Deeds of Daring Done by Girls

by N. Hudson Moore

VI

With each succeeding year there were more and more settlers coming to the flowery land of Louisiana. If they had flocked thither in the time of the Regent, that clever and witty intriguer, they came more eagerly during the reign of Louis XV, so shallow a king that it is hard to conceive how he won the name of “The Well-beloved.”

It was a strange company which made up the population of the Crescent City, not only those from Paris with their elegances and velvet coats, beneath which beat such loyal hearts, but rubbing shoulders with them in street and café were many of far rougher exterior, who had come down from the settlements in Canada, and learned to adore the little city which was so different from the homes which they had left in the cold North.

Yet each and every one of these, marquis from France or pioneer from Canada, or even the sad-faced Acadian refugee who had been welcomed to these hospitable shores, had a heart which beat for France alone.

With but the least assistance they would have swept the Gulf and made themselves masters of that inland sea, and not only held the possessions of the mother country on land, but added to them.

Frenchmen in language and in their hearts, they put up with the expulsion of their beloved Ursuline sisters, since the mother country so willed it, only allowing themselves the liberty of giving vent to their feelings by indulging in an unlimited number of satirical songs, burlesques, and pasquinades, as they were called. Little did they know, as they trod the white streets of the city, the deadly blow to those same stout hearts which France was plotting,—France, whom they loved so fondly and in whom they trusted so implicitly.

Completely dominated by his prime minister, Choiseul, Louis XV followed where this ugly, brilliant, inconstant man led, and trafficked first with Austria and then with Spain, till in 1761 Choiseul put in shape his famous “Pacte de Famille,” which united all the royalties of Bourbon blood and which formed into one great band the thrones of France, Spain, Turin, Naples, and Sicily.

Although Choiseul had the audacity to frame this agreement, and Louis XV had the folly to sign it, they did not have the courage to proclaim it, and so it remained a secret for several years.

It was not till October, 1764, that the news arrived at New Orleans that Louisiana had, by secret treaty, been ceded to Spain, and instructions were sent to Monsieur D’Abadie, the Governor, to hand over to the envoy of Spain, who would shortly arrive, the whole colony and its possessions.

The blow was stunning!

At first it could not be credited. To be tossed like a plaything from France to Spain, that cowardly Spain who had never assisted them in any way, who had not even fought to get them, whom they had outwitted and overmatched in every contest,—this was too much!

Not many hours elapsed before the city was in a ferment. Groups gathered on the street corners and loudly denounced the proceedings. The wine-shops held excited bands who declaimed in passionate language against both king and country that could treat a colony in such fashion, and the chorus which rose and swelled protested that it could not be borne.

Swift pirogues carried the news among the plantations which lay along the Bayous, while men on horseback went to those in the interior.

Meetings were called in the parishes first, and then a convention was planned in New Orleans itself, to which every parish in the State was to send delegates. The subject was to be discussed, and then the King was to be informed of this cruel, this awful thing that he was doing, and he was to be petitioned to listen to the voice which echoed his own tongue, and which under every trial had spoken but loyal words of him.

Every parish sent its most notable men, and of these Monsieur Valvier, Annette’s father, was one. The meeting at New Orleans was a gathering of all that was wise and distinguished throughout the whole State, and it was unanimously decided to send to France a delegation of three men, to bear to the King himself their petition.

These three men left for France on the first vessel which sailed, and one can imagine the passionate nature of the appeal which they carried with them, in which the whole colony besought the King to let them die as they had lived,—Frenchmen to their hearts’ core.

Think of the feeling of relief which swelled every heart as the crowds gathered to see the envoys depart bearing the message to France and to their King!

Not one doubted but that the eloquence of Jean Milhet, who headed it, would win back their loved State from the hated Spaniard, and that he would speedily return with the joyful news, and that once more it would be French land for French men.

To the doors of France are laid many acts of cruelty and oppression, but there is no sadder story than the grief and humiliation to which this little delegation was subjected. For one whole year they waited, were put off from day to day with first one excuse and then another, and at last, sick and heart-broken, sailed back to New Orleans without ever having seen the King nor presented their petition!

Even though their chief envoy did not return, and there was no news of the success of their petition, the people of Louisiana seemed to have no doubt as to its success. Judge then of the fever of excitement into which they were thrown when a letter arrived in July, 1766, saying that Don Antonio de Ulloa, the Spanish envoy, was on his way to take possession.

What should be done?

Whither should they turn? New meetings were called, the militia was strengthened as much as possible; but month after month passed away and Don Antonio did not arrive, so that the people quieted down and hope bubbled up afresh.

One morning in February, 1767, when the Commandant awoke, he found anchored below the Belize, that old fortress at the mouth of the river, a large frigate flying the Spanish colours. On board was Don Antonio with his personal suite, two companies of Spanish infantry, and some Capuchin monks.

In March, in a frightful storm of wind and rain, they landed on the levee in New Orleans, and were met by a sullen crowd of citizens and by a mass of unwilling French troops.

The Spanish envoy, haughty, severe in aspect, and a martinet in demanding that deferential ceremonial etiquette which was so firmly engrafted into Spanish nature, either could not or would not understand the feelings which prompted the ardent Louisianians to cling to their nationality. He expected the people to change at his coming their flag and their allegiance, the soldiers their service, and all to hasten to assume the Spanish yoke. He could not understand their refusal to do so, and when the Superior Council of the city requested him to show his credentials, he abruptly refused, although he agreed to defer taking possession till more Spanish soldiers were sent to him.

This was at least the form to which he agreed; but he proceeded to get control as far as possible, visiting in turn all the military posts, and replacing the French flag and the French commanders with Spanish ones.

Over New Orleans alone did the French flag still wave.

It may be easily understood that such high-handed deeds were not accomplished without protest on the part of the people of Louisiana. Curtailed of their possessions on every side, for by the “Treaty of Paris” much had been ceded to the English, they proposed to make as stubborn a resistance as possible.

In the remote parishes the feeling flamed almost higher than at New Orleans itself, since the sight of the detested Spanish flag was an ever-present insult.

During the year which had passed since the deputation had been sent to Paris bearing the memorial to the King, Monsieur Valvier had wasted neither time nor effort to arouse those with whom he came in contact, and keep them rigorously opposed to Spanish rule.

There were stormy meetings in the parish to which he belonged, in which he was always an impassioned leader. There were secret meetings at his and the neighbouring plantations. He became gloomy, a man with but one thought in his head,—the disgrace of belonging to Spain.

It was small wonder that with its head so distraught the plantation fell into neglect. The crops of indigo and tobacco failed, since the master’s eye no longer kept watch on careless servants.

Madame Valvier’s ill-health increased as the winter season approached, and on little Annette fell more and more the care of the family and home. Scant crops made scant money, and it was only by unceasing care that Annette kept the active little brothers clothed and fed, and saw that the languid mother had her fresh fruit and café au lait, and that her favourite gowns of delicate white were kept mended and ever fresh.

Nor were these all her duties.

At evening, when her father returned depressed and miserable from a never-ending discussion with neighbouring planters as to the ignominy of their lot, it was Annette who met and tried to cheer him. She had ever something ready for him, were it only a bowl of fresh figs; and the earnest child at last became the confidant of the despairing man.

One memorable evening he returned later than usual, and to Annette’s surprise and pleasure his eyes were bright and shining, and he carried his head proudly and with confidence. Tenderly embracing Annette, he cried,—

“At last, at last have I prevailed on these neighbours who hate and yet fear the Spanish. All is ready, and to-morrow we at least will show Don Ulloa that there are loyal Frenchmen enough in Louisiana to refuse to live under the Spanish flag and his detestable rule.”

“But, father, what is it you would do?”

“Lean closer, my child, for none here must learn of this till everything is ready and we leave for the city.”

“Does mother know, dear father?”

“No, Annette, I dare not tell her; her constant illness makes her timorous.”

The young girl pressed closer to his knee, her large, serious eyes fixed on his face. So wrapped was the man in his own thoughts that he knew not the heavy burden he was laying on the already overcrowded young shoulders.

To her the father unfolded his plans.

“Well you know the cruel blow that has been dealt to us from France, and how the Spaniard Don Antonio has sought to make Spaniards of us all,—true-born Frenchmen that we are; how he has hoisted the Spanish flag, and manned all our forts with Spanish soldiers. To-morrow evening there will start from this plantation Monsieur Biron, myself, and all the owners of the plantations in this parish, with such of their men as they can arm, and by boat we will go down the Bayou, stopping at each plantation as we go, and gathering men together till we reach New Orleans.”

