Chapter IV: Front Matter (4)

On the 1st of October 1838, the Christino general Pardinas, with five battalions and a regiment of cavalry, encountered Cabrera near the town of Maella. The forces were about equal on either side, and at first the Christinos had the advantage. But Pardinas having thrown his left too forward, it was cut off and surrounded. Without waiting for help from the centre and right wing, the battalions fell into confusion and surrendered themselves prisoners, thereby grievously compromising the remainder of the division. Astounded at the sudden loss of one third of his force, Pardinas made desperate efforts to preserve order; but all was in vain, and his heroic efforts and example served but to procure him an honourable death, thereby saving him the pain of reporting the most unfortunate and disgraceful action of the whole war. More than three-fifths of the division were killed or taken prisoners. The fate of the latter could not be doubtful, for Cabrera was their captor. Whilst still on the field of battle, with the groans of the wounded and dying sounding in his ears, he sent an order to Major Espinosa to kill a number of dragoons of the regiment del Rey, whom he had made prisoners. Espinosa replied, that, the action once over, he had forgotten how to use his lance. Cabrera, however, had little difficulty in finding a more pliant agent. The unhappy dragoons were stripped naked and bayoneted: Espinosa was deprived of his command and of future opportunities of distinction. The same afternoon Cabrera shot twenty-seven wounded, in hospital at Maella. Amongst his prisoners were ninety-six sergeants. These he crammed into a dark and narrow dungeon, and after a few days, proposed to them to take service in the rebel army. They all refused, and one of them imprudently added, “Sooner die than serve with robbers.” These words were reported to Cabrera, and he sought to discover the man who had uttered them; but although the other ninety-four well knew who it was, no menaces could induce them to betray their comrade. Any one but Cabrera would have been touched by such courage and constancy, but he only found in it a pretext for murder. The ninety-six sergeants were shot at Horcayo. Similar enormities now followed in rapid succession; until the exasperation in Saragossa and Valencia became extreme, and the inhabitants tumultuously assembled, demanding reprisals. These it was not safe to refuse. General Mendez Vigo, commanding at Valencia, and who ventured to deny them, was shot in the streets. Juntas were formed, and Carlist prisoners were executed. One of these unfortunates, when marching to his doom, was heard to exclaim, “Not to the people of Valencia, but to the infamous Cabrera, do I ascribe my death.” There was a great outcry made at the time, especially by persons who knew nothing of the real facts of the case, concerning these reprisals, which were in fact unavoidable. Cabrera’s atrocities had reached such a pitch, that disaffection was widely spreading in Arragon and Valencia. The people, finding themselves constantly in mourning for the death of some near relative, murdered by his orders, murmured against the government which could not protect them, and accused their rulers of Carlism and treachery, of cowardice and indifference. There was danger, almost a certainty indeed, of an insurrection, in which every Carlist prisoner and a vast number of innocent persons would inevitably have been sacrificed. Cabrera would listen to no proposals for exchanges, but persisted in shooting all who fell into his hands. Without reckoning the innumerable captives dead from hunger and cruel treatment, or those murdered on the march and in the Carlist depots, but counting only such as were shot and stabbed before witnesses, Cabrera had killed, previously to his mother’s death, one hundred and eighty-one soldiers and nationals; and seven hundred and thirty subsequently to that event, and up to the 1st of November 1838. His subalterns had slain three hundred and seventy more, making a total of twelve hundred and eighty. Under these circumstances, there was nothing for it but a system of retaliation. This, General Van Halen and the juntas adopted, and after a very short time the good effect was manifest. The imprecations of the Carlist prisoners, and the murmurs of his party, reached the ears of Cabrera in tones so menacing, that he was compelled to listen. The treaty for exchange of prisoners and cessation of reprisals, signed by him and Van Halen, caused much discontent amongst the coffeehouse politicians of the Puerta del Sol; but those who had experience of the war, and who dwelt in its district, appreciated the firmness of the Christino general, as well as the docility and true dignity with which he signed the honourable name of a brave soldier beside that of the assassin Count of Morella.

