'Fighting Bob' was the nickname affectionately bestowed upon Sir Robert Sale by his comrades-in-arms. Truly the name was well deserved, for wherever the fight was thickest there Sale was to be found, and the histories of his life abound with stories of his bravery and disregard of danger.
When twenty-seven years of age he married Florentia Wynch, a girl of nineteen, who proved before long to be almost as brave as he. Throughout his life she was his companion in danger, and many times nursed him back to health when seriously wounded. Adventures such as are rarely encountered by women were continually falling to her lot, but the greatest hardships which she was compelled to undergo were those attending the British retreat from Kabul in January, 1842.
Discontent with British rule had led to rebellion in Afghanistan, and Sir Robert Sale was sent with a brigade to clear the passes to Jelalabad. Lady Sale remained at Kabul, where the signs of discontent became daily more evident. The British native troops were disheartened, and eventually it was decided to retreat from the city.
At half-past nine in the morning of January 6, 1842, the British force, consisting of about 4500 soldiers, mostly native, and 12,000 followers, quitted Kabul. The snow lay a foot deep on the ground, and the thermometer registered several degrees below freezing-point. The bullocks had great difficulty in dragging the guns, and it took two hours and a half to cover the first mile. This slow rate of progress was not, however, entirely due to the state of the weather, as some of the delay was caused by a bridge of boats having to be made across the Kabul river, which lay about half a mile from the city. The camp followers refused to cross by any means but a bridge, but Lady Sale and her daughter, Mrs. Sturt, rode through with the horsemen. Immediately they reached the opposite bank their clothes froze stiff, and they could not change them for others, for as the rear-guard quitted the city the Afghans fired upon them and captured, without meeting any resistance, nearly the whole of the baggage, commissariat and ammunition. That night the British force, cold, hungry and dispirited, slept in the snow. There were no tents, but an officer erected a small pall over the hole in the snow where Lady Sale and her daughter lay.
At half-past seven on the following morning the march was resumed, but the force had not proceeded far when a party of Afghans sallied out from a small fort and carried off three guns. The British fought bravely, but the sepoys made scarcely any resistance, and hundreds of them fled for their lives.
As the British force advanced they saw the Afghans gathering in strength on either side, and before they had gone five miles they were compelled to spike and abandon two six-pounders, the horses not having sufficient strength to drag them. They were now in possession of only two guns and very little ammunition.
Men, hungry and numbed with cold, dropped out of the ranks, to be left to die from starvation, or to be massacred by the enemy. Another night was spent in the open, and when daylight came there were many frozen corpses lying on the ground. The troops were now utterly disorganised, and the Afghans continued to harass them, both while bivouacing and on the march. It was a terrible time, but Lady Sale was calm, and endeavoured to instil with courage other women of the party. Soon the British arrived at a spot where, some time previously, Sir Robert Sale had been wounded, and there a fierce attack was made upon them. A ball entered Lady Sales' arm, her clothes were riddled with bullets, and her escape seemed impossible, so fierce was the fire of the enemy, who were in a strong position about fifty yards distant. Nevertheless she did escape, but only to find that her daughter's husband, Lieutenant Sturt, had been mortally wounded. Five hundred soldiers and two thousand five hundred camp followers were killed, and many women and children were carried off by the Afghans. Others lay dying in the fast-falling snow.
Lady Sale and her daughter were in great distress at the death of Lieutenant Sturt, and took little interest in the proposal that all the women should be placed under the protection of Mahommed Akbar Khan, who had suggested this step. However, with the other women, they accepted the proffered protection, and were taken to a fort in the Khurd Kabul, and eventually they heard that the force with which they had quitted Kabul had been annihilated.
On January 17, Lady Sale and her companions, among whom were now several British officers whom Mahommed Akbar Khan had captured, arrived at Badiabad, where, in a small mud fort the party, consisting of 9 women, 20 men and 14 children, were kept prisoners. However, they were not molested, and as food of a kind was supplied to them, they did not complain. Their uncomfortable surroundings were, however, made more unpleasant by a series of earthquakes.
On February 19, Lady Sale was spreading some clothes out to dry on the flat roof of the fort, when a terrible shock occurred, causing the place to collapse. Lady Sale fell with the building, but rose from the ruins unhurt. Even the wounds received by her on the day Lieutenant Sturt was killed were not aggravated by the accident. Before dark that day there were twenty-five distinct shocks, and about fifteen more during the night. For some weeks after this they were constantly occurring. At one spot, not far away, 120 Afghans and 20 Hindus were buried in the ruins of buildings shaken to the ground.
During her captivity Lady Sale had been able to write letters to her husband, who was shut up with his garrison in Jelalabad, and her great desire was that he should be able to hold the place until relief arrived. On March 15 a rumour reached her that it had been captured by the Afghans, but to her great delight she heard later that the rumour was false. She was exceedingly proud of her husband, and gloried in his successes. A successful defence of the city would, she knew, add considerably to his reputation. During the following five months Lady Sale and her daughter were continually being moved from one place to another, and before long it became clear to them that the Afghan rebellion was being rapidly quelled. Rumours of British victories reached them, and the man who was in charge of them, while moving from place to place, made it understood that for Rs. 20,000 and Rs. 1000 a month for life he would effect their escape.
But soon, on September 15, the good news was received that the British were coming to their rescue, and, guided by the bribed Afghan, Lady Sale and her companions moved off secretly to meet them. Two days later they arrived at the foot of the Kalu Pass, where they met Sir Richmond Shakespeare, with 600 native horsemen, coming to their rescue.
