 
 an appalling enemy, was, after the ancient High- 
 land manner, a host of the most lofty courtesy; 
 and he chose to consider his captives as his guests. 
 
 His enemies were, by this time, eager to buy 
 peace. Every chief in Scotland, himself excepted, 
 had now submitted to the Protector, and had been 
 compelled to take an oath of fealty to the State. 
 I.ochiel alone received an intimation, that on pas- 
 sing his bare word to fight no longer for Prince 
 Charles, he should receive full compensation for 
 all injuries, and be left, for the future, in undis- 
 turbed possession of his lands. These conditions — 
 as glorious to his fame as any feat of arms — Lo- 
 chiel accepted. At the head of his clan, he marched 
 to the garrison at Inverlochy. The treaty was rat- 
 ified; and Lochiel found himself at peace. 
 
 His name was now renowned all over Scotland. 
 And his appearance was worthy of his name. He 
 had now attained to his full growth. His figure 
 was six feet high, slender, yet of amazing strength. 
 His face was handsome. His swarthy skin, and 
 his dark and piercing ej'es, caused him to be known 
 throughout the coimtry by the title of Black Ewen. 
 In nobility of bearing he was said, in after years, 
 to present a striking likeness to I^ouis the Four- 
 teenth. The resemblance, however, must have been 
 rather in impression than in reality; for the majes- 
 tic Frenchman, in spite of a towering periwig, and 
 shoes with heels like stilts, would hardly have come 
 up to I^ochiel's shoulder. 
 
 And now, for a time, the claymore was put back 
 into the scabbard. The war-pipes were to warble 
 the gay strains of peace. The wild pibroch was 
 242 
 
LOCHIEL 
 
 to change to wedding reels. Lochiel was to be 
 married. 
 
 His bride was a Macdonald — a daughter of the 
 lofty house whose chieftains had, for many ages, 
 been known by the proud title of "the Lords Of the 
 Isles." The wedding was long remembered for its 
 splendor, for the brilliance of the company who 
 gathered to the feast, and who danced from night 
 to morning to the joyous "skirling" of the pipes. 
 Among the merry-makers was one ancient minstrel, 
 who had made a pilgrimage of many miles, that he 
 might add to the festivities the humble tribute of 
 his song. A version of the Gaelic ditty which he 
 sang before the guests is still extant. It is an 
 amusing specimen of the simplicity of art. The 
 singer, having extolled the virtues of the chief, 
 leads, by a deft transition, to the loss of three cows 
 which had befallen himself, and for lack of which, 
 he sings, he fears that he shall be reduced to feed 
 on grass. Lochiel presented the performer, who in 
 point of poverty, at least, seems to have been the 
 equal of most poets, from Homer downwards, with 
 three fresh cows from his own stock; the company 
 filled his sporran (leather pouch) with silver pieces; 
 and hills and valleys echoed with thanksgivings, as 
 the joyful bard departed. 
 
 Up to this point we have traced Lochiel's career 
 with some minuteness. The course of events be- 
 tween his marriage and the battle of Killiecrankie 
 may pass more rapidly l>efore us. 
 
 In times of peace, among the ancient Scottish 
 Highlands, vast hunting-parties took the place of 
 war. The wolves, that once had prowled in mighty 
 packs among the mountains, were by no means yet 
 extinct. Twenty years later, Lochiel himself drove 
 b.is spear into the ribs of the last wolf that howled 
 in Scotland; but at this time numbers of the fierce 
 beasts were to be found, and provided a dangerous 
 243 
 
HISTORIC DEEDS OF DANGER AND DARING 
 
 and exciting sport. Lochiel's hunting-parties soon 
 grew famous. They were varied by occasional 
 campaigns against the neighboring clans. He 
 marched against Macintosh. He fought with the 
 Macleans against the Campbells. In 1660, when 
 General Monk declared his pleasure that the King 
 should enjoy his own again, Lochiel marched with 
 Monk to London, rode at his side on the day of the 
 triumphal entry, was presented, kissed the King's 
 hand, and might, as it appears, have had the bliss 
 of holding the King's stirrup, had he not lacked 
 the courtier's art of thrusting himself forward. 
 It was not, however, from the monarch that Lo- 
 chiel was destined to receive the most distinguished 
 marks of favor, but from James, then Duke of 
 York. 
 
 In 168:2, some villagers of Lochiel were seized 
 and brought for trial to Edinburgh, on the charge 
 of having killed two soldiers, who had attempted to 
 drive off cattle from the village, and who had caused 
 the death of an old woman, to whom the herd be- 
 longed. Thither Lochiel repaired to answer for his 
 men. The Duke happened to be visiting the city; 
 and Ivochiel, who waited on him, was most gra- 
 ciously received. The Duke talked long with him 
 about his exploits in the royal cause, and finally 
 demanded Lochiel's sword, Lochiel chanced to be 
 wearing, at the time, an ornamental rapier, such as 
 he never used in actual fighting. He handed his 
 weapon to James, who attempted to draw it; but 
 the blade, which had grown rusty, would not stir. 
 "Lochiel's weapon," said the Duke, with a smile, 
 "has not often stuck in its scabbard when the royal 
 cause required it." Then, as Lochiel, with a slight 
 effort, drew the blade himself, "See, my lords," he 
 continued, turning to the crowd of courtiers who 
 stood round, "the sword of Lochiel obeys no hand 
 but his own !" And with this graceful speech 
 3U 
 
LOCHIEL 
 
 he took the rapier, made I.ochiel kneel down, struck 
 him on the shoulder with the blade, and bade him 
 "rise up Sir Ewen." He was now a Knight. 
 
 The courtiers who were present at this ceremony 
 smiled so affably that Loc^^iel believed himself to be 
 among a host of friends. No sooner, however, had 
 the Duke departed than some of these, bursting 
 with envy, pushed on the case against his villagers 
 with the most bitter vigor. The culprits would 
 certainly have been doomed to dangle in a row, had 
 not Lochiel, who had no mind to see his clansmen 
 hanged to spite himself, set his own wits against his 
 enemies. He hired a band to pick acquaintance 
 with the most dangerous of the witnesses against 
 him. These genial spirits earned their pay. On 
 the morning of the trial the witnesses were dis- 
 covered, after a long search, lying in a drunken 
 sleep. No effort could arouse them. The case was 
 dismissed for want of evidence, and Lochiel re- 
 turned in triumph to Ivochaber. 
 
 Strategy was, indeed, as native to his character 
 as a feat of arms. In 1685 the Sheriff of Inverness 
 was charged by the Council to hold assizes in the 
 Highlands. In the course of his circuit he came 
 into I.ochaber, attended by a guard of six or seven 
 hundred men. Lochiel, incensed that any but him- 
 self should dare to exercise authority in his domains, 
 marched to the Court with five hundred of his 
 followers. These he professed were intended as a 
 band of honor to the judge; but he had dropped 
 a broad hint in the ears of two or three of his most 
 turbulent spirits: "This judge will ruin us all. Is 
 there none of my lads so clever as to get up a 
 tumidt and send him packing? I have seen them 
 raise mischief at less need." His listeners, eager to 
 seize the least sign of his pleasure, caught up the 
 words in a moment. 
 
 The Sheriff was sitting; the Court was crowded 
 245 
 
HISTORIC DEEDS OF DANGER AND DARING 
 
 to the doors; when on a sudden, no one could say 
 where, a blow was struck, a scuffle arose, and in two 
 minutes the place was ringing with uproar and 
 dazzling with the gleam of swords. The Sheriff, 
 frightened out of his wits, threw himself on the 
 protection of Lochiel; and IvOchiel, with much loyal 
 parade, escorted him out of the country, into which 
 he never ventured to set his foot again. To add 
 the last touch to the comedy, the Sheriff regarded 
 Lochiel as the preserver of his life, and commended 
 his name to the Council, who sent him a letter of 
 thanks. 
 
 But although Lochiel permitted no rival — not 
 even the King's representative — to ursurp his 
 authority, he was ready at all times to fight for 
 the King. When Viscount Dimdee summoned the 
 clans for his last venture, it was from lyochiel's 
 castle that the fiery crosses took their flight. His 
 part in the campaign that followed is one of the 
 well-known events of history. No reader of Scott 
 or of Macaulay will have forgotten how his voice 
 induced tlie Council to give battle; how, before 
 the fight, he drew from every Cameron an oath 
 to conquer or to perish; and how his onset whirled 
 llie red-coats in a torrent down the gorge of 
 Killiecrankie. 
 
 He had never led his men except to victory — 
 and such a victory was the fitting crown of his 
 career. After this battle he retired into his own 
 country, where he lived, taking no further active 
 part in public matters. In 1719, he died of fever. 
 With the exception of a few vague glimpses, we 
 have no record of his later years. In truth, in this 
 point, as in others, he resembles the ancient hero 
 to whom he has been likened. We know little 
 more of the old age of Lochiel than of the last 
 years of LTlysses. 
 
 Nevertheless, his character, his picturesque and 
 246 
 
LOCHIEL 
 
 striking figure, are as distinct to us as those of 
 iiuy hero of history or romance. "The Ulysses of 
 the Highlands" — the title is no freak of fancy. 
 Nothing was easier than to picture him among the 
 scenes of Homer; to see him, in the mind's eye, 
 rising in the hushed assembly of the Grecian kings 
 — whirling in his chariot along the banks of the 
 Scamander— emerging like a phantom from the 
 wooden horse — plunging the burning brand into the 
 eye of the Cyclops — or scheming how to sail in 
 safety past the perilous islands where the Sirens 
 sang upon the shingle among the whitened bones 
 of men. Strength, courage, fiery vigor, a sagacity 
 which was never to be found at fault — such was the 
 character of the ancient Wanderer. And such was 
 the character of Lochiel. 
 
 247 
 
COUNT FRONTENAC 
 
 FEW notable men in history have contrived to 
 stir up more violent personal animosities, or 
 to have friends so true and loyal, and enemies so 
 bitter, as Louis de Buade, Count de Frontenac, 
 who vi^as for nearly twenty years Governor of the 
 French possessions in Canada. Even at this date, 
 two centuries after his death, it is difficult, in 
 spite of the voluminous documents concerning him, 
 to apportion the due meed of praise and blame, 
 or to arrive at a just estimate of his extraordinary 
 character. If we listen to his friends, we must 
 esteem him as a man of transcendent ability, a 
 wise and capable administrator, loyal to his king 
 and considerate of his power and dignity, a man 
 persecuted by a crowd of ambitious and intolerant 
 priests, thwarted by treacherous colleagues and un- 
 dermined and vilified to the king and court in 
 France, by unscrupulous foes. If we listen to his 
 enemies, we must believe him a man of irritable and 
 malignant disposition, of violent and ungoverned 
 temper, outrageously vain, abnormally avaricious, 
 corrupt and lawless to a degree. 
 
 The man thus belauded and vilified was undoubt- 
 edly a most interesting character, who might have 
 led an easier life, if he had not been too busy 
 fighting in his youth, to study the story of King 
 Henry II and Thomas a Becket, A ruler, who, at 
 the outset of his administration, antagonizes the 
 clerical leaders of a country, and attempts to cur- 
 tail their power and perquisites, must prepare 
 himself for war to the knife, as long as he lives, 
 and to be traduced in history after his death. 
 248 
 
COUNT FRONTENAC 
 
 Frontenac had not realized this fact, or if he knew 
 it, was too proud and haughty to be influenced by 
 it. The conflict between the man jealous of his 
 rights, and of the honor that should be given to the 
 representative of a mighty king, and the bishop 
 and monks who demanded consideration as the 
 representatives of the King of kings, was certain 
 to be a violent and obstinate one. This Frontenac 
 found it, but he was a valiant fighter, and, if he 
 despised his foes too much, or was too impatient 
 under their wily and insidious attacks, he did but 
 make the mistake that has generally been made 
 by high-spirited men in similar circumstances. 
 
 It is Frontenac's career in Canada that interests 
 the world now, but as he did not go to Canada until 
 he was fifty -two years of age, a brief glance at his 
 earlier years may aid us in understanding his char- 
 acter. Frontenac was born in 16:20 of a proud and 
 noble family, long celebrated in the history of France. 
 The family had, by display and the vices common 
 to the nobles of the sixteenth century, lost the 
 greater part of its possessions, but Frontenac's 
 father eked out his income by the salary attached 
 to his high office in the household of Louis XIII, 
 by whom he was greatly esteemed. The king con- 
 descended to be godfather to the boy and to facili- 
 tate him in obtaining such education as was then 
 deemed necessary for a youthful member of the 
 nobility. That it was meager, we may assume from 
 the fact that at the age of fifteen, he was in the 
 army, serving in Holland. Four years later, we 
 hear of him at Hesdin serving as a volunteer, and 
 in the following year "covering himself with glory" 
 at Arras. By the year 1643, he had risen to the 
 rank of colonel of the regiment of Normandy, 
 which, under his command, did conspicuous service 
 in the Italian campaign. That it was no paper 
 warfare, was proved by several wounds, some of 
 249 
 
HISTORIC DEEDS OF DANGER AND DARING 
 
 them serious, that the Colonel suffered. In 1646, 
 raised to the rank of Marechal, equivalent to Brig- 
 adier-General, he returned to his father's house in 
 Paris to recover from a broken arm. 
 
 During his convalesence, like many another sol- 
 dier, Frontenac lost his heart. In Parisian society 
 he met Mademoiselle de Neuville, the only daughter 
 of a widowed gentleman of some means. She was 
 at that time only sixteen years of age and very 
 susceptible to the charms of the gallant Marechal, 
 Avho, distinguished and wounded at the the age of 
 twenty-six, made ardent love to her. She was 
 under the charge of a shrewd old lady, cousin of 
 her father, Mho did not approve of the gallant 
 soldier's suit. As she pointed out to the girl and 
 her father, it was not a very brilliant prospect to 
 marry her to a man who had only $4,000 a year. 
 The father seems to have been a rather careless, 
 irresolute parent, favoring the young soldier at one 
 time, and rebuffing him at another. Finally, the 
 young people, uncertain how he might decide, found 
 a church which had the privilege of dispensing with 
 the permission of parents in a marriage, and took 
 advantage of the opportunity. They were married, 
 and the father, though furious at first, became 
 reconciled afterwards. 
 
 Of the result of the marriage, the enemies of 
 Frontenac made capital in later years. "Even his 
 wife could not endure his company," they said. 
 "His overbearing, brutal temper made association 
 with him intolerable." Perhaps Frontenac may have 
 had something to say on his side of the matrimonial 
 troubles. Certain it is that Madame Frontenac 
 speedily grew tired of married life, gave her baby 
 son into the care of a nurse and went after a 
 couple of years to enjoy herself in Parisian society. 
 She soon developed an unconquerable aversion to 
 her husband, which seems to have had little j ustifica- 
 350 
 
COUNT FRONTENAC 
 
 tion. Mademoiselle de Montpensier, who became 
 her intimate friend, tells an amusing story of a 
 visit which Frontenac paid to his wife while she 
 was a guest in her house. Madame Frontenac be- 
 came so excited and hysterical when she heard of 
 her husband's arrival, that her friends could not 
 calm her. She cried and shrieked wildly, till at last, 
 they thought she was possessed by a demon, and 
 sent for a priest to exorcise her. The priest's 
 services proved effectual, and husband and wife 
 had an interview. The lady's temper was as im- 
 perious as that of her husband, and they prudently 
 resolved to keep apart. Even on the occasion of 
 that visit, there was evidence of Frontenac's excit- 
 ability. One object of his going there was to meet 
 a lawyer who was in attendance on Mademoiselle 
 Montpensier. He discussed some matter of busi- 
 ness with this man at the hostess' assembly, a little 
 \ aloof from the other guests. The conversation be- 
 [ tween the two became so animated as to attract 
 ! general notice. Later, the lawyer told the ladies he 
 had never met so impertinent a man in his life. That 
 the Count did exceed the bounds of ordinary polite- 
 ness, may be inferred from the lawyer's complaint: 
 "He actually threatened to throttle me." From the 
 accounts of Frontenac's subsequent behavior when 
 annoyed, we can imagine that if the lawyer did not 
 agree with his interlocutor, he was not needlessly 
 alarmed. 
 
 Some other characteristic details of Frontenac's 
 
 personality at this time are quoted by Parkman, 
 
 from Mademoiselle Montpensier's journals. In his 
 
 j own home, she says, "he kept open table, and many 
 
 I of my people went to dine with him; for he affected 
 
 i to hold a kind of court, and acted as if everybody 
 
 I owed duty to him. In his conversations with me, 
 
 he was continually praising everything that he 
 
 owned, and never came to sup or dine with me, 
 
 251 
 
HISTORIC DEEDS OF DANGER AND DARING 
 
 without speaking of some ragout, or some new- 
 sweetmeat, which had been served at his tabh", 
 ascribing it all to the excellences of the officers of 
 his kitchen. The very meat that he ate, according; 
 to him, had a different taste on his board than on 
 any other. As for his silver plate, it was always 
 of the best workmanship; and his dress was always 
 of patterns invented by himself. When he had 
 new clothes, he paraded them like a child. One day 
 he brought some for me to look at, and left them 
 on my dressing-table. My father, coming in later, 
 saw them there, and seemed to think it very odd 
 for doublets and breeches to be in such a place. 
 Frontenac took all his visitors to see his stables; 
 and all who wished to gain his good graces, were 
 obliged to admire his horses, which were very indif- 
 ferent. This is his way in everything." 
 
