The Golden Story Book

BY

G. Manville Fenn, D. H. Parry, G. A. Henty, Sheila Braine, L. L. Weedon, etc.

ERNEST NISTER • LONDON E. P. DUTTON & CO. • NEW YORK

CONTENTS.

How Jean Became a Soldier L. L. Weedon Defending the Fort Sheila Braine A Border Raid D. H. Parry A Pair of Brave Maids Sheila Braine On Board a Pirate Ship Sheila Braine How a Drummer Boy Saved a Regiment G. A. Henty Never Trust a Stream . . . . . . "Jean-Pierre" The Story of the St. Bernard Lilian Gask The Jailer's Little Son E. Everett-Green A Ride for Life L. L. Weeden A Debt Paid Geraldine R. Glasgow The Tale of Prince Tatters May Byron Lost on the Fells Geraldine R. Glasgow

The Golden Story Book

How Jean Became a Soldier

IT was early June in the year eighteen hundred and fifteen, and the warm sun shone down upon the little farmhouse of Monsieur le Grand and touched the old red brick walls lovingly. The bees hummed in the garden, and there was no other sound except the lowing of the cattle and the occasional merry noise of children's laughter.

It all seemed very peaceful and quiet, and yet a short distance away two great armies were preparing for the great battle which was shortly afterwards fought upon the field of Waterloo.

It seemed strange that the little farmhouse had escaped observation, for most of the farms and cottages round had soldiers quartered in them, but le Grand's house was tucked away in the hollow of a hill and was far off the beaten track, about fifteen miles from the town of Nivelle.

Little Jean le Grand came trudging up the garden path, sighing, as he wiped his hot brow with the back of his sunburnt hand, for he was very weary. The work of the farm was too much for such a lad, but the good mother, who usually did her share, was ailing, and as for the father—well, he was away, no doubt drinking and making merry with the soldiers quartered in the next village, for Monsieur le Grand was somewhat of a ne'er-do-well and could never be made to work whilst others would work for him.

As Jean entered the house-place, he saw his mother stooping over the hearth, stirring a pot, the odours from which made Jean realise how very hungry he was.

"Supper is quite ready, dear one," said his mother. "I will call those rascals in."

But the two young children had had apparently scented supper from afar and came racing in to take their share.

In a very short space of time the food was all eaten, and the pot and plates cleared away; the two younger children crept away to bed, and Jean and his mother sat by the ingle nook to discuss the farm work, and the best remedy for a sick cow.

"I wish the father were home," sighed the mother. "Celeste needs watching to-night, and you are far too weary, and I fear I should but increase my rheumatism."

At that moment the door opened and Monsieur le Grand came in—"Jean, my lad," he cried jovially, "saddle the grey the grey mare and take a sup of the mother's cordial to hearten you, for you have a long ride before you; but there will be an ample reward to pay you for your trouble. It has come my ears, no matter how, that the English General is at St. Etienne with but a small escort, and the soldiers down at the village tell me that Napoleon would give a fortune for the news—well, what matters it to us who wins, English or French, we are safe enough away here, and I mean to earn the French gold; but away with you, for, if I mistake not, old Jacques Casson is off already to try his luck, but I'll back you to reach Limal before he is two leagues on the way."

Jean and his mother looked at each other in horror—le Grand had committed many foolish acts, but never had they dreamt he would turn traitor and betray his country.

The mother went out and beckoned Jean to follow her.

"You must indeed ride far and fast to-night, Jean," she said—"it is useless to argue with your father, the soldiers have given him too much wine, or he would never have done this thing. Ride as fast as the grey mare will carry you to St. Etienne and warn the English General his whereabouts are known. You must not let them be taken in a trap, and Jacques Casson must be well on his way by now."

She kissed her boy and in five minutes' time the echo of the grey mare's hoofs was dying away in the distance.

Jean never forgot that ride. On, on, on, mile after mile, past sleeping villages, past meadows and rivers, fearing a foe in every shadow that fell across the white moonlit road, for oh! if he fell into the hands of the French, he would never be able to save the English General and his father would be disgraced for ever.

By the time the grey mare's speed began to slacken Jean was sobbing frantically—would he ever reach St. Etienne in time?

"Halt! Who goes there?" the dreadful challenge rang out at length.

