The year 1803! Think what that means.
Napoleon Buonaparte was alive—not only alive, but in full vigour; he had entered on his career of conquest, and the world was in terror of his name. Nelson was alive; five years earlier he had won the great Battle of the Nile, two years earlier the great Battle of Copenhagen, though he had not yet won his crowning victory of Trafalgar which established British supremacy over the ocean. Wellington was alive; but his then name of Sir Arthur Wellesley had not become widely famous, and no one could guess that one day he would be the Iron Duke of world-wide celebrity. Sir John Moore, the future Hero of Coruña, was alive, and though not knighted was already the foremost British soldier of his age.
Napoleon was not yet Emperor of the French. He was climbing towards that goal, but thus far he had not advanced beyond being First Consul in the Republic.
The peace between England and France, lasting somewhat over twelve months, had been hardly more than an armed and uncertain truce, a mere slight break in long years of intermittent warfare. As the old king, George III., remarked at the time, it was 'an experimental peace,' and few had hopes of its long continuance. For the Firebrand was still in Europe, and barrels of gunpowder lay on all sides. Both before the peace began, and also while it continued, Napoleon indulged in many speculative threats of a future invasion of England, and preparations were said to be at this date actually begun.
England alone of all the nations stood erect, and fearlessly looked the tyrant in the face. And Great Britain, with all her pluck, had then but a tiny army, and few fortifications; while her chief defence, the fleet, though splendidly manned, was weak indeed compared with the mighty armament which she now possesses.
Whether the peace would last, or whether it would speedily end, depended mainly on the will of one man, an ambitious and reckless despot, who cared not a jot what rivers of French and English blood he might cause to flow, nor how many thousands of French and English widows' hearts might be broken, so long as he could indulge to the full his lust of conquest, and could obtain plenty of what he called "glory." Another and truer name might easily have been found.
[CHAPTER II]
SWEET POLLY'S GRENADIER
"MOLLY, Molly—listen! I've something to tell you."
Roy jerked a story-book out of his twin-sister's hands. It was not a handsome and prettily illustrated volume, like those now in vogue, being bound in dull boards, with woodcuts fantastically hideous. But Molly knew nothing better, and she loved reading, while Roy hated it—unless he found a book about battles. Molly was even smaller and younger-looking for her years than Roy. She had a pale little face, with anxious black eyes, and short dark hair brushed smoothly behind her ears. She wore a frock of thick blue stuff, short-waisted and low-necked, while her thin arms were bare.