 Men who had dealings with Frontenac afterwards 
 in Quebec, would recognize familiar characteristics 
 in the lively lady's description. Evidently, he com- 
 bined with his splendid courage and brilliant abil- 
 ities, insufferable vanity and intolerance of opposi- 
 tion. It is not an uncommon combination in other 
 spheres of life and in other times. Men who are 
 successful in war, or diplomacy, or in business, have 
 frequently a contempt for others who do not suc- 
 ceed, and an impatience of the advocacy of methods 
 different from their own. Such men have seldom 
 many friends, and their followers are generally 
 parasites, who find their interest in flattering and 
 feeding the vanity which honest friendship would 
 check. When the vain man has need of friends to 
 support his projects, or to defend nim under as- 
 persion, he often finds to his cost, that he has 
 alienated by some hasty word, or by his arrogant 
 bearing, those, M^hose service to him in a crisis 
 would have been invaluable. The fable of the mouse 
 who showed its gratitude by releasing the lion from 
 
COUNT FRONTENAC 
 
 the net, ought to be a story well-conned and never 
 forgotten by the successful man. Unfortunately 
 for himself, Frontenac did forget it. 
 
 After a military expedition against the Turks, 
 for which he was selected by Turenne, who knew 
 his valor and his resources, Frontenac came back to 
 France with new laurels. The expedition, it is 
 true, was not successful, but its failure, in view of 
 the obstacles encountered, was inevitable, and so 
 dearly had the Turk won his victory, and so stub-, 
 bornly had Frontenac contended, that one hundred 
 and eighty thousand Mohammedans had been left 
 dead on the field. Either as a reward for his serv- 
 ice, or as scandal says, to remove a formidable 
 rival from a competition in which a royal lover was 
 engaged, Frontenac was selected for the office of 
 Governor of the French dominions in America. He 
 accepted it gladly as a service that might improve 
 his diminished fortunes and relieve him of domestic 
 embarrassments. 
 
 A more decisive change in environment and occu- 
 pation can scarcely be imagined than that from 
 Paris, under the Grand jVIonarch, to Quebec in the 
 latter half of the seventeenth century. The polished 
 society of the capital, its delicate refinements and 
 its frivolous pleasures, was a striking contrast to 
 the sober and uncultured society of merchants and 
 priests and association with untutored Indians. Be- 
 sides, though over fifty years old, Frontenac 
 had no experience in the art of governing. His 
 life had been passed largely in the discipline of 
 the camp with its clearly defined rules of conduct. 
 He had been "a man under authority, having 
 soldiers under him," exacting and rendering the 
 homage of perfect deference and unhesitating obe- 
 dience. He was now to be head of the government 
 in a distant province far removed from his superi- 
 ors, with few precedents to guide him. It is inter- 
 253 
 
HISTORIC DEEDS OF DANGER AND DARING 
 
 esting to watch how a man so haughty and dignified 
 will act, when all restraints are removed. 
 
 The new Viceroy gave early intimation of the 
 character of his rule. Gracious and condescending 
 and conciliatory to all who showed him the defer- 
 ence due to his position, he was quick to resent a 
 slight, and was fully aware of the honors that 
 should be paid to him. Not a man to be lightly 
 ignored, nor one whom it was safe to disobey. But 
 when obeyed and his wishes consulted, affable and 
 generous to a subordinate. His first care was to 
 acquaint himself with the resources of the colony. 
 He made a rapid tour of the country, examining 
 public works and the condition of public and pri- 
 vate industries. He was delighted with all he saw, 
 but complained of the lack of suitable means of 
 transportation; it did not comport with the dignity 
 of the representative of the great Louis, to have to 
 sit in a frail canoe to be paddled across the great 
 rivers. But even that objection might be excused 
 in the young colony. 
 
 As a beginning to orderly government, Frontenac 
 proposed to revive the distinct orders of sixteeneth 
 century society. The elements of the three estates 
 existed in the province, to which he determined to 
 added a fourth. A few members of noble houses, 
 exiled for various reasons, were in Quebec, and to 
 these he added some of his own officers. Clergy 
 there were in superabundance, and there were mer- 
 chants and citizens to represent the third estate. 
 Frontenac also organized a group of magistrates 
 and members of Council, who did not belong to any 
 of the classes. Over all he presided with impressive 
 dignity, as a monarch over his court. These estates 
 he convoked in the Jesuit church, lent to him for 
 the occasion, and delivered to them an eloquent 
 harangue, reminding each of its duties to the com- 
 monwealth. Words of gracious praise and appre- 
 254 
 
COUNT FRONTENAC 
 
 ciation of each class, were followed by intimations 
 of the duties devolving on them respectively. He 
 had the tact to praise the King, and invited all 
 present to swear loyal obedience to him. 
 
 His next step was to establish regular municipal 
 government for Quebec. Three aldermen were to 
 be elected by the citizens, the senior of the three to 
 be mayor; one of them to go out of office every 
 year, and his place to be filled by a new election. 
 The one touch of autocracy, to be expected of a 
 man of Frontenac's spirit, was the reservation to 
 himself of the right to confirm or reject the choice 
 of the citizens — an excellent arrangement for the 
 times, as affording the element of limited represen- 
 tative government; for that reason, however, un- 
 acceptable to the Government at home. On report- 
 ing what he had done, the King, through Minister 
 Colbert, gave him a gentle admonition. The cere- 
 mony of summoning the estates and swearing them 
 to loyalty was all very well at his inauguration, 
 but should be avoided in future. It was incon- 
 venient and not in accord with the royal principles 
 to have any man constituted a representative of the 
 people. Such a man would be liable to take too 
 much upon himself, and a regular opposition might 
 thus be formed. It was better that, if any peti- 
 tions were to be presented, they should come from 
 individuals and not from a man clad with authority 
 to speak officially. The spirit of French royalty 
 spoke there, the spirit that carried to its natural 
 development wrecked the throne and sent Louis' 
 descendant in the eighteenth century to the guillo- 
 tine. Frontenac could not have conceived of a 
 catastrophe so horrible to loyal imagination, but he 
 was enough of a statesman to perceive that the 
 principle was dangerous. But he was new in office 
 and had no alternative but to obey. 
 
 The tendency to centralize the government of the 
 255 
 
HISTORIC DEEDS OF DANGER AND DARING 
 
 province in one head, was increased at this time by 
 the withdrawal of Talon, the Intendant or lieu- 
 tenant-governor, who was generally a spy, an oppo- 
 nent and a thorn in the side of the Governor. He 
 returned to France, greatly to Frontenac's satisfac- 
 tion, shortly after the inauguration, and his successor 
 was not appointed for a time. One rival was thus 
 removed from Frontenac's path, which was a great 
 satisfaction to a man who could not tolerate rivals. 
 
 It might be expected that matters would now run 
 smoothly, there being no regular constituted author- 
 ity to dispute the Governor's will; but a new cause 
 of conflict speedily arose. Frontenac grew jealous 
 of the power of the Church. The priests, he com- 
 plained, were under the control of the Jesuits, and 
 had a regular system of spies in the capital and 
 through the country. One can well understand the 
 annoyance this must have given to a man, who, in 
 accepting the office of Governor, had a distinct 
 idea that the governorship should mend his own 
 fortunes. Frontenac was a poor man, and though 
 he was too proud and too honorable to make money 
 by receiving bribes, there might be means of increas- 
 ing his fortune by arrangements which it would be 
 well to keep secret from the King. To have a com- 
 pany of men scattered through the province, in 
 close touch with the people and cognizant of every 
 act of the Governor, and with a bishop in Paris to 
 whom they could report with the certainty of their 
 reports reacliing the King's ear, was intolerable. 
 Frontenac, with a rashness and temerity of which 
 history should have warned him, antagonized the 
 clericals from the beginning. He complained to the 
 King that their influence on society was injurious. 
 They abused the confessional, set husbands and 
 wives at variance and incited children to rebel 
 against their parents. As Frontenac well knew, 
 such complaints could have little effect with a 
 256 
 
COUNT FRONTENAC 
 
 Catholic monarch, who perfectly understood the 
 ways of the priests, and it is surprising that he 
 should irritate the priests by making a complant 
 that tliey were sure to hear of. Perhaps, he was 
 anxious to prepare the way for meeting their charges 
 against him. A more diplomatic man would have 
 avoided such a rock at the beginning of his admin- 
 istration. To his delight, he obtained a legitimate 
 basis of complaint. Some bold priest had the cour- 
 age to denounce the King himself for licensing the 
 sale of brandy, which the Bishop had sternly con- 
 demned. Here was Frontenac's opportunity, and 
 he promptly reported the offense to the King. The 
 Bishop, however, was a better diplomat than the 
 Governor. He repudiated the utterances' of the 
 obscure priest, bade him make apology, and so, for 
 the time, the affair was ended. But the Governor 
 and the Church were now in antagonism, and trouble 
 for Frontenac was inevitable. 
 
 A new dispute, intensely annoying to Frontenac, 
 soon put the trouble with the priests into the back- 
 ground. There was at Montreal a Governor named 
 Perrot, who was, of course, subordinate to Fronte- 
 nac, the Governor-General. He had been appointed 
 at the suggestion of Talon, the former Intendant 
 of the Colony, whose niece he had married. Perrot 
 had a spirit as audacious and a courage as intrepid 
 as had Frontenac himself. Evidently a corrupt 
 man, who had connived at his soldiers leaving their 
 duties to pursue a business injurious to the Govern- 
 ment. They went into the woods, and meeting the 
 Indians on their way to Montreal with furs, cajoled 
 them, or, some said, forced them to deal with them, 
 instead of carrying them to market. The merchants 
 had bitterly complained of this practice, which was 
 destroying their trade. Perrot had listened, and 
 blandly assured the merchants that he would gladly 
 suppress these men if he could capture them. But 
 2.57 
 
HISTORIC DEEDS OF DANGER AND DARING 
 
 the merchants knew perfectly well that Perrot was 
 in league with them and was sharing in their profits. 
 They appealed to Frontenac, v/ho had his own rea- 
 sons for being indignant at the smuggling traffic, 
 and he sent orders to the Judge of Montreal to 
 arrest the first of these men-of-the-woods that he 
 could lay hands on. The judge knew that two of 
 the most notorious offenders were then living openly 
 in the house of a lieutenant named Carion, an officer 
 in Perrot's service. The judge, glad of Frontenac's 
 authority, promptly arrested the two men, but 
 Carion intervened, abused the judge's officer and 
 helped the men to escape. When Frontenac heard 
 of it, his fury was uncontrollable. He sent an 
 officer to bring Carion to Quebec. Perrot inter- 
 fered, seized the Governor's officer and put him in 
 prison. On consideration, however, he realized the 
 danger of so openly insulting the King's represen- 
 tative, and tried to make his peace. He released 
 the officer and bade him return to his master, with 
 a letter in which Perrot apologized and explained. 
 
 Frontenac knew that there would be an end of 
 his authority if Perrot was not punished; but he 
 had no force capable of arresting him in his own 
 domain, protected, as he undoubtedly would be, by 
 the desperate men-of-the-woods in league with him. 
 He accordingly temporized, wrote a gracious answer 
 to Perrot's letter, and intimated that Perrot should 
 show his contrition by coming to Quebec, where a 
 personal conference might prevent future friction. 
 Perrot complied, but Frontenac's mood had changed. 
 He deliberately provoked him, and Perrot, as chol- 
 eric as himself, answered with insulting defiance. 
 This was exactly what Frontenac desired; he seized 
 his guest and thrust him into prison. A priest who 
 had persuaded Perrot to go to Quebec, a relative 
 of the famous Fenelon, was indignant at the result, 
 and expressed his feelings in no measured terms. 
 
COUNT FRONTENAC 
 
 Frontenac arrested him too, and held both for trial. 
 He sent a representative of his own to take Perrot's 
 place at Montreal, and to proceed against the men- 
 of-the-woods. The man was energetic and caught 
 several who were promptly hanged, but Frontenac's 
 enemies contend that other men-of-the-woods were 
 appointed, who, so long as they operated in Fron- 
 tenac's interest, enjoyed complete immunity. Mean- 
 while, Perrot and F'enelon lay in prison, and not 
 until ten months had elapsed were they brought to 
 trial. Frontenac would have preferred punishing 
 them there, but both had powerful friends in 
 France, and the Council shrank from giving offense. 
 Finally, both were put on board ship and sent to 
 France, Frontenac sending with them a report of 
 their offenses. On their arrival, the two reports 
 were submitted to the King. He considered them 
 with his Minister, Colbert, and decided that he must 
 uphold the authority of his representative. He 
 therefore consigned Perrot to the Bastile and for- 
 bade Fenelon to return to Canada. Writing to 
 Frontenac of what he had done, he said that Per- 
 rot's imprisonment would be short; he would be 
 permitted to return on his undertaking to apologize 
 to Frontenac, and the King trusted there would be 
 no further friction. 
 
 The King, however, was evidently annoyed by the 
 troubles in the Province and by the disputes which 
 constantly demanded his intervention. He exhorted 
 Frontenac to be more conciliatory and not to take 
 upon himself pretensions that had never been made 
 by his predecessors. As practical measures to curb 
 the haughty Governor, the power of appointing 
 Councilors was taken from him, and in future 
 would be made by the King himself; and worse 
 than all, the office of Intendant, vacant since Talon's 
 departure, would be filled by a man n^mied Duches- 
 neau. These measures should have moderated Fron- 
 259 
 
HISTORIC DEEDS OF DANGER AND DARING 
 
 tenac's spirit, and taught him the necessity of a 
 more tolerant and conciliatory manner, but they 
 appear to have only irritated him. 
 
 Duchesneau's arrival quickly precipitated a con- 
 flict. Frontenac regarded him as an upstart and a 
 rival, and had been prejudiced against him before 
 he saw him. To add to the difficulty, the duties of 
 the two men were not clearly defined. The King's 
 commission to Duchesneau somewhat changed the 
 duties he had to fulfil, from those of his predeces- 
 sors, doubtless with the view of sparing Frontenac's 
 feelings, but the changes were vaguely stated, and 
 Duchesneau looked up the precedents and claimed 
 all the privileges formerly enjoyed by the Intendant. 
 Frontenac's functions were now properly confined 
 to the military command and the place of honor in 
 all state ceremonies. The civil administration de- 
 volved on Duchesneau. But Frontenac had exer- 
 cised uncontrolled power for nearly seven years and 
 was indisposed to surrender any part of it. There 
 was, therefore, friction from the beginning. The 
 Jesuits were not slow to perceive their opportunity. 
 They succeeded in winning Duchesneau to their side, 
 and cast their powerful aid into his side of the 
 quarrel. 
 
 It would be tedious to describe the bickering 
 that ensued. Frontenac set at defiance Intendant 
 and priests and proceeded to govern as he had done. 
 Duchesneau missed no opportunity of thwarting 
 him. There were disputes about the presidency of 
 the Council and about precedence in church func- 
 tions, and, at last, Duchesneau cast aside all pre- 
 tensions of amity and openly accused Frontenac of 
 maladministration and illicit trading with the In- 
 dians. Frontenac stormed, raved and threatened. 
 Duchesneau retorted and denounced the Governor. 
 The Jesuits plotted on his side and collected, 
 through the priests, evidence of Frontenac's com- 
 260 
 
COUNT FRONTExNAC 
 
 plicity in the fur traffic, with which they supplied 
 Duchesneau as ammunition in the struggle. By 
 every mail, huge packages of charges and counter 
 charges went to Paris from both sides. The King 
 and his Minister waded through them or left them 
 in sheer weariness unread. Louis complained pa- 
 thetically that no part of his empire gave him so much 
 trouble as Quebec, and finally threatened that he 
 would recall both Governor and Intendant. Anger 
 and hatred were, however, by this time, too deeply 
 seated for even self-interest to appease. All the 
 Province was ranged en one side or the other of 
 the struggle, and utter confusion reigned. The 
 King's patience was finally exhausted, and in 168:2, 
 ten years after Frontenac's appointment, both he 
 and Duchesneau were deposed and recalled to 
 France. 
 
 As a parting shot to his enemies, Frontenac left 
 it on record that all the disorders in the country 
 had sprung from the ambition of the ecclesiastics, 
 who, he wrote, "want to join to their spiritual 
 authority an absolute power over things temporal 
 and persecute all who do not submit entirely to 
 them." They all openly rejoiced over his fall, and 
 the merchants whose business had suffered by the 
 quarrels of the authorities and perhaps by Fron- 
 tenac's dealing with the men-of -the- woods, sympa- 
 thized with them. By none was Frontenac's de- 
 parture really regretted but by the Indians, by 
 whom he was almost worshipped. His haughty 
 bearing had impressed them as that of an almost 
 supernatural being, and when he condescended to 
 address them as his "children," to feast them and 
 give them presents, they adored him. Few white 
 men so thoroughly succeeded in winning their re- 
 spect and confidence. 
 
