Chapter VI: Part 6

This was on the first of August, and two days later at twilight the booming of cannon, the flare of lights, the tramp of ambassadors and sentinels coming and going, told the State prisoners in the Tower of the arrival of Queen Mary and the Princess Elizabeth, and leaden-hearted Lady Jane from her windows doubtless watched the gay scene, noting how many of those now paying homage to their new Queen had only nine days before sworn loyalty to her.

The Queen and Elizabeth had come for the Protestant State funeral service of King Edward, which took place on the 8th of August, and there was also a service according to the ritual of the Church of Rome celebrated at Mary's command, in the Royal Chapel of the Tower, where Mary had now taken up her residence. One of her first acts as Queen was to free a number of prisoners in the Tower, but she never lifted a finger to the liberation of Lady Jane, her kinswoman.

On the eighteenth of August, the Duke of Northumberland was tried for treason, and throughout his trial acted in the basest manner possible; then seeing that whatever he might say would not save him, he confessed his crime and begged the pardon of the judges, showing one spark of manhood when he asserted that whatever might be his own deserts, Lady Jane not only had not wished the crown, but was forced to accept it. For himself he only asked the death usually accorded noblemen, and some degree of favour for his children. On hearing that Northumberland had been condemned, the people showed great joy, as they felt it was a just desert for his treason, and their sentiment was clearly shown by the crowds lining the street when he was taken from the court to his prison in the Tower. On the next day he received news of his intended execution which was carried out on the 22nd of August.

Meanwhile Lady Jane and her husband were still prisoners, and Jane's conduct will forever place her name among the heroes and martyrs of the Reformation, so calm and courageous was she during every circumstance of her confinement, never uttering a word of complaint, but seeming wholly concerned for the sufferings of her father and husband, and though she must have indeed had bitter thoughts, yet she never voiced them, but was always calm and sweet.

Through the whole month of August there were memorable struggles between the Catholics and Protestants, each struggling for supremacy, and at last all doubt was at an end. Queen Mary was determined to distinguish herself as a persecutor of the Protestants.

During the last week of August she was busily preparing for her coronation, which was to be celebrated on the first day of October, and was marked with the usual pomp and splendour of such pageants, and still sweet Lady Jane was in prison, separated from her husband and from her friends. A few days after Mary's queendom was officially confirmed her first Parliament was opened, and one of its first acts was to pass a bill of attainder upon Lady Jane Grey and her husband,--and so destiny swept the innocent usurper with its swift current.

The trial on a charge of high treason took place at the Guildhall on November 13th. In all the year England has no sadder month than November, by reason of its dull skies and heavy fogs, and in a mood not unlike the sombre day, Lady Jane and Lord Guilford were led out from the place where they had been for so long imprisoned. They were surrounded by a guard of four hundred soldiers, and there was great noise and confusion along their line of march, but Lady Jane was calmness personified, both then and through the whole trial.

She pleaded guilty of the charge against her, poor innocent little Queen, and presently her sentence was pronounced. She was to be burned alive on Tower Hill, or beheaded, at the Queen's pleasure.

Notwithstanding their desire to have Mary for queen, in place of Jane, the people on hearing this terrible sentence, burst forth in groans, and many sobbed and bewailed her fate to such a degree that Jane turned, and said calmly to them:

"Oh, faithful companions of my sorrows, why do you thus afflict me with your plaints. Are we not born into life to suffer adversity and even disgrace if necessary? When has the time been that the innocent were not exposed to violence and oppression?" and from the example of her brave cheerfulness, they ceased their moaning.

At that time it was generally supposed that Queen Mary would pardon Lady Jane and Lord Guilford, and there is no doubt that this was her intention then, and she ordered gentle treatment of them both, which must have made their hearts beat high with hope of some time being free. From the day of the trial Queen Mary showed an intense desire to win Jane over to the Catholic faith, and sent a devout Catholic priest to visit her in the Tower, with this in view; but it was utterly useless to attempt to turn the firm little Protestant from her belief, even though the change might have saved her head.

While Lady Jane was resisting the attempts to change her creed, Queen Mary was deciding to make sure of a Catholic succession to the throne, and presently announced her engagement to Philip of Spain, the son of the Emperor Charles, which engagement when made public produced marked discontent through the whole country, for it was feared that with a Spanish prince for the husband of their Queen, England would become merely a vassal to Spain, and both Protestants and Catholics were firmly opposed to the match.

Again a chance for Lady Jane's cause! In less than a week Queen Mary's court were alarmed by the news that the Duke of Suffolk with his two brothers, had again organised a rebellion in several counties for the restoration of Lady Jane to the throne. There were also at that time two other insurrections in the kingdom, aiming at one end--the prevention of the Queen's marriage; but of the three the most dangerous was that of the Duke of Suffolk, and he knew that even if it should succeed, Lady Jane would never accept the throne unless forced. A more fool-hardy course he could not have pursued, but passing through Leicestershire, he proclaimed Lady Jane Queen in every town through which he passed, and seemed to sincerely believe that the people who such a short time before had stood for the arrest and the uncrowning of his daughter, would now stand in solid support of her claim.