Anticipating an attack upon the fort of Segura, to whose possession he attached great importance, Cabrera took measures for its defence. For this, if the inhabitants of the town did not unite in it, a very large garrison was necessary. Cabrera endeavoured, therefore, by great promises, to win over the townspeople, menacing them at the same time with the destruction of their town if they did not comply with his wishes. They held a meeting, and its result was a declaration that they would never take up arms against the Queen, and that sooner than do so, they would submit to be driven from their dwellings, and become wanderers in the woods. Cabrera took them at their word, and in a few days the plough might have passed over the site of Segura. The magnificent church, the public edifices, and three hundred and fifty houses, were razed to the ground. The castle alone was preserved. The inhabitants themselves had been compelled to accomplish the work of destruction; and when that was done, sixteen hundred men, women, and children emigrated to the neighbouring villages, or took shelter in the caves and hollows of the pine forests. In this circumstance, it is hard to say which is most striking, the barbarity of the destroyer, or the courageous patriotism of the victims. The expected siege of the castle soon followed, but the inclemency of the weather compelled Van Halen to raise it. He was removed from the command, and Nogueras, who was to succeed him, being attacked by illness, the army in Arragon remained for a while without a competent chief. Cabrera took advantage of this, prosecuted the war with great activity and vigour, and captured some fortified places. Amongst others, he laid siege to Montalban, which was desperately defended for fifty days. At the end of that time, the town being reduced to ruins, the garrison and inhabitants evacuated it, and retired to Saragossa. During the siege, there occurred a trait worthy of Cabrera. The medicines for the wounded being expended, the colonel of the national guards spoke from the walls to the Carlist general, and begged permission to send to the nearest village for a fresh supply. There were many wounded Carlists in the town hospital, and it was expected, therefore, that the request would be granted. Cabrera refused it, but, feigning compassion, advised Vicente to hoist a flag upon the hospital, that it might be respected by the besiegers’ artillery. The flag was hoisted, and instantly became a mark for every gun the Carlists had. In the course of that day, sixty-six shells fell into the hospital, killing many of the wounded, and, amongst others, thirteen Carlist prisoners. During this siege, a young woman, two-and-twenty years of age, Manuela Cirugeda by name, emulous of the example of the Maid of Saragossa, served as a national guard, and fought most valiantly, until incapacitated by illness, the result of her fatigues and exertions.

Were it his only crime, Cabrera’s treatment of his prisoners in the dungeons of Morella, Benifasa, and other places, would suffice to brand him with eternal infamy. From the commencement of the war till he was driven out of the country, twelve thousand soldiers and two thousand national guards fell into his hands. Half of the first named, and two-thirds of the latter, died of hunger, ill treatment, and of the diseases produced by the stifling atmosphere of their prisons, by the bad quality of their food, and the state of general destitution in which they were left. Those who bore up against their manifold sufferings only regained their liberty to enter an hospital, incapacitated for further military service. It took months to rid them of the dingy, copper-coloured complexion acquired in their damp and filthy prisons, and some of them never lost it. When the prisoners taken in the action of Herrera arrived at Cantavieja, they were barefooted, and for sole raiment many had but a fragment of matting, wherewith to cover their nakedness, and defend themselves from the weather. They were thrust into a convent, and no one was allowed to communicate with them: even mothers, who anxiously strove to convey a morsel of bread to their starving sons, were pitilessly driven away. Sick and squalid, they were marched off to Beceite, and on the road more than two hundred were murdered. Those who paused or sat down, overcome by fatigue, were disposed of with the bayonet; some fainted from exhaustion, and had their heads crushed with large stones, heaped upon them by their guards. The muleteers, who compassionately lent their beasts to the wounded or dying, were unmercifully beaten. On reaching Beceite, the daily ration of each prisoner was two ounces of raw potatoes. After repeated entreaties of the inhabitants they were at last allowed to leave their prison by detachments, in order to clean the streets; and by this means they were enabled to receive the assistance which the very poorest of the people stinted themselves and their children to afford them. In spite of the prohibitions of the Carlist authorities, bread, potatoes, and maize ears were thrown into the streets for their relief. But even of these trifling supplies they were presently deprived, for an epidemic broke out amongst them, and they were forbidden to leave their prison lest they should communicate it to the troops. Will it be believed that in a Christian country, and within the last ten years, men were reduced to such extremities as to devour the dead bodies of their companions? Such was the case. It has been printed fifty times, and hundreds of living witnesses are ready to attest it. When the Carlist colonel Pellicer, the savage under whose eyes these atrocities occurred, discovered the horrible means by which his wretched captives assuaged the pangs of hunger, he became furious, caused the prisoners to be searched, and shot and bayoneted those who had preserved fragments of their frightful meal. The poor creatures thus condemned marched to death with joy and self-gratulation; those who remained accused themselves of a similar crime, and entreated that they also might be shot. Twelve hundred entered the prison; two hundred left it; and of these, thirty were massacred upon the road because they were too weak to march. In the appendix to his book, Señor Cabello gives the diary of a survivor, an officer of the regiment of Cordova. The cruelties narrated in it exceed belief. They are nevertheless confirmed by unimpeachable evidence. The following extract is from a document dated the 20th of March 1844, and signed by fifteen respectable inhabitants of Beceite.

“During the abode of the said prisoners in this town, each day twelve or fourteen of them died from hunger and misery. It was frequently observed, when they were conveyed from the prison to the cemetery, that some of them still moved, and made signs with their hands not to bury them; some even uttered words, but all in vain--_dead or alive, those who once left the prison were buried_, and only one instance was known of the contrary occurring. The chaplain of a Carlist battalion had gone to the burying-ground to see if the graves were deep enough, and whilst standing there, _one of a pile of corpses pulled him by the coat_. This attracted his attention, and he had the man carried to the hospital. * * * There would be no end to our narrative if we were to give a detailed account of the sufferings of these prisoners; so great were they, as at last to shock even the commandant of the depot, Don Juan Pellicer, who was heard to exclaim more than once _that he wished somebody would blow out his brains, for he was sick of beholding so much misery and suffering_. The few inhabitants who remained in the town behaved well, and notwithstanding that the Carlists robbed them of all they had, and that it was made a crime to help the prisoners, they managed in secret to give them some relief, especially to the officers. The facts here set down are true and certain, and of them more than a hundred eyewitnesses still exist.”