Lady Sale was naturally anxious to hear of her husband's doings, and Sir Richmond Shakespeare was able to make her happy by telling her of how gallantly he had defended Jelalabad. Soon, however, she heard from his own lips the story of his defence. On September 19, a horseman arrived with a message from Sir Robert Sale, saying that he was advancing with a brigade. Lady Sale had been feeling weak for several days, but the news of her husband's approach gave her fresh strength.
'It is impossible to express our feelings on Sale's approach,' she wrote in her diary. 'To my daughter and myself happiness so long delayed as to be almost unexpected was actually painful, and accompanied by a choking sensation which could not obtain the relief of tears.'
The men loudly cheered Lady Sale and her daughter, and pressed forward to express their hearty congratulations at their escape. 'And then,' Lady Sale continued in her diary, 'my highly-wrought feelings found the desired relief; and I could scarcely speak to thank the soldiers for their sympathy, whilst the long withheld tears now found their course. On arriving at the camp, Captain Backhouse fired a royal salute from his mountain train guns; and not only our old friends, but all the officers in the party, came to offer congratulations and welcome our return from captivity.'
After a visit to England, Sir Robert and Lady Sale returned to India in March, 1844. Towards the end of the following year the Sikh War broke out, and at the battle of Mudki, fought on December 18, Sir Robert's left thigh was shattered by a grape shot, and he died three days later.
Lady Sale continued to reside in India after her husband's death, her comfort secured by a pension of £500 a year, granted to her by Queen Victoria, as a mark of approbation of her own and Sir Robert's conduct. She died at Cape Town, which she was visiting for the benefit of her health, on July 6, 1853, aged sixty-three.
Until late in the last century it was a common thing for the ruler of a native Eastern state to celebrate his accession to the throne by slaughtering his brothers and uncles. This drastic measure reduced the possibilities of the new ruler being deposed, and was considered by the majority of the natives a wise precaution. The Maharajah of Manipur was more humane than many rulers, and although he had seven brothers, he refrained from killing any of them.
For several years the brothers lived on friendly terms with each other, but eventually quarrels arose through two of them wanting to marry the same woman. The eight brothers divided into two parties, and quarrelled so incessantly, that the maharajah deemed it wise to abdicate and leave the country. Mr. Grimwood the British Political Agent, did his utmost to dissuade the maharajah from abdicating, but without success. He departed, and one of his brothers became ruler.
Mr. Grimwood and his wife had lived for three years in Manipur when the maharajah abdicated, and during that time the natives had always been friendly towards them. Even the royal brothers, while quarrelling among themselves, maintained their usual friendly relations with them.
Manipur is an out-of-the-way place, lying in the heart of the mountainous region, which is bordered on the north by the Assam Valley, on the east and south by Burma, and on the west by the Cachar district. During the greater portion of their stay in Manipur Mr. and Mrs. Grimwood were the only white people in the place, and consequently the news that the Chief Commissioner was on his way to hold a durbar at the Residency afforded them much pleasure. But the information that his excellency was accompanied by 400 men of the 42nd and 44th Ghurkhas, made it clear that some political event of considerable importance was about to take place. The Chief Commissioner had, in fact, decided to arrest the jubraj, the maharajah's brother, at the durbar which was fixed for eight o'clock in the morning of March 23, 1891.
But the jubraj had his suspicions aroused by the military force which accompanied the Chief Commissioner. He did not attend the durbar, but sent a message to say that he was too unwell to be present. Four hours later, Mr. Grimwood was sent to the palace to inform the jubraj that he was to be arrested and banished, and to persuade him to surrender peacefully. This the jubraj refused to do, and consequently it was decided to storm the palace and capture him.
Fighting began on the following day, shortly before daybreak. The palace walls, some sixty yards from the Residency, and separated from it by an unfordable moat, were loop-holed, and soon a fierce fire was opened on the attackers. Mrs. Grimwood sought shelter in the little telegraph office, but bullets were soon crashing through it, and her position was one of extreme danger, but after the first fright she settled down to help the doctor attend to the wounded.
The British attack on the palace was not, however, successful, and the Manipuris crept round to the back of the Residency, and made an attack upon it. They were beaten off, but the British force was soon in a critical position; for, shortly after 4 o'clock, some big guns opened fire on the Residency, where the whole of the force was now concentrated. Mrs. Grimwood states in her book, My Three Years in Manipur, that the first shell fired at the Residency made her speechless with fear; but others who were present state that a few minutes later she was hard at work attending to the wounded under fire. The cellars under the Residency were used as a hospital, and terrible were the sights which the brave woman witnessed. Every hour the position of the British became more desperate. Men were falling quickly, and the ammunition was running out.
At last a message was sent to the jubraj asking on what conditions he would cease firing on the Residency. His reply was to the effect that the British must surrender unconditionally. Finding that the British would not agree to this, he sent word that if the Chief Commissioner would come to the palace gates he would discuss terms with him. His excellency and Mr. Grimwood went forward, but as they reached the gates they were pushed inside the palace enclosure, and the gates closed behind them. Then the Manipuris shouted that the white men were prisoners, and again opened fire on the Residency. The British troops replied, but their position was now critical. Very little ammunition remained, and shells were bursting over the Residency. One burst near to Mrs. Grimwood's feet, but fortunately she only received a slight wound in the arm.
At midnight the British officers decided to evacuate the Residency and retreat to Cachar.