With all the conflicts and intrigues of all the three insurrections there was the noise of battle throughout the country, but every one of them ended in defeat, and only one came anywhere near to victory, that, the one in favour of the crowning of Lady Jane Grey. And because of this, Mary the Queen felt that Jane was too dangerous a menace to the safety of the nation, and to her own sovereignty, to remain alive, and so the moment had come when Jane, so young and so full of the joy of living, must reap what others had sown.

On the eighth of February, the news was carried to the prisoner. She received her doom with dry-eyed dignity, but pleaded for mercy for her husband, who she said was innocent, and had only obeyed his father in all things, but the plea was disregarded and when the news was taken to Guilford, unlike Lady Jane he thought only of himself, and wept and begged and prayed for forgiveness,--but in vain!

It was originally intended that Jane and Guilford should be executed together on Tower Hill, but this was not carried out, probably because Lady Jane, being of blood royal, could be executed inside the precincts of the Tower, where two queens of Henry the Eighth had been beheaded, while Guilford, being of plebeian origin, was obliged to perish outside the Tower walls.

While awaiting the fatal day, Jane occupied herself in writing a letter to her father, in which she held him responsible for her death, and then probably spent Sunday the 10th of February, in prayer and meditation, and on the following day she wrote a beautiful letter to her sister Katherine, of whose terrible grief on her account she had been told. The letter was written on the blank leaves of a Greek testament, which has fortunately been preserved, and can be seen to-day in the British Museum.

Lord Guilford Dudley begged for an interview with his wife before their death, but this Lady Jane declined, saying that it would unnerve them both for the supreme moment, although she sent a message to her husband, and on the day of the execution, at the time when he was to pass her window on his way to the scaffold, she stood and waved her hand to him, as he passed, in the strength of his youth and manhood, to the horrible grave dug for him by his own father's hand, facing death bravely at the end.

Then a ghastly accident occurred. Either by accident or by design, Jane caught a glimpse of her husband's body as it was being carried from the scaffold to the Tower for burial, and for a time it seemed as if her frail young frame could not resist the strain of that agony of sorrow and fear which overcame her; but at last Lady Jane was on her way to meet her doom.

The bells of the churches tolled as the dread procession wound its way slowly to the foot of the scaffold, and the young prisoner was dressed as on the day of her trial, in a black cloth dress edged with black velvet, a Marie Stuart cap of black velvet on her head, with a veil of black cloth hanging to her waist and a white wimple concealing her throat, her sleeves edged with lawn, neatly plaited around her wrists.

Before ascending the steps leading to the scaffold the Lady Jane bade farewell to her sobbing ladies, then mounting, advanced to the edge of the platform and spoke in a clear sweet voice, of her innocence of treason, and begging them to bear witness that she died a true Christian woman. Then after a pause, and wiping her eyes, she added, "Now, good people, Jane Dudley bids you all a long farewell. And may the Almighty preserve you from ever meeting the terrible death which awaits her in a few minutes."

At these words, seeing the towering figure of the executioner in his scarlet robe, she threw herself into the arms of her old nurse, who was by her side, and sobbed and shivered with terror. Then growing calmer she knelt while a psalm was said and prayer offered, then she said farewell to those who had been with her to the end, and gave her prayer book as a memento to one who had asked this favour.

The supreme moment had come. Unloosening her gown without the aid of her attendants, who were overcome with emotion, she cast aside the handkerchief with which she was expected to bandage her eyes, and then with a swift glance at the executioner, she said simply:

"I pray you despatch me quickly," then kneeling down she asked, "Will you take it off before I lay me down?"

Without any apparent emotion Lady Jane then tied the handkerchief over her eyes. She was now blindfolded and, trying to feel for the block, asked, "What shall I do? Where is it?"

A person near her, on the scaffold, guided her to the block, and she instantly laid her head upon it, rested in silence for a moment, then exclaimed:

"Lord, into thy hands I commend my spirit," and a moment later the agony was over.

The noblest, most courageous girl who was ever the victim of relentless ambition, was gone, sacrificed to a game of chance in which she was the royal pawn! History offers no sadder, no more thrilling story than that of Lady Jane, the girl of seventeen, who was a "Nine Days Queen!"

GENTLE ANNIE:

A Daughter of the Regiment

FORT SUMTER had been fired on!

The whole country was in a state of flaming excitement. Up to that time there had been a division of sentiment in the North, and many thought that by patient effort the seceding States could be brought back into the Union--that there would never be any serious fighting--but now all that was changed.

In a measure the Northerners were unprepared for war, and the regular army was then very small, but one month after the inauguration of President Lincoln he issued a call for seventy-five thousand volunteers for three months' service only, and the war between North and South began in earnest.

In every part of the country there was one absorbing topic of conversation, while men were being hastily gathered into companies, officers were forming their regiments to march to the scene of conflict, women were hurriedly joining hospital brigades, and the government was rushing the purchase and manufacture of ammunition and weapons, and collecting an adequate supply of horses and army-wagons, camp equipments and provisions and uniforms for the soldiers.

