The Indianapolis journal. [volume] (Indianapolis [Ind.]) 1867-1904, 1883-09-15
AMBER COSGROVE.


my good fortune that 1 can write in three
words the history of my girlhood. Happy
| happier-happiest! Those thin, clear, up
and-down strokes tell little to others; to me
they tell of past for which | cannot be too
thankful. l write hand like my great
/ grandmother's, so Ainslie tells Inc, neat and
formal and Observation-Disclosures which [
think describe me as we'll as any | can find
for myself. And so in those neat, formal,
old-fashioned strokes on the smooth white
paper see pictured not only my life but my
habits and ways. And the dashes between
what OF them? They are the breaks in the
even flow of peaceful life; passages rough
at the time but now not unpleasant to re-
member, for through them passed from be-
| ing Amber McNlichael to become the wife Of
man as noble and brave, as generous and
true as my own father. And even Ainslie
can say no more than that.
There is a scene which is often in my mind
when l sit and think of the past. But it is
! no passage in my own life; it took place be-
fore was born, and in a far-distant land.
| Try to picture a dark still night in one of the
central provinces of India down jungle
| path. roughly paved with logs lit only here
and there by the moonbeams piercing through
| the branches overhead; some dozen persons,
Europeans and natives, are fastening. stun
| bling and falling in their hurry, but never
pausing Behind them there is a glare in the
sky lar too deep for the moonlight, brighter
| and redder even than the glow which hangs
over great city at night. That crimson il
Elimination is no ordinary sight; it means
! murder and bloodshed, for it is the blaze of
| the Feringhees' burning houses Already
you can hear the cries of the pursuing Sepoys,
SO ferocious in the hour OF Their long delayed
vengeance that the blood of men. as brave as
| the two who bring VI, the rear of the flying
party, may we'll run chill with fear Not on
| their own account but for the women and
| children whe are being hurried along by
| their panck-stricken servants. Well may
Major Cosgrove's breath come and go, for
| his wife and children are of the party. Vain
| ly he tries to pierce the darkness III front,
and to distinguish the CLEAN OF the river,
| beyond which is comparative safety. He
knows that hardly three miles on the other
side of it is British station; and the demons
| behind cowardly as cruel, may hesitate to
pursue where every step brings them nearer
| to danger While he gazes in front his broth
or officer keeps turning back his head in the
direction of the pursuit Neither speaks his
| thoughts, but the Ma Tor, his face white and
set, tries the chambers OF his revolvers and
| his companion sees him and mods. He
knows without explanation, for whom the
| cartridges so carefully tapped home are in
| tended. Ha! the water at last. There it is,
between its dark wooded banks ripping
quickly with a thousand pale flashes over
| the shallow ford. But is it not too
late? A louder cry rings through the
I night air; the pursuers have sighted
! them, and are redoubling their
speed. The race to the ford is for dear life
The fugitives gain it, and are half way across
| before the enemy reach the bank. Even
| then escape seems impossible, dozen bullets
plash the water, and the Sepoys, encouraged
| by their own numbers, are crossing the ford to
come to close quarters BreathlesS and
| dripping the women and children are pulled
up the bank, and the officers follow-one OF
! them. The other with stern grasp of his
| friends hand, and a forward gesture of ell
enlargement or farewell, with a muttered
| God bless you!' turns back into the water,
| and crouches under the bank like a stag at
bay. The Major hesitates; but the lives OF
| his wife and children are at sake. He hur-
ries on with stihed curse. Then at inter-
] walls, amid the desultory fire of the Sepoys'
rifles, hears the sharper cracks of revolver
and shrill cries of rage and pain. The
sounds are getting fainter in the distance,
when there arises a fendish yell of triumph.
God rest his SOUL" mutters the Major in
| his turn So-there is a swelling in my
breast and a choking in my throat that
always comes when 1 think of this-so it
was that | never saw my father, Captain
| McMichael, OF the One-hundred- and tenth,
| but learned, as soon as | was old enough to
| understand it, the tale of how he died to
save his friends, with his back to the bank
and his face to the foe. And he did not die
in vain. The little party reached the En-
| glish camp in safety, and the story of his
| death has become a tradition in his regi-
| ment.
| And now I, his daughter, am sitting in
| the porch of quiet cottage home amid
| Herefordshire orchards idly gazing out upon
the shadow-aecked lawn, sloping from my
| feet down to the swiftly flowing Teme, hast
| ening by on its way to join the Severn.
| Crossing the river OH my left is an old bridge,
wide and bulky and many-arched; in front
a gentle hill rises from the stream, and COW
| ering this hill is little town as picturesque
and irregular as old-fashioned and time
stained as can be found in any county of
| England. A massive church tower, old as
| the Domesday, crowns it, rising proudly
| amid mingled trees and roofs The ruins
of the castle are hidden by the shoulder of
| the slope; but from my post, at the door of
our black and white cottage, l can see up the
wide street which leads from the bridge
until the prospect is closed by the gloomy
arch OF the Broadgate, great leafy elm wav
| ing above it. 1t is summer, and there is q
| humming of bees lowering above the sweet
smelling old-fashioned tiowers-the old man,
| the London pride, the columbine-which
fringe the greensward at my feet.
| This is not my home but l am so often
| here-whenever, in fact, my uncle can spare
me--that my people believe Mrs. Cosgrove to
| be my mother She died when l WAS born,
| the news of my fathers death killing her. and
| Mrs. Cosgrove who had been her friend, be-
| came indeed a second mother to me, and so
| brought me home to Stuart Park. The
| gallant Col onel, her husband, fell at Delhi,
and before the mutny was stamped out two
| of her three children died. With the eldest
she settled in the little black and white
cottage at Ludford. within a dozen miles of