Mrs. Grimwood being the only person who knew the way to the Cachar road, acted as guide, and led the retreating force through hedges, over mud walls, and across a river. Looking back when they had gone four miles, Mrs. Grimwood saw that the Residency, her home for three happy years, was in flames. Her husband a prisoner, and her home destroyed, it would not have been surprising if Mrs. Grimwood had been too grief-stricken to continue the journey on foot. But she plodded on bravely in her thin house-shoes, and with her clothes heavy with water. Sometimes the hills were so steep that she had to climb them on hands and knees, but she never complained, and did not hamper the progress of the force. Not until twenty miles had been covered did she have a rest, and then, thoroughly exhausted, she wrapped herself in the overcoats which the officers lent her, and lay down and slept.
A few hours later the retreating force, hungry, tired and somewhat dispirited, resumed its march. Mrs. Grimwood's feet were cut and sore, but she tramped on bravely in the military boots which had been given her to replace her thin worn-out shoes. They had now travelled beyond the country with which Mrs. Grimwood was familiar, and no one knew the way. They pushed on in the direction which they believed to be the right one, but without being able to obtain anything to eat. When, however, they had been two days without food, they came suddenly upon some Manipuri soldiers cooking rice. The Manipuris, taken by surprise, fled quickly, leaving their rice to fall into the hands of the starving British force.
Refreshed by the meal which they had so unexpectedly obtained, the British resumed their journey, but they had not gone far when they found a stockade barring their way. The defenders opened fire on them at once, and as the British had no ammunition they rushed the stockade, causing the Manipuris to run for their lives.
The British officers now decided to remain for a time in the captured stockade, but soon a large body of men was seen advancing towards it. Were they Ghurkhas or Manipuris? No one could tell, and reliance could not be placed on a bugle call, as both Ghurkhas and Manipuris had the same one. It was believed by the majority that the advancing men were Manipuris, and one of the officers told Mrs. Grimwood that he had two cartridges left, one for her and one for himself, if the men proved to be the enemy.
But they were not the enemy. A sharp-eyed man discovered a white officer among the advancing soldiers, and this was ample proof that they were Ghurkhas. A cheer from the stockade was answered by one from the approaching men, who were proceeding to Manipur, but had only heard a few hours before of the retreat of their comrades-in-arms. They had plenty of provisions with them, and quickly gave the tired, hungry men a good meal.
The remainder of the journey to the frontier was made in comparative comfort, but Mrs. Grimwood's trials were not yet ended. Soon the sad news of her husband's death was broken to her. He and his fellow prisoner had been executed with horrible brutality by order of the jubraj.
The story of Mrs. Grimwood's heroism in attending to the wounded under fire, and her bravery during the long and trying retreat, aroused admiration throughout the civilized world. In consideration of her exceptional services, the Secretary of State for India in Council awarded her a pension of £140 a year, and a special grant of £1000. The Princess of Wales—our present Queen—was exceedingly kind to her, and Queen Victoria invited her to Windsor Castle, and decorated her with the well-deserved Red Cross.
In December, 1880, a detachment of the 2nd Connaught Rangers was escorting a wagon-train, nearly a mile in length, from Leydenberg to Pretoria. Until more than half the journey had been travelled the Boers, whom the British met on the way, had shown no disposition to be unfriendly, but, one morning, as the convoy slowly wended its way up a hill, studded with clumps of trees, a strong force of Boers jumped out from their places of concealment and called upon the British to surrender. They sent forward, under a flag of truce, a written demand to that effect, but, seeing that the British officer in command had no intention to order his men to lay down their arms, they treacherously disregarded the white flag that was flying, and opened fire upon the convoy.
The British were caught in an ambush, and the Boers, who greatly outnumbered them, wrought terrible havoc. The Boers were concealed behind trees and stones, but the British could obtain scarcely any cover. Their colonel was mortally wounded early in the fight, and soon there was only one officer unhurt.
When the attack on the convoy began there were three women in one of the wagons. Mrs. Marion Smith, widow of the late bandmaster, was travelling down country, with her two children, to sail on a troopship for England. The other two women were Mrs. Fox, wife of the sergeant-major, and Mrs. Maistre, wife of the orderly-room clerk. Scarcely had the massacre begun when Mrs. Fox received a bullet wound as she sat in the wagon, and fell backwards, badly hurt.
Mrs. Smith and Mrs. Maistre were naturally alarmed at finding themselves suddenly in a position of such great danger. But they were soldiers' wives, and soon all fear vanished, and having made Mrs. Smith's children comparatively safe in a corner of the wagon they stepped out to render aid to the wounded. It was a terrible sight for them. The ground was strewn with dead and dying, and nearly every face was familiar to them. Regardless of the bullets that whizzed past them—one grazed Mrs. Smith's ear they tore up sheets to make bandages, and passing from one wounded man to another, stanched the flow of blood and bound the wounds.
At last, when it became clear to the mortally wounded colonel that the annihilation of his force would be the result of a continuation of the fight, the 'Cease fire' was sounded, and the outnumbered British delivered up their arms.
The soldiers' work was finished; Mrs. Smith and Mrs. Maistre had still much to do. On the battle-field the wounded lay thick, and for hours the two brave women worked at their self-appointed task. Many a dying lad had his last minutes made happy by their kindly words and actions.
From December 20 until March 31, 1881, the three women remained prisoners in the hands of the Boers. They might, had they cared to do so, have led lives of idleness during their imprisonment, but, instead, they were busy from morning until night nursing the wounded. Mrs. Fox's courage was indeed wonderful, for the wound she had received in the attack was very serious, and the doctors had told her that she could not expect to live long. Her husband, too, had been severely wounded early in the fight, but nevertheless she was as indefatigable as Mrs. Maistre and Mrs. Smith in doing good. The three women were adored by the wounded soldiers, for whom they wrote letters home, prepared dainty food, and read.