In every State there was an individual flurry of preparation while men and women made ready to leave homes and families, for the sake of their country. When the first enlistment took place, Annie Etheredge, a young woman whose childhood and early girlhood had been passed in Wisconsin, was in Detroit visiting some friends, and the set of young women with whom she associated became so filled with the enthusiasm of war that nineteen of them offered themselves to go as nurses with the Second Michigan volunteers under Colonel Richardson. This offer was accepted and all bade brave farewells to their families and friends, and set out with the regiment, to help and to heal wherever opportunity offered. But theirs were hands and hearts not accustomed to such work, and at the end of a few months, eighteen of them returned to their homes, having been unable to bear the sights and service of the battlefield. But it was not so with Annie Etheredge. Her brave spirit and heroic character never gave way under the most severe strain, and as we follow her through those sombre days, we give thanks for such a pure, strong example of what a woman, however young, may be. To Tennessee went Annie with her regiment, and was transferred to Michigan, where she had many friends and was with that regiment in every battle in which they took part.

It took very little time to discover the value of her services and General Berry, who for a long time commanded the brigade to which Annie's regiment was attached, soon declared that the young woman was as self-possessed under a hot fire of shot and shell as he was himself--and that was a good deal for the gallant commander to acknowledge of one of the opposite sex!

Annie was provided with a fine horse, a side-saddle, and saddle bags, as well as two pistols which she carried in her holster, but never used, and so fitted out she rode fearlessly to the front in the skirmish of Blackburn's Ford and in the first battle of Bull Run. Her keen eye was always quick to discover where there was need of assistance, and she would gallop to a wounded soldier who was too severely hurt to go to the rear, dismount, and regardless of the fire of shot and shell often whizzing around her, would skilfully bind up his wounds, give him water or a necessary stimulant, say a cheery word,--then gallop on to her next patient. So tender and soothing a nurse was she that the soldiers called her "Gentle Annie," and many an eye watched with eager affection as the horse carrying her girlish figure came in sight following the troops.

In the second battle of Bull Run, on the 29th of August, 1861, Annie was standing on a part of the battle-field where there was a rocky ledge, under the protection of which some wounded soldiers had crawled. Seeing this, Annie lingered behind the troops, helped several other injured men to the same retreat, and was soon busy dressing their wounds. One of the fellows was a fine looking boy whose lips were parched and his eyes brilliant with fever. She gave him a refreshing drink, then bound up his wounds, receiving in return a bright glance of gratitude and a faint "God's blessing on you," just as the rebel battery literally tore him to pieces under her very hands, while at the same moment she saw the enemy, almost within touch, and she was obliged to make a hasty flight or she too would have been killed.

On another part of that bloody battle-field of Bull Run, tireless in her activity, although sick at heart from the ghastly sights and sounds of the day, she was kneeling beside a soldier and tenderly binding up his wounds, when she heard a gruff voice repeating her name, and looking up, to her astonishment saw brave General Kearney, checking his horse by her side, watching her with genuine admiration in his eyes. "That's right," he exclaimed. "I am glad to see you here, helping those poor fellows, and when this is over, I will have you made a regimental sergeant," which meant that she would receive a sergeant's pay and rations, but as the gallant General was killed two days later at Chantilly, Annie never received the appointment. But she continued her care of the sick and wounded in the same quiet manner which characterised all her actions. When she was not busy on the field or in hospital or transport duty she superintended the cooking at headquarters, and when the brigade moved, she would mount her horse, and march with the ambulance and the surgeons, ready to serve where she was most needed, or if on the battle-field when night fell she wrapped herself in her soldier's blanket and slept under the protecting sky with the hardihood of a true soldier.

At Chancellorsville, on the 2nd of May, 1863, the men of the Third Corps were in extreme danger because of a panic by which the Eleventh Corps was broken up; and one company of the Third Michigan and also one of the sharp-shooters were detailed as skirmishers. Annie was advised of her danger in remaining with the regiment, but refused to go to the rear, and instead took the lead, but met her Colonel and he peremptorily commanded her to go back, saying the enemy was very near, and he was every moment expecting an attack. Reluctant to obey, Annie turned and rode along the front of a line of shallow trenches filled with Union men. Then rising in her saddle she called out, "Boys, do your duty and whip the rebels!"