 Returning to France, Frontenac, at the age of 
 sixty-two, found himself almost friendless, in bad 
 261 
 
HISTORIC DEEDS OF DANGER AND DARINCx 
 
 odor at court and comparatively poor. He hung 
 about the court, eagerly devouring the news from 
 Canada and keeping himself well before the public 
 gaze. To his satisfaction he learned that his suc- 
 cessor was failing in his government. He had em- 
 broiled himself with powerful tribes of Indians; 
 had quarreled with the English Governor of Xew 
 York, and was menaced on all sides. Urgent ap- 
 peals for troops were coming by every ship, to 
 which the King gave small satisfaction. At last, to 
 his delight, he heard that he had been recalled. 
 The way, however, was not open for Frontenac's 
 return. The King had a general in whom he had the 
 utmost confidence, who was withal a pious man, who 
 could be trusted to live in harmony with the Jes- 
 uits. This was General Denoneville, a soldier of 
 experience and of sterling probity. He was rap- 
 turously received by the ecclesiastics, but Fron- 
 tenac soon learned that he was not the man to 
 make peace with the Indians. They distrusted him, 
 claimed that he deceived them, and made terms 
 against him with Dongan, the English Governor of 
 New York. He seemed to have a faculty for mak- 
 ing enemies at a time when he most urgently needed 
 friends. He assailed the English by a wily ruse, 
 surprising isolated parties, killing some and taking 
 many prisoners. Dongan, restrained by King James 
 from retaliating on the representative of liis be- 
 loved brother, the French King, incited the Indians 
 to attack him, and gave them information and sup- 
 plied them with ammunition. The Jesuits, who 
 hated the British and had Denoneville in leading 
 strings, urged him to other acts of temerity, and 
 finally induced him to make war on the powerful 
 Indian tribe of Senecas, and later with the Iroquois. 
 The French troops were ambushed and a terrible 
 massacre ensued. The affairs of the colony were 
 then deplorable. King Louis had lost the English 
 262 
 
COUNT FRONTENAC 
 
 alliance and William of Orange had replaced James 
 II on the throne. No help was now to be expected 
 in that quarter, but rather hostility. The English 
 Governor would no longer be restrained, and with 
 his Indian allies might sweep the French from 
 Canadian soil. In his bewilderment Louis thought 
 of Frontenac, and offered to restore him to the 
 Governorship. Though Frontenac was sixty-nine 
 years old, he had confidence in himself and boldly 
 accepted the commission. 
 
 The King had a plan suggested by Callieres, whom 
 Denoneville had sent to Paris for retrieving the 
 French disasters. It was nothing less than the 
 capture of New York by a combined attack of ves- 
 sels sailing down the Hudson, and by sea by vessels 
 sailing from Quebec. The plan was worked out in 
 detail, the King deciding what should be done with 
 the captives when they should be taken. The Cath- 
 olics were to be released on taking the oath of 
 fealty to the French King. Of the Protestants, the 
 men who were good for ransom were to be put in 
 prison, and the remainder driven away to Penn- 
 sylvania and other settlements. The colony at Ply- 
 mouth was then to be destroyed and all the North 
 would then be in French hands, and the Indians 
 could be dealt with at leisure. It was comparatively 
 easy to make these plans and to order Frontenac to 
 execute them; but Louis could furnish neither 
 troops nor money for the expedition. Frontenac 
 sailed away, probably amused at the King's cred- 
 ulity but uttering no word that could endanger his 
 own appointment. 
 
 Frontenac was welcomed as a saviour. Quebec 
 was illuminated, cannon fired in welcome and a 
 torchlight procession went to the beach to welcome 
 him. The Jesuits alone were crestfallen. They 
 made him an address of welcome, l)ut they had no 
 heart in it and Frontenac understood that it was 
 L>63 
 
HISTORIC DEEDS OF DANGER AND DARING 
 
 hollow. But the King had enjoined him to bury 
 his old quarrels and not to wreck his administration 
 on the rock that had ruined his former one. Be- 
 sides, the crisis was too urgent to waste time in 
 quarreling, and Frontenac settled down to the 
 stupendous task before him. 
 
 The scheme to capture New York was dismissed 
 without a second thought, and his first efforts were 
 devoted to winning over the Iroquois and other 
 tribes whom his successors had alienated. In this 
 he was doomed to failure, the Indians received his 
 messages but they had tasted blood, they had over- 
 come the French and had learned to despise them 
 and they no longer stood in awe of Frontenac. He 
 then turned his attention to the English, and deter- 
 mined to strike a blow that would revive the spirit 
 of his people- Three parties were rapidly organ- 
 ized; one at Montreal to attack Albany, one at 
 Three Rivers to assail the settlements of New 
 Hampshire, and the third, at Quebec, to march 
 against the English in Maine. These expeditions 
 were all successful. Schenectady was surprised and 
 captured and its defenders slaughtered; Salmon 
 Falls fell before the second party, and the settle- 
 ment at the site of what is now Portland, Maine, 
 after an obstinate defense was overpowered and 
 the village burned. The Iroquois were amazed at 
 this turn in the tide. The return of Frontenac, 
 their venerated patron, had apparently brought back 
 the old supremacy. They hesitated and wavered. 
 Not so the English, who, exasperated by what they 
 deemed treachery, thirsted for revenge. A fleet of 
 thirty-two vessels with 2,300 men was hastily or- 
 ganized, and under the command of Sir William 
 Phips sailed for Quebec. It was a bootless errand. 
 Phips' artillery could do nothing against the heights 
 of Quebec, his men could not attack the city and 
 the English commander retired discomfited. 
 264 
 
COUNT FRONTENAC 
 
 Frontenac had now opportunity to deal with the 
 hostile Indians. He now entered on the conflict in 
 which he won the title of "the Hammer of the Iro- 
 quois." He summoned a council of friendly tribes, 
 and, after a feast, took up a hatchet and himself 
 led a war dance. The Indians were wildly excited. 
 Shouting and whooping like madmen they followed 
 in the dance, vowing war to the death against the 
 enemies of their French father. The conflict which 
 ensued was terrible to think of. It lasted three 
 years, the Indians succeeding in barring from the 
 French colony all supplies by land, and stopping the 
 trade in furs. Isolated massacres continued and the 
 deadly enmity was sustained. At length, Fronte- 
 nac, by a desperate attack, broke the line on the 
 Ottawa and opened tlie way for the delivery of the 
 skins and the passage of supplies. The Colony was 
 delivered, the famishing people relieved, and the 
 coveted beaver skins, the wealth of the merchants, 
 received. Frontenac was hailed as the "Preserver 
 of his Country," and was overwhelmed with gratitude. 
 
 In the following year, though seventy-six years of 
 age, the veteran soldier led an invasion of the Iro- 
 quois country. The terror of his name overpowered 
 the Indians. They left their villages and fled to the 
 forests. Frontenac burned their chief towns, Onon- 
 daga and Oneida, and after vainly seeking to come 
 up with the fleeing Iroquois, the expedition returned 
 in triumph. Quarrels with the English and disputes 
 with the priests filled Frontenac's last days. But 
 Louis had signed the Peace of Ryswick, and im- 
 perative orders were sent to Frontenac to cease 
 hostilities with the English, and as for the priests 
 they should be let alone. It was well that the 
 orders came. Frontenac's fighting days were over. 
 He was prostrated with mortal illness, and on 
 November 28, 1698, he peacefully breathed his last. 
 His tried and troubled life was ended. B. J. F. 
 265 
 
WILLIAM LITHGOW 
 
 WILLIAM LITHGOW M^as, in the spring of 
 tlie year 1609, a young Scot of six-and- 
 twenty; the possessor of a wiry frame, a slender 
 patrimony, and a burning eagerness to see the 
 world. It came into his head to make a pilgrimage 
 on foot about the globe. At a period when no 
 traveler ever thought of crossing Hampstead Heath 
 without his pistols, it was certain that a pilgrim 
 journeying among the dens of Cretan bandits, or 
 steering with a caravan across the deserts to Jeru- 
 salem, would not fail to meet adventures. Nor was 
 Lithgow at all the man to pass in peace through 
 lands of Infidels. He was a burning Protestant, 
 with his creed at his tongue's end, and ready — to 
 his credit be it said — to be its martyr. For the 
 rest, he was a man of generous heart and daring 
 courage, but with a head as rash as Harry 
 Hotspur's. 
 
 He took his life into his hands, and started. He 
 got as far as Rome without disaster; but there he 
 began the series of his perils by coming very near 
 to being burnt alive. The brazen image of St. Peter 
 in the great cathedral moved him to proclaim his 
 indignation of what he called idolatry. The Inqui- 
 sition sent to seize him, and would assuredly have 
 doomed him to the stake and fagot, but for a 
 brother Scot named Robert Moggat. This man, 
 a servant in the palace of the aged Earl of Tyrone, 
 smuggled Lithgow to a garret in the palace roof, 
 and there for three days kept him hidden, while the 
 hue and cry went up and down the streets. On the 
 fourth night, at midnight, the two stole out together 
 to the city walls, where Lithgow, with the help of 
 266 
 
WILLIAM LITHGOW 
 
 his companion, dropped in safetj^ to the ground, and 
 escaped into the darkness, laughing at his baffled 
 foes. 
 
 Alas ! though he little dreamt it, there was a day 
 to come, though j^et far distant, when the Holy 
 Office was to turn the laugh terrifically against 
 him. 
 
 He made his wa}* to Venice, stepped aboard a 
 ship for Corfu, and thence set sail for Zante. Off 
 Cape St. Maura a sail was spied: it was a pirate 
 Turk in hot pursuit. The captain put it to the vote 
 among the passengers whether he should fight the 
 ship or strike his colors. Every voice but Lith- 
 gow's was for pulling down the flag and buying off 
 the Turk with ransoms. But Lithgow had no 
 money for the purpose, and nothing was before 
 him. but the prospect that the Turk would sell him 
 as a slave. He therefore gave his vote for fighting; 
 he called upon the company to pluck up spirit, to 
 quit themselves like men, "and the Lord would 
 deliver them from the thraldom of the Infidels." 
 Captain, crew, and passengers took fire together at 
 his words; they rushed upon the pikes and muskets, 
 loaded their two cannon to the muzzle, and received 
 the pirate with such fury that he durst not try to 
 board. When, however, darkness parted them from 
 their assailants, their plight was evil; seven men 
 were killed, a dozen more were wounded, Lithgow 
 had a bullet in his arm, the ship was leaking through 
 the shot-holes, and a tempest was beginning to howl 
 fiercely. It seemed as if he had escaped from 
 slavery only to be drowned by shipwreck. But, 
 by great good luck, the tempest drove them safely 
 into Largastolo Bay. 
 
 At Zante a Greek surgeon took the bullet from 
 
 his arm, and he resumed his wanderings. But he 
 
 was soon in new disaster. As he was walking 
 
 through a solitarj^ region on the way to Canea in 
 
 367 
 
HISTORIC DEEDS OF DANGER AND DARING 
 
 Crete, four bandits, armed with cudgels, sprang 
 upon him from a thicket. In spite of Juvenal's 
 authority, the empty pilgrim does not always sing 
 before the thief. It was not till after they had 
 stripped and cudgeled him that the rogues dis- 
 covered that his whole possessions consisted of two 
 four-penny pieces. With the good-nature of con- 
 tempt they let him go; and, penniless and smarting, 
 he dragged his way for thirty-seven miles to the 
 next village. There he endeavored, by the help of 
 signs (for he knew nothing of the language), to beg 
 a supper and a lodging of the natives. But among 
 fhe simple villagers of Pichehorno, a stranger was a 
 sheep among the wolves. They were preparing, 
 without more ado, to plant a dagger in his heart, 
 when a woman, more friendly than the rest, in- 
 formed him of their purpose by a signal. He took 
 to flight, and racing for his life into the darkness, 
 gained the shore, and plunged into a cave among 
 the rocks. There, famished, aching, and in peril 
 of his life, he lay concealed till daybreak. 
 
 In the grey of morning he crept out, and made 
 bis way in safety to Canea. Again adventures were 
 before him. While he was in the town, six convict- 
 galleys put into the bay from Venice. One of the 
 prisoners got leave to come on shore, attended for 
 precaution by a keeper, and shackled with a heavy 
 ankle-ring. Lithgow, who was as curious as a 
 monkey, entered into conversation with the culprit, 
 and soon learnt his story. He was one of four 
 young Frenchmen who had been present at a duel 
 between a friend of theirs and a Venetian signor 
 for the love of some fair lady. The signor fell; the 
 guards came down upon the duelists, who fled for 
 refuge to the French ambassador's. Except him- 
 self, they all escaped ; he stumbled in the street, 
 was seized, was dragged before the signory, and was 
 condemned to pull a galley-oar for life. 
 26S 
 
WILLIAM LITHGOW 
 
 The Frenchman chanced to be a Protestant. 
 Lithgow's soul took fire with sympathy. He began 
 to scheme to set the prisoner free. He borrowed 
 from his laundress, who was an old Greek woman, a 
 gown and a black veil. Then he drugged the keeper 
 until he rolled upon the ground, struck oif the cap- 
 tive's irons, dressed him in the gown and veil, and 
 sent him with the old Greek woman past the sentries 
 at the gate. Lithgow, with the prisoner's gar- 
 ments, met them in an olive-grove outside the city; 
 and thence the Frenchman fled to a Greek mon- 
 astery across the mountains, which was appointed 
 as a place of sanctuary for all fugitives from jus- 
 tice, and where a man-of-war from Malta touched 
 at intervals to take away the refugees. 
 
 The Frenchman was secure; but not so his 
 deliverer. As Lithgow was re-entering the city, 
 he met two English soldiers of his acquaintance, 
 who were rushing out to warn him. The captain 
 of the galleys, with a band of soldiers, was seeking 
 for him up and down the streets. The danger was 
 extreme: but by good fortune it so happened that 
 the smallest of the city gates was guarcled by three 
 other English soldiers. These five men, who pres- 
 ently were joined by eight French soldiers, formed 
 a little troop, and with IJthgow in their midst 
 marched up the streets towards the monastery of 
 San Salvator. The galley-soldiers, who were on 
 ^he watch, rushed furiously upon the party; but too 
 late. While the swords were flashing in the hurly- 
 burly Lithgow slipped into the monastery, and was 
 secure. 
 
 Here he stayed until the galleys sailed. He 
 shared the lodging of four monks for twenty-five 
 days. Then, the galleys sailing, he was compara- 
 tively safe. He one day made acquaintance with 
 another Englishman, named Wolso.n, who had just 
 arrived from Tunis. This man was a strange 
 269 
 
HISTORIC DEEDS OF DANGER AND DARING 
 
 character, and was bound by a strange vow. His 
 elder brother, a ship's captain, had been murdered 
 at Burnt Isle, in Scotland. Wolson, in reprisal, 
 had sworn to take the life of the next Scotchman 
 he should meet; and this happened to be Lithgow. 
 Wolson resolved to lie in wait for him that very 
 night; but luckily, he let out his secret. John 
 Smith, who heard him, ran in search of Lithgow, 
 whom he found just sitting down to supper at 
 a tavern. The host, together with four soldiers who 
 were there, resolved to see him home. The assassin, 
 a true Bobadil, espied the party, and his heart 
 forsook him. Finding that he could not take his 
 victim by surprise, he slunk away to bide a better time. 
 
 Before he found his chance, however, Lithgow 
 had set sail from Crete, to cruise among the islands 
 of the Cyclades, on board a vessel which was little 
 better than a fishing-smack, and carried only 
 eighteen souls. At Eolida, a storm swept oif the 
 masts and sails, and drove the boat upon the rocks. 
 Seven of the crew, insane with terror, leapt into the 
 boiling surf, and were never seen again; the others 
 with great labor worked the boat into a cavern, the 
 back of which sloped upward from the sea. Lith- 
 gow was the last to disembark; for the sailors swore 
 to put a bullet through his skull if he should dare to 
 step before them. Scarcely had he landed when the 
 boat went down. 
 
 The cave was cut off by the waters, and the 
 wrecked men had no food. Three days passed, and 
 the specters in the cavern were beginning to regard 
 each other with the eyes of wolves, when a fishing- 
 boat came by, and heard their hail. A little later, 
 and Lithgow, who had so narrowly escaped already 
 from the stake, the pirates, the banditti, the galleys, 
 the assassin, and the shipwreck, would probably 
 have furnished forth a meal for his companions. 
 
 He made his way at leisure across Turkey, and 
 270 
 
WILLIAM LITHGOW 
 
 joined a caravan of pilgrims bound through Syria 
 to Jerusalem. His dress was now a Turk's, with 
 turban, robe, and staif; and while nil the others 
 rode on camels, horses, or asses, he walked on foot, 
 according to his constant custom, beside his bag- 
 gage-mule. 
 
 The caravan had hired a guide named Joab, who 
 called himself a Christian, but who proved to be a 
 traitor. This rascal planned to lead the caravan 
 into an ambush of three hundred murderous Arabs 
 of Mount Carmel, with whom he was in league, 
 who were to butcher every man among them, and 
 to gorge themselves with plunder. The plot was 
 excellent; it seemed certain of success: but fortu- 
 nately Joab feared to reach the place of ambush 
 before the time appointed, and by lingering up and 
 down through rugged spots and pools of water, he 
 awoke suspicion. A Turkish soldier of the party 
 then remembered having seen him send a Moor 
 from Nazareth on some mysterious errand. At this, 
 the guide was seized, was lashed upon a horse, 
 and, under threats of death, confessed his treachery. 
 
 And now all was panic; every face was white 
 with terror; for while to trust the guide was mad- 
 ness, night was falling, the ambush was in waiting, 
 and they might walk into the trap. In the midst 
 of the confusion Lithgow noticed that the polar star 
 hung lov\^, and judged that they had been conducted 
 too far south. He cried out to the caravan to turn 
 northwest, lest they should fall into the snare. But 
 not a soul except himself could read the mystery of 
 the star, and he was called upon to take the place 
 of guide. And thus there came to pass a spec- 
 tacle strange even to grotesquesness — the spectacle 
 of thirteen hundred terror-stricken Turkish and 
 Armenian pilgrims following a Scotchman all night 
 long, across a moon-lit desert in the heart of Syria. 
 