When the war in Biscay and Navarre was happily concluded by the convention of Vergara, the Duke de la Victoria invited Cabrera to follow the example of the other Carlist generals, offering to him and to the rebel troops under his command the same terms that had been conceded to those in the Basque provinces. But the offer, generous though it was, and undeserved by men who had made war like savages rather than as Christians, was contemptuously spurned. Those best acquainted with the character of Cabrera, were by no means surprised at the refusal. They foresaw that he would redouble his atrocities, and only yield to brute force. These anticipations were in most respects realised.

In the months of October 1839, Espartero, with the whole army of the North, consisting of forty thousand infantry, three thousand cavalry, and the corresponding artillery, entered lower Arragon. Anxious to economise the blood of his countrymen, trusting that Cabrera would open his eyes to the inutility of further resistance, confiding also, in some degree, in the promises of certain Carlist chiefs included in the treaty of Vergara, and who expected by their influence to bring over large bodies of the rebels, the Duke de la Victoria remained inactive during the winter, merely blockading the Carlists within their lines. Meanwhile Cabrera, debilitated by six years of anxiety and agitation, and by the dissolute life he had led from a very early age, and preyed upon by vexation and rage occasioned him by the convention of Vergara, fell seriously ill, and for some time his life was in peril. Contrary to expectation, he recovered; but sickness or reflection had unmanned him, and it is certain that in his last campaign he displayed little talent and less courage. Not so his subordinates. The Arragonese Carlists fought like lions, and the final triumph of the Queen’s army and of their distinguished leader was not achieved without a desperate struggle.

The first appearance of spring was the signal of action for the Christinos. Even before the inclement season had entirely passed away, in the latter days of February 1840, Espartero attacked Segura. One day’s well-directed cannonade knocked the fort about the ears of the garrison, and in spite of the proverb, _Segura serà segura, ó de Ramon Cabrera sepultura_, the place capitulated. The defence of Castellote was longer, and extraordinarily obstinate. Pelted with shot and shell, the walls mined and blown up and reduced to ruins, its garrison, with a courage worthy of a better cause, still refused to surrender, hoisted a black banner in sign of no quarter, and received a flag of truce with a volley. The position of the castle, on the summit of a steep and rugged rock, rendered it almost impossible to form a column of attack and take it by assault. At last, however, this was attempted, and after a desperate combat of an hour’s duration, and great loss on the part of the assailants, the latter established themselves in a detached building at the eastern extremity of the fortress. The besieged still defended themselves, hurling down hand-grenades and masses of stone, until at last, exhausted and overcome, they hung out a white flag. By their obstinate defence of an untenable post, when they had no hope of relief, they had forfeited their lives. Fortunately their conqueror was no Cabrera.

“They were Spaniards,” said Espartero in his despatch to Madrid, “blinded and deluded men who had fought with the utmost valour, and I could not do less than view them with compassion.” Their lives were spared, and the wounded were carried to the hospital in the arms of their recent opponents.

Cabrera had sworn to die before giving up Morella, but when the time came his heart failed him. He visited the town, harangued the garrison and inhabitants from the balcony of his quarters, and told them that he had come to share their fate. A day or two later he marched away, taking with him all his particular friends and favourites, and left Morella to take care of itself. It was the last place attacked by Espartero. The siege lasted eleven days, but Cabrera did not come to its relief; dissension arose amongst the garrison, and surrender ensued. Three thousand prisoners, including a number of Carlist civil functionaries, a quantity of artillery, ammunition, and other stores, fell into the hands of the victors. Morella taken, the war in Arragon was at an end.

Determined that his last act should be worthy of his whole career, Cabrera, now upon his road to France, precipitated into the Ebro a number of national guards, whom he carried with him as captives. Others were shot, and some few were actually dragged across the frontier, bound hand and foot, and only liberated by the French authorities. Such wanton cruelty is the best refutation of the arguments of certain writers, who have maintained that Cabrera was severe upon principle, with the sole objects of intimidating the enemy, and of furthering the cause of his king. On the eve of his departure from Spain, himself a fugitive, the self-styled sovereign a captive in a foreign land, what end, save the gratification of his insatiable thirst of blood, could be attained by the massacre of prisoners? At last, on the sixth of July 1840, he delivered his country from the presence of the most execrable monster that has disgraced her modern annals. On that day, at the head of twenty battalions and two hundred cavalry, Cabrera entered France.