Jean pounded his heels into the grey mare's flanks, she made a gallant bound forward, but to no purpose: a hand seized the bridle and dragged her back upon her haunches, and Jean was hauled roughly from his seat, and hurried into a hut near by, where a number of French officers were sleeping by the fire. They were soon roused and bade Jean give an account of himself.

Desperate with fear Jean lied as he had never lied before and never would again.

"I come from Villeton," he said, "and am riding to Bousval—the English General is at Villeton with but a small escort and my father sends me to the French Captain Goulet with the news—he is in Monsieur le Capitaine's pay."

Jean had scarcely finished speaking when the order to mount was given, the commanding officer being so anxious to steal a march on Captain Goulet and secure the General himself, that he did not even remember to take Jean with him as a security for his good faith, and as soon as they were away Jean mounted his tired mare and in an hour's time was riding into St. Etienne. Here he told his story to the first English soldier who could understand him, and then, having done his duty, he fainted away from sheer exhaustion.

When he came to himself again he found he was in the midst of a group of English soldiers, who began to question him eagerly, but he shook his head, he could not understand them. Very soon an interpreter was found, and on Jean eagerly enquiring if the General were safe the young office laughed and told him he had never been near the town—"But don't look so downfallen," he said kindly, "you have saved my life, I do not doubt; I have no mind to be caught in a French trap, and we are off now to join the General, and you, my lad, had best come with us, for I fancy you would have too warm a reception if you fell into the hands of those same hussars you sent upon a wildgoose chase."

And so it fell out that Jean rode away with his new friends and shortly afterwards became attached to the English army as a drummer boy.

He did not go home until long after the war was ended, and then only on a short leave, but what was his amazement to find his father a completely altered man. Being firmly convinced that he had sent his son to his death, for the one letter Jean had managed to send had never reached the farm, poor le Grand never ceased to blame himself. He gave up drinking too much wine and took to tilling the ground and looking after his farm, and when the terrible remorse he had suffered from was removed, he found he did not care to revert to his former habits.

As for Jean, having served his time in the English army and covered himself with honour and glory, he returned one day to the old farmhouse in the little Belgian village and lived there in ease and plenty for the rest of his days.

L. L. Weedon.

Defending the Fort

A SOLDIER in the uniform of a French grenadier was clambering up the side of a steep ravine. His face and hands were covered with scratches, and he was hot and breathless, but still he pressed eagerly after his guide, a young goatherd, only pausing for a second to ask, "Does the fort lie over yonder?"

"But half a league further," answered the boy, tossing back his shaggy hair, and on they plunged through the underwood, by a path that nobody but one born and bred among those mountains could have found.

They had come six miles across country at a desperate pace, but fatigue was nothing to the grenadier, La Tour d'Auvergne, a name already known for valour throughout the length and breadth of France. He had a mission to accomplish, and his duty came before all else.

"Yonder is the fort; you have but to follow the path up the pass," said his guide at last.

La Tour's eyes brightened, he put some money into the lad's hand, and the latter disappeared among the bushes. Inspired by fresh courage the weary grenadier pounded up the narrow rocky way, but he was surprised, as he approached the building, that no sentinel challenged him. What was the garrison doing that it took no precautions against a sudden attack? La Tour had an inward feeling that all was not right: his heart misgave him as he rushed up to the door.

Why he had come was that he had received news that a regiment of Austrians was pushing forward to get possession of the fort. If they succeeded, it would be a serious matter for the French army, and La Tour had set out instantly to warn the garrison. The fort was ten miles distant by road, but he had found a young goatherd to take him a short way across the mountains.

The door yielded as the grenadier flung his weight against it: he gave a shout as he burst into the court, but no one answered it. "The cowards!" he exclaimed in indignation, "they have deserted the place! The mean-spirited rascals! Would that I had the hanging of them!"

It was but too true: the garrison had evidently been warned of the approach of the enemy, and had fled after the main body of the French army. They had gone off in a great hurry, for muskets lay scattered about on the ground. "Villains!" muttered La Tour, and, having completed his survey of the place, he began to prepare for the Austrians. The dauntless soldier knew that if he could delay the enemy's movements for even twenty-four hours, it would be of enormous value to his countrymen. The fort was in a fine position, at the head of a steep pass, and La Tour meant to hold it as long as there was life in his lean, strong body.