 When day broke, the caravan was half a mile 
 271 
 
HISTORIC DEEDS OF DANGER AND DARING 
 
 from Tyre; the ambush was escaped. Another 
 guide was taken, the journey was resumed, and in 
 due course, Lithgow found himself before Jerusalem. 
 
 There was, within the city, a monastery of Cor- 
 deliers, whose duty was to welcome Christian pil- 
 grims. The Prior came out to ask if any such 
 were in the caravan. The only one was Lithgow, 
 A pilgrim from so far a country was held a kind of 
 saint; and the Prior, with twelve monks, walked 
 before him through the streets, each carrying a 
 huge wax candle, and chanting a Te Deum. Within 
 the monastery, the Abl)ot washed his feet and the 
 monks knelt down to kiss them. But in the middle 
 of the ceremony Lithgow happened to observe that 
 he was not a Catholic. In an instant the monk's 
 faces grew a yard in length. They had lavished all 
 this glory on a heretic ! 
 
 Lithgow, however, could not well be ousted; he 
 remained — a saint descended to a guest. One day 
 a party from the convent, under the Abbot and a 
 guard of soldiers, set out to view the Jordan. 
 Before the pilgrims turned, they stripped to bathe, 
 and Lithgow, before dressing, took a whim to climb 
 a tree upon the margin and to cut a hunting-rod 
 which he designed to take to England as a present 
 to King James. As he sat concealed among the 
 leaves, trimming "a fair rod, three yards long, 
 wondrous straight, full of small knots, and of a 
 yellow color," a strange sound struck his ears. He 
 peered out through the leaves; his companions had 
 gone off without him, and were now waging a fierce 
 battle with a band of Arabs a quarter of a mile 
 away. He was caught in a trap; for while to ven- 
 ture forth was deadly peril, to be left behind was 
 certain death. Lithgow tumbled from his tree, and, 
 rod in hand, but without a stitch of clothing, 
 darted towards the place of combat. The thorns 
 and sharp grass gashed his feet; a pikeman of his 
 £'73 
 
WILLIAM LITHGOW 
 
 own side charged him as an enemy; but at last, to 
 the amazement of the pilgrims, who scarcely recog- 
 nized this light-armed warrior, he came rushing 
 among them, panting to aid the battle with his rod. 
 But the fight was over, and the beaten pilgrims 
 were discussing terms of ransom. The Abbot, scan- 
 dalized at his appearance, gave him his own gown; 
 and Lithgow, who had started as a turbaned Turk, 
 returned as a grey friar. 
 
 From Jerusalem he wandered up and dovi^n the 
 earth until he chanced to meet, at Algiers, a French 
 jewel-merchant named Chatteline, who was on his 
 way to Fez to purchase diamonds. Lithgow joined 
 him. The pair reached Fez in safety, and thence 
 resolved to strike across the desert to Arracon. 
 With a tent, a mule, a dragoman, and two Moorish 
 slaves, the bold adventurers set out on foot. Lith- 
 gow was a man who never seemed to know fatigue; 
 but in eight days Chatteline was so exhausted that 
 his companions were compelled to add him to the 
 baggage on the mule, and to carry him to Ahezto, 
 where he fell into a fever and refused to stir. Lith- 
 gow, with a guide, the dragoman, and one of the 
 two slaves, went on without him. When the guide 
 had led them four days' march, he missed the track, 
 stole off in terror in the night, and left them help- 
 less in the middle of the desert. 
 
 Nothing seemed before them but a lingering 
 death. In four days their food was gone. All 
 night the wolves and jackals were heard howling, 
 which, as soon as weakness forced them to let out 
 their little fire of sticks, would pick them to the 
 bone. One the eighth day a foe more terrible than 
 wolves or jackals came suddenly upon them — a 
 horde of naked savages, driving before them a vast 
 flock of sheep and goats, and bloody with the 
 slaughter of a neighboring tribe. 
 
 The wanderers were dragged before the savage 
 213 
 
HISTORIC DEEDS OF DANGER AND DARING 
 
 prince — a potentate appareled, to the awe and 
 admiration of his subjects, in a veil of crimson 
 satin and a pair of yellow shoes. To him Lithgow, 
 through the dragoman, related his adventures. The 
 eifect was marvelous. His dusky majesty was so 
 delighted with the story, that he not only spared 
 the prisoners' lives, but granted them a guide to 
 Tunis, and presented I^ithgow, as a kind of keep- 
 sake, with his own bow and arrows. 
 
 This memento inspired him with a project. The 
 rod for Jordon was designed for James I ; he 
 would present the bow and arrows to Prince Charles, 
 the King's son. 
 
 But would he get those treasures — or himself 
 — to England safely? It was his plan to traverse 
 Poland. For a time he made his way without 
 disaster; but one daj', while passing, lonely and 
 on foot, through one of the vast solitary forests of 
 Moldavia, six robbers sprang upon him from a 
 thicket, seized his money, stripped him naked, tied 
 him to an oak-tree, and left him to the wolves. 
 
 Nothing seemed more certain than that the end 
 of his adventures was at last at hand. But Lithgow, 
 like some other rare characters, who came unscathed 
 from perils which to the villains would be certain 
 death, seemed charmed against destruction. All 
 that night the voices of the wild beasts filled the 
 forest; but not one approached to rend him. At 
 break of day a band of shepherds found him. They 
 cut his bonds, wrapped liim in an old long coat, 
 and bore him to the castle of their lord, a certain 
 Baron Starholds, fifteen miles away. The Baron 
 was a Protestant; he received the pilgrim with 
 great hospitality, kept him for a fortnight in the 
 castle, gave him a purse, and sent him with a guide 
 to Poland. 
 
 Lithgow reached Dantzic; fell so ill of fever that 
 the sexton dug his grave; recovered as by miracle; 
 274 
 
WILLIAM LITHGOW 
 
 and thence took ship to London. His curiosities, 
 which the robbers had contemptuously discarded, 
 were still in his possession; and Lithgow, who in 
 that age was himself a greater curiosity, was pre- 
 sented to King James at Greenwich Gardens, and 
 made to King and Prince his offerings of the rod 
 from Jordan and the bow and arrows of the savage 
 chief. 
 
 He stayed some time in London, where he wrote 
 and printed an account of his adventures. But 
 LHysses was not worse adapted for a settled life. 
 Ere long the ache for roving became irresistible, 
 and he determined to set forth on pilgrimage once 
 more. He had better, had he known it, have cut 
 off his right foot; for now there lay before him an 
 adventure to which all his previous perils were as 
 nursery games — an adventure strange and terrible 
 as ever mortal man escaped ali%'e to tell of. 
 
 King James supplied him wi+^^h safe-conducts, 
 and with letters to the courts of foreign sovereigns. 
 He wandered for a time in Ireland; then he crossed 
 the Channel, and made his way into the south of 
 Spain. On reaching Malaga he struck a bargain 
 with a skipper of a French ship bound next day 
 for Alexandria. But he was fated never to set 
 sail. 
 
 That night the town was thrown into a tumult ; 
 a cloud of strange ships, vague as phantoms in the 
 darkness, were seen to sail into the harbor and cast 
 anchor. A rumor ran abroad like wild-fire that 
 the ships were Turkish pirates; and forthwith the 
 town went wild with terror. Women and children 
 fled into the fortress; the castle bells rang back- 
 wards; the drums thundered an alarm. But when 
 day broke, the English colors were seen flying at 
 the topmasts; it was a squadron which had been 
 despatched against the corsairs of Algiers. 
 
 The panic seemingly subsided. Lithgow took a 
 
HISTORIC DEEDS OF DARING AND DANGER 
 
 boat and went on board the Lion to sahite the 
 Admiral, Sir Robert Mainsell. Sir Robert invited 
 him to join the fleet, with which were many of his 
 old acquaintances from London; but time pressed, 
 and Lithgow's clothes and papers were on shore. 
 Accordingly, as soon as the sails spread, he stepped 
 into a fishing-boat and put to land. 
 
 But jealous eyes had been upon him. As he was 
 passing up a narrow street to gain his lodging, a 
 band of soldiers burst upon him, seized him by the 
 throat, muffled him in a black frieze mantle, and 
 bore him to the governor's house, where he was 
 locked up in a room. He could not guess the 
 charge against him; but he was soon to learn. 
 The governor, the captain of the guards, and the 
 town-clerk entered, the latter armed with pen and 
 ink to take down his confession. Lithgow, of 
 course, had nothing to confess; but the captain, 
 Don Francesco, "clapping him on the cheek with 
 a Judas smile," bade him acknowledge that he had 
 just arrived from Seville. On his denying this, the 
 governor burst into a storm of curses. "Villain !" 
 he cried, "you are a spy. You have been a month 
 at Seville, keeping watch upon the Spanish navy, 
 and have just visited the English fleet with your 
 intelligence." Lithgow offered to call witnesses to 
 prove that he was nothing but a simple pilgrim; 
 but in vain. He produced his papers with King 
 James's seal; but these the judges held to be a 
 blind. It was resolved to force him to confession. 
 
 A sergeant was called in to search him. In his 
 purse were found eleven ducats; a hundred and 
 thirty-seven gold pieces were sewn into the collar of 
 his doublet. This treasure-trove the governor put 
 into his own pocket. The sergeant and two Turkish 
 slaves then seized him, bore him to a cell above the 
 governor's kitchen, threw him down upon his back, 
 and chained him immovably to the stone floor. One 
 27Q 
 
WILLIAM LITHGOW 
 
 of the two slaves, whose name was Hazior, lay 
 clown before the door by way of guard, and he was 
 left to pass the first night of his misery. 
 
 Next day the governor came to him alone. He 
 urged the prisoner, as he hoped for pardon, to 
 confess that he had been a spy. At his denial, the 
 governor roared out furiously that he should feel 
 the rack. He then gave orders that the captive 
 should receive three ounces of dry bread and a pint 
 of water every second day — fare just igufiicient to 
 keep bod}^ and soul together, while h^s strength 
 wasted to the lowest ebb. He also ordered that the 
 window should be walled up, and the grating in the 
 door stopped up with mats. The cell was turned 
 into a tomb; and here, in pitchy darkness, gnawed 
 by hunger, and in daily expectation of the rack, 
 Lithgow wore away seven weeks of horror, chained 
 motionless on the bare stones. 
 
 It was five days before Christmas; the time was 
 two o'clock at night; when he was awakened from 
 his feverish slumber by the sound of a coach drawn 
 up outside his prison. The cell-door opened, and 
 nine sergeants entered, who bore him, chains and 
 all, into the coach. Two took their seats beside 
 him, while the others ran on foot; and the coach, 
 of which the driver was a negro, rolled swiftly from 
 the city westward. At the distance of a league it 
 pulled up at a lonely vineyard; the prisoner was 
 lifted from the coach, was carried to a room within 
 the building of the winepress, and was left, still 
 chained, until the morning. He could only guess 
 what was before him. He had been brought there 
 to be tortured. 
 
 Late in the afternoon the three inquisitors came 
 in; the victim, for the last time, was exhorted to 
 confess that he had been a spy, and of course again 
 denied it. He was then carried to another room. 
 Against the wall was a thick frame of wood, shaped 
 277 
 
HISTORIC DEEDS OF DANGER AND DARING 
 
 like a triangle, in the sides of which were holes, 
 with ropes and turning-pin. This was the rack. 
 
 The tormentor stripped him, and struck off his 
 ankle-rings; one with such violence as to tear his 
 heel. Then he was lashed upon the rack. 
 
 It was about five o'clock. From that time till 
 ten he lay there in agony. As if the torture of the 
 cords, which cut the flesh into the sinews, was not 
 fierce enough, at intervals his jaws were forced 
 apart, and a stream of water from a jar impelled 
 into his throat, so that he was kept half -drowning. 
 When he fainted in his agony, a little wine was 
 given him, to bring him round. At last, when it 
 seemed likely that the victim, who was weaker than 
 a child with famine, would escape their hands by 
 giving up the ghost, he was taken from the rack, 
 his gnashed and broken limbs were loaded with his 
 irons, he was driven back to his old dungeon, and 
 once more bolted to the stones. 
 
 As before, he was left to starve on bread and 
 water; but now, by order of his persecutors, baskets 
 of ants were emptied on his mangled body, from 
 whose maddening irritation he could do nothing to 
 relieve himself; for, even had he been unchained, 
 his arms were broken and incapable. His misery 
 was such as moved the pity even of the Turkish 
 slave. Hazior, at the risk of his own safety, some- 
 times swept the ants into heaps with oil, and set 
 them in a blaze. Occasionally he also brought the 
 starving prisoner secretly a bunch of raisins or a 
 handful of dry figs. It is probable that, meager as 
 it was, this addition to the captive's pittance saved 
 his life. 
 
 In the meantime the governor had discovered that 
 he was no spy. Unluckily, he had, at the same time, 
 been looking over Lithgow's papers. The latter 
 had, when at Loretto, been shown the cottage of 
 the Virgin INIary which is said to have miraculously 
 278 
 
WILLIAM LITHGOW 
 
 flown from Palestine, and had dubbed the story "a 
 vain toy." To the governor the case was clear; the 
 Virgin Mary, in permitting Lithgow to be tortured 
 as a spy, had wrought a miracle against a scoffer. 
 He went to Lithgow's cell, and told him bluntly 
 that, unless he wished to burn alive, he must within 
 a week turn Catholic. 
 
 But the governor knew nothing of his man. Lith- 
 gow, roused like a wounded war-horse . who smells 
 battle, instantly poured forth an argument to prove 
 that the Pope was an impostor. The governor re- 
 tired in anger. Next day he brought two Jesuits to 
 assist him; but in a little while he lost his temper, 
 kicked IJthgow in the face as he lay upon the floor, 
 and, but for the two Jesuits, would have stabbed 
 him with a knife. On the last day of the week he 
 changed his tactics. Lithgow was assured that, at 
 a single word, he should be taken from his cell to 
 a luxurious chamber, to be nursed and fed on 
 dainties — that he should regain his property, be 
 sent to England, and receive a yearly pension of 
 three hundred ducats. If, on the other hand, he 
 still held out, he should that night be tortured in 
 his cell; after which he should, at Easter, be re- 
 moved to Granada, to be burnt alive at midnight, 
 and his ashes cast into the air. 
 
 L^p to this moment Lithgow, though a victim, 
 had not been a martyr — his escape had not de- 
 pended on himself. But now a syllable would set 
 him free — and he disdained to speak it. 
 
 That night the torturer was brought into his cell. 
 At first the water-torment was applied. When he 
 had suffered all the agony of drowning, he was 
 strung up to the cell-roof by his toes until he 
 fainted. Then, having been restored with wine, 
 he was once more bolted to the floor. His enemies 
 had left him just suflBcient strength to lift up his 
 weak voice and sing defiance in a psalm. 
 379 
 
HISTORIC DEEDS OF DANGER AND DARING 
 
 And now nothing was before him but the mar- 
 tyr's fire. It was Mid-Lent; in a fortnight he must 
 mount the fagot. Nor is there any kind of doubt 
 that Litligow would, at the appointed time, have 
 sung his psalm amidst the flames, but for the 
 strange and striking freak of fate about to be 
 described. 
 
 One night, it happened that a Spanish cavalier 
 from Graiiada was taking supper with the governor, 
 who, for the amusement of his guest, related Lith- 
 gow's story. The servant of the cavalier, a Fleming, 
 listened from behind his master's chair. The tale 
 of terror chilled his blood; all night it robbed him 
 of his rest. At dawn he stole oif to the English 
 Consul and told him all he knew. The Consul went 
 to work with speed. The case was laid before the 
 King of Spain. On Easter Saturday, at midnight, 
 the governor received a mandate which made him 
 tjar his beard. His victim was to be instantly set 
 free. 
 
 The cell door was thrown open; but the captive 
 could as soon have flown out of his prison as have 
 walked out on his feet. Hazior took him on his 
 shoulders a^d conveyed him to the dwelling of an 
 English merchant near at hand, whence he was 
 carried in a swinging blanket to a British man- 
 of-war, the Vanguard, which lay at anchor in the 
 bay. Three days later he was bound for England. 
 
 Lithgow was wavering between life and death. 
 Every care that pity could devise was lavished on 
 him; but when the ship reached Deptford seven 
 weeks later, he had not risen from his couch. The 
 fame of his adventure spread before him. King^ 
 James himself desired to see him; and Lithgow, 
 borne upon a feather bed, was carried to a private 
 gallery, where the King, together with the lords 
 and ladies of the Court, flocked eagerly about his 
 mattress, and broke into cries of horror and com- 
 280 
 
WILLIAM LITHGOW 
 
 passion at the sight of the scarred, shrunk body, 
 and the visage like a corpse's, which they had seen 
 a few months earlier so full of life. The King 
 himself was so much moved with pity that he 
 ordered Lithgow, at his own expense, to be conveyed 
 to Bath, and nursed back into strength. 
 
 In that pleasant city Lithgow passed six months. 
 By slow degrees his health returned to him; but 
 there were tokens of the wild beast's den which he 
 would carry to his grave. The fingers of one hand 
 were drawn into the palm by the contraction of the 
 sinews; the crushed bones of one arm remained ill- 
 set; and his right foot was lamed for life. 
 
 By the King's agency, the Spanish Envoy, Don 
 Drego Sarmento de Gardamore, had undertaken 
 that he should receive his property from Malaga, 
 together with a thousand pounds as a solatium for 
 his wrongs. When, however, Lithgow came from 
 Bath to London, the Envoy seemed inclined to 
 shuffle from the bond. Lithgow, never the most 
 patient of mankind, waited and fretted, and at last 
 went mad with passion. In the presence-chamber 
 of the jialace he flew at the astounded Don, and 
 beat him with his fists. The lords-in-waiting pulled 
 him off; but not before the Don had suffered 
 severely. 
 