“Oh, father!” interrupted Annette, breathlessly, “will you take an army into the city?”

“So I hope; and these, with the loyal French Guard and the citizens, will enable us to sweep onwards, and Don Antonio will find what manner of men he has to deal with, and we will not rest till he is safely confined within the walls of the Belize.”

In the excitement of his story Monsieur Valvier’s voice rose till there came from the room beyond, where Madame Valvier lay, the sleepy question as to why they talked so late.

Putting his finger to his lip to warn Annette, he replied,—

“I but tell a tale to Annette, who will go now to bed.” Kissing her fondly good night, he whispered in her ear,—

“Remember to tell not a word, Annette, and lest I do not see you alone again, I say farewell, till we put the hated Spaniard where he will do no further harm.”

Although Annette crept to bed, her eyes for a long time stared into the darkness. She feared, not for the success of her father’s mission, but lest in some way he be hurt. She saw, as he described it, Don Ulloa safely confined in the dreaded Belize, and she rejoiced in her childish heart over the grand part her father was to take in keeping Louisiana for the French.

When the next night came, she peeped cautiously out from between the casements, and saw dark figures take their places in the pirogues drawn up at the landing and silently paddle down the Bayou.

She saw her father in the leading boat, and with him were several of their own men, and in the flaring light of the single torch she saw the gleaming of the guns.

In a silent adieu she waved her hand, even though she knew that her father could not see her, and confiding on his belief and assurance of success, she fell into a deep and dreamless sleep, and over the whole plantation rested an absolute quiet.

But her father—Ah, the sadness of that night trip!

The few men who had started with him from the plantation in the hope that they would be joined by many more of wealth and power were cruelly disabused of their beliefs. There was but a handful more; but in the small group was the spirit of an army, and it was hoped that Don Ulloa could be surprised just before dawn, and with the first successful blow many would hasten to join the victorious party.

It was the old story of a forlorn hope.

In some way Don Ulloa had been apprised of the uprising, and the party had barely set foot on the levee at New Orleans before they were surrounded and taken prisoners by a strong party of Spanish soldiers.

Monsieur Valvier, as the leader, was not detained in the city, but sent up the Bayou to Fort St. John, a desolate spot on the shores of Lake Pontchartrain, at the head of Bayou St. John.

During the first two days of his imprisonment Monsieur Valvier was stunned. He seemed incapable of realising the misfortune which had befallen not himself alone, but the little family at home. Too late he saw that the lukewarm policy of the others whom he had tried to induce to join him was not all selfish, and as happens so often to the enthusiast, he saw too late the folly of his actions.

It was the stinging thought of these helpless sufferers at home which at last aroused him, and spurred him on to see if their welfare could not be in some way assured. The intendant in charge of the fort was hard and cold, but, as Monsieur Valvier soon learned, was not averse to accepting a ransom.

Indeed, he informed Monsieur Valvier of this fact himself, and allowed him to send a letter home telling of his personal safety, and that his liberty could be bought. Till this letter arrived the plantation on the Bayou Gentilly had been a sad place.

When, as one day after another passed and Monsieur Valvier did not return, Annette, not knowing what to do, told her mother of the uprising, and Madame Valvier, with health already undermined, became so seriously ill that poor Annette knew not which way to turn.

One or two of the slaves had strayed home, and from them Annette had learned that at least her father was alive, and at last came the letter which told that he could be ransomed if a sufficient sum of money could be raised. The letter ended,—

“Alas, dear child, I know too well that there is naught left which may be turned into money to procure my freedom. I see too late that I have been led away from my duties to my little ones and their mother. God grant that they may be kept in safety; as for me my heart is breaking!”

Madame Valvier was too ill to give Annette any counsel. All day long the child kept saying to herself,—

“My father must be ransomed, but how? Where shall I get the gold? Oh, mamma, if you could but help me!”

At last, passing through the children’s room while waiting on her mother, Annette’s eyes fell upon the boards which concealed the leaden-lined box containing the papers and necklace.

“The pearl necklace,” she cried softly to herself, “why have I not thought of it before?” Removing the cover, she felt hurriedly within the enclosure to assure herself that it was safe.

The rest of that day, as she went about her duties, her one thought was of the way to get it to her father, and at last she decided that she must go with it herself. There was no one whom she could trust with this price of her father’s freedom, and her heart was full of the thought of saving him, so that there was no room for fear.

She determined to start that night, and, used from infancy to the management of a boat, she did not hesitate as to the means of travelling.

But her mother—how to leave her?

She called the woman from the kitchen, an old slave but a faithful one, and bade her sleep within the next room, so that if Madame called she should hear her.

“For,” said Annette, “see, Tignon, I must go on a message for my father. When my mother wakens, tell her that I shall soon return,—remember, Tignon, soon return.”

As soon as it was dark, Annette took from its hiding-place the necklace, and as the cool, milky globes slipped through her fingers, she kissed them, saying,—

“Dear father, to think that these may save thy life. I remember my mother said that they were never to be parted with save ‘for life or honour.’ Perhaps this time it may be both, but I cannot tell.”

For a moment she was at a loss how to carry them, and then putting them about her neck she snapped the clasp securely and drew over them the waist of her gown, which was fashioned to come high in the neck.

“’Tis the easiest and the simplest way, and certainly none would think that such a thing lay beneath my calico frock.”

She kissed the little brothers and sister, and bade Pierre take good care of them till she should return, whispering in his ear,—

“I go for father, but tell of this to no one till I return.”

And Pierre, with his wide-staring eyes fixed on her face, could only say,—

“I will promise.”

At the landing Annette chose the smallest and lightest pirogue, and, with the caution one would have expected from an older and wiser head, put in the bottom an extra paddle and a small basket of food. She pushed off the little dug-out, and turning its head down stream looked back with confidence, saying in her brave young heart,—

“Shortly I shall return, and with my father.”

All night the child floated and paddled down the silent and lonely Bayou, often terrified by the strange night sounds which came from the swamps, and occasionally cheered by the light glimmering in the window of some of the planters’ homes on the shore. When she was most alarmed, she would reassure her little trembling heart by putting her hand on the breast of her frock, beneath which lay the necklace, and by whispering to herself the beloved name of “father.”

The rising sun saw her heading her boat into the small channel which led into Bayou St. John, and it was late afternoon when the weary Annette saw frowning before her the rough palisades which enclosed Fort St. John.

The soldier on duty could scarcely believe his eyes when the little pirogue came alongside the quay, and was still more astonished when with trembling voice Annette said,—

“Sir, may I please see the Governor?”

“The Governor! why, what should the Governor do here? Who are you, and what would you with the Governor?”

“I have business with the Governor, sir.”

At this reply the man laughed long and loud, and poor Annette was ready to weep with disappointment and fatigue. Then remembering that at any rate her father was within those walls, she plucked up courage and began again.

“If Monsieur the Governor is not here, is there any great general here?” The soldier laughed again, and said below his breath,—

“Great general—no; but the great Sir Intendant is here, if you can do your business with him”; and there was another burst of laughter as the burly man looked at the slender form standing before him.

“Take me to him, please,” said she, and she gave one touch to the frock below which lay the precious heirloom as the soldier turned to lead the way within the enclosure.

“Ho, Roget!” he called, “this lady comes on business with Monsieur the Intendant”; and poor frightened Annette was passed along mid the rude jests of the soldiers, till she reached an ante-room to which was attached the small office of the Intendant. At last a voice said,—

“You may enter”; and Annette, who between fright and fatigue was ready to weep, found herself standing before a man with flashing eyes and a brilliant scarlet and gold uniform, who was looking at her with unconcealed interest.

“Well, child, what would you with me?” and Annette, raising her head, bravely answered,—

“I come to ransom my father, Monsieur Valvier.”

The Intendant frowned; and surely the pale child before him, in a simple calico gown, with empty hands and eyes full of unshed tears, hardly seemed able to ransom a bird, much less a political prisoner.

The Intendant’s voice was harsh and cold as he said,—

“Ransom means gold, child,—gold, or lands.”

“Alas, Monsieur, I have neither,” said the trembling little girl, “but I thought perhaps—” And she drew from its place of concealment the splendid necklace.

The Intendant could scarcely conceal a start.

“How came you by this?” he asked, letting the rich strings glide through his fingers.

“’Twas the marriage portion of my grandmother in France, then of my mother also, and was to be mine. I will give it to you for my father, Monsieur Valvier.”