When peace was declared the three brave women returned to England, and Mrs. Smith was decorated with the medal of the Order of St. John of Jerusalem. She was reported, in the application that was made on her behalf, to have been 'unremitting in her attention to the wounded and dying soldiers during the action, and that her conduct while living under canvas was beyond all praise. She did the utmost to relieve the sufferings of the men in hospital, and soothed the last moments of many a poor soldier, while sharing their privations to the full.'
After a time Mrs. Smith's whereabouts became unknown to the authorities; they did not in fact know whether she were alive, and consequently she was not recommended for the Red Cross. Mrs. Fox and Mrs. Maistre received the coveted decoration, but the former did not long survive the honour. She died in January, 1888, at Cambridge Barracks, Portsmouth, and in making her death known to the regiment the colonel said:—'Mrs. Fox died a soldier's death, as her fatal illness was the result of a wound received in action, and aggravated in consequence of her noble self-devotion afterwards.'
The Commander-in-Chief—H.R.H. the Duke of Cambridge—ordered that military honours should be paid to the dead woman. It was a very unusual thing, but the honour was well-merited, and crowds lined the streets to see the coffin borne past on a gun carriage. Over the coffin was laid a Union Jack, and on this was placed the brave woman's Red Cross. The men who bore her from the gun carriage to her grave in Southsea Cemetery were six non-commissioned officers who had been wounded in the fight of December 20, 1880, and whom she had nursed.
* It is interesting to note that the publication of this volume quickly led to Mrs. Smith (now Mrs. Jeffreys) being traced; and, in response to an appeal to the War office, the authorities awarded the heroine the coveted decoration of the Royal Red Cross.
'The Indians are coming!'
It was on September 1, 1782, that a scout employed to watch the movements of the Red Indians rushed into the West Virginian village of Wheeling, shouting the dreaded warning of the savages' approach. Instantly the inhabitants took refuge in the fort, and prepared to offer a determined resistance. The fort had no regular garrison, it being the duty of the settlers to defend it. Colonel Silas Zane took command, and felt confident that, although he had only twenty men under him, he would be able to beat off the savages.
The Governor of Wheeling was Colonel Ebenezer Zane, and with two white men he decided to remain in his private residence, which was about forty yards from the fort, to prevent the ammunition which was stored there from falling into the hands of the Indians. The scout who had brought the news of the Indians' approach was soon followed by the savages themselves, who, brandishing their tomahawks and waving their scalping-knives, instantly demanded the surrender of the white men. The reply they received was a volley fired at the standard which they bore aloft. With a terrible war-whoop the Indians rushed to the assault, but the men in the fort and in the house were good shots, and it was rarely that one of them missed his mark. Happily, there was a good stock of arms in both strongholds, and taking advantage of this, the women loaded the muskets and handed them to the men, who were thus enabled to fire quickly and were spared the fatigue of loading.
Again and again the Indians attacked the house and the fort, but on every occasion they were driven back. When darkness came on the attacks ceased, but the white men did not grow less vigilant, for they were confident that before daybreak the savages would make an attempt to surprise them. And this proved to be the case. In the dead of night one of the defenders espied an Indian crawling towards the house. He watched him until he rose to his feet and kindling a torch that he carried, attempted to set fire to the building. Then the watcher fired, and the Indian dropping his torch fled, wounded.
At daybreak it was seen that the Indians were still surrounding the fort and the house, and that they were evidently unusually excited. Could they have captured any of the defenders? Enquiries shouted from the fort to the house elicited the assurance that no one was missing.
Suddenly there was a tremendous explosion at the spot when the Indians were thickest, and the surprised white men could see that several of the enemy had been killed and many injured. The explosion was caused in this way: On the preceding evening, after the firing had ceased, some of the Indians surprised a boat ascending the river with cannon balls for the fort. The boatman escaped, but the cannon balls fell into the hands of the Indians, who believed that all they now wanted to demolish the house and fort was a cannon. Therefore they decided to make one. They procured a log of wood, bound it tightly with chains, and then made a hole in it large enough to admit the ball. Then they charged it heavily, and when it was pointed towards the fort the match was applied. Instantly the cannon burst, killing many of the men who stood near and injuring others.
This accident did not, as one might suppose, dishearten the Indians. On the contrary, it excited them to further efforts to capture the whites. Maddened with excitement they rushed boldly forward to the attack, but the steady, deadly fire which the defenders maintained drove them back time after time.
But now the defenders in the fort began to get anxious, for their stock of gunpowder was nearly exhausted. There was a plentiful supply at the house, and someone would have to undertake the perilous task of running to it and returning under fire with a keg of powder. There were plenty of volunteers for this dangerous undertaking, but among them was a woman—Elizabeth Zane, the youngest sister of the two Colonels Zane. She had been educated in Philadelphia, and until her arrival at Wheeling, a few weeks previously, had experienced none of the hardships of frontier life. But now, in the hour of danger, she was brave as if she had been brought up in the midst of stirring scenes.
It was pointed out to her that a man would run less risk than she, from the fact of his being able to run faster; but she answered that if he were shot in the act, his loss would be severely felt. 'You have not one man to spare, she declared. 'A woman will not be missed in the defence of the fort.'
The men did not like the idea of allowing her to run so great a risk, but she overcame their objections, and started on her perilous journey.
The moment the gate was opened she bounded through, and ran at full speed towards the house. Surprised at her sudden appearance in the open, the Indians seized their muskets, but quickly recognizing that she was a woman they exclaimed, 'Only a squaw,' and did not fire.