 The public sympathy was all with Lithgow; but 
 
 the offense to the decorum of a Court was gross, 
 
 and he was sentenced to be kept for nine weeks in 
 
 the Marshalsea. The punishment was light enough; 
 
 ; but he had made a deadly enemy of Don Drego, 
 
 j and' of his thousand pounds he never got a shilling. 
 
 This was his last adventure and misfortune. 
 
 I From that time forth, until his death in 1640, he 
 
 i roamed abroad no more. During his life he was, 
 
 I by those who knew his story, regarded as a hero 
 
 and a martyr. To those who know his story, he is 
 
 a hero and a martyr still. 
 
 281 
 
CASANOVA 
 
 ON the morning of the 35th of July, 1755, a 
 prisoner, attended hy a jailer and two archers 
 of the guard, passed across the Bridge of Sighs at 
 Venice to the cells of the Piombi. The captive was 
 a man of thirty, tall and strong in figure, with a 
 face of Mephistopheles, an African complexion, 
 and a pair of glittering eyes. His dress was that 
 of a Venetian noble— a flowered coat laced with 
 silver, a yellow vest, breeches of red satin, and a 
 hat with a white plume. The charge against him 
 was a strange one. He had been condemned by the 
 Inquisitors of State as a wizard who had sold his 
 sold to Satan. 
 
 This man was Casanova, the tale of whose cap- 
 tivity and strange escape we are about to tell. But 
 first we must glance back at the events to which his 
 present plight was owing. What was the story of 
 this man of magic? 
 
 Briefly, it was this: — 
 
 His father, Gaetan Casanova, a man of ancient 
 Spanish race, having tossed away his property at 
 twenty-eight, joined a troop of strolling players, in 
 which lie occupied a place so humble that a cobbler, 
 with whose pretty daughter of sixteen he fell in love 
 at Venice, disdained him as a son-in-law. Gaetan, 
 in this predicament, ran off with the girl, whose 
 name was Zanetta, and married her in secret; and 
 on the 2d of April, 1735, their first child, Jacques, 
 was born. The troop of actors was soon after- 
 wards engaged to start for London, and the child 
 was left at Venice with his grandmother — the cob- 
 l.'ler's wife. He was brought up well and kindly; 
 383 
 
CASANOVA 
 
 but his constitution was not strong; and at eight 
 years old habitual fits of bleeding at the nose re- 
 duced him to a specter. One of the earliest of his 
 recollections was that of being taken, dripping- 
 blood, to the den of an old crone, who had the 
 reputation of a witch, of finding the hag squatting 
 on a mat amidst a circle of black cats, of being 
 shut up in a great chest, chanted over by the sor- 
 ceress, and half-stifled with the smoke of burning 
 drugs. The incantation or the fuming spices seemed 
 for a time to have restored him; but soon the 
 bleeding fits returned more stubbornly than ever. 
 As a last resource, it was resolved to try a change 
 of air; and on the day when he was nine years old 
 he was sent to school at Padua. There his life was 
 far from happy. His food was bad and scanty; 
 and at night he slept, with three or four compan- 
 ions, in an attic where the rats, which ran in 
 swarms across his pallet, froze his blood with hor- 
 ror. But the air of Padua worked wonders; the 
 fits of bleeding ceased; his health returned; his 
 appetite became so ravenous that often he was 
 forced to creep at dead of night into the kitchen, 
 to prey upon the herrings and the sausages which 
 hung drying in the smoke of the great chimney. 
 
 In school his ready wits soon made him the best 
 scholar in his class; nor was it long before he knew 
 as much of logic and of Latin as his master, as 
 well as of an art, which afterwards proved much 
 more useful to him, how to play the violin. At 
 fourteen, his mother, who had prospered on the 
 stage, placed him in the University of Padua. That 
 great seat of learning then drew students from all 
 parts of Europe; but Casanova fell in with a set of 
 riotous companions, and added chiefly to his stock 
 of knowledge how to gamble, how to run up debts 
 with jewelers and tailors, and how to knock dov.n 
 watchmen in the streets at night. Nevertheless, at 
 2SS 
 
HISTORIC DEEDS OF DANGER AND DARING 
 
 sixteen he read the Latin theme for his degree of 
 Doctor, and, at his mother's wish, at once took 
 orders in the Church. 
 
 But Casanova was not destined to adorn the 
 Church. Pleasure-loving, giddy, vain, with little 
 conscience, clerical duties turned out by no means 
 to his taste. The necessity of clipping oif his locks 
 hurt him to the soul; and having, on the feast day 
 of St. Joseph, been selected to pronounce a sermon, 
 he signalized the choice by dining with some gay 
 companions instead, greatly to the scandal of his flock. 
 
 It was then proposed that he should spend a 
 period of retirement in a college of theology at St. 
 Cyprian. He entered; but, as he took no pains to 
 keep the rules of the establishment, he found him- 
 self, in no long time, locked up for punishment in 
 the prison of St. Andrew — a fort which stood, 
 surrounded by the water, just at the spot where, 
 on Ascension day, the Doges cast the ring into the 
 sea. It was thought that here at least he would be 
 out of mischief; but the notion was an error. Casa- 
 nova got into worse scrapes than ever. 
 
 Then the Bishop of Martorano, who was ac- 
 quainted with his mother, promised to look after 
 him, and to push his fortunes; and Casanova, with 
 money in his purse, and with a well-filled trunk, set 
 out by way of Rome and Naples to the Bishop's 
 See. He had, however, only reached Chiozza when 
 he fell in with some evil companions, and lost every 
 coin in his possession. 
 
 And now a certain natural gift of knavery began 
 to manifest its presence in him. At Naples he 
 came across a wealthy Greek, who had a stock of 
 quicksilver to sell. Casanova took a jar of quick- 
 silver, added secretly some lead and bismuth, and 
 showed the Greek his quicksilver increased in 
 bulk. The Greek, eager to acquire the art of con- 
 juring three jars of quicksilver into four, pur- 
 284 
 
CASANOVA 
 
 chased the secret for a hundred sequins. It was 
 left him to discover, what Casanova had omitted to 
 inform him, that although he had increased his 
 stock-in-trade, his quicksilver was spoilt. 
 
 In the meantime, Casanova traveled at his ease 
 to Martorano. Already he beheld in his mind's eye 
 the Bishop's palace, gay with company, with books 
 and pictures and dainty dishes. He found the pre- 
 late in a crazy dwelling, of which the furniture was 
 such that a mattress for himself had to be dragged 
 oflF the Bishop's bed. The whole income of the See 
 was eighty pounds a year. Cowkeepers and mar- 
 ketwomen were the sole society. Casanova cast a 
 glance upon the congregation gathered in the 
 chapel, besought the Bishop's blessing and dis- 
 missal, and, sixteen hours after his arrival, started 
 back to Rome. 
 
 He was weary of the Church. Nature, he thought, 
 in his opinion, had designed him for a soldier, and 
 he determined to let Nature have her way. He left 
 Rome as an abbe; but to the amazement of his 
 friends at Venice, he reappeared there, blazing in a 
 gorgeous uniform, with purple vest, gold epaulets, 
 and red cockade. To account for those insignia, 
 to which his only right was that of having paid a 
 I tailor for them, he proclaimed that he had just been 
 serving in the troops of Spain. Nobody believed 
 this story; and he speedily discovered, to his great 
 vexation, that, like the jackdaw in the peacock's 
 feathers, he ran some risk of being laughed at. To 
 stop the mouths of scoffers, he bought an ensignship 
 in one of the State troops, then posted at Corfu; 
 but as he still desired to visit Constantinople, he 
 was granted leave of absence for six months to 
 make a trip there. 
 
 Accordingly, he sailed from Venice. The voyage 
 at first was easy; but off the island of Curzola a 
 storm sprang up which put the ship in peril. The 
 285 
 
HISTORIC DEEDS OF DANGER AND DARING 
 
 chaplain, an ignorant and superstitious priest, took 
 his stand on deck, and, with his missal in his hand, 
 prayed loudly to the demons of the storm. Casa- 
 nova laughed, whereon the priest denounced him as 
 an atheist, a Jonah who had called the tempest on 
 their heads. The sailors, white Math terror, were 
 not long in acting on this hint. One of them crept 
 stealthily to Casanova, watched his moment, and 
 pushed him over the ship's side. Nothing but a 
 miracle of fortune saved him. As he fell, the fluke 
 of the ship's anchor caught his coat and held him 
 swinging in mid-air. There the sailors left him, 
 but a soldier who was on the vessel flung him down 
 a rope and haided him to the deck. The crew were 
 clamoring to fling him back again, when the priest 
 discovered that the culprit had about him a Greek 
 parchment which professed to be a love charm. 
 Here, plainly, was the reason of the tempest. A 
 brazier was fetched, the charm was thrown upon 
 the coals, and, as the burning parchment writhed 
 and cracked, the priest cried out that it was a fiend 
 in torment. Fortunately, at the same time the wind 
 began to fall; the sailors lost their terror; and 
 Casanova was allowed to live. 
 
 At Constantinople, Casanova, bearing the letter 
 from the cardinal, called on Osman Pasha, whose 
 help, however, he no longer needed. The Pasha 
 was a curious character. His true name was Count 
 Bonneval; he had been an officer at Venice, but had 
 transformed himself into a Turk to gain the favor 
 of the Sultan. He was now an old man, jovial, fat 
 and lazy. His friendly welcome was succeeded by a 
 dinner. At the Pasha's table Casanova made ac- 
 quaintance with a fine old Turk, named Josouf Ali, 
 a man of wealth and a philosopher. Ali conceived 
 for Casanova an amazing liking, repeatedly invited 
 him to his own house, and there discussed with him 
 for hours the doctrines of the Prophet. At last this 
 x?86 
 
CASANOVA 
 
 curious friendship reached a climax. Ali had a 
 daughter of fifteen, named Zehiie, whose lustrous 
 eyes and skin of alabaster, the ease with which she 
 talked in Greek and in Italian, the skill with which 
 she painted, worked in wools, and warbled to her 
 harp, charmed her friends. He proposed that Casa- 
 nova should become a Turk, should marry Zelnie, 
 and should, at the same time, become possessor of 
 her dowry, a palace, a troop of slaves, and an 
 abundant income. 
 
 Casanova was dumbfounded. The offer dazzled 
 him; but still he wavered. To be a turbaned Turk, 
 to learn to jabber a barbaric lingo, to hide for life 
 his brilliance in obscurity, above all to run the risk 
 of finding Zelnie, when the marriage- veil was lifted, 
 not quite the paragon her father thought her — 
 these things made him pause. It was not, however, 
 till the eve of his departure that he decided to 
 decline. Ali, so far from being piqued at this 
 magnanimous refusal, piled the vessel's deck with 
 rich mementos of his friendship — mementos which 
 Casanova, when the ship touched Corfu, immediately 
 converted into cash. 
 
 At Corfu, where he joined his regiment, every- 
 thing seemed in his favor. He was rich, gay, 
 popular among his comrades, welcomed in the best 
 society. He passed there just a year. At the end 
 of that time he had been ruined at the gaming 
 table, had pawned his jewelry, was hopelessly in 
 debt, and had lost his chances of promotion. Hav- 
 ing made the town too hot to hold him, he arrived 
 at the conclusion that the army was no place for a 
 philosopher. He sold his commission for a hundred 
 sequins, and returned forthwith to Venice. Soon 
 all his money was gone. In order to keep himself 
 from perishing of hunger, he was glad to earn a 
 pittance as a violinist in the theater of St. Samuel. 
 
 His companions in this new position, when the 
 28T 
 
HISTORIC DEEDS OF DANGER AND DARING 
 
 play was over, would sally, flushed with wine, into 
 the streets, to bully quiet passengers, to skirmish 
 with the guards, to cut the ropes of gondolas, to 
 set the church-bells pealing an alarm, and to send 
 physicians and confessors to the beds of men in 
 perfect health. Casanova was, for nearly half a 
 year, a ruling spirit of this gang of worthies. But 
 a freak of fortune was again before him. 
 
 One night, on issuing from a palace where he 
 had been fiddling at a wedding dance, he saw a 
 signor in a scarlet cloak, who was descending to 
 his gondola, drop a letter on the steps. Casanova 
 restored the letter to its owner, who, in return, on 
 finding that they were going in the same direction, 
 invited him to step into his boat. Casanova did so, 
 and they started; but as they glided up the long 
 canal, the signor suddenly fell forward in a fit. 
 Casanova sprang ashore, brought a surgeon running 
 in his nightcap, and having seen the patient bled, 
 conveyed him to his palace and took his post at the 
 bedside. The surgeon applied a plaster made of 
 mercury to the sick man's chest, and left him for 
 the night; but by the action of the drug the patient 
 in a little while was gasping in convulsions, and to 
 all appearance dying. Casanova plucked the plaster 
 off again — and by that simple action made his 
 fortune. Next day the patient was much better. 
 He vowed that the doctor was a quack, that he 
 owed his life to Casanova, and that no other should 
 attend him ; and thus it came to pass, that when the 
 doctor made his visit in the morning he found the 
 upstart fiddler in his place, and rushed out of the 
 house in rage and horror. 
 
 Thus, strangely turned into a sage, Casanova set 
 himself to play the part. Signor Bragadin, though 
 one of the most illustrious lords of Venice, was 
 superstitious to the point of mania. Casanova de- 
 livered his opinions with an air so solemn, he quoted 
 288 
 
CASANOVA 
 
 from the works of learned writers (which he had 
 never read) with such felicity and ease, that Bra- 
 gadin believed his wisdom supernatural. He hinted 
 this belief to Casanova — and Casanova was ready 
 with a story. He confessed that an ancient hermit, 
 whose cave was in the mountains of Carpegna, had 
 revealed to him the mystery of Solomon's secret, 
 which is the art of prophesying by the use of 
 numbers — a secret which he himself was forbidden 
 to reveal, under pain of dying suddenly within three 
 days. Bragadin, to whom the art of sorcery was 
 the most sublime of sciences, panted to consult the 
 oracle. Under the promptings of the prophet it 
 responded, as oracles in all ages have responded, 
 sometimes clearly, sometimes darkly, but never so 
 as to be caught in error. The signor was in 
 ecstasies. As he could not work the augury him- 
 self, he resolved to keep possession of the augur; 
 and forthwith Casanova, to his own amazement, 
 found himself installed in rich apartments in the 
 palace, his pockets full of money and a troop of 
 lackeys at his service, proclaimed to all the world 
 of Venice as Signor Bragadin's adopted son. 
 
 He had already been by turns an abbe, a beggar, 
 an ensign, and a fiddler. He was now a combina- 
 tion of quack, prophet, and grandee. Except when 
 called upon to work his oracle, he had no task but 
 to amuse himself. It is perhaps not strange that 
 he was soon in new disaster. 
 
 One of his acquaintances, a merchant named 
 ! Demetrio, whose jealousy he had excited, contrived 
 a trick to make him look ridiculous. Demetrio 
 sawed the plank which ran across a certain boggy 
 trench, with the result that Casanova, who was the 
 first among a troop of gay companions to pass over, 
 fell plump into the bog up to the ears. A crowd of 
 rustics hauled him out with ropes, an indistinguish- 
 able lump of mud, at which his giddy comrades 
 
HISTORIC DEEDS OF DANGER AND DARING 
 
 screamed with laughing. Burning to requite this 
 witticism, Casanova crept by night into a burial- 
 ground, cut off the arm of a dead body, hid himself 
 beneath Demetrio's bed, and at the dead of night 
 began to tug at the blankets. Demetrio, waking, 
 cried to the tomfool beneath him, that it was vain 
 to try to scare him with a ghost; at the same time 
 he made a snatch into the darkness, caught the 
 dead hand, which Casanova suddenly released, and 
 instantly fell backwards in a swoon of terror. He 
 had literally been scared out of his senses. 
 
 This outrageous act aroused a perfect tempest. 
 Demetrio's friends burst into vows of vengeance; 
 the inquisitors prepared to seize the culprit on a 
 charge of sacrilege. Casanova was compelled to flee 
 from Venice. Being well supplied with money, he 
 wandered from city to city at his ease. At Paris, 
 where his younger brother, afterwards the famous 
 painter, was then studying, he resided for some . 
 time; and as he was a scholar, a talker, and a boon 
 companion, ever ready to play, to quote Ariosto, or 
 to write a ballad to a lady's eyebrow, the society 
 of wits and beauties opened to him readily. He 
 also worked his oracle; and here again he found 
 no lack of people panting to be dupes. Sober 
 merchants consulted him about the safety of their 
 argosies; and a cynic might find food for mirth in 
 the reflection that the Duchess of Chartres herself 
 sent for him to the Palais Royal, and demanded of 
 his oracle how to cure her pimples. 
 
 At length, the danger having, as he thought, sub- 
 sided, he returned to Venice. But in this he was 
 in error. The charge of sacrilege was not revived 
 against him; but reports of his prophecies had been 
 noised abroad; he was accused of practising unholy 
 arts; and the spies of the Inquisition were upon his 
 track. One of these was ready with a proof that 
 Casanova was in league with Satan. Another spy, 
 290 
 
CASANOVA 
 
 who gained admittance to his chamber on pretense 
 of showing him some jewels, observed some books 
 on sorcery lying on the table — Solomon's Charms, 
 The Conjurations of the Demons, Zecor-ben, and 
 Planetary Hours. Casanova's purse was just then 
 empty; and the spy, under the pretext of selling 
 these rare works at a high price to a virtuoso, bore 
 them straight to the inquisitors. The next day 
 he returned them; but in the meantime Casanova's 
 fate was sealed. 
 
