The Iola register. [volume] (Iola, Allen County, Kansas) 1875-1902, 1883-10-05
AMBER COSGROVE.


my good fortune that can write in three
words the history of my girlhood. Happy
happier Those thin, clear, up
and-down strokes tell little to others; to
me they tell of past for which / can not
be too thankful. l write a hand like my
great-grandmother's, so Ainslie tells me
neat and formal and Observation-Disclosures
which l think describe me as well 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 a peaceful life
unpleasant to remember, for through them
/ passed from being Amber McMichael to
become the wife of a man as noble and
brave, as generous and true, as my own
father. And even of Ainslie can say no
more than that.
There is a scene which is often in nv
mind when l sit and think of the past. But
it is no passage in my own life; it took
place before / was born, and in far-dis.
tant land. Try to picture 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 moon
beams piercing through the branches over
head, some dozen persons, Europeans and
natives, are Fastening, stumbling and fall
ing in their hurry, but never pausing. Be-
hind them there is glare in the sky far
too deep for the moonlight, brighter and
redder even than the glow which hangs
over great city at night. That crimson
illumination 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 up the
49,
with fear. Not on their own account, but
for the women and children who are being
hurried along by their panic-stricken SER
wants. Well may Major Cosgrove's breath
come and go, for his wife and children are
of the party; vainly he tries to pierce the
darkness in front, and to distinguish the
CLEAN of the river, beyond which is COM
parative safety. He knows that hardly
three miles on the other side of it is Brit
ish station; and the demons behind, cow
ardly as cruel, may hesitate to pursue
where every step brings them nearer to
danger. While he gazes in front his broth
err officer keeps turning back his head in the
direction of the pursuit. Neither speaks
his thoughts; but the Major, 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 intended. Ha, the water at last. There
quickly with thousand pale flashes over
the shallow ford. But is it not-too late?
A louder cry rings through the night air;
the pursuers have sighted them, and aOe re-
doubling 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 impos-
sible. dozen bullets plash the water, and
the Sepoys, encouraged by their own num-
bers, are crossing the ford to come to close
quarters. Breathless and dripping the
women and children are pulledup the bank,
and the officers follow-one of them. The
other, with a stern grasp of his friends hand,
and a forward gesture of announcement or
farewell, with muttered ''God bless you -
turns back into the water, and crouches IN
der the bank like stag at bay. The Ma tor
hesitates; but the lives of his wife and chill
dren are at stake. He hurries on with a
stified curse. Then at intervals, amid the
desultory fire of the Sepoys' rifles, he hears
the sharper cracks of a revolver and shrill
cries of rage and pain. The sounds are get
ting fainter in the distance, when there
arises a fiendish 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 think of this-so it was that l never
saw my father, Captain McMichael of the
10th, but learned, as soon as l 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 English camp in safety, and the story
of his death has become tradition in his
regiment.
And now I, his daughter, am sitting in
the porch of quiet cottage home amid
Herefordshire orchards, idly gazing out
upon the shadowed-fecked lawn, sloping
from my feet down to the swiftly flowing
Teme, Fastening by on its way to join the
Severn. Crossing the river on my left is
an old bridge, wide and bulky and many.
arched; in front gentle hill rises from the
stream, and covering 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, ct the door of our black and white cot
tage, can see up the wide street which
leads from the bridge until the prospect is
closed by the gloomy arch of the Broad.
gate, great leafy elm waving above it. 1t
is summer, and there is a humming of bees
lowering above the understanding old-fash-
toned fowers-the old man, the London
pride, the columbine-which fringe the
yreeDsward at my feet.
This is not my home, but ! am so often
uere-whenever, in fact, my uncle can
spare me-that many people believe Mrs.
Cosgrove to be my mother. She died when
I was born, the news of my fathers death
killing her; and Mrs. Cosgrove. who had
been her friend, became indeed a second
mother to me, and so brought me home TO
Stuart Park. The gallant Colonel, her hus-
band, fell at Delhi, and before the mutiny
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 the park. And
between these homes have / passed my
life.
This still summer afternoon, though my
Fingers are knitting, and my eyes gazing
across at the town lying so hot and quiet,
my ears are listening for Ainslie Cosgroye's
step upon the gravel. He is with US on
leave, and to-day is fishing at Steventon.
The gate clicks. go on with my knitting
and affect not to hear it; but out of the cor
oers of my eyes see his tall, slight figure
moving across the lawn, with the loose
singing step which makes so little of dis
lance. He is wearing his gray suit and soft
hat. i learn to know all the clothes in his
wardrobe when / am st Ludford; But l
like best to see him in these-the rough
gray goes so well with Ainslie's frank
smile and sunburnt face. / don't know
why, but he has not seemed so nice this
visit. And yet | have enjoyed it. / am
afraid that, feyorite as he must be, the men
of his regiment spoil him. He evidently
does not care to be with us as much as of
hdi the walks in the dusk Of the evening,