The men's heads rose above the edge of the trench and they cheered her, crying, "Hurrah for Annie! Bully for you!" which shout unfortunately showed their position to the enemy, who at once fired a volley of shots in the direction of the cheering. Annie rode to the end of the rear of the line, then turned to look back, and as she did so, an officer quickly pushed his horse between her and a large tree by which she was standing, so that he might be sheltered behind her. She was staring at him in astonishment at such an unchivalrous act, when a second volley was fired; a ball whizzed past her, and the officer fell heavily against her, then lifeless to the ground. At the same moment another ball grazed Annie's hand (this was the only wound she received during the whole war), cut through her dress, and slightly wounded her horse, who was so frenzied by the pain that he set off on a run through the woods, plunging in and out among the trees so rapidly that Annie was afraid of being brushed from her saddle by the branches, or of having her brains dashed out by being thrown against a tree trunk. Raising herself on her saddle with a violent effort she crouched on her knees and clung to the pommel and awaited what might come, but by a lucky chance, the frightened animal dashed out of the woods and into the midst of the Eleventh Corps, who stopped the runaway and gave a rousing cheer for plucky Annie. Her regiment was by this time quite a distance away, and Annie wanted to see and speak with General Berry, who was the commander of her division, but was told by an aide that he was not there. "He _is_ here," replied Annie, "and I must see him." The aide turned his horse and rode up to the General, who was near by, and told him that a woman was coming up, who insisted on seeing him.

"It is Annie," said General Berry. "Let her come, let her come. I would risk my life for Annie any time!" As Annie approached from one side a prisoner was brought up on the other, and after some words with him, and receiving his sword, the General sent him to the rear, and after greeting Annie cordially he gave the prisoner into her charge, directing him to walk by her horse. This was Annie's last interview with the brave General, for he was killed early the next morning in the desperate fight for possession of the plank road, in the woods not far from the hospital, leading past the Chancellor House.

During the same battle Annie found an artillery man so badly wounded that he could not move. The batteries had no surgeons of their own, and despite his entreaties the infantry surgeons with their hands full in caring for their own wounded men, had refused to assist him. Annie, after binding up the poor man's wounds, insisted on having him cared for, and a year later she received the following letter:

WASHINGTON, D. C., Jan. 14, 1864.

_Annie_:--_Dearest Friend_:--I am not long for
this world, and I wish to thank you for your
kindness ere I go.

You were the only one who was ever kind to me
since I entered the Army. At Chancellorsville, I
was shot through the body, the ball entering my
side and coming out through the shoulder. I was
also hit in the arm, and was carried to the
hospital in the woods where I lay for hours and
not a surgeon would touch me when you came along
and gave me water and bound up my wounds. Please
accept my heartfelt gratitude; and may God bless
you and protect you from all dangers; may you be
eminently successful in your present pursuit. I
enclose a flower, a present from a sainted mother;
it is the only gift I have to send you. Had I a
picture, I would send you one. I know nothing of
your history, but I hope you always have and
always may be happy, and since I will be unable to
see you in this world, I hope I may meet you in
the better world where there is no war. May God
bless you, both now and forever, is the wish of
your grateful friend.

Such rewards for loving service must have been very grateful to one of Annie's sensitive nature, and she continued to toil on in the spirit of love and heroism through the battle of Gettysburg, and the engagements of Grant's closing campaign, where her gentleness and courage were favourite themes of the soldiers, who could scarcely bear to have her out of their sight when they were sick or wounded.

At the battle of the Wilderness, when the fighting was fiercest and the balls were raining like hailstones, the Fifth Michigan, to which Annie was now attached, together with other troops, were surrounded and nearly cut off by the rebels and as the line of battle swung round, the rebels at once took the places vacated by the Union men. Annie was at that moment speaking to a little drummer boy when a bullet pierced his heart, and he fell against Annie, dead. For the first and only time during the war she was overcome by a panic of terror and laying the dead boy on the ground, she ran like a hunted deer towards what she took to be the Union troops, to find to her horror she was mistaken. It was the rebel forces, but, too late to retrace her steps she dashed ahead, cutting her swift way through the enemy's line, and though shots whistled after her, she escaped in safety.

With every month of service, Annie's patriotism grew stronger and her desire to serve the cause for which the Union was fighting, keener. During the battle of Spotsylvania she met a number of soldiers retreating, and when imploring them to turn back had no effect, she offered to lead them herself, and shamed into doing their duty, by a woman's courage, they turned, and led by the dauntless girl, went back into the thick of the fight, under heavy fire from the enemy. Never did Annie bear the regimental colours or flourish sword or flag, as has been asserted; she simply inspired men to deeds of valour or to the doing of their simple duty by her own contagious example of unwavering patriotism.

When the enemy was attacked by the Second Corps, as they were at Deep Bottom, Annie became separated from her regiment, and with her usual attendant--the surgeon's orderly, who carried the medicine chest, went in search of the troops, but before she realised it, found herself beyond the line of the Union pickets. An officer at once told her she must turn back, that the enemy was near, and almost before the words were spoken, the rebel skirmishers suddenly appeared, and as suddenly the officer struck spurs into his horse and fled, Annie and the orderly following as fast as they could, until they reached the Union lines. As the rebels had hoped to surprise the Union troops they did not fire lest they should give an alarm, which is probably the reason why Annie escaped uninjured, and in this as in many other cases it seemed as if the loving thoughts and prayers of those to whom she had been mother, sister and friend in hours of blackest despair protected the brave girl from harm.