 A few mornings later, before daybreak, as he 
 was sleeping in his bed, a hand was laid upon his 
 shoulder. He started up, and saw a guard of the 
 Tribunal, with a group of archers, who had come to 
 take him. At that sight a shiver thrilled him to the 
 heart. And he might well shiver, for he was at the 
 mercy of an awful power. 
 
 Casanova left his bed, dressed himself with care, 
 and followed his captors; and thus in a few min- 
 utes he was on his way, as when we saw him first, 
 across the Bridge of Sighs towards the cells of the 
 Piombi. 
 
 These cells are the garrets of the Doge's palace — 
 the name springing from the plaques of lead which 
 form the palace-roof. Casanova was conducted by 
 the jailer, a rough fellow named Lorenzo, who 
 also, on occasion, served as hangman, along a cor- 
 ridor, from which opened half a dozen little iron- 
 studded doors. Through one of these, so dwarfish 
 that his head on entering was almost on a level with 
 his knees, he was thrust into a cell in which it was 
 Impossible to stand erect, and in which the only 
 light that entered glimmered through a narrow 
 grating in the door. The cell was absolutely bare; 
 but he was told that he might buy himself a chair, 
 a table, and a bed. When these were brought, he 
 was informed that food would be supplied him once 
 a day, at daybreak. And he was left alone. 
 291 
 
HISTORIC DEEDS OF DANGER AND DARING 
 
 The time was in the dog-days, and the hot leads 
 turned the cell into an oven, in which, although he 
 stripped himself of every rag, the prisoner was 
 half melted. At nightfall, when he stretched him- 
 self upon his pallet, his rest was broken by gigantic 
 rats which scoured along the corridor, and by the 
 great bell of St. Mark's tower pealing forth the 
 hours. Nor were his meditations more consoling. 
 How long this state of misery might last, he could 
 not tell. He had undergone no trial — he had re- 
 ceived no sentence. He might be left there for a 
 week or for a year, or he might wither out his life- 
 time in captivity. 
 
 Day by day went by; August and September 
 passed; and with them passed all hope of swift 
 release. Sometimes the solitude of his cell was 
 broken by the entrance of a fellow-prisoner; first, 
 a count's valet, who had been caught eloping with 
 his master's daughter and a box of jewels; then, a 
 wizen, little red-eyed money-lender, like a screech- 
 owl, who had tried to swindle his own partner. 
 These delectable companions came and went; but 
 the months passed, and Casanova was a captive still. 
 Gradually, his whole thought fixed itself upon an- 
 other road to freedom. Was there no chance of 
 scheming an escape? 
 
 At stated periods, when his cell was being swept, 
 he was allowed to walk into the corridor, which 
 was secured by a strong door. In a corner of the 
 corridor was a heap of rubbish. Casanova pried 
 into the heap and came across an iron bolt, an inch 
 in thickness and some two feet long. This instru- 
 ment, together with a fragment of black marble, he 
 smuggled to his cell beneath his coat. There he 
 set himself to grind the bolt into a point upon the 
 piece of marble; and after a week's constant labor, 
 during which his hands were worn to blisters, a long, 
 sharp point was made. 
 
 293 
 
CASANOVA 
 
 Casanova was well acquainted with the palace 
 buildings. He reckoned that his cell was situated 
 just above the hall of the inquisitors, and he laid a 
 plan accordingly. He resolved to pierce the cell- 
 floor with his bolt, to descend into the hall by ropes 
 made out of strips of bedding, to lie in wait until the 
 door was opened, and then to make a rush for 
 freedom. The project was a mad one; but the 
 ache for liberty had brought him to that desperate 
 temper which is ready for strange deeds — the tem- 
 per which drove Baron Trenck to burrow like a 
 mole beneath his prison-walls, and Monte Cristo, 
 in the Chateau d'lf, to stitch himself into the dead 
 man's sack, in order to be cast into the sea. 
 
 He could not work, however, without light, and 
 the wretched gleam which struggled through the 
 grating lasted only about five hours a day; the rest 
 was pitchy darkness. Casanova schemed again. 
 He possessed a wooden bowl, from which he ate his 
 broth, and a flask of salad-oil was part of his pro- 
 visions; strips torn off his shirt provided him with 
 tinder; while, by pretending that he had the tooth- 
 ache, for which a gun-flint steeped in vinegar was 
 esteemed a sovereign cure, he obtained a couple 
 from the jailer. As soon as he was left in solitude, 
 he struck his flints, and saw, with indescribable de- 
 light, his rude lamp flare out bravely on the dark- 
 ness of his cell. 
 
 Armed with his bolt, and lighted by his lamp, 
 he set to work to dig into the planks beneath his 
 bed, gathering, as he worked, the fragments in a 
 handkerchief, to be emptied into the heap of rub- 
 bish in the corridor. Except at the hour at which 
 the jailer visited the cells, he labored night and day. 
 The work was hard and slow; but in three weeks 
 the planks were pierced, and through a tiny hole, 
 which could be speedily enlarged, he was able to 
 peer down into the hall. 
 
 293 
 
HISTORIC DEEDS OF DANGER AND DARING 
 
 His rope was made; and all was ready; and he 
 was waiting, with a bounding heart, for night to 
 bring the hour of his adventure, when all at once 
 he heard, outside his cell, the bolts which locked 
 the corridor shoot back. His first thought was 
 that he was free — that his order of release had 
 come at last. Trembling with hope, he saw his 
 door fly open. It was the jailer come to take him 
 to another cell. 
 
 Casanova fell into his chair, half fainting. That 
 instant was a bitter penance for his sins. All his 
 work was lost, and it could never be repeated, for 
 the hole would be discovered, and henceforth his 
 actions would be strictly watched. In a stupor of 
 despair, supported by the jailer, he tottered down 
 the corridor, and along another gallery, at the end 
 of which appeared the door of his new cell. His 
 chair was carried with him by an archer. Under 
 its seat he had contrived a place in which to hide 
 his bolt; and, by good fortune, it was fixed there 
 still. 
 
 The jailer went to fetch the prisoner's bed. 
 Casanova sat there motionless, awaiting the dis- 
 covery. The result might be to him a case of life 
 and death. What if the inquisitors condemned him 
 to the Wells? Those dreaded dungeons were pits 
 sunk beneath the basement of the palace — dark, 
 deep, and slimy dens, which the rising tides, flowing 
 through the gratings, kept continually half full of 
 water, over which the wretched captive passed his 
 life supported on a tressel, from which he could 
 not stir without the risk of being drowned. Few 
 prisoners issued from the Wells alive. One 
 wretched man, a soldier of the name of Beguelin, 
 who had betrayed his orders, had passed there 
 twenty-seven years of life in death. Casanova 
 called to mind this story. What if such a fate 
 were now before him! 
 
 294 
 
CASANOVA 
 
 As he sat quaking at the thought, he heard the 
 jailer rushing headlong back. With eyes of flame 
 he burst into the cell. "Where is your chisel?" he 
 cried furiously; "where did you get it? — who 
 brought it in to you?" An inspiration rushed on 
 Casanova. "You yourself," he answered boldly; 
 "who else has had the chance?" 
 
 The jailer was struck dumb; for if the inquisi- 
 tors believed this story, which in fact seemed un- 
 assailable, he could not set his life at a pin's fee. 
 Tearing his hair, he darted from the cell, stopped 
 up the hole with desperate eagerness, and suffered 
 not a word of the attempt to reach the ears of the 
 Tribunal. 
 
 Casanova's wits had saved him from the Wells; 
 but his chances of escape seemed gone for ever. 
 The keeper, it is true, had failed to find his bolt; 
 but how was he to use it? The cell was new — a 
 scratch would have been visible; and moreover, 
 every morning, when his food was brought, the 
 keeper tapped the walls and floor, to ascertain that 
 they were sound. In truth, his plight seemed 
 hopeless. But fortune, who had tossed him up and 
 down so often, was to give him one chance still. 
 
 The cell next his contained two prisoners — an old 
 count, Andro Asquin, and a monk whose name was 
 Balbi. Balbi had a shelf of volumes in his cell, 
 and these, in the spirit of a friendly neighbor, he 
 lent to Casanova one by one — the jailer, who could 
 not read, and who conceived no danger, being 
 gained by a small bribe to take them to and fro. 
 Casanova let his finger-nail grow long, used it as a 
 pen, and wrote with fruit-juice on a fly-leaf a letter 
 to the monk. Balbi found the writing, and replied 
 in the same manner; and thus a secret correspond- 
 ence was established. 
 
 And now Casanova saw his way again. If Balbi 
 had the bolt, he might make use of it without sus- 
 295 
 
HISTORIC DEEDS OF DANGER AND DARING 
 
 picion; he might pierce the ceiling of his cell, might 
 climb into the space beneath the palace roof, and 
 might make a hole in Casanova's ceiling. Then the 
 pair of them together might break through the roof, 
 and so emerge upon the leads. 
 
 The monk agreed. But how was he to get the 
 bolt? Casanova solved this puzzle also. He con- 
 cealed the bar between the binding and the back of 
 an immense old folio Bible; and the hoodwinked 
 jailer bore it safely into Balbi's cell. 
 
 But how were the operations of the monk to be' 
 concealed? Casanova told him. He was to pur- 
 chase, through the keeper, a number of wooden 
 figures of the saints, tall enough to reach the ceiling 
 of his cell, which was barely six feet high. Balbi 
 gave the order, and the saints arrived. Thence- 
 forward, when the jailer paid his visits in the 
 twilight of the morning, he found invariably the 
 pious monk telling his beads before St. Philip or 
 St. Francis. Who could have dreamt that the 
 Apostles' heads concealed a gaping hole? 
 
 The hole grew larger daily. In ten days the 
 monk had pierced his ceiling, and had worked so 
 far through Casanova's that a few hours' toil would 
 end his task. No trace, of course, was visible in 
 Casanova's cell. 
 
 It was Monday, the 16th of October; the monk 
 was working overhead; when Casanova heard again, 
 with freezing blood, the bolts which locked the 
 corridor fly back. He had barely time to give 
 three knocks, their preconcerted sign of danger, 
 when his door flew open, and a prisoner was 
 thrust in. 
 
 The new arrival was a little, skinny, ragged 
 rascal, grasping a string of beads, and chattering 
 with terror. Casanova, eager to discover whether 
 this new comrade could be trusted, soon drew forth 
 his story. His name was Sorodaci; he had been a 
 296 
 
CASANOVA 
 
 spy, devoted to the saints, and to the holy office; 
 but having, in an attempt to ruin his own god- 
 father, become suspected of false dealing with the 
 Council, he had had the misfortune to find himself 
 locked up instead of his relation. Here was a col- 
 league for the plotters ! This reptile, dying for a 
 chance of crawling back to favor, would give his 
 ears to get an inkling of their scheme. A wink or 
 a word to the jailer, and their hopes were gone 
 for ever. 
 
 Their work was at a standstill. For some days 
 Casanova nourished the vain hope that Sorodaci 
 would be speedily released; but after studying his 
 man, who was a ninny eaten up with superstition, 
 he resolved that he would fool him. Accordingly, 
 he wrote to Balbi, directing him to set to work next 
 day at three o'clock precisely. That night, he 
 started from his bed, crying aloud that he had had 
 a vision. The Virgin of the Rosary had appeared 
 to him, and had assured him that an angel would 
 descend to break their prison, and to set them free. 
 At three o'clock that afternoon they might expect 
 to hear him working at the roof above them. 
 
 Sorodaci was dumbfounded. In vain he made a 
 feint of disbelief; as three o'clock drew near he 
 gasped and trembled; but when, precisely as St. 
 Mark's gave forth the hour, the angel was heard 
 working overhead, he fell upon his face in mortal 
 terror. There was no more danger of his playing 
 false. The angel worked; the jailer paid his visits; 
 but Sorodaci never dreamt of treason. 
 
 Two days passed; it was the last day of October, 
 and Balbi set to work for the last time. At ten 
 o'clock at night a hole appeared in the low ceiling, 
 the monk came tumbling into Casanova's arms, and 
 Sorodaci reeled against the wall in inexpressible 
 amazement at perceiving that the angel had a thick 
 black beard. 
 
 297 
 
HISTORIC DEEDS OF DANGER AND DARING 
 
 Casanova seized the bolt, ascended through the 
 hole, and made a trial upon the palace roof. To 
 his delight, the planks were crumbling with the rot. 
 In half an hour he touched the plaques of lead, 
 wrenched up the fastenings with his bar, and thrust 
 his head out of the hole. To his concern, the moon 
 was shining brightly; but it was near its setting, 
 and by midnight would have disappeared. 
 
 Meanwhile the captives met in Balbi's cell. 
 Count Asquin, Balbi's fellow-prisoner, old, fat, and 
 suffering from a broken leg ill set, refused to risk 
 his neck on such a venture. Sorodaci also, whose 
 faith in this strange angel was much shaken, and 
 who trembled at the thought that he might tumble 
 into the canal, elected to remain. He would, he 
 said, invoke St. Francis for their safety. The other 
 two made ready. Casanova bound into a bundle the 
 rich dress which he had brought into the prison; 
 and each carried on his shoulder a coiled rope made 
 out of strips of bedding. 
 
 Midnight pealed from St. Mark's tower; the 
 moon was touching the lagoons. The adventurers 
 bade farewell to their companions; and Casanova, 
 bidding the monk follow him, lifted the plaque of 
 lead, and issued through the hole. 
 
 The roof was steep and slippery. Casanova, on 
 his hands and knees, digging his spike into the 
 leads to keep himself from sliding, and trailing the 
 monk behind him by his waist-band, crawled snail- 
 like up the perilous slant, and at length perched 
 panting on the summit. No sooner was the monk 
 astride, than, in endeavoring to wipe his brow, he 
 let his hat roll down the slope and plunge into the 
 sea. His maladroitness might have been their ruin; 
 for had the hat rolled down the other side, it would 
 have dropped into the Piazza, and startled the 
 sentries. 
 
 The next thing was to fix their rope. But here 
 298 
 
CASANOVA 
 
 an unexpected difficulty stopped them — they could 
 find no means by which to fasten it. For a whole 
 hour Casanova crept about the roof, seeking for a 
 point to which to loop his cable, but in vain. He 
 discovered nothing but a mason's ladder, far too 
 short to reach the ground, lying beside a heap of 
 plaster and a pile of plaques of lead. At length 
 he was compelled to change his tactics. Several 
 dormer windows opened on the roof, through one 
 of which they might descend into the palace. To 
 do so was to run their heads into the lion's den; 
 but there was no alternative, and it was possible 
 that, by some rare good luck, the lions might be 
 caught asleep or hoodwinked. Casanova, with his 
 bolt, wrenched off the light iron grill which barred 
 a window, broke the narrow leaded panes, and the 
 monk, while Casanova held the rope, slid down into 
 the room below. 
 
 In order to descend in turn, Casanova dragged 
 the ladder to the window; but in the attempt to 
 introduce it, he very nearly put an end to his ad- 
 ventures. His foot slipped, he went rolling down 
 the roof, and in an instant found himself suspended 
 by his elbows over the abyss. Thus hanging be- 
 tween life and death, his only chance was in one 
 desperate effort — if that failed him, he was lost. 
 Collecting all his strength, he writhed his body 
 upwards, and sank gasping on the gutter. Safe, 
 but sick with horror, he lay there long without the 
 power of motion. 
 
 At length, his strength returning, he lowered the 
 ladder to the monk, who held it in his arms while 
 he descended. The room in which they found them- 
 selves was pitchy dark. They groped and found 
 a door, through which they passed into a room in 
 which were several chairs and a great table, but 
 from which they sought in vain to find an exit. At 
 length they found themselves compelled to wait for 
 299 
 
HISTORIC DEEDS OF DANGER AND DARING 
 
 daybreak. Casanova, utterly exhausted, threw him- 
 self upon the floor, and, with the coil of rope for 
 pillow, fell into a death-like sleep. It was the first 
 which he had snatched for several nights. When he 
 woke, the first gleam of day was stealing in, and 
 the monk, in a frenzy of impatience, was shaking 
 him with violence. In the grey morning light they 
 found the door, and issued through a gallery, the 
 walls of which were lined with niches, wherein the 
 archives of the State were stored in parchment rolls, 
 down a narrow flight of stone steps closed by a 
 glass door, into the Doge's council chamber. The 
 door of this was fastened, but the panels were not 
 thick, and in half an hour the never-failing bolt had 
 pierced a gaping hole at a height of five feet from 
 the floor. The monk, whom Casanova held sus- 
 pended by the legs, went through head first with 
 ease; but Casanova, who had to follow without help, 
 tore his legs and sides upon the jagged splinters, 
 till they dripped with blood. Descending two more 
 flights, they reached the massive doorway of the 
 royal stairway. To their consternation it was 
 locked. To break through it was quite hopeless. 
 They might as well have tried to pierce the marble 
 walls. 
 
 Nothing was left but to try stratagem. 
 
 Casanova, all in blood and rags, sat down, untied 
 his bundle, and put on his gorgeous coat, his white 
 silk stockings, and his gold-laced hat with the white 
 plume. His rich embroidered mantle he bestowed 
 upon the monk. Then he thrust his head from a 
 side grating, and attracted the attention of some 
 persons in the court. These men called the door- 
 keeper, who, thinking that he must have locked in 
 some one over-night in error, came hurrying up in 
 trepidation with his keys. 
 
