Part 9

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.

“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.