So strong was the confidence of the soldiers in Annie's ability to shape even circumstances to her will, that this confidence amounted almost to a superstition, and whenever a battle was to be fought, were uneasy as to results, also as to the care of the wounded unless she was at hand, and there was never a more fitting tribute paid to man or woman, old or young, than that paid to Annie by the brilliant General Birney. After watching her closely and observing her invaluable service and dauntless courage one day at twilight he gathered together his troops, and amid shouts of appreciative applause presented her with the glittering Kearney Cross, a token of noble self-sacrifice and heroic service rendered to the Union army, and it is pleasant to picture the brave girl as she received the reward of her faithful service, with that modest diffidence which is so charming in a woman, but with shining eyes and cheeks flushed with appreciation of the token that her work had not been in vain.

Many verses have been written in honour of Annie, and this fragment of one of them seems a fitting tribute to the pure, sweet, patriotic Daughter of the Regiment.

To Miss Anna Etheredge.

(THE HEROINE OF THE WAR.)

Hail dauntless maid! whose shadowy form,
Borne like a sunbeam on the air,
Swept by amid the battle storm,
Cheering the helpless sufferers there,
Amid the cannon's smoke and flame,
The earthquake sound of shot and shell,
Winning by deeds of love, a name
Immortal as the brave who fell.

Hail angel! whose diviner spell
Charmed dying heroes with her prayer,
Staunching their wounds amid the knell
Of death, destruction and despair.
Thy name by memory shall be wreathed
Round many desolate hearts in prayer;
By orphan lips it shall be breathed,
And float in songs upon the air.

MADELEINE DE VERCHERES:

The Heroine of Castle Dangerous

IT was the twenty-second of October. Hills until recently tapestried, and valleys which had been flaming with the glory of autumn were now putting on the more sombre garb of early winter, though still the soft haze of fall hung over fields and forests in the small Canadian colony, on the bank of the St. Lawrence River, twenty miles below Montreal, a settlement commanded by the French officer Seignieur de Vercheres.

Peace and quiet reigned throughout the small community on that October morning, while all its inhabitants except the very young or the infirm were busy harvesting.

Because of its location in a direct route between the hunting ground of the Iroquois Indians and Montreal, the fort protecting the settlement was known as the "Castle Dangerous" of Canada. At night all the farmers and other settlers of the community left their log cabins and gathered in the fort for protection, then went out in the morning, with hoe in one hand and gun in the other, to till the fields, leaving the women and children safe inside the fort, which stood in an exposed position beyond the homes of the settlers. Outside the fort stood a strong block house connected with it by a covered passage, and both were surrounded by a palisaded wall. Fort and blockhouse and wall were necessary protections in those days when English, French and Indians were at war in the Canadian provinces in the name of Church or King, or for personal betterment, and when the Indians were resisting with powerful determination the religion and customs which the white men were trying to thrust upon them, and attempting to prevent the aliens from securing the rich supplies of skins which were annually brought down the Ottawa river by fur-traders from the frozen North.

It was indeed a time of warfare in Canada--that latter part of the seventeenth century, when Frontenac was governor of the French possessions, and two nations were striving so bitterly for supremacy. At that time the river Ottawa, as Parkman, the historian, tells us, "was the main artery of Canada, and to stop it was--to stop the flow of her life blood."

The Iroquois, a powerful and cunning tribe of Indians who were a menace to all foreigners, knew this, and their constant effort was to close it so completely that the annual supply of beaver skins would be prevented from passing, and the French colony thus be obliged to live on credit. It was the habit of the Iroquois to spend the latter part of the winter, hunting in the forests between the Ottawa and the upper St. Lawrence, and when the ice broke up to move in large bands to the banks of the Ottawa and lie in ambush to waylay the canoes of the fur-traders with their cargoes of skins. On the other hand, it was the constant effort of Frontenac and his men to keep the river open, an almost impossible task. Many conflicts great and small took place, with various results, but in spite of every effort on the part of the French, the Iroquois blockade was maintained for more than two years.

The brunt of the war was felt in the country above Montreal, which was easily accessible to the Indians, but it was a time of grave menace also to all the colonists, and the children of the Seignieur de Vercheres had been taught from their earliest childhood to handle firearms easily and skilfully, and had been told so many blood-curdling tales of the treachery and cruelty of the Iroquois, and of the heroic deeds done by their countrymen in defending forts and homes, that each young heart thrilled with the hope that they too might some day perform a deed of valour. And their chance was nearer than they dreamed on that October morning when the little settlement lay serene in its quiet security, giving no heed to invasion or to foe, when everyone in the settlement was at work in the fields except two soldiers, the two young sons of the Seignieur, an old man of eighty, and a number of women and children.

The Seignieur was at that time on duty at Quebec, his wife was also away on a visit to Montreal, and their daughter, Madeleine, a girl of fourteen, was in command of both fort and home--not very difficult offices to fill, so thought her parents in leaving, as there had been no attacks for some time, and we can picture Madeleine, tall and slender, with a wealth of golden-brown hair falling over her low brow, her eyes dancing with merriment as she received her list of household duties from her mother, and her commands concerning the fort from her father, sure that the hours and days of the golden autumn would bring her no graver responsibilities than she had carried before.