By superficial persons, unacquainted with facts, attempts have been made to cast upon the whole Spanish nation the odium incurred by a small section of it. The cruelties of Cabrera and his likes, have been taken as an index to the Spanish character, wherein ferocity has been asserted to be the most conspicuous quality. Nothing can be more unjust and fallacious than such a theory. Cabrera’s atrocities were viewed and are remembered in Spain with as deep a horror as in England or France. Those who shared in them were a minute fraction of the population, and even of these, many acted on compulsion, and shuddered at the crimes they were obliged to witness and abet. Is the character of a nation to be argued from the excesses of its malefactors, even when, banded together and in military array, they assume the style and title of an army? Assuredly not. The Carlist standard, uplifted in Arragon, became a rallying point for the scum of the whole Spanish people. Under Cabrera’s banner, murder was applauded, plunder tolerated, vice of every description freely practised. And accordingly, escaped galley slaves, ruined profligates, the worthless and abandoned, flocked to its shelter. To these may be added the destitute, stimulated by their necessities; the ignorant and fanatical, led away by crafty priests; the unreflecting and unscrupulous, seeking military distinction where infamy alone was to be reaped. Bad example, seduction, even force, each contributed its quota to the army of Cabrera. From the commencement, the war was of a very different nature in Navarre and in Arragon. Both chiefs and soldiers were of different origin, and fought for different ends. To Navarre repaired those men of worth and respectability who conscientiously upheld the rights of Don Carlos; the battalions were composed of peasants and artisans. In Arragon and Valencia, a few desperate and dissolute ruffians, such as Cabrera, Llangostera, Quilez, Pellicer, assembled under their orders the refuse of the jails.

“The Navarrese recruit,” says Señor Cabello, “when he set out to join the Carlists, took leave of his friends and relatives, and even of the alcalde of his village; the volunteer into the faction of Arragon, departed by stealth after murdering and robbing some private enemy or wealthy neighbour. The Biscayan Carlist, going on leave to visit his mistress, took her at most a flower gathered in the gardens of Bilboa, when a soldier of Cabrera revisited his home, he carried with him the spoils of some slaughtered family or plundered dwelling. All Spain knew Colonel Zumalacarregui; but only the lay brothers of St Domingo de Tortosa, or the gendarmes of Villafranca, could give an account of Cabrera or the Serrador. To treat with the former was to treat with one who, a short time previously, had commanded with distinction the first light infantry regiment of the Spanish army. To negotiate with the latter was to condescend to an equality with the Barbudo or José Maria.”[C]

[C] Celebrated Spanish robbers.

Even in the inevitable confusion of civil war, a distinction may and must be made between the man who takes up arms to defend a principle, and him who makes the unhappy dissensions of his country a stepping-stone to his own ambition, a pretext for the indulgence of the worst vices and most unhallowed passions.

MY COLLEGE FRIENDS. NO. IV.

CHARLES RUSSELL, THE GENTLEMAN COMMONER.

CHAP. II.

It was the last night of the boat races. All Oxford, town and gown, was on the move between Iffley and Christchurch meadow. The reading man had left his ethics only half understood, the rowing man his bottle more than half finished, to enjoy as beautiful a summer evening as ever gladdened the banks of Isis. One continued heterogeneous living stream was pouring on from St “_Ole’s_” to King’s barge, and thence across the river in punts, down to the starting-place by the lasher. One moment your tailor puffed a cigar in your face, and the next, just as you made some critical remark to your companion on the pretty girl you just passed, and turned round to catch a second glimpse of her, you trod on the toes of your college tutor. The contest that evening was of more than ordinary interest. The new Oriel boat, a London-built clipper, an innovation in those days, had bumped its other competitor easily in the previous race, and only Christchurch now stood between her and the head of the river. And would they, could they, bump Christchurch to-night? That was the question to which, for the time being, the coming examination, and the coming St Leger, both gave way. Christchurch, that had not been bumped for ten years before--whose old blue and white flag stuck at the top of the mast as if it had been nailed there--whose motto on the river had so long been “Nulli secundus?” It was an important question, and the Christchurch men evidently thought so. Steersman and pullers had been summoned up from the country, as soon as that impertinent new boat had begun to show symptoms of being a dangerous antagonist, by the rapid progress she was making from the bottom towards the head of the racing-boats. The old heroes of bygone contests were enlisted again, like the Roman legionaries, to fight the battles of their “vexillum,” the little three-cornered bit of blue and white silk before mentioned; and the whole betting society of Oxford were divided into two great parties, the Oriel and the Christchurch, the supporters of the old, or of the new dynasty of eight oars.

Never was signal more impatiently waited for than the pistol-shot which was to set the boats in motion that night. Hark! “Gentlemen, are--you--ready?” “No, No!” shouts some umpire, dissatisfied with the position of his own boat at the moment. “Gentlemen, are you ready?” Again “No, no, no!” How provoking! Christchurch and Oriel both beautifully placed, and that provoking Exeter, or Worcester, or some boat that no one but its own crew takes the slightest interest in to-night, right across the river! And it will be getting dusk soon. Once more--and even Wyatt, the starter, is getting impatient--“Are you ready?” Still a cry of “No, no,” from some crew who evidently never will be satisfied. But there goes the pistol. They’re off, by all that’s glorious! “Now Oriel!” “Now Christchurch!” Hurrah! beautifully are both boats pulled--how they lash along the water! Oriel gains evidently! But they have not got into their speed yet, and the light boat has the best of it at starting. “Hurrah, Oriel, its all your own way!” “Now, Christchurch, away with her!” Scarcely is an eye turned on the boats behind; and, indeed, the two first are going fast away from them. They reach the Gut, and at the turn Oriel presses her rival hard. The cheers are deafening; bets are three to one. She must bump her! “Now, Christchurch, go to work in the straight water!” Never did a crew pull so well, and never at such disadvantage. Their boat is a tub compared with the Oriel. See how she buries her bow at every stroke. Hurrah, Christchurch! The old boat for ever! Those last three strokes gained a yard on Oriel! She holds her own still! Away they go, those old steady practised oars, with that long slashing stroke, and the strength and pluck begins to tell. Well pulled, Oriel! Now for it! Not an oar out of time, but as true together as a set of teeth! But it won’t do! Still Christchurch, by sheer dint of muscle, keeps her distance, and the old flag floats triumphant another year.