The sight of the jewels recalled to the Intendant scenes in his native Spain, where the Spanish grandees loved to ruffle it in laces and jewels of the choicest description, and where the dusky Spanish beauties often chose pearls, since these milky gems but served to throw out the fire of their eyes and the rich tones of their olive skins. As he mused, passing the pearls between his fingers, poor Annette was torn with anxiety lest the necklace should fall short of the ransom desired.

“Oh, Monsieur, is it not enough?” she cried, one trembling hand holding the other; “we have naught else, my mother is ill,—I came alone”; and the tears so bravely held back now fell in showers.

The Intendant had no idea of giving up the necklace, yet was not wholly cruel; so, striking on a bell, he called to the orderly who answered it,—

“Bring Valvier hither.”

The sound of the words caused Annette to wipe her eyes, and in a moment, with a little scream of joy, she rushed into the arms of her father, whose wonder at her presence froze the words on his lips.

“Monsieur Valvier,” said the Intendant, “you are free. The ransom provided by your daughter is sufficient. But you must give me your parole that you will never again bear arms against the Spanish flag, and that you will accept such regulations as Spain deems best for her colonies.”

“I give my parole,” answered Monsieur Valvier; “but, Annette, ransom—what had you, poor child?”

Annette’s face was wreathed in smiles as she whispered in his ear, “The pearl necklace, dearest father.”

Dicey Langston
1787

There was a pleasant mellow glow in the great low-ceiled kitchen, and the absolute quiet was unbroken save for an occasional crackling of the sticks which made a bright fire on the hearth. Yet, if the room was still, it was but because Dicey chose it so, and as she stood beside the huge wheel which a few moments before had been whirling merrily, she looked with thoughtful eyes at the fire.

Now, to tell the truth, Dicey did not like to be alone, nor was it usual for her to be silent. The every-day Dicey was singing if she was not talking, or spinning if she was not busy about the house, or flying here and there on errands for her father, or hunting up the brothers to do this or that,—to play or ride, or come to meals or something,—for Dicey was quite a little queen, as a girl with five big brothers has a right to be.

A father and five big brothers, but no mother, poor little girl! and she had grown to be sixteen years old, the pet of her brothers and the darling of her father’s heart, and, as you may guess, somewhat spoiled and self-willed. Yet I would not have you think for a moment that she was selfish, for she was not so; but she had grown to depend very much on herself, and to decide for herself many questions which other girls who had mothers to turn to would have left to them.

Dicey’s father was no longer a young man. Indeed, he was almost past middle life when, ten years before, he had left his home near Charleston, shattered in spirit by the death of his wife, and gone to the “Up Country,” as the northern part of the State of South Carolina was called, and started life anew. Dicey hardly remembered the old home at all. Her thoughts and her affections were all centred about the comfortable home in whose kitchen she now stood, and over whose comfort she reigned.

She stood for many minutes as we saw her first, quite motionless, and then, as the evening air brought to her ear a sound so slight that you or I might not have noticed it, she ran to the window and looked out.

The house stood in the centre of a clearing on the top of a gentle ridge, and flowing out on either hand were dales and hills still covered with the forests through which the hunters and cow-drivers had wandered years before. Through this country the Catawbas and the Cherokees roamed, and but a short distance from the little settlement of which Solomon Langston’s house was a part, lay that well-known Indian trail called the “Cherokee Path,” which led from the Cherokee country on the west to the lands of the Catawbas on the east.

On the flat lands below the hills stretched wide plains destitute of trees and rich in fine grass and gay with flowers. Here roamed the buffalo, elk, and deer. Here also were wild horses in many a herd, and it was from one of these wandering bands of horses that Dicey’s own little pony had been captured by brother Tom, before he married and went to live at “Elder Settlement” across the Tyger River, a deep and boisterous stream, between which and the Enoree lay the plantation where Dicey’s father had made his home.

All this time she has been standing at the window, looking out over a landscape which lay clear and white before her in the moonlight. The slight sound which had caught her ear was getting louder every moment, and at last two figures came into view, her father and one of her brothers, who had ridden early that morning to the settlement “Ninety-six” to hear the latest tidings about the War, and to gain some news regarding the revolutionary movement which hitherto had been largely confined to the southern portion of the State.

For Dicey it had been a long and weary day. Her father’s last words were: “Let no one know where we have ridden, Dicey, for in such days as these it is best to keep one’s own counsel, and you know, little daughter, that most of our neighbours belong to the King’s party.”

And Dicey had remembered, even though Eliza Gordon had come over that afternoon with her sewing, and the two girls had worked on their new kerchiefs, fagoting and stitching and edging them with some Mignonette lace which Eliza’s mother had brought from Charleston when last she went to town. Such silence was hard enough for Dicey, who was used to tell whatever thoughts came into her mind, particularly to Eliza, who was her very “dearest friend.”

When Mr. Langston had dismounted, and Dicey had taken one look into his face, she cried out,—

“Oh, father, is the news bad? I can see by your face it is none of the best. Is that cruel King over seas never going to stop his taxing? Shall I throw out the tea?”

“S’hush, Dicey, my girl. Remember what I told you this morning. There are none others about us who think as we do, and it behoves us to be careful both in what we say and do.”

As he spoke, he drew Dicey into the house, and Henry followed, the horses having been taken to the stables by one of the slaves, who, like Dicey, had heard the sound of the riders and come forward to meet them. Once within doors Dicey forgot for a moment her eagerness for news, and ran forward to stir up the fire which had fallen low while she mused, and to light the candle which hung from its iron bracket on the back of her father’s chair. She set the kettle on the arm of the crane to boil, and put close at her father’s elbow his long clay pipe and box of tobacco, then brought out a tray with glasses and a generous bowl, into which she put spices and lemon, together with sugar and a measure of wine which she poured from a jug which was fashioned in the form of a fat old man with a very red face and a blue coat.

Kneeling on the hearth, she watched to see the steam come from the kettle’s nose, and as it seemed o’er long to her impatient spirit, she cast another billet of wood upon the dancing flames.

“Come, come, little daughter,” her father said, “Henry and I have ridden far, and your impatience does but delay matters. In truth, I am so weary and chilled that I am thirsting for the spiced wine, which your treatment of the fire does but delay.”

Now Dicey seized the poker and hastily endeavoured to make up for her error in putting on the new log, the only effect of her efforts being to make Henry laugh and take the poker from her hand, while he said,—

“Keep the little patriot quiet, father, since, if a watched pot never boils, this one is like to stay ever simmering.”

Mr. Langston held Dicey’s hand, and all fixed their eyes on the kettle, and as the first slender trickle of steam came from its nose, Dicey caught it from the iron arm, and soon had two fragrant glasses of hot wine ready for the travellers.

“Now, father,” she said, as she seated herself at his knee,—“now, father, the news!”

“’Tis true, Dicey, that at Gowan’s Fort many of our people have been horribly murdered.”

“Oh, father, not by Indians,” cried the girl, who well knew what this would mean.

“By worse than Indians,” answered Mr. Langston,—“by white men painted as Indians, who were even more cruel than the savages, if that can be.”

Dicey sprang to her feet and turned to her brother.

“Do you know if ‘Bloody Bates’ had anything to do with this, Henry?”

“Yes, he was the leader, and it is said that he boasted that his next raid should be in the country of the Enoree, where he said ‘dwelt so many fat Whigs.’”

“Just let him come this way,” cried Dicey, “and he will find that the fat Whigs are ready for him.”

Even though the case was grave enough, Henry and his father could not forbear a smile at the thought of Dicey, little Dicey, setting up as a match for the cruel bully who had made himself such a terror to the country-side by his midnight maraudings and treacherous killings that he had come to bear the name of “Bloody Bates.”

But Dicey, even though she was a girl, had a secret, and, what was stranger yet, she kept it, but in her brave little heart she resolved that if it were possible she would make it serve her friends.

So the next day she went forth in the afternoon carrying her work with her. Henry, who saw her start, little dreaming of the plans in that curly head, called out in a loud, cheerful voice,—

“I wager I know what is in that bag, Dicey. A new frock for dolly, made in the latest mode. But, Dicey, see that it be not of red, since our enemies are far too partial to that colour to suit me.”

“No such foolishness as you think, brother! I am to finish my kerchief which Eliza and I have been sewing on these three or four days. Maybe it will be all done when I come home.”

Dicey hurried on, almost afraid that she would let out the secret if Henry talked much longer about dolls. Dolls, indeed! why, she hadn’t looked at one for years!

