Friends, though divided: A Tale of the Civil WarHenty, G. A. (George Alfred)
History
Friends, though divided: A Tale of the Civil War
Henty, G. A. (George Alfred)
Great Britain -- History -- Civil War, 1642-1649 -- Juvenile fiction
He had not traveled many hours when a heavy mist set in, accompanied by
a keen and driving rain, in his face. With his head bent down, Harry
rode along, paying less attention than usual to his way. The mist grew
thicker and thicker. The horse no longer proceeded at a brisk pace, and
presently came to a stop. Harry dismounted, and discovered that he had
left the road, Turning his horse's head, and taking the reins over his
arm, he tried to retrace his steps.
For an hour he walked along, the conviction growing every moment that he
was hopelessly lost. The ground was now soft and miry and was covered
with tussocks of coarse grass, between which the soil was black and
oozy. The horse floundered on for some distance, but with such
increasing difficulty that, upon reaching a space of comparatively solid
ground, Harry decided to take him no further.
The cold rain chilled him to the bone, and after awhile he determined to
try and make his way forward on foot, in hopes of finding, if not a
human habitation, some walls or bushes where he could obtain shelter
until the weather cleared. He fastened the reins to a small shrub, took
off the saddle and laid it on the grass, spread the horse rug over the
animal to protect it as far as possible, and then started on his way. He
had heard of Irish bogs extending for many miles, and deep enough to
engulf men and animals who might stray among them, and he felt that his
position was a serious one.
He blamed himself now for not having halted immediately he perceived
that he had missed the road. The only guide that he had as to the
direction he should take was the wind. On his way it had been in his
face, and he determined now to keep it at his back, not because that was
probably the way to safety, but because he could see more easily where
he was going, and he thought by continuing steadily in one direction he
might at last gain firm ground. His view extended but a few yards round
him, and he soon found that his plan of proceeding in a straight line
was impracticable. Often quagmires of black ooze, or spaces covered with
light grass, which were, he found, still more treacherous, barred his
way, and he was compelled to make considerable detours to the right or
left in order to pass them. Sometimes widths of sluggish water were met
with. For a long time Harry continued his way, leaping lightly from tuft
to tuft, where the grass grew thickest, sometimes wading knee-deep in
the slush and feeling carefully every foot lest he should get to a depth
whence he should be unable to extricate himself. Every now and then he
shouted at the top of his voice, in hopes that he might be heard by some
human being. For hours he struggled on. He was now exhausted with his
efforts, and the thickening darkness told him that day was fading. From
the time he had left his horse he had met with no bush of sufficient
height to afford him the slightest shelter.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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