Arriving at the house she announced to Colonel Ebenezer Zane the object of her journey, whereupon he fastened a table-cloth around her waist, and emptied a keg of powder into it.
The moment that she appeared again in the open, the Indians noticed the table-cloth around her waist, and, guessing at once that she was carrying to the fort something that was necessary for its defence; promptly opened fire on her. Undeterred by the bullets which whizzed past her Elizabeth Zane ran quickly towards the fort; and reached it in safety. It is needless to say that the brave young woman received an enthusiastic greeting from the garrison who had witnessed with admiration her daring act.
The defenders of the fort, their stock of ammunition replenished, fought with renewed confidence when the Indians again attacked, and repulsed them with a deadly fire. As time went on the assaults became less frequent, and on the third night they finally ceased. The task of massacring the settlers of Wheeling had, contrary to the Indians' expectation, been too formidable for them, and therefore they raised the siege and crept quietly away by night. Their losses had been great, but during the three days' fighting the casualties of the defenders were only two men wounded.
In the tiny cabin of a canal-boat which had but recently started on its long journey from the Midlands to London, lay a woman seriously ill. And by her side lay her two days' old baby. Her husband was on deck steering the boat, but every few minutes he hurried down to see if there were anything he could do to make his wife comfortable. He could do but little, however.
Never before had he felt so helpless; never had he experienced so acutely the isolation of barge-life. The district through which he was travelling was thinly populated, and to obtain a doctor the bargeman would have to trudge some miles across country, leaving his wife alone on the canal. He could not leave her unattended, and consoled himself with the hope that before long he would meet someone whom he could send for a doctor. But he was disappointed; he met no one.
At last he arrived at Stoke Bruerne, in Northamptonshire, and, having tied up his barge, hurried to the post-office—a little general shop kept by Mrs. Nellie Amos, who was well-known to the canal boatmen. He told her of his wife's illness, and asked her if she would be good enough to come to his barge and see if she could discover the nature of her illness. Without the slightest hesitation Mrs. Amos accompanied the man to his barge, and found his wife very feverish.
Mrs. Amos could not discover what was the matter with the invalid, but one thing was very plain to her—the poor woman could not be expected to get well in her present quarters. The cabin was low-roofed, about eight feet by six in size, and near the door stood the stove in which the meals were cooked. In such close quarters the sick woman had little chance of recovery, and Mrs. Amos did not conceal this fact from the husband. She told him also that if a doctor would certify that she could be removed with safety, she would take her to her house and nurse her and the baby. As soon as the bargeman hurried away to fetch a doctor, Mrs. Amos made the sick woman some beef-tea, tidied the bed, and took charge of the baby.
The doctor was soon with the patient, and, having examined her, gave his permission for her removal to Mrs. Amos's house, to which she was quickly taken. Mrs. Amos had a husband and six children, and her house was a small one; but nevertheless she was able to give the mother and baby a comfortable room. Day after day she nursed them tenderly, but to her surprise the mother did not show any signs of improvement. The doctor came regularly to see her, and one day, when he had been attending her for about a week, he announced that she was suffering from small-pox.
For a few minutes Mrs. Amos was overcome with horror at the danger to which she had unintentionally subjected her six children. Nearly all of them had nursed the baby and waited on the sick woman, and it seemed to her certain that they would be stricken down with the disease. It would probably spread through the village, and she would be the cause of the sorrow that would ensue.
These fears she soon overcame, and bravely faced the danger. She declared that she would not have the poor creature removed from the house unless the doctor insisted upon it, and that she would continue to nurse her. The patient was allowed to remain, but steps were, of course, taken to guard against the disease spreading. The shop was closed, and Mrs. Amos's only means of earning a living was gone, at any rate for a time. Her children were sent away, and watched carefully for any signs of the disease appearing in them. Anxiety concerning her own family and the loss occasioned by the suspension of her business might well have made her willing to hand over to the local medical authorities the innocent cause of her trouble. But Mrs. Amos would not relinquish her self-imposed duty. She nursed mother and child as tenderly as if they had been her relatives, and if it had been possible to save their lives they would have been saved. The child died, and a week later the woman herself passed away. Happily, neither Mrs. Amos nor any of her children contracted the disease.
'I prayed earnestly that God would spare the village,' Mrs. Amos told the writer of this book, 'and He did. Not one case resulted from it.'
It was some time before the little shop was re-opened, but many people, hearing of Mrs. Amos's bravery, came forward to help her tide over her difficulties. The landlord set a good example by sending her a receipt for rent which she had been unable to pay, and several Brentford ladies, having been told of her conduct by Mr. R. Bamber, the London City missionary to bargemen, presented her with a tea and coffee service.
Anna Gurney was a cripple from her birth. Unable to walk, and consequently debarred nearly all the pleasures of childhood, it would not have been surprising had she become a sad, peevish woman. The fact that her parents were rich, and able to supply her with comforts such as poor cripples could not receive, may have prevented her from becoming depressed, but it must be remembered also that the knowledge that they were in a position to give her every reasonable pleasure a girl could desire might well have caused her to be continually deploring her crippled condition.
She did not, however, brood over her infirmity, and although she was never entirely free from pain, she was always bright and happy. Intellectually clever, she was ever anxious for self-improvement, and her knowledge of languages was remarkable. No sooner had she become thoroughly conversant with one than she began to learn another.