Eliza saw her coming and ran to meet her.

“Come within doors,” said Eliza, when their greetings were over, drawing Dicey with her. But this did not suit our little patriot’s plans at all, and holding back, she said,—

“Let’s go and sit in the tree-seat, Eliza. ’Tis so pleasant out of doors to-day, and then you know we can talk over things there.”

“Go you there and I will come when I get my reticule,” answered Eliza, who, like Dicey, was glad to escape from the keen eyes of mother and elder sister, neither of whom had much sympathy for over-long stitches or puckered work.

Dicey did as she was bid, and climbed into the tree-seat where for years the children had been used to play, and, now that they had grown older, to which retreat they took their sewing or a book, though these latter came to hand rarely enough, the Bible and some books of devotion being thought quite enough reading for young people in those days.

When both girls were comfortably seated and thimbles and needles were ready, Dicey fetched a great sigh.

“What is the matter with you, Dicey? Have you aught ailing you?”

“No,” said Dicey, “nothing very much. I was wondering if, when this horrible war was ended, you and I should ever go to some great city like Charleston or Fredericksburg, as did your sister Miriam. Think of it, Eliza, to go to some great town where there are many houses and carriages, and a play-house, and, best of all, balls!”

At this magic word Dicey tossed into the air the little kerchief, and, ere it fell, was on the ground holding the skirts of her calico frock, bowing and smiling to an imaginary partner, now toeing this way and that, as if she were going through the dance, though, to tell the truth, the little minx had never seen anything of the kind, but had got her information from Eliza’s sister Miriam. All of Miriam’s knowledge had been acquired in safer and happier days, when she had made a visit to Fredericksburg, and astonished the young girls on her return with marvellous tales of what she had seen and heard, and the gaieties she had taken part in. Dicey and Eliza had often practised in secret, and though their steps would not have passed muster in a drawing-room, they had furnished them with pleasure for many an hour.

“Oh, Dicey, come up again! If mother sees you, she would make us come right away into the house; you know that she thinks that such things as dancing but waste the time of young maids like you and me.”

Thus urged, Dicey with a sigh took up the sewing again, and sat once more beside Eliza in the tree. But her thoughts were flying all about, and Eliza spoke twice ere Dicey noticed what she said.

“When father comes home to-night, he brings with him Colonel Williams.”

The remark seemed simple enough, but a sudden light flooded Dicey’s mind.

“Coming home,” echoed she; “why, you told me a day or two since that he would not be home till after harvest.”

“Yes, but things have come about differently,” answered Eliza, with an important air. “My father has been in a great battle, and he is coming with Colonel Williams to stay for a day or two till Captain Bates gets here too.”

“Captain Bates! Do you mean ‘Bloody Bates’?” asked Dicey, pale with horror.

“My father says that is but a Whig name for him, and that he has done good service to the King in subduing pestilent Whigs,” answered Eliza, bridling, and secretly pleased at the easy way the long words tripped from her tongue.

“That awful, cruel man coming here!” and Dicey half looked round to see if the mere speaking of his name had not brought upon the scene one of the most cruel bandits who under the name of scout had wrought endless cruelties. In a moment the importance of the information had shot into her mind! If she could find out something more! Sure, whatever Eliza knew were easy enough to learn also.

“Comes he here to rest too, and at your house, Eliza?”

If Eliza had given a thought to the low voice and shaking hands of her friend, she might have paused ere she told news which was of the greatest importance to such Whig families as lived in the neighbourhood, and more particularly to those who dwelt in the “Elder Settlement” on the other side of the river, and were entirely unprotected. Among them was Dicey’s eldest brother with his young wife and little family.

“Comes he here to rest too?” and Eliza, proud of her information, and entirely forgetting that she had been told to impart it to no one, answered briskly,—

“No, but he stops here to meet some of the soldiers who go with him, and only think, ’tis at our house that they will paint themselves just like the Cherokees!” At the mere thought Eliza clapped her hands. “Think how comical they will look,” she went on, while every moment Dicey felt herself getting colder and colder with fear. “And sister Miriam has done naught but scurry about and turn things topsy-turvy. It’s Captain Bates this and Captain Bates that, till one feels ruffed all the wrong way. You know I told you that he was coming here one day, and you laughed and said he dare not!”

Yes, Dicey remembered. This was the secret she had withheld, thinking that, like enough, it was but some of Miriam’s boasting that this savage man should seek her at her home. It was true, however, and like to be soon. How was she, Dicey, to warn those who were so unprotected?

Thinking more deeply than ever she had thought before, Eliza babbled on, her silent companion taking no note of what she said.

“Well, Dicey, if you cannot listen to what I say, and not even answer me, I shall go into the house. Besides, my kerchief is all done, and mother told me to bring it to her when the stitches were all set. How does it become me?”

As she spoke, Eliza threw it about her round white throat, and tossed her head, the exact copy of sister Miriam.

But Dicey was too absorbed to notice her companion’s small frivolities. Her thoughts were solely on how to get word to her brother of the impending arrival of “Bloody Bates” in the neighbourhood. Fears for the safety of her own home were not wanting, since Henry, the only brother left at the old homestead, was but waiting the summons to go and join the command of Colonel Hugh Middleton.

As Dicey walked slowly home along the bridle path which served for a road in that sparsely settled region, her mind had not thought of any plan by which her message was to be sent to her brother and his friends. Yet over and over the words formed themselves in her brain, “They must be told, they must be told.”

Her father was feeble, and these years of anxiety and of hard work since his sons had been called away from home to bear their share of hardships in the War to which there seemed no end, had enfeebled him still more. From him the news must be kept at any risk. Perhaps brother Henry would go; but while this thought passed through her mind, she saw him coming through the wood on his horse.

“I have ridden this way to tell you good-bye, little sister. Even now word was brought that I must join my company. Come hither”; and as Dicey ran to his side he bent down, saying, “Set thy foot on my stirrup, I have that to say which must not be spoken aloud.”

As Dicey did as he bade her, and stood poised on his stirrup leather, holding tightly to his hand, he whispered in her ear,—

“Be brave, little sister, and take the best care you can of father. He is ill and weak, and it vexes me sorely to leave such a child as you with no one stronger to protect you. Yet go I must, and I trust that before long Thomas may come for you and my father, or that Batty will return.”

As Dicey looked into her brother’s troubled face, the thought that he must not be told rushed upon her. Go he must, and they must take such care of themselves as they could. So she leaned forward, and said as cheerfully as possible,—

“Never fear for us, brother. There is no danger for father and me, for sure none would attack an old man and a young maid. See, I am not in the least afraid.”

“I could leave you with a better heart if I thought that were the truth, yet even as we have spoken thy cheeks have grown as white as milk, and see, your hand trembles like a leaf in the wind!”

Dicey pulled away that telltale member and jumped down from the horse.

“When the time comes, I’ll prove as good a soldier as any of the Langston boys, rest you assured of that,” she cried.

“Farewell, then, brother Dicey”; and Henry tried to cheer her by making her smile. Then, with his own face set in a look far too grave for one so young, he rode down the path in the flickering light, little dreaming of the desperate resolution which was forming in the mind of his sister. As she got the supper ready, and talked brightly as was her wont with her father, she had decided that she must be the one to take the news across to brother Tom at the Elder Settlement; and oh dear, oh dear, she must go that very night, for who could tell, perhaps “Bloody Bates” would stop there on his way, for she knew not which direction he was coming from. Yet for her father’s sake she was as much like her own cheerful self as she could be, and she forced herself to eat, as the way would be long and difficult. Twice she almost gave way to tears in the safe shelter of the pantry; yet do not blame my little Dicey, for though she felt fear, she never once thought of giving up her mission.

When her duties for the night were all done, and the hot coals in the fireplace carefully covered so that a few chips of light wood would set them blazing in the morning, Dicey sat down and tried to think out how she should manage. Her father was sleeping in his great chair by the fireplace, and he looked so worn and old that she resolved to take on her own slender shoulders the whole responsibility.

Perhaps it was her steadfast gaze, or perhaps it was his thoughts, which wakened Mr. Langston with a start, caused him to look quickly round and ask,—

“Where is Henry?”

“Why, father dear, Henry rode forth this afternoon to join Colonel Middleton. You have been napping, I think.”

“True, Dicey, I did but dream. ’Tis late enough for an old man like me, so light the candle, and I’ll to bed.”

As she handed the rude candlestick to him, Dicey threw her arms about his neck and swallowed hard to keep the tears that were so close to the surface from welling over.