Her morning duties in the home despatched, she sauntered down to the river boat-landing, taking with her a hired man named Laviolette. She was expecting some friends from Montreal and for a long time she stood on the bank of the sparkling river, shading her eyes from the glare of the sun, watching eagerly in hopes of seeing the boatload coming. It was not in sight, and she chatted with Laviolette and watched the movements of some near-by fishing craft for a moment. Suddenly she turned, stood still, and held up a silencing finger to the garrulous Laviolette, who was spinning a sea yarn of his boyhood. She had heard an ominous sound in the direction of the field where the settlers were at work.

"Run, Laviolette, to the top of the hill and see what it is," she said, without serious apprehension. The man, quick to do her bidding, ran to a point of vantage, stood beside her again, and what was it he said?

"Shots! Run, Mademoiselle, _run_!" he cried, "here come the Iroquois!"

The warning was too late. As Madeleine turned she found herself within gun range of forty or fifty of the dreaded Indians! Like a bit of thistle-down blown by the wind, she ran toward the fort, her brown hair flying in the breeze, commending herself as she ran, so she herself afterwards told, to the Holy Virgin, the Iroquois in hot pursuit, but not one of them fleet-footed enough to catch the fleeing maiden. Disconcerted, they stood still, seeing that pursuit was fruitless, and, standing, fired at her, the bullets whistling about her ears, while her heart beat so fast with fright that it seemed she could not take another step. But still she was fleeing, fleeing. She was at the gate at last, she cried loudly, "To arms! To arms!" praying that someone within would hear her and come to the rescue, but she prayed in vain. The two soldiers who were in the fort were so terror stricken that they ran to the blockhouse and hid, and only one answered Madeleine's call. To add to her horror, outside the gate were two women huddled, moaning for their husbands who had just been killed before their eyes. There was no time for quiet thought, but in Madeleine's veins flowed the blood of warriors. In a brave voice she called, "Go in, and cease your crying!" and pushing the women inside the gate, closed it, as she did so, trying to think how she was to save the other defenceless ones of whom in her father's absence she was the guardian. With flying feet she inspected the fort and wall, and to her dismay found that in several places the defences were so insecure that the enemy could easily push through. The weak spots must be barricaded at once. With peremptory orders Madeleine set her few helpers to work, and herself fetched wood for her purpose, helping place it with her quick strong hands. That done, she went into the blockhouse where all the ammunition was kept, and there crouching in a corner she found the two soldiers, one with a lighted match in his hand.

"What are you going to do with that?" she asked.

Too frightened to lie, he answered, "Light the powder and blow us all up."

Madeleine flashed a glance of contempt at him. "You are a miserable coward!" she said. "Go out of this place. _I_ am commander of the fort," and there was that in her voice which made the men obey. Then throwing off her bonnet, putting on a more masculine hat, and taking up a gun, in the use of which she was unusually skilful, she gave a command to her two brothers, who were awaiting her orders. "Let us fight to the death," she said. "We are fighting for our country and our religion. Remember our father has taught you that gentlemen are born to shed their blood for the service of God and the King."

The boys were only ten and twelve years old, but they had received the same early training as Madeleine, and in their veins too ran the blood of those who conquer. The stirring words roused their courage, and like old seasoned warriors they took up arms, and with what ability they possessed began at once to fire through the loopholes of the blockhouse on the Iroquois, who, having no idea how many soldiers were inside defending the garrison, were overcome with fear, and giving up their attack on the fort, began to chase the people in a neighbouring field, and killed all whom they could catch. Madeleine was now so thoroughly filled with the spirit of war that she at once ordered a cannon to be fired, partly to keep the enemy from a further assault, and also as a signal to some of the soldiers who were at a distance, hunting. And all this time within the fort there was the shrill sound of the women and children wailing and screaming. Madeleine, on guard at a loophole, gave a stern order, "Be quiet, or your screams will encourage the enemy!" Then with far sighted eyes she saw a canoe gliding up to the landing-place, the one that she had been looking for in that care-free hour which now seemed years ago; the canoe in which was her friend who was trying to reach the fort with his family. Knowing how near the Indians were, Madeleine was terrified lest the visitors should be killed before her eyes, and she begged the soldiers to go to their aid, but they were not brave enough to do it. She must go herself. With a hasty command to Laviolette to keep watch at the gate while she was gone, she ran out alone down to the landing-place. She afterwards said, "I thought that the savages would suppose it to be a ruse to draw them towards the fort, in order to make a rush upon them. They did suppose so, and thus I was able to save my friends, the Fontaine family. When they were landed I made them all march up to the fort before me in full sight of the enemy. We put so bold a face on that they thought they had more to fear than we had." Thus the settlers and their plucky young escort gained the shelter of the fort, and Madeleine, quite encouraged by this addition to the number of her forces, at once ordered that whenever an Indian came in sight, he should at once be fired on, which order was faithfully obeyed, and in watching and firing, the hours of the long day wore away.