 Casanova, through a cranny, watched him coming. 
 The instant the door opened, he walked out quickly, 
 300 
 
CASANOVA 
 
 followed by the monk; and before the warder had 
 recovered from his stupor, the two had vanished 
 down the Giant's Stairs, pushed across to the canal, 
 sprang into a gondola, and were skimming over the 
 water towards Mestro. 
 
 It was a lovely morning; the air was clear and 
 pure, the sun was rising brightly. The contrast 
 with the scene from which he had escaped struck 
 Casanova to the soul; and, to the amazement of the 
 stolid monk, he burst into a flood of tears. 
 
 They were free. But could they keep their free- 
 dom? The danger, as they knew, was far from 
 over; the hue and cry was still to come. 
 
 At Mestro they hired a carriage for Treviso, 
 where, having spent their stock of money, they 
 plunged on foot into the woods. There, the better 
 to escape detection, they parted company, and each 
 took his way alone. 
 
 By two o'clock that afternoon Casanova had 
 walked four and twenty miles. His plight was 
 wretched to the last degree; though dropping with 
 fatigue, and faint with hunger, he durst not venture 
 near a public inn. Finding himself at length in 
 sight of a large private house, he demanded of a 
 shepherd, whose flock was feeding on a hillside, to 
 whom the place belonged, and was informed that 
 the owner's name was Captain Campagne, the chief 
 of the Venetian Guards. At that name of terror, 
 Casanova trembled; then, by an impulse over which 
 he had no control, and which he was never able to 
 explain, he walked straight down the hill towards 
 the dwelling of the man of whom, of all others, he 
 had the most to dread. 
 
 In the yard, a little boy was playing whip-top. 
 On Casanova asking where his father was, he called 
 his mother, a young and pretty woman, who in- 
 formed the stranger that the captain had just been 
 summoned for three days to Venice, in order to 
 301 
 
HISTORIC DEEDS OF DANGER AND DARING 
 
 hunt down two prisoners who had escaped from the 
 Piombi. 
 
 Casanova breathed again. The situation was one 
 after his own heart. 
 
 "I regret to find my godfather from home," he 
 said; "but I am charmed to make the acquaintance 
 of his lovely wife." 
 
 "Your godfather !" cried the lady, "why, then, 
 you are His Excellence Monsieur Veturi, who has 
 promised to be sponsor to our child — I am delighted 
 to receive you. My husband will be distressed that 
 he was not at home." And with a thousand such 
 civilities Casanova was welcomed into the house 
 and a feast was set before him — after which, as he 
 explained the sorry state of his apparel, his wounds, 
 and his fatigue, by stating that he had had a fall 
 whilst hunting in the forest, he was conducted to 
 the most luxurious sleeping-chamber in the house. 
 From three o'clock that afternoon till six next 
 morning he slept like a stone figure. Then he 
 awoke, dressed himself, walked unperceived out of 
 the house, and went his way— half trembling at his 
 rashness, half laughing at the picture of the cap- 
 tain's face when he should hear the story, and 
 wholly grateful to the captain's pretty wife. 
 
 And now the worst was over. Without much 
 misadventure he begged his way to Bolzan, which 
 was beyond the State of Venice, where he could 
 laugh at his pursuers. Thence he despatched a 
 messenger to Signer Bragadin for a supply of 
 money. The signor sent him all he wanted; and 
 Casanova was once more rich and free. 
 
 He was free ! His great escape from the Piombi 
 was a thing accomplished; and it was this of which 
 we set ourselves to tell. At this point therefore we 
 might leave him; but the color of romance which 
 wraps the sequel of his story tempts us to let it pass 
 before us rapidly. 
 
 302 
 
CASANOVA 
 
 From Bolzan he made his way to Paris, where 
 he received an ardent welcome. The fame of his 
 escape was there before him. All society desired to 
 hear from his own lips the details of his unprece- 
 dented exploit; and soon, from the youngest page 
 to Madame Pompadour herself, all tongues were 
 talking of the bolt, the lamp, the monk's cell full 
 of wooden saints, and Sorodaci gaping at the angel. 
 For his own part, Casanova was resolved to run no 
 further risk of such adventures; his life in future 
 should be sage and steady. But as his purse grew 
 light, his resolutions vanished. He looked about 
 him for a victim; and in the Marquise d'Urfe, a 
 dowager whose family was of the old nobility of 
 France, he found one after his own heart. The 
 Marquise was, in truth, a female counterpart of 
 Signor Bragadin. Her whole soul was devoted to 
 the magic arts; her library was crammed with books 
 on sorcery; her laboratory contained a never-dying 
 furnace, over which a mystic powder had for fifteen 
 years been glowing in a crucible, in the confidence 
 that it would turn at last into the philosopher's 
 stone. A belief in genies, with a burning wish to 
 have the power to summon them, was Madame 
 d'Urfe weakness. Casanova showed her his secret 
 charm, which he assured her that he worked by the 
 assistance of a genie of the name of Parlis. From 
 that moment Madame d'Urfe was his slave. Mean- 
 time he lived in the old lady's palace, drove about 
 the city in her carriage, lived upon her purse, and 
 was even reported to be about to marry her in 
 secret. 
 
 But long continuance in one mode of living was 
 against his nature. Sometimes in company with 
 Madame d'Urfe, at other times alone, he rambled 
 over Europe. City after city was the scene of his 
 adventures. At Stuttgart he struck up an acquaint- 
 ance with three officers, who invited him to supper, 
 303 
 
HISTORIC DEEDS OF DANGER AND DARING 
 
 put a drug into his wine, and in a short time fleeced 
 him of his purse, his watch, a diamond snufF-box, 
 and notes-of-hand for fifty thousand francs. But 
 when the winners called next day to cash their 
 notes, he told them bluntly that they were a gang 
 of sharpers, and might whistle for their coin. The 
 officers in fury flew to court and gained the Prince's 
 ear; and Casanova, to his consternation, found him- 
 self condemned to pay the whole amount, under 
 pain of having his possessions seized and sold, or of 
 being made a common soldier in the Prince's petty 
 army. Meantime he was kept prisoner in his rooms. 
 By day, a sentinel was posted in the ante-chamber; 
 at night, his door was locked and the key taken 
 by the guard. 
 
 But, poisoned, tricked, imprisoned as he was, 
 Casanova's wits were still his own. One night, 
 before his door was locked, he sent his valet to the 
 sentry with a gift. As the men were speaking, the 
 valet, under the pretext of snuffing the single can- 
 dle by which the ante-chamber was illumined, 
 snufl'ed it out. Casanova was upon the watch; 
 shoes in hand, with all his valuables about him, 
 he stole out in the darkness past the sentry, crept 
 downstairs, and darted forth into the night. The 
 candle was relighted, the sentry locked the pris- 
 oner's door as usual, and departed. When he 
 returned the next morning, he found the three cred- 
 itors waiting for admittance; and the four men 
 went into the room together. They saw a figure 
 resting on the bed. They addressed it — but in vain; 
 they shook it — and a wig-block covered with a wig 
 rolled out upon the ground. Casanova, fearing lest 
 the guard might peep into the room before he 
 locked the door, had left a dvrnimy to befool him. 
 
 While his bamboozled enemies, with faces a yard 
 long, were gaping at his proxy, Casanova was en 
 route for Zurich. A new desire possessed him; he 
 304 
 
CASANOVA 
 
 was weary of adventures; he sighed for a hermit's 
 cell and a life of contemplation. 
 
 On the morning after his arrival he left his bed 
 at daybreak and wandered forth into the mountains. 
 Rapt in meditation, he had rambled many miles, 
 when he perceived the grey walls of an ancient 
 monastery, surrounded by the solitary hills. From 
 the chapel came the voices of the monks at matins. 
 Casanova entere^. When the service ended he was 
 civilly accosted by the abbot, who conducted him 
 to see the convent; after which, in a luxurious 
 chamber, a dinner for an epicure was set before 
 them. Here was the life for Casanova ! He de- 
 termined to become a brother in the service of our 
 Lady of Einsiedel. 
 
 The abbot proposed a fortnight for reflection. 
 It was agreed that on its expiration he should call 
 on Casanova at his inn. Casanova returned to 
 Zurich in the abbot's carriage, and passed some 
 days in pious meditations. But the night before 
 the abbot's visit, as he was sitting in his window, 
 Casanova changed his mind. 
 
 The renegade then resumed his wanderings. 
 Again he was to be descried at city after city; at 
 Lausanne, visiting Voltaire, and charming the great 
 writer and his guests with the fire with which he 
 quoted Ariosto — at Yaucluse, weeping at the fovm- 
 tain — at Rome, receiving from the Pope, for what 
 merit is not clear, the cross of the Order of the 
 Golden Spur — at Naples, blazing amidst courtiers, 
 and kissing the hand of the child-king — again at 
 the Eternal City glittering in the carnival — at Paris, 
 wheedling Madame d'Urfe out of gold and gems. 
 Then he took a whim to visit London. But his 
 experience in England was not happy. The weather 
 was all fog. King George HI, to whom he was 
 presented by the French ambassador, impressed him 
 merely as a short, fat man with a red face and a 
 30.5 
 
HISTORIC DEEDS OF DANGER AND DARING 
 
 red coat, a plumed three-cornered hat, and a strong 
 resemblance to a cook. The people were "pure 
 savages." Nor did his ill impressions end there. 
 An old dame and her daughter, who had fleeced him 
 of some money, brought a charge against him, of 
 having, in a fit of passion, thrown a pin-puff at 
 the damsel. As Casanova was returning from a 
 ball at daybreak, two watchmen stopped his chair 
 and carried him before a magistrate at Newgate. 
 Casanova eyed his judge with feelings of the liveliest 
 curiosity— a curiosity which the other, had he known 
 the history of the culprit, would have returned with 
 interest; for the judge was Henry Fielding, the 
 famous novelist. 
 
 Fielding bound the prisoner over in two sureties 
 to keep the peace. His tailor appeared for him, 
 and he was set at liberty. But his ignominious and 
 absurd position was to be rendered still more gall- 
 ing. The insulted siren bought a parrot, taught it 
 a phrase of words, and hung it in a public place; 
 and Casanova, as he happened to pass by, heard its 
 harsh voice screaming to a crowd of laughing loung- 
 ers, "Casanova is a rascal." It need scarcely here 
 be added that the parrot spoke the truth. 
 
 He had by this time spent his stock of money, 
 and was about to sell his jewels, when he happened 
 to borrow a hundred guineas from a chance ac- 
 quaintnace, Baron Stenau, who gave him a bill 
 which bore the name of a respected firm at Cadiz. 
 Casanova cashed the bill, which proved to be a 
 forgery. Stenau had vanished; and Casanova found 
 himself in signal danger of ending his career by 
 being hanged. 
 
 He fled to Dover, crossed to Calais, and wan- 
 dered from city to city to Berlin. He had some 
 thought of taking service under the great Frederick 
 — that is, he was prepared, for a sufficient recom- 
 pense, to glitter like a popinjay about the court, 
 306 
 
CASANOVA 
 
 decked with a gold chain and his Order of the Spur. 
 The king offered him a post as overlooker in a 
 college of cadets. Casanova went to visit this estab- 
 lishment, and found a barrack thrust away behind 
 some stables, full of great, gaunt rooms with beds 
 of sacking, in one of which apartments, at the 
 moment of his visit, the king himself was flourish- 
 ing his cane and abusing an overlooker who had 
 left a nightshirt on a bed. This did not altogether 
 jump with Casanova's notions. He turned his back 
 upon the city in disgust, and wandered to St. 
 Petersburg. There he was presented by Count 
 Panin to the Empress Catherine, and had the 
 pleasure of listening to her Majesty's opinions on 
 the reformation of the calendar, and of laughing at 
 the statues in the royal gardens. But neither here 
 did he obtain the offer of a post to suit him; and 
 accordingly he left for Warsaw, where he was more 
 successful. King Stanislaus Augustus, to whom he 
 was presented, was struck by some of his remarks 
 upon the classic poets, desired to study Ariosto with 
 him, and would probably have made him his own 
 secretary, but for the event which we have now to 
 tell. 
 
 The king's chamberlain, Count Xavier Branicki, 
 a young and dashing officer, picked a quarrel with 
 him. The count insulted Casanova; and next morn- 
 ing Casanova sent a challenge to the count, which 
 was instantly accepted. 
 
 In Branicki's coach-and-six, attended by some 
 officers of the court, they drove to a sequestered 
 region of a park. A trifling incident aided to 
 decide the fortune of the day. One of the officers 
 produced two huge horse-pistols, loaded them, and 
 laid them cross-wise on the ground. Casanova 
 chose one pistol; Branicki took the other, remark- 
 ing as he did so, "That is an excellent weapon you 
 have there." "I am going to test it on your head," 
 SOT 
 
HISTORIC DEEDS OF DANGER AND DARING 
 
 said Casanova coolly; and probably this piece of 
 braggardism saved his life. Branicki was a first- 
 rate marksman; but Casanova's answer shook his 
 nerve. In order to protect his head, he took up a 
 position of constraint, which made his aim unsteady. 
 The two were stationed at a distance of ten paces; 
 the word was given, and the two shots were fired at 
 the same instant. Branicki's bullet shattered the 
 left hand of Casanova. Casanova's shot Branicki 
 through the body. 
 
 Casanova hurried to his fallen foe, and raised his 
 head with his wounded arm. As he did so, the 
 count's attendants drew their swords in fury, and 
 would have cut him down. But Branicki was an 
 opponent worthy of the days of chivalry. He 
 ordered the assailants to stand back and to respect 
 the laws of honor. For himself, he believed that 
 he was dying. "You have killed me," he said to 
 Casanova. "The king will never pardon you. Look 
 to your own safety. Take my purse, and my ribbon 
 of the Aigle Blanc as a safeguard, and fly from 
 Poland for your life." Casanova refused the gen- 
 erous offer; but from that instant the antagonists 
 were friends. Branicki was carried to a neighbor- 
 ing inn, where, after a long hovering between life 
 and death, he recovered slowly. Casanova stole 
 back into the city, and took refuge in a convent 
 till his wounds were healed, which was not until he 
 had been forced to quarrel with his doctors to pre- 
 vent their cutting off his hand. 
 
 The king, at Branicki's entreaty, forbore to seize 
 and hang him. But his career was over. He left 
 the cit}^ as he had left so many others, and once 
 more rambled up and down the earth. At length 
 he roved to Spain and to Madrid. 
 
 With this romantic episode the curtain falls for a 
 long interval upon that drama of a thousand scenes, 
 308 
 
CASANOVA 
 
 the life of Casanova. It is to rise once more for 
 the f,nale; but more than twenty years have first 
 to pass — 3^ears of the events of whicli we have no 
 record. The freaks, the follies, and the adventures 
 of that long term are wrapped from us in darkness, 
 till suddenly, upon a certain day in the year 1789, 
 the curtain of the night again flies back, and 
 Casanova is discovered to us among the guests of 
 the ambassador of Venice at Paris. Another of the 
 guests on that occasion was Count Walstein, with 
 whom he fell into a conversation toucl]ing the arts 
 of magic and the old "clavicula," or magic charm 
 of Solomon. Walstein, delighted with his new ac- 
 quaintance, offered on the spot to make him the 
 librarian of his castle in Bohemia. Casanova, old, 
 poor, and weary of adventures, grasped at the pro- 
 posal. The very next day, in the count's company, 
 he left for Castle Dux, near Toeplitz — the abode 
 in which he was to spend, in peace and quietness, 
 the fourteen years of life which yet remained to 
 him. 
 
 A librarian is not every day made out of an 
 adventurer. But Casanova's character was strangely 
 mingled. He was, as the parrot summed him up, a 
 rascal; he was a mixture of Gil Bias, Cagliostro, 
 and the Wandering Jew; but he was also a scholar, 
 a poet, and a wit. To the count he was in every 
 way an acquisition. He had looked with his own 
 eyes on every side of life; he was the prince of 
 talkers and companions; and the count, and the 
 gay guests who thronged the castle, were never 
 wanting for diversion, when Casanova told, across 
 the table or by the fireside, the many-colored tales 
 of his career. 
 
 309 
 
JOHN CHARLES FREMONT 
 
 JOHN CHARLES FREMONT holds a unique 
 position among the explorers of Western 
 America. Although he gained for himself the proud 
 title of the "Pathfinder of the Rocky Mountains," 
 his field of operations covered more than the terri- 
 tory indicated by this. He took the country west 
 of the Mississippi and explored it thoroughly to the 
 Pacific coast. He took a great territory, large 
 enough for several explorers to win renown upon, 
 and left little for any man to do who came after. 
 As it would be impossible to give, outside of any 
 extensive volume, anything like a history of this 
 life of many events, only a few stirring scenes are 
 given here, for the most part described in his own 
 words. They show the daring character of the 
 man and the dangers of the exploration period in 
 the "Great West." 
 
 Fremont was descended from an ancient and 
 distinguished French family, and was born in 
 Savannah, Ga., in 1813. By the time he was six- 
 teen he had been well grounded by his Scotch 
 tutor, Ferguson, in I^atin and Greek, Of the study 
 of the latter language he was especially fond, and 
 he tells in his fascinating memoirs with what de- 
 light he pored over the plays of the old Greek 
 dramatists, and hailed with enthusiasm every new 
 volume that came across the water to his instructor. 
 Fremont entered tlie junior class at Charleston 
 College. Here he distinguished himself by his bril- 
 liancy, disregard of college rules, and by falling 
 desperately in love, at the age of seventeen, with a 
 beautiful girl, whose father and mother came from 
 the West Indies. 
 