Early in life she became deeply interested in foreign missions, and in after years was a generous supporter of them. Her desire to do good was not, however, satisfied by the money she gave to various societies, and being unable to offer herself as a missionary to the heathen, she found a sphere of usefulness in working to improve the moral and spiritual condition of the poor of Cromer. She invited the mothers to her home, North Repps Cottage, and held classes for young men, young women and children. Humble visitors were continually calling to tell her of their joys or sorrows, and were never refused admittance. She might be busy in her library or suffering acute pain, but with a bright smile she would wheel herself forward in her mechanical chair to greet her visitor.
The fishermen along the coast regarded her with reverence, for she was their friend, adviser and patron. For many years she could be seen almost daily on the foreshore with a little group of weather-beaten men around her. She knew the dangers and disappointments of their calling, and was genuinely delighted whenever she heard that the fleet had returned with a good catch. And when the boats were out and a storm sprang up, she was anxious as any fish-wife for their safety. At her own expense she provided a lifeboat and complete apparatus for saving life, and, with the thoroughness characteristic of her, she made herself at once acquainted with the proper working of it.
Whenever there was a shipwreck, she would be down on the shore giving directions for the rescue of the people aboard the vessel. No matter the weather or the hour, she was always on the spot. Many a time the news came to her in the middle of the night that there was a ship in distress, and in a few minutes her man was wheeling her quickly down to the shore. The wind might be howling, the rain falling in torrents, but this did not deter her from being at her self-appointed post. When she first came out in rough weather, the fishermen begged her to return home, but they soon discovered that she was determined to remain.
When the boat had been launched she would remain in the cold, waiting anxiously for its return. Often she was in great pain, but only her attendant was aware of this. To the fisher-folk she would be cheerful, and express confidence that her lifeboat would rescue all aboard the ship. And when the lifeboat did return with the rescued people, who were sometimes half dead from exposure, there was more self-imposed work for her. She superintended the treatment of the shipwrecked folk, and arranged where they were to be taken. Many were removed to her own house, and kept there until they were able to proceed to their homes or to London. So kindly were the rescued people treated, that it became a saying along the East Coast, that to be taken care of by Miss Gurney, it was worth while being shipwrecked.
Anna Gurney died at Cromer in June, 1857, aged sixty-one. She was buried in Overstrand Churchyard, being carried to her last resting-place by fishermen who had known and loved her for many years. The news of her death had spread rapidly along the coast, and over a thousand fishermen were present at her funeral. Their sorrow was great, and they were not ashamed to show it.
The following lines, written by Anna Gurney on the death of a friend whom she dearly loved, might truly have been her own epitaph;—
Within this frame, by Jesu's grace,
High gifts and holy held their place;
A noble heart, a mighty mind,
Were here in bonds of clay confined.
There was rejoicing at Redbraes Castle, Berwickshire, in February, 1676, for Sir Patrick Hume had returned home after seventeen months' imprisonment in Stirling Castle.
No one was more delighted at his return than his little ten years' old daughter, Grizel, who loved him dearly, and was proud that he had suffered imprisonment for conscience sake. He had been imprisoned as 'a factious person,' because he refused to contribute to the support of the soldiers stationed in the country for the suppression of the meetings of the Covenanters.
Grizel was a very intelligent child, and surprised her father by her knowledge of the political events of the day, and her detestation of the Government. Some men would have been simply amused at her interest in politics, but Sir Patrick saw that she was an exceptionally clever child, and told her many things which he would have confided to few of her seniors. One thing that he told her was of his desire to get a letter conveyed to his friend Robert Baillie of Jerviswoode, who was confined in the Tolbooth of Edinburgh for rescuing a minister—his brother-in-law—from the hands of the Government's servants.
Grizel at once volunteered to take the letter, and having overcome her father's objections to sending her on such a dangerous mission, she started on her long journey to Edinburgh, which she reached without mishap.
Being at Edinburgh she had now to devise some means of getting into Robert Baillie's prison. For a child of her age to outwit the prison officials one would think an impossibility; but she did. Joanna Baillie states that she slipped in, noiselessly and unobserved, behind the jailer, and hid in a dark corner until he withdrew, when she stepped forward and presented the letter to the astonished prisoner. Whether or not this be true, it is a fact that she gained admission to the prison, delivered her letter, and escaped with the reply.
Two years later, Sir Patrick Hume was again arrested, and although he was neither tried nor told of what he was accused, he was kept in prison for fifteen months. At first he was confined at Edinburgh, but afterwards he was removed to Dumbarton Castle.
At both of these places Grizel was allowed to visit him, but the authorities never suspected that such a child would be used as a political messenger. In the presence of the jailer she would give Sir Patrick news of home. She showered kisses upon him, and delivered loving messages from her mother, sisters, and brothers. But when the jailer had withdrawn she gave her father an account of the movements of his political friends, and delivered many important verbal messages, which they had entrusted to her. By her means Sir Patrick was kept informed of his friends' actions, and was able to assist them by his advice.
On being released from Dumbarton Castle he returned to his home in Berwickshire, and for a time led a peaceful life, conscious that the Government would have him arrested again if they could find a pretext for doing so.
In October, 1683, information was brought to him that his friend, Robert Baillie, had been arrested in London, and imprisoned for alleged connection with the Rye House Plot. Sir Patrick's friendship for Robert Baillie was well known, and Grizel feared that her father would soon be arrested on a similar charge. Sir Patrick was of the same opinion, but the Government did not act with the promptitude he had expected.
It was not until nearly a year had elapsed that a lady sent word to him that soldiers had arrived at her house, and that she had discovered that they were on their way to arrest him. Instant flight was imperative, for there was no place in Redbraes Castle in which he could conceal himself from soldiers skilled in searching for enemies of the Government. His wife and Grizel—the only people in the castle who knew of his danger—discussed with him the most likely means of escaping detection, and finally it was decided that he should hide in the family vault in Polwarth Church, which stood about a mile and a half from Redbraes Castle.