Nearly hustled to death in the rush up with the racing boats, I panted into the stern sheets of a four-oar lying under the bank, in which I saw Leicester and some others of my acquaintance. “Well, Horace,” said I, “what do you think of Christchurch now?” (I had sufficient Tory principle about me at all times to be a zealous supporter of the “old cause,” even in the matter of boat-racing.) “How are your bets upon the London clipper, eh?” “Lost, by Jove,” said he; “but Oriel ought to have done it to-night; why, they bumped all the other boats easily, and Christchurch was not so much better; but it was the old oars coming up from the country that did it. But what on earth is all that rush about up by the barges? They surely are not going to fight it out after all?”

Something had evidently occurred which was causing great confusion; the cheering a moment before had been deafening from the partisans of Christchurch, as the victorious crew, pale and exhausted with the prodigious efforts they had made, mustered their last strength to throw their oars aloft in triumph, and then slowly, one by one, ascended into the house-boat which formed their floating dressing-room; it had now suddenly ceased, and confused shouts and murmurs, rather of alarm than of triumph, were heard instead: men were running to and fro on both banks of the river, but the crowd both in the boats on the river and on shore made it impossible for us to see what was going on. We scrambled up the bank, and were making for the scene of action, when one of the river-officials ran hastily by in the direction of Iffley.

“What’s the matter, Jack?”

“Punt gone down, sir,” he replied without stopping; “going for the drags.”

“Anybody drowning?” we shouted after him.

“Don’t know how many was in her, sir,” sung out Jack in the distance. We ran on. The confusion was terrible; every one was anxious to be of use, and more likely therefore to increase the danger. The punt which had sunk had been, as usual on such occasions, overloaded with men, some of whom had soon made good their footing on the neighbouring barges; others were still clinging to their sides, or by their endeavours to raise themselves into some of the light wherries and four oars, which, with more zeal than prudence, were crowding to their assistance, were evidently bringing a new risk upon themselves and their rescuers. Two of the last of the racing eights, too, coming up to the winning-post at the moment of the accident, and endeavouring vainly to back water in time, had run into each other, and lay helplessly across the channel, adding to the confusion, and preventing the approach of more efficient aid to the parties in the water. For some minutes it seemed that the disaster must infallibly extend itself. One boat, whose crew had incautiously crowded too much to one side in their eagerness to aid one of the sufferers in his struggles to get on board, had already been upset, though fortunately not in the deepest water, so that the men, with a little assistance, easily got on shore. Hundreds were vociferating orders and advice, which few could hear, and none attended to. The most effectual aid that had been rendered was the launching of two large planks from the University barge, with ropes attached to them, which several of those who had been immersed succeeded in reaching, and so were towed safely ashore. Still, however, several were seen struggling in the water, two or three with evidently relaxing efforts; and the unfortunate punt; which had righted and come up again, though full of water, had two of her late passengers clinging to her gunwale, and thus barely keeping their heads above the water’s edge. The watermen had done their utmost to be of service, but the University men crowded so rashly into every punt that put off to the aid of their companions, that their efforts would have been comparatively abortive had not one of the pro-proctors jumped into one, with two steady hands, and authoritatively ordering every man back who attempted to accompany him, reached the middle of the river, and having rescued those who were in most imminent danger, succeeded in clearing a sufficient space round the spot to enable the drags to be used, (for it was quite uncertain whether there might not still be some individuals missing.) Loud cheers from each bank followed this very sensible and seasonable exercise of authority; another boat, by this example, was enabled to disencumber herself of superfluous hands, and by their united exertions all who could be seen in the water were soon picked up and placed in safety. When the excitement had in some degree subsided, there followed a suspense which was even more painful, as the drags were slowly moved again and again across the spot where the accident had taken place. Happily our alarm proved groundless. One body was recovered, not an University man, and in his case the means promptly used to restore animation were successful. But it was not until late in the evening that the search was given up, and even the next morning it was a sensible relief to hear that no college had found any of its members missing.

I returned to my rooms as soon as all reasonable apprehension of a fatal result had subsided, though before the men had left off dragging, and was somewhat surprised, and at first amused, to recognise, sitting before the fire in the disguise of my own dressing-gown and slippers, Charles Russell.

“Hah! Russell, what brings you here at this time of night?” said I; “however, I’m very glad to see you.”

“Well, I’m not sorry to find myself here, I can tell you; I have been in a less comfortable place to-night.”

“What do you mean?” said I, as a suspicion of the truth flashed upon me--“Surely”----

“I have been in the water, that’s all,” replied Russell quietly; “don’t be alarmed, my good fellow, I’m all right now. John has made me quite at home here, you see. We found your clothes a pretty good fit, got up a capital fire at last, and I was only waiting for you to have some brandy and water. Now, don’t look so horrified, pray.”