 310 
 
JOHN CHARLES FREMONT 
 
 After leaving college, Fremont found that it was 
 necessary for him to carve out a career for himself, 
 as an elder brother was already doing. A friend 
 of the family, Mr. Poinsett, Minister to Mexico, and 
 later Secretary of War, secured for the young man 
 a position as teacher on board the warship Natchez, 
 which was about to sail for South America. It 
 was the first taste of travel that, later, was to become 
 such a passion with him, and gave to the first half 
 of the nineteeneth century one of its most illustrious 
 names. While anchored off Rio Janeiro he, in con- 
 junction with a young midshipman named Hurst, 
 was able to save the lives of two young ofl&cers 
 who had agreed to fight a duel with pistols, the 
 combatants to fire at twelve paces. If the affair had 
 been carried out according to the plans of the prin- 
 cipals, it would probably have resulted in the death 
 of both, firing at such short range. Two officers 
 had fought but a short time before and one of 
 them killed. Fremont and Hurst were chosen as 
 seconds for the second duel, and they arranged to 
 charge the pistols with powder only. If the duelists 
 demanded bullets after the first fire, they decided 
 that there would be nothing to do but to let them 
 have their way, and to load the pistols in the cus- 
 tomary manner. 
 
 The party of four got away from the ship without 
 attracting particular notice, and found a sandy 
 beach well suited for the bloody work in hand. 
 The seconds made the necessary preparations with 
 due solemnity, placed their men, and gave them the 
 pistols. The seconds withdrew to one side and 
 called, "Fire." A cloud of smoke burst from the 
 muzzles of the heavy dueling pieces, but there was 
 no hiss of bullets in the air, no prostrate forms 
 upon the beach. The fighters were dumfounded, 
 for, according to their aim, each was sure that the 
 other must have a large hole bored through his 
 311 
 
HISTORIC DEEDS OF DANGER AND DARING 
 
 person, through which the traditional ray of "day- 
 light" should be at that moment shining. 
 
 The seconds came forward and declared the 
 affair off, as each had failed to make a hit at the 
 first fire, and they also said that the cause of the 
 quarrel was not serious enough to warrant a second 
 encounter. After some protests, they carried the 
 duelists off to the ship. Probably, if the ruse had 
 been discovered, both Fremont and Hurst would 
 have been challenged by the men for whom they 
 had acted as seconds; but both felt it was worth 
 the risk. 
 
 After his return from the cruise, he received an 
 appointment as an assistant engineer in the United 
 States Topographical Corps, and it was during his 
 first year's work with this organization that he 
 found out what was really to be his life's work. 
 
 "I gladly accepted the chance that fell to me," 
 he says in his autobiography, "and spent a summer 
 in congenial work among the mountains of South 
 Carolina and Tennessee. There were several par- 
 ties, each under an able engineer. That to which I 
 belonged was under the direction of Lieutenant 
 White, a graduate of West Point, who knew well 
 how to make our work agreeable. We were en- 
 gaged in running experimental lines, and the plot- 
 ting of the field notes sometimes kept us up until 
 midnight. Our quarters were sometimes at a vil- 
 lage inn, and more frequently at some farmer's 
 house, where milk and honey and many good things 
 were welcome to an appetite sharpened by all-day 
 labor on foot and a tramp of several miles back- 
 ward and forward, morning and evening. It was 
 cheery, wholesome work. The summer weather in 
 the mountains was fine, and the cool water abun- 
 dant, and the streams lined with azaleas. As often 
 is with flowers of that color, the white azaleas were 
 fragrant. The survey was a kind of picnic, with 
 313 
 
JOHN CHARLES FREMONT 
 
 work enough to give it zest, and we were all sorry 
 when it was over. The survey being suspended, I 
 returned home, and only casually, if ever, met 
 again the men with whom I had been associated. 
 General Morrell, with whom many j'ears after I 
 lived as a neighbor on the Hudson, was the only 
 one I remember to have met. 
 
 "It had been the policy of President Jefferson, 
 suggested by his acquisition of the Louisiana Ter- 
 ritory, to remove all the Indian tribes from the 
 Eastern States to the west of the Mississippi. This 
 policy was adopted and carried forward by Mr. 
 Monroe, and completed under President Jackson. 
 The last to be removed were the Cherokees, who 
 inhabited a district where the States of North 
 Carolina, Tennessee and Georgia cornered together. 
 This territory was principally in Georgia, and con- 
 sisted in greater part of a body of land ceded to 
 the Cherokees by Georgia in 1783. 
 
 "For the good of the bordering States, and for 
 the welfare of the Indians as well, this was a wise 
 and humane measure. But the Cherokees were 
 averse to the change. They were unwilling to leave 
 their homes, where they had been domiciled for 
 half a century. 
 
 "The country was mountainous and the face of 
 it not accurately known. Looking to the contin- 
 gency of hostilities already threatening with the 
 Indians, Captain Williams was ordered to make a 
 military reconnaissance of the territory they occu- 
 pied. I went with him as one of his assistants. 
 
 "The accident of this employment curiously began 
 a period of years of like work for me among similar 
 scenes. Here I found the path which I was 'destined 
 to walk.' Through many of the years to come, the 
 occupation of my prime of life was to be among 
 Indians and in waste places. Other events which 
 intervened were incidents in this and grew out of 
 313 
 
HISTORIC DEEDS OF DANGER AND DARING 
 
 it. There were to be no more years wasted in 
 tentative efforts to find a way for myself. The work 
 was laid out, and it began here with a remarkable 
 continuity of purpose." 
 
 Hardly was the Cherokee Survey over, when he 
 was appointed, by President Van Buren, a second 
 lieutenant in Topographical Corps at Washington. 
 At about the same time the Secretary of War had 
 invited Mr. Nicollet, a famous French scientist and 
 explorer, to come to Washington and make arrange- 
 ments for exploring the region between the Missis- 
 sippi and Missouri Rivers. Fremont was ordered 
 west as Mr. Nicollet's assistant, and joined him at 
 St. Louis. With the aid of the officers of the Fur 
 Company and of the old French residents of the 
 city, who took great interest in the expedition that 
 was to be led by their distinguished countryman, 
 they were soon fitted out with all necessary supplies. 
 They were given an escort of trained Indian fight- 
 ers and frontiersmen, mostly Canadians, who knew 
 well the country, that was to be first traversed by 
 the explorers. 
 
 This expedition was the first of many that was 
 to give Fremont his well-earned title of the "Path- 
 finder." The party went west by canoe and trail, 
 until it reached tlie famous "Red Pipe Stone Quarry." 
 Here they had planned to turn at right angles 
 to their western line of march, and go northward. 
 The country over which they were now making their 
 way had been from time immemorial a battle- 
 ground for contending tribes. Every year it had 
 been crossed by war-bands of Foxes, Sacs and 
 Sioux. The explorers had not been long on their 
 way before they discovered that they were being 
 followed by a party of redskins, who kept just 
 within sight, but showed no disposition to close up 
 with them during the day. Every night outposts 
 were established by Fremont, to guard against a 
 314 
 
JOHN CHARLES FREMONT 
 
 surprise and to prevent the possibility of their 
 horses being stampeded from the camp, a favorite 
 manoeuvre vv'ith the red warriors. Strict orders 
 were given that no one should get beyond the sight 
 of the main party. After they had racked their 
 nerves for some days with false alarms, the pursuing 
 party came up, and proved to be a band of friendly 
 Sioux, who, fearing that the explorers might be in 
 their country with hostile intent, had been carefully 
 watching them. The whites and Indians camped 
 together at the quarry for several days, and Fre- 
 mont and the rest of his party carved their names 
 on a high pillar of rock that jutted above the 
 quarry-bed, and there they may be read to-day as 
 clearly as at the time when they were first chiseled. 
 According to the legends firmly believed in by the 
 Sioux, the quarry was guarded by a spirit that 
 always sent a thunder-storm whenever a party 
 appeared at the place. It is interesting to note 
 that hardly had the camp been pitched, when every 
 one was drenched and the pipe-stone walls echoed 
 with peals of thunder. 
 
 Once Fremont went on a hunting expedition, 
 accompanied by the whole village of Red Dog, an 
 Indian chief. The motley party, men, women, chil- 
 dren and wild dogs, trooped southward for several 
 days to the hunting grounds, giving Fremont a 
 good opportunity to study Indian ways and prairie- 
 craft, that were to stand him in good stead in his 
 own expeditions in later years. Once, three of the 
 party were on a separate hunt after big game. 
 Wearied by their long ride they camped in the 
 deep grass of the prairie, under the open sky. 
 Shortly after midnight they were awakened by a 
 loud crackling. All jumped to their feet, and were 
 startled to find that their camping ground was en- 
 circled by a sheet of flame that was bearing down 
 on them with frightful speed. They got their 
 315 
 
HISTORIC DEEDS OF DANGER AND DARING 
 
 horses and dogs tethered together, and then, from 
 their own narrow space, sent out a prairie fire of 
 their own. As soon as their own fire had burned 
 over suflBcient space, they led their horses and dogs 
 on to the blackened ground, and the larger fire 
 swept up to and around the hunters, leaving them 
 unharmed. 
 
 Fremont made a second trip with Nicollet, and, 
 after this had been brought to a successful con- 
 clusion, returned to Washington, where the results 
 of the work was to be tabulated. He was" soon 
 making plans for an expedition of his own, for 
 which he secured the sanction of the United States 
 Government. The design was to make a thorough 
 exploration of the Rocky Mountains, then prac- 
 tically unknown to the American people. It was 
 the land of mystery, the terra incognita, to be 
 spoken of in dread as t' e abode of relentless 
 savages, and fearful beasts that had yet found 
 no place in the pages of the natural histories of 
 the day. He started in 184:3, and explored the 
 South Pass, through which tens of thousands were 
 to find their way to California. He designated the 
 points at which the United States forts were after- 
 ward built, and made an exhaustive study of the 
 botany, geology and meteorology of the region. 
 Ivater, he explored the Salt Lake region, discovered 
 the great basin of the Sierra Nevada, and "deter- 
 mined the geographical position of the west portion 
 of the North American continent." 
 
 On his third expedition he was nearly killed by 
 the discharge of one of his own firearms. He was 
 on his way to the Utah Pass, and the march had 
 been a constant delight to the hunters of the party. 
 Elk, buffalo, and deer were seen frequently. Fre- 
 mont rode off one day by himself, in order to get 
 the superb views from one of the nearby mountains. 
 He came suddenly upon a small herd of buffalo, 
 316 
 
JOHN CHARLES FREMONT 
 
 and putting spurs to his horse, he at once gave 
 chase. After a brisk and exciting race over broken 
 ground, he drew up beside one of the. largest ani- 
 mals in the herd and drew his pistol from the 
 holster to bring the creature down. Suddenly, 
 before he could aim, the piece went oflF with a 
 crash, and the ball sang by Fremont's ear. The 
 pistol was of the old, heavy, hair-trigger type. "It 
 is in this way," he wrote later, "that men have , 
 been sometimes lost in the mountains and never 
 found. They lie like the trunk of a fallen tree, 
 worn by the snow and rain, until the tall, rank 
 grass covers and hides them. My trail would not 
 have been taken in time, and it would have been 
 by the merest chance that any hunter would have 
 passed the spot." 
 
 One of the men on whom Fremont depended in 
 his expeditions was Kit Carson, the famous scout. 
 Both were in innumerable conflicts with Indians. 
 When one reads the story of their lives, it seems 
 almost incredible that they could encounter the 
 perils they did — ambush and open battle — and es- 
 cape to tell the tale. One scene from Fremont's 
 own pen will well illustrate the Indian attacks to 
 which they were constantly exposed. 
 
 They were on the third expedition, and were in 
 the Mariposa River country. 
 
 "Continuing along we came upon broad and 
 deeply worn trails which had been freshly traveled 
 by large bands of horses, apparently coming from 
 the San Joaquin valley, but we had heard enough to 
 know that they came from the settlements on the i 
 coast. These, and indications from horse bones, 
 dragged about by wild animals, wolves or bears, 
 warned us that we were approaching villages of ' 
 horse-thief Indians, a party of whom had just 
 returned from a successful raid. Immediately upon 
 striking their trail, I sent forward four of my best 
 31T 
 
HISTORIC DEEDS OF DANGER AND DARING 
 
 men, Dick Owens and Maxwell and two Delawares. 
 I followed after with the rest of the party, but 
 soon the Indian signs became so thick, trail after 
 trail coming into that on which we were traveling, 
 that I saw we were getting into a stronghold of th( 
 horse thieves, and we rode rapidly forward. Afte. 
 a few miles of sharp riding, a small stream running 
 over a slaty bed, with clumps of oaks around, 
 tempted me into making an early halt. Good grass 
 was abundant, and this spot not long since had 
 been the camping ground of a village, and was evi- 
 dently one of their favorite places, as the ground 
 was whitened with the bones of many horses. We 
 had barely thrown off our saddles, and not yet 
 turned the horses loose, when the intermittent re- 
 port of rifles, in the way one does not mistake, and 
 the barking of many dogs and sounds of shouting 
 faintly reaching us, made us quickly saddle up 
 again and ride to the sounds at speed. Four men 
 were left to guard the camp. In a short half mile 
 we found ourselves suddenly in front of a large 
 Indian village, not two hundreds yards away. More 
 than two hundred Indians were advancing on each 
 side of a small hill, on the top of which were our 
 men, where a clump of oaks and rocks amidst 
 bushes made a good defence. My men had been 
 discovered by the Indians, and suddenly found 
 themselves in the midst of them, but jumped from 
 their horses and took to their rocks, which hap- 
 pened to be a strong place to fight from. The 
 Indians were shouting at them in Spanish, and the 
 women and children at the village howling at their 
 best. Our men were only endeavoring to stand 
 them off until we should get up, as they knew we 
 would not be far behind. The Indians had nearly 
 surrounded the knoll, and were about getting pos- 
 session of the horses when we came into view. Our 
 shout, as we charged up the hi! J was answered by 
 318 
 
JOHN CHARLES FREMONT 
 
 the yell of the Delawares as they dashed down the 
 hill to recover their animals, and the reports of 
 Owens' and Maxwell's rifles. Owens had signaled 
 out the foremost Indian, who did not go any 
 further up the hill, and the others drew a little 
 back toward the village. Anxious for the safety 
 of the men left behind, I profited by the surprise 
 to withdraw towards our camp, checking the In- 
 dians by an occasional rifle shot, with the range of 
 which they seemed to think they were acquainted. 
 They followed us to the camp and scattered among 
 the rocks and trees, whence they harangued us, 
 bestowing on us liberally all the epithets they could, 
 telling us what they would do with us. Many of 
 them had been Mission Indians, and spoke Spanish 
 well. 'Wait,' they said, 'Esperato Carrajos (wait 
 until morning). There are two big villages up in 
 the mountains close by, we have sent for the chief, 
 he will come down before morning with all the 
 people, and you will die. None of you shall go 
 back, and we will have all your horses.' 
 
 "I divided the camp into two watches, putting 
 myself into the last one. As soon as it was fully 
 dark, each man of the guard crept to his post. We 
 heard the women and children retreating toward the 
 mountains. Before midnight the Indians had gen- 
 erally withdrawn, only now and then a shout to 
 show us that they were on hand and attending to 
 us. Otherwise nothing occurred to break the still- 
 ness of the night, but a shot from one of the 
 Delawares, fired at a wolf as it jumped over a log. 
 In our experienced camp no one moved, but Dela- 
 ware Charley crept up to me to let me know what 
 had caused the shot of the Delaware, who, with 
 hostile Indians around, instinctively fired at a 
 moving thing that might have been an Indian 
 crawling toward our horses. 
 
 "We were only sixteen men. Keeping in the oak 
 31& 
 
HISTORIC DEEDS OF DANGER AND DARING 
 
 belt on the course I was pursuing would bring us 
 further among these villages, and I would have 
 surely lost the cattle, and perhaps some men and 
 horses from attacks from these Indians. In the 
 morning, therefore, I turned down one of these 
 streams and quickly gained the open country of the 
 lower hills. We had gained but a little distance 
 on this course, when an Indian was discovered 
 riding at speed toward the plain where the upper 
 San Joaquin reached the valley. Maxwell was 
 ahead, and not far from the Indian when he came 
 into sight, and knowing at once that his object was 
 to bring Indians from the river to intercept us, 
 rode to him. The Indian was well mounted, but 
 Maxwell better. With Godey and two of the Dela- 
 wares I followed. It was open ground, over rolling 
 hills, and we were all in sight of one another; but 
 before we could reach them, a duel was taking 
 place between Maxwell and the Indian, both on 
 foot, Maxwell with pistols, and the Indian with 
 arrows. They were only ten or twelve paces apart. 
 I saw the Indian fall as we rode up. I would 
 have taken him prisoner and saved his life, but it 
 was too late." 
 
 Fremont took an active part in bringing Cali- 
 fornia under American control. He cleared th 
 Mexican troops out of the northern end of tha 
 district. In 184-6 he was made a lieutenant-coloneJ 
 and governor of California, and it was he who 
 finally received from Mexico the surrender of their 
 claims on that territory. The next year he pur- 
 chased a valuable estate in California, and settled 
 there in 1949. In 1853 he made his fifth grea 
 expedition, enduring such hardships that he anr 
 his party nearly perished. In 1856 he was a candi 
 date for the Presidency of the United States, anc 
 durmg the first part of the Civil War a major 
 general. He died in New York City in 1890. 
 
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