“Why, child, what ails thee? One would think that I was to start on a journey too, whereas all I can do is to bide at home”; and Mr. Langston heaved a deep sigh as he said it.

“Brother Henry bid me take care of you, and I mean to, dearest father. Since you have sent five sons to this cruel war, it seems as if it might be that you and I were left at peace.”

“Yes, yes, daughter. I do but pray that I may live to see all my brave boys come home to me once more.” With bowed head Mr. Langston took his way to the small chamber opening off the living-room.

“Now,” thought Dicey, “must I plan and act. First must I write a few lines to father, lest he think that I too have followed brother Henry.”

She hunted about for a fragment of paper,—a thing not too common in a frontier farmhouse,—then she dashed some water into the dried-up ink-horn, and mended a pen as well as she could.

Will you think any the less of her if I tell you that poor Dicey was a wretched penman? Her days at school had been very few, since the nearest one was at Ninety-six, and her father could ill spare his little housekeeper. Yet he had taught her a bit, and as she sat and wrote by the flaring rushlight, I am afraid that her tongue was put through as much action as her pen. Poor Dicey! the little billet which caused her so much labour was intended to allay her father’s anxiety as well as to let him know where she had gone. Of the object of her mission there was never a word. That she would tell him on her return. The little scrawl was set on the table with one end beneath the candlestick, where he would be sure to see it in the morning.

“Dear Father,” it began. “I go to carry a message to brother Tom. I leave early in the morning, and will return as soon as might be. There is naught to fear for me. Your loving Dicey.”

“’Tis better,” she mused, half aloud, “to say ‘morning’ than to have him think that I was forced to go at night, lest I fall into the hands of some of these bandits on their way here. But I must not think of that, for I must be off as soon as I can get ready, and the faster I work the less afraid I am.”

She hurriedly put some food in a packet, and then crept up the stairs to her own tiny room under the eaves. You would hardly have known her when she came softly down a few moments later. Her hair was bound and knotted close to her head, for well she knew how the bushes and trees would catch the flowing curls. Her stuff gown was kilted high and held securely in place, while on her feet she had drawn a pair of boots which were her brother Batty’s, and, though large, they were stout and strong and came nigh to her knees. A heavy shawl covered her shoulders and was tied behind, and into the front of it she thrust the packet of food.

As she went softly out of the door, she gave a last look toward her father’s room and then hastened on, anxious to give her warning and then hurry home. Dicey knew the way well, having been to visit her brother a number of times. But in her haste and excitement she had not thought that a path by day with company is a very different thing from the same path by night and alone.

Yet this did not daunt her, even though there were strange noises in the forest and elfin fingers seemed to reach out from the bushes and pluck at her as she tried to hurry on. Each twig which snapped as she trod on it brought her heart uncomfortably to her mouth, in a way she did not like at all. The woods were bad enough, but infinitely worse were the marshes where there was not even a foot-log, much less a bridge to take her over the worst places, and but for Batty’s boots she would have suffered cruelly from roots and stones.

Still she pressed bravely on. She gripped her hands and kept repeating, “Every step takes me nearer, every step takes me nearer,” till it made itself into a kind of tune. She dared not think that the worst was yet to come, and that the Tyger River with its brawling current had still to be crossed. When at last she heard a faint murmuring, it seemed to give her new strength, and she turned in that direction.

Just as the first gleams of dawn lighted the sky, she stood on the muddy banks of the river. She looked about her in the dim light and thought that she recognised the place as the ford where they usually crossed. So, quite exhausted, she threw herself upon the ground, saying to herself, “I will rest a few moments and take a bite of pone, for well I know that the water of the Tyger is deadly cold and muddy too.”

As she thought, she acted, and in a brief time rose to her feet, not with that springy lightness which was customary with her, but slowly and with effort. The long hard walk, the chafing of the boots which were too large for her, all made her feel stiff and lame, and as she waded into the water, it took all her courage to keep from screaming out.

In she went, a step at a time, thrusting one foot before the other to feel her way in the rushing water, and bewildered by the grey light and the heavy fog which lay above the water and hid the other shore. It seemed to her that the water was getting very deep, surely much deeper than when she went through it before, though on that occasion she was mounted safely on the back of her little pony.

“Oh, dear Molly, if only you were here with me now instead of safe at home in your stall”; and one or two tears rolled over Dicey’s cheeks to be immediately swallowed up in the swirling waters which every moment grew deeper around her.

She went forward, step by step, never once thinking of turning back; and now the wavelets reached her waist, and now they were breast high and so heavy that they threatened to draw her from her feet. Completely bewildered, not quite sure of her course since the opposite bank could not be seen through the low-lying fog, Dicey lost her track and wandered up stream instead of across. She noticed that the water, now just below her armpits, kept at the same height, and fearing that every moment it would grow deep enough to engulf her, she stopped a moment in her difficult course and looked about her.

What was that which she could dimly discern apparently advancing towards her? To her mind, already overwrought, it seemed “Bloody Bates” himself, as indeed it might have been, and with a shriek which she vainly tried to smother, she turned abruptly to the left and plunged with all the speed she could muster through the water.

Oh, joyful thought! The black stream was getting lower, it was but breast high now, and as she leaped and plunged along, with every movement it receded, till at last she stumbled on the bank, and lay there sobbing with fright and exhaustion. She heard a soft swish in the river, and hastily raised her head to find that what had so terrified her was a huge buck, which was now half swimming and half wading to shore himself.

Cold and wet, half dead with fright and fatigue, Dicey, at sight of her supposed enemy, laid her head on her arms and had a good cry.

“Only a deer,” she sobbed, and then began to laugh, and with the laugh, feeling better, she scrambled to her feet, saying to herself, “’Tis but two miles to brother Tom’s and then I am safe.”

The way was easier now, for it was a travelled path, made by Indians, it is true, and their cruel allies the British, but still it was daylight, and away from the river the air was clear and fresh,—too fresh for comfort to the shivering girl, who ran and stumbled in her haste to get her message delivered. The two miles dragged themselves away at last, and through the trees Dicey saw the group of rude houses which made the Elder Settlement, and ah! there was brother Tom already out of doors about his work.

As soon as Dicey saw him, she shouted, and when he looked up, he seized his gun, for a weapon lay ever within reach in those days. Little wonder was it that he did not recognise the small figure which ran towards him waving its arms and shouting words which he did but half catch. At the sound of the commotion Elie, his wife, came to the door, and at the first glance cried out,—

“Why, Tom, ’tis Dicey!” and ran out to meet her, fearful of bad tidings, since it was easy to see that the girl was almost at the limit of her strength. As soon as Tom realised who it was, he ran forward and caught her in his arms, and hurried into the house, his lips forming themselves into the one word, “Father?”

Dicey shook her head, and when Tom set her down on the stone hearth, she slipped down into a little wet heap with a pale face and eager eyes.

“Oh, brother Tom,” she began, as soon as she caught her breath.

“Stay,” said her brother, “is aught wrong with my father or brothers?”

“No,” said Dicey, “I came—”

“Then thy news will wait till thou art dry and warm, else we are like to have a dead Dicey instead of a living one. Elie, take and give her dry clothes, and I will make for her a mug of hot cider which will warm her through and through. From her clothes, the Tyger seems at flood these days.”

When Dicey, warm and dry once more, poured out her tale of warning, Tom hurried away to call the men of the settlement together. As the small handful of grave settlers came and heard the news, Dicey felt in their few words of thanks ample payment for what she had undertaken in their behalf. Nor did they hesitate in their course. Packing together what possessions were most valued, and driving before them the few cattle which remained, they and their families that very afternoon crossed the Tyger at the ford which poor Dicey had missed, and sought the protection of the fort at Ninety-six. The next day Dicey was left at her own home and in the arms of her anxious father.

She told her tale to him, sitting by his side and holding his hand, for he could hardly realise that his little girl, his Dicey, had been through an experience at which even a man might have hesitated.

“My child,” said he, “it seems but yesterday that I held you in my arms, and here you are a woman grown ere I thought it.”

Fondly stroking her soft hair, he looked into the fire and spoke half to himself,—

“’Tis like her mother; but a child to look on, yet with a heart of steel.”