In spite of his good spirits, I thought he looked pale; and I was somewhat shocked at the danger he had been in--more so from the suddenness of the information.

“Why,” said I, as I began to recall the circumstance, “Leicester and I came up not two minutes after it happened, and watched nearly every man that was got out. You could not have been in the water long then, I hope?”

“Nay, as to that,” said Russell, “it seemed long enough to me, I can tell you, though I don’t recollect all of it. I got underneath a punt or something, which prevented my coming up as soon as I ought.”

“How did you get out at last?”

“Why, that I don’t quite remember; I found myself on the walk by King’s barge; but they then had to turn me upside down, I fancy, to empty me. I’ll take that brandy by itself, Hawthorne, for I think I have the necessary quantity of water stowed away already.”

“Good heavens! don’t joke about it; why, what an escape you must have had!”

“Well, seriously then, Hawthorne, I _have_ had a very narrow escape, for which I am very thankful; but I don’t want to alarm any one about it, for fear it should reach my sister’s ears, which I very much wish to avoid, for the present at all events. So I came up to your rooms here as soon as I could walk. Luckily, John saw me down at the water, so I came up with him, and got rid of a good many civil people who offered their assistance; and I have sent down to the lodgings to tell Mary I have staid to supper with you; so I shall get home quietly, and she will know nothing about this business. Fortunately, she is not in the way of hearing much Oxford gossip, poor girl!”

Russell sat with me about an hour, and then, as he said he felt very comfortable, I walked home with him to the door of his lodgings, where I wished him good-night, and returned.

I had intended to have paid him an early visit the next morning; but somehow I was lazier than usual, and had scarcely bolted my commons in time to get to lecture. This over, I was returning to my rooms, when my scout met me.

“Oh, sir,” said he, “Mr Smith has just been here, and wanted to see you, he said, particular.”

Mr Smith? Of all the gentlemen of that name in Oxford, I thought I had not the honour of a personal acquaintance with one.

“Mr Russell’s Mr Smith, sir,” explained John: “the little gentleman as used to come to his rooms so often.”

I walked up the staircase, ruminating within myself what possible business “poor Smith” could have with me, of whom he had usually appeared to entertain a degree of dread. Something to do with Russell, probably. And I had half resolved to take the opportunity to call upon him, and try to make out who and what he was, and how he and Russell came to be so intimately acquainted. I had scarcely stuck old Herodotus back into his place on the shelf, however, when there came a gentle tap at the door, and the little Bible-clerk made his appearance. All diffidence and shyness had wholly vanished from his manner. There was an earnest expression in his countenance which struck me even before he spoke. I had scarcely time to utter the most commonplace civility, when, without attempt at explanation or apology, he broke out with--“Oh, Mr Hawthorne, have you seen Russell this morning?”

“No,” said I, thinking he might possibly have heard some false report of the late accident--“but he was in my rooms last night, and none the worse for his wetting.”

“Oh, yes, yes! I know that; but pray, come down and see him now--he is very, very ill, I fear.”

“You don’t mean it? What on earth is the matter?”

“Oh! he has been in a high fever all last night! and they say he is worse this morning--Dr Wilson and Mr Lane are both with him--and poor Miss Russell!--he does not know her--not know his sister; and oh, Mr Hawthorne, he must be _very_ ill; and they won’t let me go to him!” And poor Smith threw himself into a chair, and fairly burst into tears.

I was very much distressed too: but, at the moment, I really believe I felt more pity for the poor lad before me, than even apprehension for my friend Russell. I went up to him, shook his hand, and begged him to compose himself. Delirium, I assured him--and tried hard to assure myself--was the usual concomitant of fever, and not at all alarming. Russell had taken a chill, no doubt, from the unlucky business of the last evening, but there could not be much danger in so short a time. “And now, Smith,” said I, “just take a glass of wine, and you and I will go down together, and I dare say we shall find him better by this time.”

“Oh, thank you, thank you,” he replied; “you are very kind--very kind indeed--no wine, thank you--I could not drink it: but oh! if they would only let me see him. And poor Miss Russell! and no one to attend to him but her!--but will you come down now directly?”

My own anxiety was not less than his, and in a very few minutes we were at the door of Russell’s lodgings. The answer to our inquiries was, that he was in much the same state, and that he was to be kept perfectly quiet; the old housekeeper was in tears; and although she said Dr Wilson told them he hoped there would be a change for the better soon, it was evident that poor Russell was at present in imminent danger.

I sent up my compliments to Miss Russell to offer my services in any way in which they could be made available; but nothing short of the most intimate acquaintance could have justified any attempt to see her at present, and we left the house. I thought I should never have got Smith from the door; he seemed thoroughly overcome. I begged him to come with me back to my rooms--a Bible-clerk has seldom too many friends in the University, and it seemed cruel to leave him by himself in such evident distress of mind. Attached as I was to Russell myself, his undisguised grief really touched me, and almost made me reproach myself with being comparatively unfeeling. At any other time, I fear it might have annoyed me to encounter as I did the inquisitive looks of some of my friends, as I entered the College gates arm-in-arm with my newly-found and somewhat strange-looking acquaintance. As it was, the only feeling that arose in my mind was a degree of indignation that any man should venture to throw a supercilious glance at him; and if I longed to replace his shabby and ill-cut coat by something more gentlemanly in appearance, it was for his sake, and not my own.