After sunset a fierce northeast wind came up, accompanied with a flurry of snow and hail, and as the little band in the fort heard the howling of the wind they looked at one another with pale and terrified faces, fearing that the Iroquois, who were still lurking near, would be able, under cover of the noise and darkness of the storm, to climb into the fort, and all would be lost. Whitest of all was Madeleine, the young commander, but she gathered her troop of six persons around her, and said stoutly, "God has saved us to-day from the hands of our enemies, but we must take care not to fall into their snares to-night. As for me, I want you to see that I am not afraid. I will take care of the fort with an old man of eighty and another who never fired a gun, and you, Pierre Fontaine, with the two soldiers, will go to the blockhouse with the women and children because that is the strongest place, and if I am taken, don't surrender, even if I am cut to pieces and burned before your eyes. The enemy cannot hurt you in the blockhouse if you make the least show of fight."

Then placing her two brothers on two of the bastions or look-outs of the fort, and the old man of eighty on the third, she herself took the fourth watch, and all through the endless hours of that night while the wind howled and the storm beat against the wall, the cries of "ALL'S WELL!" were repeated from the blockhouse to the fort, and from the fort to the blockhouse. One would have thought the place was filled with soldiers, and the Indians were completely deceived, as they confessed afterwards to a Frenchman to whom they then told their plan of capturing the fort in the night, a plan which had failed because the place had been so well guarded!--and two young boys, a very old man and a young girl had accomplished this!

About one o'clock in the morning the soldier who had been put on watch at the gate called out, "Mademoiselle, I hear something," and hurrying to him Madeleine, by the aid of the snow light, was able to see a small number of cattle huddled close to the fort. Telling this to her companions they instantly cried, "Let them in," but Madeleine shook her head, answering emphatically, "God forbid! You don't know all the tricks of the savages. They are no doubt following the cattle, covered with skins of beasts so as to get into the fort, if we are simple enough to open the gate for them."

But later, after having taken every precaution for safety, besides placing the boys ready with their guns cocked in case of surprise, Madeleine allowed the gate to be opened and the cattle filed in safely and alone.

At last the weary night of suspense was over, and as daylight dawned, the situation began to look brighter. Everyone took fresh courage except Madame Fontaine, who begged her husband to carry her to another and safer fort. He replied, "I will never abandon this fort while Mademoiselle Madeleine is here."

At this loyal answer Madeleine gave him a swift glance of appreciation, and cried, "I will never abandon it. I would _die_ rather than give it up to the enemy. It is of the greatest importance that they should not get hold of any French fort, because they would think they could get others and grow more bold and presumptuous than ever!"

Then with another quick nod of thanks and of understanding off went the young commander again to her post on the look-out, and then back to the blockhouse, where she said words of ringing encouragement to the weary band huddled there together, and it was twenty-four hours later before she went into her father's house either for refreshment or rest, although sadly in need of both, but was always on guard to cheer her discouraged flock.

When forty-eight hours had passed in this way, rest became imperative even for Madeleine's strong, young frame, and she allowed herself to doze at a table, folding her arms on it, so that with her gun lying across her arms and her head on her gun she was ready at a word of alarm to spring up, weapon in hand, and face the enemy. It was a terrible situation, that of the little band within the fort, for they knew of no way to send word to friends of their plight, and if the outer world had no news of the situation, from whence could help come? This thought was constantly in the minds of the exhausted band, waiting, watching and hoping against hope for some one to come to their rescue. Had they but known that even while they were waiting, some of the farmers who when at work in the field had escaped the Indians, were now making their way to Montreal, their anxiety would have been greatly lessened, but they did not know, and the fort was constantly attacked by the enemy, who when not besieging it were crouching near, waiting for a chance to make a successful attack. Very early on the dawn of the seventh day of their vigil, Madeleine's younger brother, who was on watch on the side of the fort which faced the river, heard the sound of distant voices and the splashing of oars in the water.

"Who goes there?" he called out bravely, but with a shivering fear that it might be additional forces of the enemy. At the sound of his cry Madeleine, dozing by the table, roused and ran to his side with a question on her lips which did not need to be framed.

"A voice from the river," he whispered, but as he spoke came the louder sound of near-by footsteps and voices, and fleet-footed Madeleine ran to the bastion to see whether it was friend or foe arriving.

"Who are you?" the clear voice of the intrepid young commander rang out, and instantly came the answer:

"We are Frenchmen. It is La Monnerie, who comes to bring you help, and with him are forty men."

Relief was at hand! Turning, Madeleine gave a command to a soldier to stand on guard, then, "Quick, open the gate," she said, and her command was obeyed. The gate, closely guarded, was opened, and out went Madeleine to meet those who had come to the rescue.

As Monsieur Monnerie caught sight of the slight girlish figure his eyes were full of wonder. Then she stood before him, drew herself up to her full height, and solemnly saluted, saying, "Monsieur, I surrender my arms to you."

