Americans -- England -- Fiction; West Country (England) -- Fiction
"It is the province of the strong man so to do," he answered
calmly. "My son cannot fill my shoes, because he has fallen for
his country; but my grandson can and shall. The rest of them
may be Norcot's; the first is mine."
"To count your grandchildren before they are born!" murmured
Mrs. Malherb.
"No such thing at all. Go to sleep, and don't be foolish.
I do not count them. That is Heaven's work. I merely reserve
the eldest to myself. The action may not be usual, but that
weighs very little with me. I speak in a spirit both scientific and
religious; and it shall be so, if the Devil himself said 'No!' so
there's an end on it."
He turned over, and in ten minutes snored; but for long hours
Annabel watched the twinkling sky, and marvelled as to what
manner of planet reigned in heaven and lighted earth at the
moment when her husband first drew breath.
BOOK II
THE SEVEN
CHAPTER I
MR. BLAZEY
At the War Prison, in a crisis now rapidly approaching, it was
destined that the young man, Cecil Stark, should assume
sudden prominence. Thousands of French and American
prisoners were confined at Prince Town during this period;
and with the latter were herded a company of coloured men who
had been captured in the enemy's battleships or privateers.
Bitterly was this circumstance resented by the Americans; but,
worse than their slaves they found the presence of some seven
hundred French, who shared the granite hospitality of Prison
No. 4. These poor tatterdemalions had added to their necessary
griefs by personal folly. They had gamed away their very shoes
and blankets; and they were thrust hither by the hundred,
and kept alive, like cattle, with scarcely a rag to cover their
nakedness.
Many times the Americans protested with indignation against
this wrong, and implored that these forlorn French might be
removed from amongst them. But months elapsed before their
reasonable complaints were heard, and the baser sort of soldier
guards was wont to laugh and ask the Americans wherein their
own fantastic and ridiculous habiliments presented a better
appearance than the Frenchmen's skins.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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