And now it was that, for the first time, I learnt the connexion that existed between the Bible-clerk and the quondam gentleman-commoner. Smith’s father had been for many years a confidential clerk in Mr Russell’s bank; for Mr Russell’s bank it was solely, the Smith who had been one of the original partners having died some two generations back, though the name of the firm, as is not unusual, had been continued without alteration. The clerk was a poor relation, in some distant degree, of the some-time partner: his father, too, had been a clerk before him. By strict carefulness, he had saved some little money during his many years of hard work: and this, by special favour on the part of Mr Russell, he had been allowed to invest in the bank capital, and thereby to receive a higher rate of interest than he could otherwise have obtained. The elder Smith’s great ambition--indeed it was his only ambition--for the prosperity of the bank itself he looked upon as a law of nature, which did not admit of the feeling of hope, as being a fixed and immutable certainty--his ambition was to bring up his son as a gentleman. Mr Russell would have given him a stool and a desk, and he might have aspired hereafter to his father’s situation, which would have assured him £250 per annum. But somehow the father did not wish the son to tread in his own steps. Perhaps the close confinement, and unrefreshing relaxations of a London clerk, had weighed heavily upon his own youthful spirits: perhaps he was anxious to spare the son of his old age--for, like a prudent man, he had not married until late in life--from the unwholesome toils of the counting-house, varied only too often by the still less wholesome dissipation of the evening. At all events, his visions for him were not of annually increasing salaries, and future independence: of probable partnerships, and possible lord mayoralties; but of some cottage among green trees, far away in the quiet country, where, even as a country parson, people would touch their hats to him as they did to Mr Russell himself, and where, when the time should come for superannuation and a pension--the house had always behaved liberally to its old servants--his own last days might happily be spent in listening to his son’s sermons, and smoking his pipe--if such a thing were lawful--in the porch of the parsonage. So while the principal was carefully training his heir to enact the fashionable man at Oxford, and in due time to take his place among the squires of England, and shunning, as if with a kind of remorseful conscience, to make him a sharer in his own contaminating speculations; the humble official too, but from far purer motives, was endeavouring in his degree, perhaps unconsciously, to deliver his boy from the snares of Mammon. And when Charles Russell was sent to the University, many were the enquiries which Smith’s anxious parent made, among knowing friends, about the expenses and advantages of an Oxford education. And various, according to each individual’s sanguine or saturnine temperament, were the answers he obtained, and tending rather to his bewilderment than information. One intimate acquaintance assured him, that the necessary expenses of an under-graduate _need_ not exceed a hundred pounds per annum: another--he was somewhat of a sporting character--did not believe any young man could do the thing like a gentleman under five. So Mr Smith would probably have given up his darling project for his son in despair, if he had not fortunately thought of consulting Mr Russell himself upon the point; and that gentleman, though somewhat surprised at his clerk’s aspiring notions, good-naturedly solved the difficulty as to ways and means, by procuring for his son a Bible-clerk’s appointment at one of the Halls, upon which he could support himself respectably, with comparatively little pecuniary help from his friends. With his connexions and interest, it was no great stretch of friendly exertion in behalf of an old and trusted servant; but to the Smiths, father and son, both the munificence which designed such a favour, and the influence which could secure it, tended if possible to strengthen their previous conviction, that the power and the bounty of the house of Russell came within a few degrees of omnipotence. Even now, when recent events had so fearfully shaken them from this delusion; when the father’s well-earned savings had disappeared in the general wreck with the hoards of wealthier creditors, and the son was left almost wholly dependent on the slender proceeds of his humble office; even now, as he told me the circumstances just mentioned, regret at the ruined fortunes of his benefactors seemed in a great measure to overpower every personal feeling. In the case of the younger Russell, indeed, this gratitude was not misplaced. No sooner was he aware of the critical situation of his father’s affairs, and the probability of their involving all connected with him, than, even in the midst of his own harassing anxieties, he turned his attention to the prospects of the young Bible-clerk, whose means of support, already sufficiently narrow, were likely to be further straitened in the event of a bankruptcy of the firm. His natural good-nature had led him to take some little notice of young Smith on his first entrance at the University, and he knew his merits as a scholar to be very indifferent. The obscure suburban boarding-school at which he had been educated, in spite of its high-sounding name--“Minerva House,” I believe--was no very sufficient preparation for Oxford. When the Greek and the washing are both extras, at three guineas per annum, one clean shirt in the week, and one lesson in _Delectus_, are perhaps as much as can reasonably be expected. Poor Smith had, indeed, a fearful amount of uphill work, to qualify himself even for his “little-go.” Charles Russell, not less to his surprise than to his unbounded gratitude, inasmuch as he was wholly ignorant of his motives for taking so much trouble, undertook to assist and direct him in his reading: and Smith, when he had got over his first diffidence, having a good share of plain natural sense, and hereditary habits of plodding, made more rapid progress than might have been expected. The frequent visits to Russell’s rooms, whose charitable object neither I nor any one else could have guessed, had resulted in a very safe pass through his first formidable ordeal, and he seemed now to have little fear of eventual success for his degree, with a strong probability of being privileged to starve upon a curacy thereafter. But for Russell’s aid, he would, in all likelihood, have been remanded from his first examination back to his father’s desk, to the bitter mortification of the old man at the time, and to become an additional burden to him on the loss at once of his situation and his little capital.