The gallant Frenchman retorted chivalrously, "Mademoiselle, they are in good hands," and then the pride of the brave girl broke bounds, and with shining eyes she exclaimed, "Better than you know. Come and see for yourself!" and fairly pulled him into the fort, where he made a thorough inspection, and his admiration increased momentarily as he saw what this slip of a girl had been able to accomplish. Everything was in order, a sentinel was on each bastion, the enemy had been held at bay--what man could have done better work? Nay, who could have more nobly defended the garrison?

With the light of intense admiration in his eyes La Monnerie paid tribute to Madeleine's good judgment, bold tactics and ready wit which had saved the situation, and for very embarrassment at his praise, a deep flush crimsoned the girl's cheeks, as with a shy glance of appreciation, she thanked him, adding quietly, "It is time to relieve the guard, Monsieur. We have not been off our bastions for a week!"

Among all the incidents handed down concerning that troublous time in the Canadian provinces, none is so worthy of lingering over as this noble defence of Castle Dangerous, by the daughter of its commander, and sweet and strong, the influence of Madeleine de Vercheres comes down to inspire and thrill the hearts of girls of all countries and ages by the deed she did in the name of her country and her King.

ADRIENNE DE LAFAYETTE:

A Young Patriot's Wife

MADAME DE LAFAYETTE! How stately the title sounds, and how slender and girlish the little bride looks in her wedding finery, her dark eyes large with excitement, and a soft flush on her delicate cheeks as she gazes admiringly into the eyes of her "Big boy with the red hair," as the young Marquis de Lafayette was called by his intimate friends.

Having seen the young bride and groom, for Lafayette was only nineteen, while pretty Adrienne, his wife, was just fourteen, let us turn back the pages of history for a moment and see what led up to this remarkably youthful marriage.

To begin with, in the days of the reign of Louis XVI and the beautiful young queen, Marie Antoinette, there was no more palatial residence in all Paris than that which in 1711 came into the possession of the Duc de Noailles and was thereafter called the Hotel de Noailles.

The finest artists of the day had re-decorated its stately rooms for the Duc; its walls were hung with costly silk, its picture gallery was famous even in a city rich in art treasures, even its stables were fabulously large and far-famed. All that could minister to the joy of life was to be found in the Hotel de Noailles in those happy days before the clouds hanging low over France broke in a storm of disaster. Later in 1768, Madame D'Ayen,--wife of the Duc de Noailles, who was also the Duc D'Ayen,--mistress of the beautiful home, was leading a happy life there with her four daughters, to whose education and care she devoted most of her time.

It was the early afternoon of a day in spring. At three o'clock Madame D'Ayen had dined with her children in the huge dining-room hung with dull tapestries and family portraits, then with cheery laughter the girls had run ahead of Madame to her bedroom, which was very large and hung with crimson satin damask embroidered in gold, on which the sun cast a cheerful glow. Louise and Adrienne, the two older girls,--Louise only a year the elder,--handed their mother her knitting, her books and her snuff, and then seated themselves, while the younger children disputed as to which one should have the coveted place nearest Madame. Comfortably settled at last, the older girls busy with their sewing, Madame told them the story from the Old Testament of Joseph and his coat of many colours. When she finished Louise asked question after question, which her mother patiently answered, but Adrienne drank in the story told in her mother's vivacious way, in silence. Begged for just one more story, Madame then told an amusing experience of her convent days, on which both of the girls offered so many comments that at last Madame rose, saying rather impatiently:

"You speak in a forward and disobedient manner, such as other girls of your age would never show to their parent."

Louise looked her mortification, but Adrienne said quietly, "That may be, Madame, because you allow us to argue and reason with you as other mothers do not, but you will see that at fifteen we shall be more obedient than other children," and the girl's prediction was true.

Every month of the year was a pleasure to the happy children at the Hotel de Noailles, but to both vivacious Louise and quiet Adrienne summer was the crowning joy of their year, for then they were always taken to visit their grandfather, the Marechal de Noailles, who cheerfully gave himself up to making the visit as gay for the children as possible. He played games with them in the house, delightful games such as they never played at home, and better yet, planned wonderful picnics for them, when with other cousins, and a governess in charge of the cavalcade, they rode on donkeys to the appointed spot. The governess, it is said, was a tiny person, blonde, pinched, and touchy, and very punctilious in the performance of her duties. Once mounted on her donkey, however, she entirely lost her dignity and appeared so wild-eyed, scared, and stiff that one could not look at her without feeling an irresistible desire to smile, which made her angry, though what angered her most was the peals of laughter when she tumbled off her donkey, as she seldom failed to do on an excursion. She usually fell on the grass and the pace of her donkey was not rapid, so she was never hurt, and the frolicsome children filed by her, for if one of them tried to help her up, as Adrienne always wanted to do, a scolding was the reward.

In sharp contrast to the happy summer visits were those paid every autumn to the home of Madame D'Ayen's father, who lived at Fresnes. He was old and deaf and wished the children to be so repressed, that had Madame D'Ayen not made the visits as short as she could there would doubtless have been some disastrous outbreak in their ranks.