In the middle of the night Grizel and a carpenter named Winter carried bed and bedding to the vault. It was a weird hiding-place for Sir Patrick, as the vault was littered with the skulls and bones of his ancestors. Grizel shuddered at the sight, but she knew that the vault was the only place which the soldiers would be unlikely to search.
They arrived at Redbraes Castle confident that they would find Sir Patrick there, and great was their surprise when they searched it from cellar to turret without finding him. Even then they would not believe that he had escaped them, so they made a second and still more thorough search. Every cottage, stable, and shed in the neighbourhood of the castle was searched, but no one examined the vaults in Polwarth Church.
Sir Patrick Hume was safe from discovery in his gruesome hiding-place, but he could not live without food, and the difficulty was to convey it to him without being detected.
This dangerous task Grizel, now nineteen years of age, undertook, and every night, when all in the castle but herself were asleep, she crept out with a stock of provisions for her father, and trudged the mile and a half of country which lay between the castle and Polwarth Church.
It was a trying journey for Grizel, for not only had she to fear being seen by the soldiers, or some villager out late on poaching bent, but she believed implicitly in ghosts—as did the majority of people in those days. Frequently she was startled by the cry of a bird aroused by her footsteps, and on several occasions a dog detected her, and barked furiously.
It can easily be understood that Grizel's visits were a great comfort to Sir Patrick, for she was the only person who ventured to go to him. She would spread out on the little table in the vault the provisions which she had brought him, and while he ate his supper she amused him by humorously relating the difficulties she met in obtaining them. Lady Hume, Winter and herself were the only people who knew that Sir Patrick was in the neighbourhood. Grizel's brothers and sisters and the servants believed that he had fled from the country, and Grizel was very anxious that they should not be undeceived, for the children might unintentionally divulge the secret, and among the servants there were, possibly, some who would be ready to earn a reward by betraying their master.
But her fear of admitting the children and servants into her secret made the task of obtaining provisions exceedingly difficult. Had they seen her taking food into her room, they would at once have suspected that it was for her father, and that he was somewhere close at hand. The only way in which she could get the food she required for him was by slipping some of her dinner from her plate into her lap. This was not an easy thing to do without being detected by some of her brothers and sisters, of whom there were many at table, she being the eldest but two of eighteen children. Once she feared that she had been discovered. Her mother had given her a large helping of chicken, knowing well that the greater portion of it would be taken that night to Sir Patrick. One of Grizel's younger brothers had noticed the large helping she had received, and was somewhat jealous that he had not been served as liberally. A few moments later he glanced again at her plate, and saw to his surprise that it was nearly empty.
With a brother's acknowledged right to make personal remarks, he loudly called attention to the fact that Grizel had eaten nearly all her big helping before anyone else had scarcely started. Lady Hume promptly reprimanded the boy, and ordered him to confine his attention to his own plate. The youngster made no further remarks concerning his sister's appetite, but Grizel often found him glancing at her during meals, and was in constant fear that he would detect her slipping the food into her lap.
After giving her father the day's news of home and political events she would start on her return journey, leaving Sir Patrick alone for another twenty-four hours in his gruesome hiding-place. Many men would have been driven out of their mind by a month's sojourn in a skull-and-bone-littered tomb, but Sir Patrick was a man of high spirits, and his daughter never once found him depressed. During a previous imprisonment he had committed to memory Buchanan's translation of the Psalms, and he obtained much comfort from repeating them while in the Polwarth vault.
One day as he sat at his little table deep in thought he fancied that he saw a skull lying on the floor move slightly. He watched it, and saw to his surprise that it was undoubtedly moving. He was not alarmed, but stretching out his cane turned over the skull and startled a mouse from underneath it.
Grizel was determined that her father should not remain in the vault longer than was absolutely necessary, and with the assistance of the trusty Winter was preparing a hiding-place for him at the castle. There was a room on the ground floor, the key of which was kept by Grizel, and under this they dug a big hole with their bare hands, fearing that the sound of a spade, if used, would be heard. Night after night, when all but they two were asleep, they scratched out the earth, and placed it on a sheet spread on the floor. Then, when their night's work was done, they silently opened the window and emptied the earth into the garden The hole in the floor they covered by placing a bed over it.
At last, when Grizel's finger nails were worn almost completely away, the subterranean hiding-place was finished, Winter placing in it a large box which he had made for the purpose. Inside the box was a bed and bedding, and fresh air was admitted through holes pierced in the lid and sides. In this box Sir Patrick was to hide whenever the soldiers searched the house.
But before telling her father that he could with safety return home Grizel examined the underground room daily, to see that it was not flooded. Feeling confident at last that the water would not percolate, she told Sir Patrick of the hiding-place prepared for him, and during the night he crept back to the castle.
When he had been there a week without anyone but Grizel, her mother, and Winter knowing of his presence, the water burst through into the subterranean room and flooded the box. Grizel was for a few minutes terror-stricken, for if the soldiers paid another visit to the castle, there would be nowhere for her father to hide, and he would be captured. She hurried to him to advise him to return that night to the vault; but being an active man he disliked the prospect of prolonged idleness, and decided to make an attempt to escape to Holland, where many of his political friends had already found safety.
Grizel now set to work to alter her father's clothes, so that he might appear to be a man of humble station. Throughout the day and all through the night she plied her needle, but her task was not finished when the news reached the castle that Robert Baillie of Jerviswoode had been executed at Edinburgh. Knowing that her father would meet a similar fate if captured, she finished his disguise quickly, and urged his instant flight. He acted on her advice, and had not been gone many hours before the soldiers arrived and searched the castle thoroughly.