There were some thirty muskets, and these he loaded; he then barricaded the heavy door as well as he could, ate a hearty meal—plenty of provisions were left fortunately—and sat down to await the enemy.

The night came on, and presently the grenadier caught the sound of footsteps tramping up the narrow pass. Instantly he fired a couple of shots into the darkness and heard the footsteps retreating. Although desperately weary, the defender of the fort did not dare to close his eyes, and he was glad enough when morning dawned.

"We shall see what will happen now," said La Tour to himself.

As soon as it was light, a soldier with a flag of truce came up the path: the Austrian Government had sent to summon the garrison to surrender.

La Tour naturally did not let the messenger inside. "You can go back and inform your Commandant," he called out, "that we are here to defend the pass for France, and that as long as there is a man left, this fort will not yield."

The envoy retired, and the bold grenadier made ready for action. Presently he found that the Austrians were hauling a small cannon up the pass, and as soon as the gunners came in sight he let fly at them, taking care to keep well under cover himself. Five men went down, one after the other, and the rest beat a retreat.

"Ah, ha! 'tis not as easy as you fancied, my fine fellows," said La Tour, re-loading his guns.

He guessed pretty well that the enemy's next move would be to make a sudden dash and try and take the fort by storm, and he guessed rightly. But the pass was so narrow that the men could only come on two abreast, and La Tour, an expert at quick firing, picked them off until fifteen were lying dead or wounded on the ground. Scared, the rest fled down the pass once more, leaving the "garrison" a victor. The Commandant was furious, and later a third assault was made, but with the same result as before. By sunset more than forty of his men were killed. The rest were getting discouraged too: for it was like walking into the jaws of certain death to march up that narrow path.

Once again the white flag was seen before the main entrance of the fort, and the garrison was called upon to surrender. By this time La Tour was almost worn out: he knew that he could not possibly hold out much longer, so he proceeded to make the best terms he could.

"The garrison is to be allowed to march out with their arms, and retire unmolested to the French army," was his stipulation.

After a good deal of parleying, the Commandant agreed to this, and La Tour promised to give up the fort at break of day. Then he dropped down, half dead with fatigue, and went to sleep; he had done all he could, and had gained a certain amount of time. Probably if the real garrison had been there, they might not have been able to accomplish much more.

The grenadier was so weary that the sun was already high when he woke, and a furious battering at the great door reminded him of his compact. The Austrians were outside clamouring for the fort to be delivered up to them.

"You are in too great a hurry, my friends," muttered La Tour, grabbing an armful of muskets, "come, a little patience"—as the blows re-doubled—"the garrison is not ready yet," and he went on calmly gathering the guns together. Then he picked up a couple of straps and fastened them together.

Outside, on the little plateau at the head of the pass which the Austrians had vainly attempted to gain, the troops were now drawn up in line. They left a space for the garrison to march through, and waited impatiently for them to appear.

"What on earth are the fellows about?" growled the Colonel, who was in command, "do they mean to keep us here all day? Here, go and tell the Captain that if the fort be not instantly given into my hands, I shall hold the agreement at an end."

At that moment the heavy door was pushed slowly open, and, to the astonishment of the Austrians, a solitary man appeared, a grenadier. He staggered along with thirty muskets strapped on his back, and, as the Colonel stepped forward, La Tour d'Auvergne saluted.

"But where is the garrison?" cried the Colonel quickly.

"It means that you behold here the garrison, Colonel."

"What!" thundered the Austrian, "do you expect me to believe that we have been held at bay all these hours by one man? Where are your comrades?"

La Tour explained, and, for a moment, the officer stood dumb-founded: then he raised his hand to his cap, saying, "Grenadier, you are a hero! Your emperor is indeed fortunate to possess so valiant a soldier," and a ringing shout of approval went up from the troops as La Tour, again saluting, went slowly onwards, with his load of weapons. He had killed a number of their companions, but they knew how to respect a brave soldier.

La Tour was one of the most modest of men, and would never accept the honours and dignities offered him as a reward for his many deeds of valour. One title, however, was given to him, by which he was known both in his own country and in others, that of "The First Grenadier of France."

So one reads of him in the pages of history, and at Carhaix, in Brittany, his birthplace, a memorial ceremony was kept up for about fifteen years after his death in 1800.