Poor Smith! it was no wonder that, at the conclusion of his story, interrupted constantly by broken expressions of gratitude, he wrung his hands, and called Charles Russell the only friend he had in the world. “And, oh! if he were to die! Do you think he will die?”

I assured him I hoped and trusted not, and with the view of relieving his and my own suspense, though it was little more than an hour since we had left his door, we went down again to make enquiries. The street door was open, and so was that of the landlady’s little parlour, so we walked in at once. She shook her head in reply to our inquiries. “Dr Wilson has been up-stairs with him, sir, for the last hour nearly, and he has sent twice to the druggist’s for some things, and I fancy he is no better at all events.”

“How is Miss Russell?” I inquired.

“Oh, sir, she don’t take on much--not at all, as I may say; but she don’t speak to nobody, and she don’t take nothing: twice I have carried her up some tea, poor thing and she just tasted it because I begged her, and she wouldn’t refuse me, I know--but, poor dear young lady! it is very hard upon her, and she all alone like.”

“Will you take up my compliments--Mr Hawthorne--and ask if I can be of any possible service?” said I, scarce knowing what to say or do. Poor girl! she was indeed to be pitied; her father ruined, disgraced, and a fugitive from the law; his only son--the heir of such proud hopes and expectations once--lying between life and death; her only brother, her only counsellor and protector, now unable to recognise or to speak to her--and she so unused to sorrow or hardship, obliged to struggle on alone, and exert herself to meet the thousand wants and cares of illness, with the added bitterness of poverty.

The answer to my message was brought back by the old housekeeper, Mrs Saunders. She shook her head, said her young mistress was very much obliged, and would be glad if I would call and see her brother tomorrow, when she hoped he would be better; “But oh, sir!” she added, “He will never be better any more! I know the doctors don’t think so, but I can’t tell her, poor thing--I try to keep her up, sir; but I do wish some of her own friends were here--she won’t write to any body, and I don’t know the directions”--and she stopped, for her tears were almost convulsing her.

I could not remain to witness misery which I could do nothing to relieve; so I took Smith by the arm--for he stood by the door half-stupified, and proceeded back towards college. He had to mark the roll at his own chapel that evening; so we parted at the top of the street, after I had made him promise to come to breakfast with me in the morning. Russell’s illness cast a universal gloom over the college that evening; and when the answer to our last message, sent down as late as we could venture to do, was still unfavourable, it was with anxious anticipation that we awaited any change which the morrow might bring.

The next day passed, and still Russell remained in the same state. He as in a high fever, and either perfectly unconscious of all around him, or talking in that incoherent and yet earnest strain, which is more painful to those who have to listen to and to soothe than even the total prostration of the reason. No one was allowed to see him; and his professional attendants, though they held out hopes founded on his youth and good constitution, acknowledged that every present symptom was most unfavourable.

The earliest intelligence on the third morning was, that the patient had passed a very bad night, and was much the same; but in the course of an hour or two afterwards, a message came to me to say that Mr Russell would be glad to see me. I rushed, rather than ran, down to his lodgings, in a perfect exultation of hope, and was so breathless with haste and excitement when I arrived there, that I was obliged to pause a few moments to calm myself before I raised the carefully muffled knocker. My joy was damped at once by poor Mrs Saunders’ mournful countenance.

“Your master is better, I hope--is he not?” said I.

“I am afraid not, sir; but he is very quiet now: and he knew his poor dear sister; and then he asked if any one had been to see him, and we mentioned you, sir; and then he said he should like to see you very much, and so Miss made bold to send to you--if you please to wait, sir, I’ll tell her you are here.”

In a few moments she returned--Miss Russell would see me if I would walk up.

I followed her into the little drawing-room, and there, very calm and very pale, sat Mary Russell. Though her brother and myself had now so long been constant companions, I had seen but very little of her; on the very few evenings I had spent with Russell at his lodgings she had merely appeared to make tea for us, had joined but little in the conversation, and retired almost before the table was cleared. In her position, this behaviour seemed but natural; and as, in spite of the attraction of her beauty, there was a shade of that haughtiness and distance of manner which we had all at first fancied in her brother, I had begun to feel a respectful kind of admiration for Mary Russell, tinged, I may now venture to admit--I was barely twenty at the time--with a slight degree of awe. Her very misfortunes threw over her a sort of sanctity. She was too beautiful not to rivet the gaze, too noble and too womanly in her devotion to her brother not to touch the affections, but too cold and silent--almost as it seemed too sad--to love. Her brother seldom spoke of her; but when he did it was in a tone which showed--what he did not care to conceal--his deep affection and anxious care for her; he watched her every look and movement whenever she was present; and if his love erred in any point, it was, that it seemed possible it might be even too sensitive and jealous for her own happiness.