After some narrow escapes from being recognised and arrested Sir Patrick arrived at London, and crossed to France, making his way thence to Holland. But before he had been there long he was declared a rebel, and his estates confiscated. Lady Hume and her children were turned out of the castle, and found themselves almost penniless. Grizel and her mother, financially assisted by some friends, journeyed to London, to petition the Government for an allowance out of the confiscated estates, and after much difficulty succeeded in obtaining a paltry pittance of £150 a year.
Sir Patrick's hatred of the Stuarts was naturally increased by the treatment his wife and children had received at their hands, and he threw himself heart and soul into the conspiracy for invading England and Scotland. He took part, under the Duke of Argyle, in the invasion of Scotland, and on the failure of the enterprise remained in hiding until he found an opportunity to escape to Ireland, and thence to Holland viâ France. Here Lady Hume, Grizel, and all the children but one soon joined him.
Sir Patrick had very little money at this time, and Grizel was soon sent back to Scotland to attend to some business on his behalf, and collect money owing to him. She was also to bring back with her a sister who had been left with friends in Scotland.
Grizel having performed the business entrusted to her, sailed for Holland with her sister, but before they had been at sea many hours a terrible storm arose, which, of course, considerably prolonged the voyage. This would not have been a great hardship, had the captain been an ordinary man. He happened to be a cowardly bully, and being short of food for himself, he forcibly took from Grizel and her sister the biscuits which they had brought aboard for their own use. These he ate in their presence. But this was not the worst. Grizel had paid for a cabin bed for herself and sister, but the captain appropriated it, and they were compelled to sleep on the floor. However, they arrived in safety at their destination, and Sir Patrick was exceedingly pleased with the way in which Grizel had transacted his business.
The three years and a half which followed were comparatively uneventful for the British exiles in Holland. Grizel devoted herself almost entirely to domestic duties, for her father was too poor to keep servants, and the only assistance she had was from a little girl who was paid to come in daily to wash the plates and dishes. Every morning she rose at six o'clock, and was busy until she retired to bed at night. She washed and dressed the children, assisted her father in teaching them, mended their clothes, and performed other duties which it would be tedious to enumerate. The few hours during which she managed to be free from domestic duties she devoted to practising music and studying French and German.
Grizel was now a beautiful young woman, and her gentle manner and sweetness made her a favourite of all with whom she came into contact. Two Scotch exiles fell in love with her, but she declined their offers of marriage, greatly to the surprise of her father, who did not know that she was the promised wife of another man—George Baillie, son of his old friend Robert Baillie. George and Grizel had known each other for many years. George was visiting his father in prison at Edinburgh when Grizel, to the surprise of both of them, slipped out from a dark corner and delivered her father's letter.
The bravery of the little girl made a lasting impression on the boy, and during the troublous years that followed he managed to see her on several occasions. Each liked the other, and their liking changed to love long before they were out of their teens. George's estates had been confiscated, and he was serving as a private in the Prince of Orange's Guards, where he had for his chum one of Grizel's brothers. When off duty he was frequently at the Humes' house, and there, one day, Grizel promised to become his wife. They kept their engagement a secret, for Grizel did not wish it to be known until the good days, which she was convinced were in store for Great Britain, arrived.
The good days came at last. The Prince of Orange's troops landed at Torbay, and the last of the Stuart kings fled from the land he had misruled. Honours were now conferred upon the men who had suffered at the hands of Charles II. and James II. Sir Patrick Hume had his estates restored to him, and was created Lord Polwarth. Six years later he was made Earl of Marchmont and Lord Chancellor of Scotland. The queen greatly admired Grizel, and asked her to become one of her maids of honour, but she declined the offer, as George Baillie, whose estate had been restored to him, wanted her to fulfil her promise. She was quite willing to do so, and they were married on September 17, 1692.
In 1703 Lady Hume died. On her death-bed she looked at those standing around her and asked anxiously 'Where is Grizel?' Grizel, who had been standing back so that her beloved mother should not see her tears, came forward at once. 'My dear Grizel,' Lady Hume said, holding her by the hand, 'blessed be you above all, for a helpful child you have been to me.'
Grizel's married life was exceedingly happy, and lasted for forty-six years. She often declared that during those years she and her husband never had the slightest quarrel or misunderstanding. Throughout her married life she was indefatigable in good works for the poor, and she continued her kindly deeds after her husband's death. The rebellion of 1745 caused much distress in her native land, and her money was given freely to the ruined of both parties. Her own income had been greatly reduced, as her impoverished tenants were unable to pay her, and soon she found herself pressed for money. All that she had possessed had been given to those in distress, and now, in her eighty-first year, she was unable to pay for the common necessaries of life. She called together the tradesmen, whom she had hitherto paid promptly, and told them that she was now poor, and would have to remain so until her tenants were prosperous enough to pay their rents. Perhaps they would not be in a position to do so during her lifetime, and she left it to them, the tradesmen, to decide whether or not they would continue to serve her, and run the risk of not being paid. Unanimously and promptly the tradesmen declared that, as heretofore, she should have the best of their stock. Joanna Baillie gives their reply in the following lines:—
No, noble dame! this must not be.
With heart as warm and hand as free
Still thee and thine we'll serve with pride,
As when fair fortune graced your side.
The best of all our stores afford
Shall daily smoke upon thy board;
And should'st thou never clear the score,
Heaven, for thy sake, will bless our store.