The roll-call of the Grenadiers began each day with the famous name of La Tour d'Auvergne. There was an impressive silence that lasted a few moments, and then the colour sergeant, stepping forward, saluted gravely, and made answer: "Dead on the field of honour!"

Sheila Braine.

A Border Raid

LONG John o' the Limp sat with his back against the mounting-block, polishing a pair of steel gauntlets.

The sun, not a great way as yet above the low peat hills that edged the little valley to eastwards, flung the shadow of the grey peel-tower far along the grass, and Long John o' the Limp shifted his legs to bring them into the sunshine.

"Hey! but I must be growing old, for I get as fond of warmth nowadays as a cat of the fire," grunted the moss-trooper, his keen eye following the course of the stream that gurgled among its rushes as it flowed from the Scottish border, "and yet—if those reiving loons came riding here I doubt not they would find some bite still left in these withered jaws!"

"Good-morrow, Long John," said a sweet girl voice behind him, and there in the doorway of the Tower stood little Mistress Alison Langley, hawk upon fist, and her riding skirt gathered up in the other hand.

"Grammercy, child, and where be ye going?" said the moss-trooper, getting slowly to his feet, for he was sadly lame from the slash of a Jedburgh axe in an old border raid.

"Jocelyn flies his new falcon on the Red Moss, and I go with him," said the pretty little maid, her golden hair all a-curl about her cheeks, and looking mighty charming in the ancient doorway.

Before Long John could open his mouth, Jocelyn came down the narrow stone stairs which wound in the thickness of the wall, and burst out into the sunshine—a brown-faced boy in a green doublet, a heron's feather in his flat cap, and a pair of silver spurs on his heels.

"Have a care, Master Jocelyn," said Long John, "the Red Moss is not the safest place for your father's son, and if Wat Armstrong should spy you, there will be wiping off of old scores."

"Black Wat has not dared to show his nose on English ground since my father burned his tower and harried his lands three years ago," said Jocelyn proudly; "and why should he be on the Red Moss to-day?"

"Laddie," said the old man, smiling, the while he shook his grey head, "the Langleys were ever venturesome; but go your own road, only, mind ye, the Flower o' Langley goes wi' ye, and if she come to harm whilst your father is away I would not face his wrath for all the gold in Northumberland!"

"My sister will never meet hurt or harm while I am beside her," cried Jocelyn, touching his sword significantly; "but I promise you we will ride no farther than the White Stone, and here comes Halbert with the horses."

Through the ford, and up the valley they went, scaring the feeding cattle, scattering the snowy tufts of the cotton grass, over the springy heather that purpled the hillside, and so to the moss, three miles away.

There, with eyes dancing and cheeks aglow, they reined in beside a clump of gean, or wild cherry, and scanned the sedgy marsh that bordered the lonely moorland.

"Yonder is our quarry, Ally—see, a grey heron rising from the reeds!" and the boy unhooded the gerfalcon in haste. "Hooha—ha—ha!" he cried, tossing the bird free, and away it raked, with the musical jingle of bells, and graceful trail of jesses.

The heron changed its seemingly slow flight and mounted rapidly, up, up; but the falcon, winging in circles, rose high above the quarry, and poised for the stoop with quiver of sails and train wide spread. Then, dropping with the rapidity of light, set his pounces into the heron.

With a mighty whir of wings, and showering of feathers, the two birds came to earth, and Jocelyn gave a loud "whoop," which, in the language of falconry, meant a kill.

"Come along, Ally," he shouted, setting his pony over the trickle of a tiny burn, "you shall have a fine bunch of tail coverts." But the words had scarce left Jocelyn's lips when Alison saw him pull the grey jennet well nigh on to his croup and toss his arm up for a danger signal.

There were armed men upon the moss and the glint of the sun upon steel caps.

Alison had already leaped her pony across the burn, where the treacherous quagmire was soft and spongy, and she gave a cry of alarm as the frightened creature sank over his fetlocks and floundered wildly.

"Have no fear, little lady," said a deep voice beside her, and a strange man rose out of the hazel copse and grasped her rein.

A plunge and a squeal of terror from the pony, and then the stranger had plucked the pair from all danger, and set them safely in the bed of the burn.