Captain John Smith

by C. H. Forbes-Lindsay

It must not be supposed that John had abandoned his project of going to fight the Turks. His was not the temperament to be easily discouraged or diverted from a purpose. He was not now in a position to pursue any very definite plan, but he walked coastward in the hope that some favorable opportunity for going farther might present itself. If he should find some ship of war or large merchantman bound for a Mediterranean port he would be willing to work his way on her in any capacity. Honfleur and Havre being the most likely places thereabouts in which to find such a vessel as he sought, he made his way northward and visited each of those ports in turn without success. It was winter, and peace prevailed in western Europe for the time being. There was little movement among the large ships but smaller vessels, in considerable numbers, were plying between the Continent and England. John might readily have secured passage to England, and no doubt his wisest course would have been to return home and procure a fresh supply of clothing and money. But John could not brook the thought of appearing at home tattered and torn and confessing to his guardian that he had been duped and robbed.

The shipping men of Havre advised the anxious inquirer to try St. Malo, and so he turned back over the ground he had already twice traversed and faced several more weeks of weary travel with a purse now nearly empty and clothing almost reduced to rags. Coming up from Mortagne he had selected the poorest inns for resting places; now even these were beyond his means, and he had to depend upon the charity of the country people for a night’s lodging or a meal. Occasionally his way led past a monastery, when he was always sure of simple hospitality for, to their credit be it said, the fact that John was an Englishman and a heretic never caused the good monks to turn him from their doors.

When at length he arrived in the neighborhood of Pontorson in Brittany it was in a condition bordering on collapse from the effects of the exposure and hardship of the preceding weeks. St. Malo was but a short two days’ journey away, but it did not seem possible that he could hold out until that port should be reached. He staggered on for a few more miles but at last his strength utterly gave out and he sank unconscious to the ground by the roadside. Here John Smith’s career well nigh wound up in an inglorious end, for had he lain neglected for a few hours he must have frozen to death. Fate directed otherwise, however. A kind farmer chancing by in his wagon picked up the exhausted lad and carried him to his house. There he was nursed and fed and, some weeks later, when he resumed his journey it was with a show of his natural vigor.

John left the farmhouse with a wallet sufficiently stocked to stay his stomach until he should arrive at St. Malo—money he had refused to accept from the good farmer. The air was mild. It was one of those sunny days in late winter that give early promise of spring. Under the influence of the cheery weather our hero’s spirits rose, and he had a feeling that the tide in his affairs was about to turn. This presentiment was strengthened by an adventure that immediately befell him and which will not so greatly surprise us if we remember that he was once again in the vicinity of Mortagne, having gone forth and back in his long tramp.

John had been following a short cut through a wood and had just emerged into the open when he came suddenly face to face with a traveler who was pursuing the same path in opposite direction. Each recognized the other immediately, and on the instant their swords flashed from the scabbard. They flung aside their cloaks and engaged without a word. Furious anger surged in John’s breast as he confronted Courcelles, one of the four French robbers to whose perfidy he owed his present plight and all the misery of the past months. For a moment he was tempted to rush upon the rascal and run him through, but that caution and coolness that ever characterized our hero in the presence of danger, soon took possession of his reason and prompted him to assume the defensive.

Courcelles was no mean swordsman, and he saw before him a bareface boy whom he could not suppose to be a master of fence. Moreover, he was moved by the hatred which mean souls so often feel for those whom they have wronged. He made a furious attack upon the stripling intending to end the affair in short order.

John calmly maintained his guard under the onslaught with his weapon presented constantly at the other’s breast. With a slight movement of the wrist he turned aside Courcelles’ thrusts and stepped back nimbly when the Frenchman lunged. The latter, meeting with no counter-attack, became more confident and pressed his adversary hard. But the skill with which his assault was met soon dawned upon Courcelles. He checked the impetuosity that had already told upon his nerves and muscles and resorted to the many tricks of fence of which, like most French swordsmen, he was an adept. He changed the engagement; he feinted and feigned to fumble his weapon; he shifted his guard suddenly; he pretended to slip and lose his footing; he endeavored to disengage; but John could not be tempted from his attitude of alert defence. Courcelles beat the appel with his foot but John’s eyes remained steadfastly fixed upon his and the firm blade was ever there lightly but surely feeling his. Courcelles tapped the other’s sword sharply but John only smiled with grim satisfaction as he remembered how Signor Polaloga had schooled him to meet such disconcerting manœuvres as these.

Courcelles was growing desperate and determined as a last hope of overcoming his antagonist to try the coup de Marsac. This consisted in beating up the adversary’s weapon by sheer force and lunging under his upthrown arm. Gathering himself together for the effort, the Frenchman struck John’s sword with all the strength he could command, but the act was anticipated by our hero, whose rapier yielded but a few inches to the blow. The next instant the point of it had rapidly described a semi-circle around and under Courcelles’ blade, throwing it out of the line of his opponent’s body.

It was a last effort. Chill fear seized the Frenchman’s heart as with the waning of his strength he realized that he was at the mercy of the youth he had so heartlessly robbed. With difficulty he maintained a feeble guard whilst he felt a menacing pressure from the other’s weapon. John advanced leisurely upon the older man, whose eyes plainly betrayed his growing terror. He was as helpless as a child and might have been spitted like a fowl without resistance, but although our hero was made of stern stuff there was nothing cruel in his composition and he began to pity the cringing wretch who retreated before him. He had no thought, however, of letting the rascal off without a reminder that might furnish a lesson to him.

With that thought he pricked Courcelles upon the breast accompanying the thrust with the remark: