The True Story Book

Now it so happened that every year the governor was subject to a most distressing illness, which, for the time being, entirely deprived him of his reason. When it began to come on, he would talk and chatter incessantly. Each year he had some fresh hallucination, at one time fancying himself an oil-jar, at another a frog, and skipping about like one. Again, another time, he declared he was dead, and wished to be buried; and so, year by year, he was the victim of some new delusion. This year he imagined he was a bat, and as he walked about he uttered little half-smothered cries like a bat, and flapped his hands and moved his body as though about to fly. His faithful old servants and his doctors noticed this, and, thinking change of ideas and variety of conversation might do him good, they frequently fetched Benvenuto to entertain him.

One day the governor asked Benvenuto whether it had ever occurred to him to desire to fly, and; on being answered in the affirmative, he inquired further how he should set about it.

Benvenuto replied that the only flying creature it would be at all possible to imitate artificially was the bat, on which the poor man cried out, 'True, true, that's it, that's the thing.' Then turning round he said, 'Benvenuto, if you had everything you required for it, do you think you could fly?'

'Oh, yes,' said the artist; 'if you will only leave me free to do it, I will engage to make a pair of wings of fine waxed cloth, and to fly from here to Prati with them.'

'And I, too,' exclaimed the governor; 'I could do it too, but the Pope has ordered me to keep you like the apple of his eye, and as I strongly suspect you're a cunning fellow, I shall lock you well up and give you no chance of flying.'

Thereupon, and in spite of all Benvenuto's entreaties and protestations, the governor ordered him to be taken back to prison and more carefully guarded than ever.

Seeing he could not help himself, Cellini exclaimed before the officers and attendants: 'Very well! lock me up and keep me safe, for I give you due warning I mean to escape in spite of everything.'

No sooner was he shut up in his cell than he fell to turning over in his mind how this escape could be made, and began minutely examining his prison, and, after discovering what he thought would be a sure way of getting out, he considered how best he might let himself down from the top of this enormous donjon tower, which went by the name of 'Il Mastio.' He began by measuring the length of the linen strips, which he had cut and joined firmly together so as to form a sort of rope, and he thought there would be enough for his purpose. Next, he armed himself with a pair of pincers which he had taken from one of his guards who was fond of carpentering, and who, amongst his tools, had a particularly large and strong pair of pincers, which appeared so useful to Benvenuto that he abstracted them, and hid them in his mattress.

As soon as he thought himself safe from interruption, he began to feel about for the nails in the ironwork of the door, but owing to its immense thickness they were by no means easy to get at. However, he managed at length to extract the first nail. Then came the question, how to conceal the hole left behind. This he contrived by making a paste of rusty scrapings and wax, which he modelled into an exact representation of the head of a nail, and in this way he replaced each nail he drew by a facsimile of its head in wax.

Great care was required to leave just a sufficient number of nails to keep the ironwork and hinges in their places. But Benvenuto managed this by first drawing the nails, cutting them as short as he dared, and then replacing them in such a way as to keep things together, and yet to allow of their being easily drawn out at the last moment.

All this was by no means easy to contrive, for the governor was constantly sending some one to make sure that his prisoner was safe.

The two men who were specially charged with this duty were rough and rude, and one of them in particular took pains to inspect the whole room carefully every evening, paying special attention to the locks and hinges.

Cellini lived in constant terror lest it should occur to them to examine his bedding, where, besides the pincers, he had hidden a long sharp dagger and some other instruments, as well as his long strips of linen. Each morning he swept out and dusted his room and carefully made his bed, ornamenting it with flowers which he got the soldier from whom he had taken the pincers to bring him. When his two warders appeared he desired them on no account to go near or touch his bed, for fear of soiling or disturbing it. Sometimes, in order to tease him, they would touch it, and then he would shout: 'Ah! you dirty rascals! Just let me get at one of your swords and see how I'll punish you! How dare you touch the bed of such a man as I am? Little care I about risking my own life, for I should be certain to take yours. Leave me in peace with my grief and trouble, or I will show you what a man can do when driven to desperation!'

These words were repeated to the governor, who forbade the gaolers touching Cellini's bed, or entering his room armed. The bed once safe, he felt as if all else must go right.

One night the governor had a worse attack than ever, and in a fit of madness kept repeating that he certainly was a bat, and that, should they hear of Benvenuto's escape, they must let him fly off too, as he was sure he could fly better at night and would overtake the fugitive. 'Benvenuto,' said he, 'is but a sham bat, but as I am a real bat, and he has been given into my keeping, I shall soon catch him again, depend on it.'

This bad attack lasted several nights, and the Savoyard soldier, who took an interest in Benvenuto, reported to him that the servants were quite worn out watching their sick master. Hearing this, Cellini resolved to attempt his escape at once, and set hard to work to complete his preparations. He worked all night, and about two hours before dawn he, with much care and trouble, removed the hinges from the door. The casing and bolts prevented his opening it wide, so he chipped away the woodwork, till at length he was able to slip through, taking with him his linen ropes, which he had wound on two pieces of wood like two great reels of thread.

Having passed the door he turned to the right of the tower, and having removed a couple of tiles, he easily got out on the roof. He wore a white doublet and breeches and white boots, into one of which he had slipped his dagger. Taking one end of his linen rope, he now proceeded to hook it carefully over an antique piece of tile which was firmly cemented into the wall. This tile projected barely four fingers' breadth, and the band hooked over it as on a stirrup. When he had made it firm he prayed thus: 'O Lord, my God, come now to my aid, for Thou knowest that my cause is righteous, and that I am aiding myself.' Then he gently let himself slide down the rope till he reached the ground. There was no moon, but the sky was clear, and once down he gazed up at the tower from which he had made so bold a descent, and went off in high spirits, thinking himself at liberty, which indeed was by no means the case.

On this side of the Castle the governor had had two high walls built to inclose his stables and his poultry-yard, and these walls had gates securely bolted and barred on the outside.

In despair at these obstacles Benvenuto roamed about at random, cursing his bad luck, when suddenly he hit his foot against a long pole which lay hidden in the straw. With a good deal of effort he managed to raise it against the wall and to scramble up to the top. Here he found a sharply sloping coping stone which made it impossible to draw the pole up after him, but he fastened a portion of the second linen band to it, and by this means let himself down as he had done outside the donjon tower.

By this time Benvenuto was much exhausted, and his hands were all cut and bleeding; however, after a short rest he climbed the last inclosure, and was just in the act of fastening his rope to a battlement, when, to his horror, he saw a sentinel close to him. Desperate at this interruption, and at the thought of the risk he ran, he prepared to attack the sentry, who, however, seeing a man advance on him with a drawn dagger and determined air, promptly took to his heels, and Benvenuto returned to his rope. Another guard was near, but, hoping not to have been observed, the fugitive secured his band and hastily slid down it. Whether it was fatigue, or that he thought himself nearer the ground than he really was, it is impossible to say, but he loosened his hold, and fell, hitting his head, and lay stretched on the ground for more than an hour.

The sharp freshness of the air just before sunrise revived him, but his memory did not return immediately, and he fancied his head had been cut off and that he was in purgatory. By degrees, as his senses returned, he realised that he was no longer in the Castle, and remembered what he had done. He put his hands to his head and withdrew them covered with blood, but on carefully examining himself he found he had no serious wound, though on attempting to move he discovered that his right leg was broken. Nothing daunted, he drew from his boot his poniard with its sheath, which had a large ball at the end; the pressure of this ball on the bone had caused the fracture. He threw away the sheath, and cutting off a piece of the remaining linen band with his dagger, he bound up his leg as best he could, and then, dagger in hand, proceeded to drag himself along on his knees towards the gate of the town. It was still closed, but seeing one stone near the bottom, which did not look very huge, he tried to displace it. After repeated efforts it shook, and at length yielded to his efforts, so, forcing it out, he squeezed himself through.

He had barely entered Rome when he was attacked by a band of savage dogs, who bit and worried him cruelly. He fought desperately with his dagger, and gave one dog such a stab that it fled howling, followed by the rest of the pack, leaving Benvenuto free to drag himself as best he could towards St. Peter's.

By this time it was broad daylight, and there was much risk of discovery; so, seeing a water-carrier passing with his train of asses laden with jars full of water, Benvenuto hailed him and begged he would carry him as far as the steps of St. Peter's.

'I am a poor fellow,' said he, 'who have broken my leg trying to get out of the window of a house where I went to see my lady-love. As the house belongs to a great family, I much fear I shall be cut to pieces if I am found here; so pray help me off and you shall have a gold crown for your pains,' and Benvenuto put his hand to his purse, which was well filled.

The water-carrier readily consented, and carried him to St. Peter's, where he left him on the steps, from whence Benvenuto began to crawl towards the palace of Duke Ottavio, whose wife, a daughter of the emperor's, had brought many of Cellini's friends from Florence to Rome in her train. She was well disposed towards the great artist, and he felt that beneath her roof he would be in safety. Unluckily, as he struggled along, he was seen and recognised by a servant of Cardinal Cornaro's, who had apartments in the Vatican. The man hurried to his master's room, woke him up, and cried: 'Most reverend lord, Benvenuto is below; he must have escaped from the Castle, and is all bleeding and wounded. He appears to have broken his leg, and we have no idea where he is going.'

'Run at once,' exclaimed the Cardinal, 'and fetch him here, to my room.'

When Benvenuto appeared the Cardinal assured him he need have no fears, and sent off for the first surgeons in Rome to attend to him. Then he shut him up in a secret room, and went off to try and obtain his pardon from the Pope.

Meantime a great commotion arose in Rome, for the linen ropes dangling from the great tower had attracted notice, and all the town was running out to see the strange sight. At the Vatican Cardinal Cornaro met a friend, to whom he related all the details of Benvenuto's escape, and how he was at that very moment hidden in a secret chamber. Then they both went to the Pope, who, as they threw themselves at his feet, cried, 'I know what you want with me.'

'Holy Father,' said the Cardinal's friend, 'we entreat you to grant us the life of this poor man. His genius deserves some consideration; and he has just shown an almost superhuman amount of courage and dexterity. We do not know what may be the crimes for which your Holiness has seen fit to imprison him, but if they are pardonable we implore you to forgive him.'

The Pope, looking somewhat abashed, replied that he had imprisoned Benvenuto for being too presumptuous; 'however,' he added, 'I am well aware of his talents and am anxious to keep him near me, and am resolved to treat him so well that he shall have no desire to return to France. I am sorry he is ill; bid him recover quickly, and we will make him forget his past sufferings.'

I am sorry to say the Pope was not so good as his words, for Benvenuto's enemies plotted against him, and after a time he was once more shut up in his former prison, from which, however, he was eventually delivered at the urgent request of the King of France, who warmly welcomed the great artist to his Court, where he spent some years in high honour.

THE TALE OF ISANDHLWANA AND RORKE'S DRIFT

ALTHOUGH but fourteen years have gone by since 1879, perhaps some people, if they chance to be young, have forgotten about the Zulus, and the story of our war with them; so, before beginning the tale of Isandhlwana and Rorke's Drift, it may be worth while to tell of these matters in a few words.

The Zulus live in South-Eastern Africa. Originally they were not one tribe but many, though the same blood was in them all. Nobody knows whence they came or who were their forefathers; but they seem to have sprung from an Arab or Semitic stock, and many of their customs, such as the annual feast of the first fruits, resemble those of the Jews. At the beginning of this century there arose a warrior king, called Chaka, who gathered up the scattered tribes of the Zulus as a woodman gathers sticks, and as of the frail brushwood the woodman makes a stout faggot, that none can break, so of these tribes Chaka fashioned a nation so powerful that no other black people could conquer it.

The deeds of Chaka are too many to write of here. Seldom has there been a monarch, black or white, so terrible or so absolute, and never perhaps has a man lived more wicked or more clever. Out of 'nothing,' as the Kafirs say, he made the Amazulu, or the 'people of heaven,' so powerful, that before he died he could send out an army of a hundred thousand men to destroy those whom he feared or hated or whose cattle he coveted. These soldiers were never beaten; if they dared to turn their back upon an enemy, however numerous, they were killed when the battle was done, so that soon they learned to choose death with honour before the foe in preference to death with shame at the hands of the executioner. Where Chaka's armies went they conquered, till the country was swept of people for hundreds of miles in every direction. At length, after he had killed or been the cause of the violent death of more than a million human beings, in the year 1828 Chaka's own hour came; for, as the Zulu proverb says, 'the swimmer is at last borne away by the stream.' He was murdered by the princes of his house and his body servant Umbopo or Mopo. But as he lay dying beneath their spear thrusts, it is said that the great king prophesied of the coming of white men who should conquer the land that he had won.