“Why, father, you think too much of it; ’twas not so much after all. At least it seems so now that once more I am safe at home with you, though truly in the doing I was much afeared.” Looking round as she spoke, she caught sight of the noon-mark on the window, and, jumping up, exclaimed,—

“Why, father, here have we sat gossiping till it is nearly midday and not a thing made ready for dinner! Shame on me for a bad housekeeper!” and with that she bustled away to prepare the simple meal which was the daily fare of many a family living far from the towns. A pudding made of the white corn meal did not take long to stir together, and in a pot was soon stewing some bits of venison from the last deer which Henry had shot, part of which had been salted down for their winter supply. A portion of the pudding with a pinch of salt added, and baked on a hot iron shovel with a long handle, served instead of bread, and what was left would answer for their supper, with some of the cheese in the making of which Dicey was well skilled. There was always plenty of milk from their small herd of cattle.

After all had been settled for the afternoon, the trenchers washed and the pewter cups polished and set on their shelves, Dicey drew out her wheel and set herself at her spinning. The low whir and the comfortable ditty which Dicey hummed hardly above her breath set her father to dozing in his chair, and neither of the occupants of the kitchen was prepared for the crashing knock which came on the heavy door.

Before Dicey could reach it to set it open, a harsh voice cried out,—

“If you open not that door and quickly, we’ll smoke out all of you!”

Dicey drew back, looking at her father for counsel.

“Draw the bolt, child,” he said; “we have no strength to withstand them. Our very weakness must be our protection.”

Dicey pulled back the great oaken bar which served as a lock, and in pushed half a dozen men heavily armed, none of whom she had ever seen before.

“COWARD, SHOOT NOW IF YOU DARE!”—Page [261].

“So the Whig cub has gone, has he?” asked the one who seemed the leader, a tall man dressed in buckskin trousers of Indian make, over which the red coat of the British officer seemed odd enough.

“It is true that my son has gone forth to serve his country,” said Mr. Langston, in a quiet voice.

At the reply, which seemed to enrage the ruffian, he strode a step forward, cocking his pistol as he advanced.

“I’ll show him how to serve his country when I find him, and as for you, old man, long enough have you hampered the King’s service.”

He pointed the weapon at Mr. Langston, when with a cry Dicey threw her arms about her father’s neck, and, shielding him with her body, called out over her shoulder,—

“Coward, shoot now if you dare!”

Bloody Bates, for indeed it was he, raised his pistol once more, and with a wicked scowl was preparing to fire, when one of the men who had stood silently by till now knocked up the weapon, saying,—

“As long as the cub we came for has fled, let us on, Bates. We have no war with dotards and children.” The others murmured surly assent, and bidding Dicey and her father beware how they harboured traitors, the whole party withdrew.

It took Dicey scarce a moment to fly to the door and bar it, and then hurry back to her father, who was lying back in his chair, pale with the excitement and the peril which they had undergone, and only too thankful that one among the company had respected his grey hairs and Dicey’s youth.

For many a day they lived in hourly fear of their lives, even after Bloody Bates had taken himself off on his raids and the neighbourhood was comparatively peaceful.

Did Dicey undergo any more special perils, you ask?

Yes; once again she faced grave danger, being met by a scouting party as she was coming from a trip to the nearest town. They questioned her as to the whereabouts of her brothers and other Whigs in the vicinity, but she refused to tell what she knew. The leader threatened to shoot her, but she faced him bravely, crying,—

“Well, here am I; shoot!” opening her neckerchief at the same time. He was ashamed apparently, for the band rode on, leaving her to make her way home.

She lived to see all her brothers but one return from their duties in the army, and by her loving care and devotion made her father’s life a happy one. She was only a little Southern girl living in a lonely spot, and long since dead; but her courageous acts live on and shine, as do all “good deeds in a naughty world.”

The Maid of Zaragoza
1808

The notes of a hymn swept up the street,—a hymn so sung that it seemed a call to battle rather than a sacred song. It rose, it fell, it stirred the blood, the plaintive tones of the women’s voices rising high above the fuller notes of the men, while soaring above all the others were the shrill, sweet voices of the altar boys.

On they came, with banners waving and with clouds of smoke rising from the swinging censers. But the music, strong as it rose on the morning air, did not blot out the clang of the alarm bells which were constantly rung in every quarter of the city. Nor could it drown the boom, boom, boom of the bombardment which had been slowly wrecking the city for so long.

Augustina kneeled on the balcony with her bent head on her hands, her heart swelling as she listened.

“Ah,” said she to herself, “if I were but a man! If I could but help to save the city. Yet here must I sit and do nothing better than weave lace, while our brave men are dropping before those cruel guns.”

As the music grew fainter, she rose and stood watching the procession. At the head of the long narrow street in which she lived, towered the spires of the lovely old cathedral of the Virgin of the Pillar, and the procession which had just passed was of men and women who sought to petition the Holy Mother for her aid in the desperate war which was being waged against their city.

Although the sun had been up some hours, the tall convents which were set among the houses made the street still dim, and as Augustina looked up towards the cathedral, the people in the procession seemed hardly larger than children moving slowly and singing as they went.

Every day in some part of the city was to be seen such a procession as had just passed, for although Napoleon and his soldiers had been besieging the town for forty days, never once did the people lose courage in their power to come out victorious from the struggle.

Yes, to triumph at last, though hunger, sickness, and ill-trained soldiers were evils with which they had to struggle, as well as the enemy without their walls.

As the last singer entered the cathedral, Augustina seemed to wake from a dream, and a look of anxiety came over her face as she looked up the street. Leaning as far forward over the balcony as she dared, she could see nothing but some figures of men wrapped in dull brown cloaks, the only spots of colour being the gay kerchiefs bound about their heads.

“Augustina!” From within the house came the call, prolonged and whining, as if the patience of the caller were nearly exhausted.

“Yes, dear mother, just one moment longer.”

Again she leaned out and peered up the street, but whoever or whatever she looked for did not come in sight. With a sigh she drew back and entered the house.

The street in which Augustina lived was no whit worse than most of the thoroughfares in the old city of Zaragoza. The houses covered with balconies looked at each other across streets so narrow that in some of them a horse and cart filled the space from side to side, and the cobblestones were so rough and irregular that walking was difficult. Yet Augustina had found the city fair enough to look upon before so many doors and windows were walled up on account of the bombardment, and before such numbers of the houses had been crumbled by the cannon balls.

Though her face was not as cheerful as was its wont when she turned to go in, she shook her shoulders as if to get rid of some disagreeable thought, pushed back from her forehead the heavy black hair, and was able to show quite a presentable face to her mother when she reached her side.

“Why did you stay so long when you knew that I waited for you?” asked the invalid in a peevish tone.

“Did it seem long? Why, mother, ’twas only five minutes after all; just look at the clock. After the procession passed I only looked to see if Felipe came this way and if he had any news to tell.”

“Felipe, Felipe, everything is Felipe, while I sit here day after day, and only get what is thrown to me, as one throws a bone to a dog.”

“Ah, I see that the fever is bad again this morning, else you would never say a thing like that, mother dear. Now just look at me and say that again!”

Her mother turned to speak, but as she looked at the bright face, saw the love which filled the large dark eyes, passed her hand over the rosy cheeks, and felt the pressure of the strong young arms, she could not help but soften into a look of pleasure, and her words dwindled into—

“Well, well, it did seem long, but you are a good child, Augustina, and I love you well, as you know. But what with the fever and this dreadful war and the sound of the cannon, I spoke sharper than I meant.”

“Dearest, let me give you the cup of chocolate and the bit of bread, for I ate my breakfast long ago, before you woke.” She did not tell her mother how scant that meal had been.

“I hardly know if I wish for it,” her mother was beginning; but Augustina was already in the next room, which served them as a kitchen, and soon hurried back bearing a small tray on which was the cup of chocolate and the bit of crusty bread which is the breakfast of every true Spaniard. Food was scant enough in more households than this. Augustina’s mother, a widow with barely enough to scrape along on, was aided in peaceful days by the sale of the lace which Augustina’s skilful fingers made. Everybody in Spain loves lace, and every woman wore it, having her whole mantilla of it if she could afford it, and trimmed with it if she could do no better. Her holiday skirt was flounced with it, her pretty little aprons edged with it, her snowy chemisette trimmed with it, so that there was always a demand for what Augustina’s skilful fingers could make.

But now—what was the use of working at the pillow?

The siege which had lasted so long showed no signs of being broken, and no one had any coins to spare on such slight things as lace, when famine was staring the city in the face, and all day long, if one but looked from the window, the wounded could be seen being carried into the convents, or any other place where they could be tended and safe from the cannon balls.

“Is the chocolate sweet enough, mother?” asked Augustina anxiously. She had stirred into it the last spoonful of sugar which they had, and as the purse was running so low she hardly dared to buy any more.

“Sweet enough; and, Augustina, when you go out to-day, go first of all to the cathedral and say an Ave for me. I had hoped before this to be able to go myself. Say, too, a prayer for our brave men who are holding the city against those wicked French.”

“I am going now to Our Lady of the Pillar, mother, and I will stop on the Prado and ask if, by any chance, there has been a call for lace. I have a fine piece ready; the lilies in it seem fairly to grow, do they not, mother?”

Augustina held up with pride a long strip of snowy lace into which were wrought lilies and roses so lifelike that it was almost as if they blossomed.

“I wish that we could afford to keep that piece, Augustina. I have watched it grow under your fingers for so long that I shall miss it when it is no longer here.”

“I shall hate to sell it, mother; yet the money for it would not come amiss, eh, dearest?”

The widow sighed and glanced at the pillow as it lay on the table covered from dust, only the gay beads which tipped the bobbins being visible.

Augustina bustled about, making the house ready for the day, drawing the shade across the window so that her mother’s siesta should not be disturbed in case she did not return immediately, and then she went into the kitchen. Here she packed into a small basket some little cakes and such simple food as their home afforded, and covered it with a napkin. Then, with her mantilla drawn over her head, she went into her mother’s room and said,—

“Adios, mother, till I return. I may be late, so do not worry. Be sure that I will not forget your Ave at the cathedral.”

Kissing her fondly, she went down the stone stairs which led to their rooms, treading softly so as not to rouse any of the neighbours who might come out and ask whither she was going.

She walked quickly up the quiet street, and, with a corner of her mantilla drawn over her face, looked neither to the right nor left. Few people were about, and every moment came the boom of the cannon, now a little louder and now less so,—as they were fired from the walls, or from the distant cannon of the enemy.

She kept bravely on, for she had a purpose before her. She wished to make a prayer for herself as well as for her mother, and turned to the cathedral, whither were also others hurrying, bound on the same errand as herself.

As the leather curtain of the door fell behind her, the dusky light of the great cathedral was pointed here and there by hundreds of twinkling lights, and side by side on the pavement kneeled noble lady or ragged beggar, all intent on their devotions, whispering prayers for the deliverance of their beloved city and for the safety of her defenders. The solemn tones of the organ and the voices of the chanting priests were the only sounds to be heard, save from time to time a sob from some mourner who prayed for the dead.

As Augustina stood once more in the sunshine on the great steps of the church, she looked up and down the street, hardly able to realise that while the sky was so bright, such misery was in many homes, and such cruel fighting on the walls.

“On the walls!” Yes; that was the place whither she was bound! Felipe had not been to their home since the day before yesterday. Something must have happened to detain him, for as he left he had called back,—

“Look for me to-morrow, Augustina”; and when Felipe said a thing he always kept his word; no one knew that better than she. It had been so from the days when they were little children together. When Felipe said, “I will do this,” or “I will not do that,” it always fell out just as he said. So now she was going to see for herself what had happened to keep him away. A horrid idea rose before her mind of Felipe wounded, but she drove it away, and thought only of how young he was and strong, so proud of being chosen by his townsmen to serve on the walls, so delighted with his uniform.

The mere thought of how she had seen him thus made her hurry all the faster; and she hoped he would like the things which she had brought him to eat, for, poor boy, he had complained of being hungry the last time he came to them; and food was getting more scarce each day.

She reached the walls at last, and at the gate near the great convent of Santa Engracia, where Felipe had a gun, she was stopped by a sentinel who asked her business there.

“I come to see Felipe,” she answered briefly.

“A brother of thine, little one?” asked the soldier, as he noticed her basket, and tried to get a glimpse of her face through the mantilla.

“No, a friend,” was all she answered; for how could she tell this man that some day, when this war was over, she and Felipe were to be betrothed?

“Just a friend,” the man mimicked, and then, seeing her bent head, he said more gently: “Well, ’tis not allowed for friends to mount to the walls, but as it seems that you have something to eat, go you up. You will find Felipe at the gun at the second turn to the right.”

Up the rude steps to the top of the walls, Augustina hurried, past one, two, three guns. At the fourth stood Felipe!

“Oh, Felipe!” she cried, “where have you been these last two days? In truth I could wait no longer to know what had befallen you. See, here is a bit of meat, and all the bread that I could spare, for mother must not suffer, you know, else had I brought more.”

Felipe had just cleaned the gun for another charge, and as he stood beside it, he turned his weary and blackened face towards Augustina.

“I could not come,” he whispered hoarsely. “I have served this gun day and night since I saw you last, save for a few hours at night when those dastardly French had to rest too.”

“Poor Felipe!” murmured Augustina. “Here is some wine; take it, for you look worn and tired”; and as she spoke, she gave him a glass of the sour wine which is so esteemed by the Spaniard, and in which Felipe moistened some bits of bread, standing beside his gun all the while so as to be ready to load and fire as soon as he had finished.

The tumult was appalling. Orders were being shouted out from either side, clouds of smoke obscured the walls as well as the broad and grassy vega where the French camp was established. The noise was deafening, and every few moments a ball, screaming as it went, flew over their heads, and burst somewhere in the city behind them, killing and destroying, and often leaving in its wake fiery embers which burst into flame.

Augustina steadied herself by putting her hand on the gun, and as Felipe turned to it once more he shouted to her,—

“Hear the Signorina speak, Augustina; she is the bravest lady on the walls!” and he thrust into the gaping mouth of the gun a huge iron case which he took from a pile near at hand, and which held within it many small iron balls.

“Now hear my lady’s voice!” turning towards Augustina with a look of triumph on his face.

There was a deafening roar, a cloud of smoke, and even as it floated about them out of its midst seemed to come a great thing that flew towards them,—a whirling, screaming thing that never wavered in its track! Before she could realise what it was, there was a deafening roar, Augustina was thrown on her face, and heard all about her a sound as of falling stones. She knew in a moment, as soon as the noise had died away, that she was not hurt. She slowly scrambled to her feet, and looked about for Felipe.

Ah, he had been thrown down like herself!

“Felipe!” she called.

Amid the tumult her voice seemed but a whisper.

“Felipe!” Still there was no answer, and as she looked again she saw that on his breast lay a large bit of something that looked like a stone. She hurried to him and pushed it off, trying to raise him as she did so; but he fell back, and she threw herself on her knees, lifting his head in her arms, and saying softly,—

“Felipe, dear one, where are you hurt? Answer me, I pray; ’tis I, Augustina, who calls you.”

But there was no answer. The iron fragment from the cannon ball had hit Felipe above the heart, and struck out in a moment the life of a brave soldier. Again and again Augustina called to him, stroking the curling black hair, and smoothing the hands all stained from his work. How long she sat there with Felipe’s head in her lap, she never knew. Slowly in her mind the idea grew that some one must take his place. No one must think that Felipe’s gun was silent because he had deserted; the faith of his townsfolk in his courage must not be destroyed.

Besides, what was that she had heard? It was Felipe himself who had told her of the dreadful thing which happened every night on the walls. She could hardly bear to think of it,—but at dusk gibbets were set up, and on them were hung all deserters and cowards.

Oh, if they should think that Felipe was a coward!

Somebody must take his place, but who—who was to do it?

There were far too few men now, able to fill the places of danger on the walls.

“Then must even I,” said Augustina to herself; and she laid poor Felipe down tenderly, and threw her mantilla over the quiet face. There was no time for tears. She had watched him as he loaded the gun, and now tried to do it herself.

“Now may Our Lady of the Pillar help me!” and as she breathed the prayer, Augustina dragged the heavy case which held so many death-dealing balls to the mouth of the gun, lifted and pushed it into place. After firing the charge, she dropped on her knees, and with her hands covering her face waited through an awful moment!

Suddenly there was a tearing, crashing sound, an explosion so loud that it took away her breath, and then Augustina knew that the gun of Felipe spoke as if he still stood at its side. A sob broke from her lips, but she crushed it down, and with one look at the still form beneath the mantilla, she rose to her feet and turned to the gun. Her slender hands had difficulty in managing the heavy cases, but she kept at it bravely, murmuring to herself,—

“For Felipe and for Spain!”

It was for her country, too, that Augustina worked and toiled; for to the tips of her toes she was of Aragon. Her father and his father before him had watched the Ebro as it flows through the city; they had loved the olive groves by which it was surrounded, and they had stood in the arcades and market-places, their sad eyes watching the slow decay of a city which had once been the home of kings.

Cold and proud to the stranger, the Aragonese when aroused are fairly heroic in the way they fight for their country; and in 1808, when Augustina manned the gun for the sake of her playmate and lover who was slain, the same spirit burned in her heart as had in those of her ancestors centuries before, when the Berbers came and conquered.

The time crept along, but Augustina never faltered. Her clothes were torn with the unusual labour, and her hands, more used to the threads of flax and the smooth wooden bobbins, were cut and bleeding from the rough metal of the cannon. Her long black hair became loosened and hung like a veil down her back. She worked like one possessed of man-like strength. Hardly did she allow the great cannon to cool before she thrust the charge into it, and dragged another iron case to its mouth, so as to have it ready at the first moment.

It seemed to her as if she had been the whole day at her post, when there hurried along an officer making his rounds to observe the condition of things on the walls.

At sight of Augustina he stopped and looked at her with amazement.

“WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE, MY GIRL?”—Page [289].

“What are you doing here, my girl?” he asked in no gentle tones, hardly able to credit what his eyes told him, and thinking that Augustina might perhaps be keeping watch over a sleeping soldier, and anxious to know the truth.

“I have but taken Felipe’s place, Signor Captain,” pointing with her hand to the figure lying on the stones beside the gun.

“Does—” The Captain paused in his question. Something in the still figure seemed to tell him that it was not the sleep of fatigue that held Felipe while this slender girl worked his gun.

He stooped and lifted the end of the mantilla which covered the face. There was no need for further question. He rose and touched Augustina’s small stained hand.

“Poor girl!” he said; “was he your brother?”

“No, signor; he was Felipe. Since we were children we had played together. His father and mine were old comrades, and when Felipe was left alone on his father’s death, my mother told him to think that our home was his when he wanted it. But Felipe was brave, signor. He knew that we had little, and he worked hard for himself and me, too, since when we came of age we were to be married. Then came this war; he was chosen to serve, and, as the signor sees, he served as long as life lasted. Now I serve for him.”

“Brave girl that you are! I would that we had more men like you, and like poor Felipe here! Stay but a little longer and I will send some one to relieve you.”

“No, signor; I will stay in place of Felipe, if but you will send word to my mother that I am safe and will see her to-night.”

“I can promise that, surely; and if your example does not shame those who lurk in safety behind the walls, I shall lose all faith in Aragon.” Saying which, the Captain passed on his way, saluting as he went, with bowed head and lifted hat, both the girl and the still figure under the mantilla.

All through the long afternoon Augustina worked. No cannon on the walls spoke more often than hers. Faint and weary, she ate what remained of the food she had brought to Felipe, and would not allow herself to think of anything but the duty before her. Not a tear fell from her eyes, and she kept whispering to herself,—

“I must make the Signorina speak!” and every time the cannon roared she looked down at Felipe and cried out, “Ah, Felipe, that was for you; she spoke for you!”

It was night before the promised relief arrived,—a soldier who looked hardly able to do the work, so pale was he.

“Have you been ill?” asked Augustina, as she made ready to go.

“But two days from the hospital,” said he; “yet every one who can stand has need to fight if we wish to save Zaragoza and Our Lady of the Pillar.”

“If you can bear through the night, I will come again in the morning. If it were not for my mother, I would not leave here now.”

“Surely you have done your best. No one could ask more; and as for the poor lad whose place you took, there are few who have been more faithful than he.”

“It is for that very reason that I come again,” said Augustina. “Never shall it be said that Felipe’s gun was silent while I am able to stand beside it—and while Felipe guards it himself,” she added in a lower tone. She kneeled and looked long into the face of her dead comrade, and leaving the mantilla still covering his face, walked steadily off, wiping away with her tired hand the few tears that fell over her cheeks.

Bareheaded and alone, she walked to her home, climbed to the door of their rooms, and then, overcome with sorrow and fatigue, rushed in and threw herself on her knees beside her mother.

“Oh, my child, my dearest child!” and fondling and kissing her, her mother tried to give comfort and cheer to the weeping girl.

“To think that my little girl should be so brave! and, child, how came you to know how to load and fire one of those fearful guns?”

“I saw Felipe do it, mother, and he said that his gun spoke oftenest of any on the walls. So I saw to it that it did not become silent, that was all!”

“Sit here, loved one”; and Augustina’s mother put the tired girl into her own chair, and hurried away to get something for her to eat, and to light the brazier to warm her chilled frame, all her own weakness forgotten in the sight of her child’s sorrow. Nearly all the night they talked, the mother trying in vain to keep Augustina from her resolve to return and serve the cannon the next day. But Augustina simply said,—

“I promised Felipe before I left him, mother dear, and I must go. Besides, I must do my share, and there are few enough to help on the walls.”

Seeing that the girl could not be won away from her idea of her duty, both to the dead and to her country, her mother at last gave up trying to dissuade her, and made her go to bed and try to sleep, so as to have strength for the coming day.

But although Augustina lay quite still with closed eyes, she did not sleep. All through the hours she went over her childhood, and always, in everything, was Felipe. Each little pleasure which they had enjoyed together came vividly to her mind,—how they had studied and worked and played; and now—Even the very bobbins on her lace pillow were the work of his skilful fingers, and many of the comforts of their little home had been made or bought by him for her mother or herself.

She could not bear to think of him lying on the rough stones of the wall, but the Captain had promised that the boy soldier should be laid to rest within the convent yard.

“Would that we could do as much for each brave man who gives his life for his country!” the message ran.

The grey dawn had hardly broken before Augustina had crept from her bed and down the stairs, and was hurrying towards her cannon and place on the walls. She was trying to forget her unhappy thoughts in the work which lay before her. The soldier who had taken her place was in worse condition than he had been the evening before, since the chill of the night and the strain of the work were far more than he, with wounds hardly healed, could stand.

“I am shamed to give the place to you,” he said; “yet if I stay longer, I fear that I shall be of no use at all. I will report to the Captain and see that some one is sent here.”

“It will be no use. I shall serve this gun to-day and every day, as long as God wills, or till we conquer. I promised Felipe, and the Captain said it should be so.”

Augustina turned away as if further argument was useless, and so it proved. Each day she took her place beside the gun where Felipe had met his death, and not only worked it with the skill and courage of a man, but inspired others, less stout of heart than she, to hold their places too. Indeed on more than one occasion she held the men in position by her words and her bravery, though, alas! poor Zaragoza had to yield at last to a power stronger than her own.

After sixty days of incredible bravery, after countless repulses and endless suffering, they were overcome. Right beside the great convent of Santa Engracia, near which was the cannon which was Augustina’s charge, the enemy made a breach in the walls. The French soldiers who worked at it were partially protected by the convent, and had wrought the mischief before the Spaniards were fully aware of what had happened. Augustina heard the noise of crumbling masonry at a distance, and ran along the wall in the direction of the sound.

“Ah!” She caught her breath, for there, even as she looked, a score of the hated French were through. On they came, silent at first, leaping through the hole which the workers every moment made larger. They rushed in like a stream swollen by the spring rains, till ten thousand men at least had flowed into the city.

But do not think that these sons and daughters of Aragon gave in even then! Driven from the walls, they used the housetops and the balconies as vantage grounds. Inch by inch only did they yield, and held off the enemy for twenty-one days longer, only giving in at last because they had actually no more soldiers left to fight. Such bravery and determination impressed even the victorious French, and the terms of capitulation granted were most honourable and generous.

Augustina lived through all these perils and many more, and was among the last to yield. Nor were her courage and her services to her country forgotten; all through Spain her name was known and loved. Nor was her fame confined to her own country, for her daring has been celebrated in many tongues.

She lived full fifty years after her brave exploits on the walls of Zaragoza (she died in 1867), and by command of the government walked each fine day upon the Prado, her breast covered with medals and decorations, showing the esteem and honour in which she was held.

Ye who shall marvel when you hear her tale,

Oh! had you known her in her softer hour,

Mark’d her black eye that mocks her coal-black veil,

Heard her light, lively tones in Lady’s bower,

Seen her long locks that foil the painter’s power,

Her fairy form, with more than female grace,

Scarce would you deem that Zaragoza’s tower

Beheld her smile in danger’s Gorgon face,

Thin the closed ranks, and lead in Glory’s fearful chase.

Childe Harold.

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TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES

1. Silently corrected obvious typographical errors and variations in spelling.
2. Retained archaic, non-standard, and uncertain spellings as printed.