'What,' he said, 'do you slay me, my brothers – dogs of mine own house whom I have fed, thinking to possess the land? I tell you that I hear the sound of running feet, the feet of a great white people, and they shall stamp you flat, children of my father.'

After the death of Chaka his brother Dingaan reigned who had murdered him. In due course he was murdered also, and his brother Panda succeeded to the throne. Panda was a man of peace, and the only one of the four Zulu kings who died a natural death; for though it is not commonly known, the last of these kings, our enemy Cetywayo, is believed to have met his end by poison. In 1873, Cetywayo was crowned king of Zululand in succession to his father Panda on behalf of the English Government by Sir Theophilus Shepstone. He remained a firm friend to the British till Sir Bartle Frere declared war on him in 1879. Sir Bartle Frere made war upon the Zulus because he was afraid of their power, and the Zulus accepted the challenge because we annexed the Transvaal and would not allow them to fight the Boers or the Swazis. They made a brave resistance, and it was not until there were nearly as many English soldiers in their country armed with breech-loading rifles as they had effective warriors left alive in it, for the most part armed with spears only, that at length we conquered them. But their heart was never in the war; they defended their country against invasion indeed, but by Cetywayo's orders they never attacked ours. Had they wished to do so, there was nothing to prevent them from sweeping the outlying districts of Natal and the Transvaal after our first great defeat at Isandhlwana, but they spared us.

And now I have done with dull explanations, and will go on to tell of the disaster at Isandhlwana or the 'place of the Little Hand,' and of the noble defence of Rorke's Drift.

On the 20th of January, 1879, one of the British columns that were invading Zululand broke its camp on the left bank of the Buffalo river, and marched by the road that ran from Rorke's Drift to the Indeni forest, encamping that evening under the shadow of a steep-cliffed and lonely mountain, called Isandhlwana. This force was known as number 3 column, and with it went Lord Chelmsford, the general in command of the troops. The buildings at Rorke's Drift were left in charge of sixty men of the 2nd battalion 24th regiment under the late Colonel Bromhead, then a lieutenant, and some volunteers and others, the whole garrison being commanded, on the occasion of the attack, by Lieutenant Chard, R.E.

On January 21, Colonel, then Major, Dartnell, the officer in command of the Natal Mounted Police and volunteers, who had been sent out to effect a reconnaissance of the country beyond Isandhlwana, reported that the Zulus were in great strength in front of him. Thereupon Lord Chelmsford ordered six companies of the 2nd battalion 24th regiment, together with four guns and the Mounted Infantry, to advance to his support. This force, under the command of Colonel Glyn, and accompanied by Lord Chelmsford himself, left Isandhlwana at dawn on the 22nd, a despatch having first been sent to Lieut. – Colonel Durnford, R.E., who was in command of some five hundred friendly Natal Zulus, about half of whom were mounted and armed with breech-loaders, to move up from Rorke's Drift and strengthen the camp, which was now in charge of Lieut. – Colonel Pulleine of the 1st battalion 24th regiment. Orders were given to Colonel Pulleine by the general that he was to 'defend' the camp.

About ten o'clock that morning Colonel Durnford arrived at Isandhlwana and took over the command of the camp, which was then garrisoned by seven hundred and seventy-two European and eight hundred and fifty-one native troops, in all one thousand six hundred and twenty-three men, with two guns. Little did Lord Chelmsford and those with him guess in what state they would find that camp when they returned to it some eighteen hours later, or that of those sixteen hundred men the great majority would then be dead!

Meanwhile a Zulu 'impi' or army, numbering about twenty thousand men, or something more than one-third of King Cetywayo's entire strength, had moved from the Upindo Hill on the night of January 21, and taken up its position on a stony plain, a mile and a half to the east of Isandhlwana. The impi was made up of the Undi regiment, about three thousand strong, that formed its breast, or centre, the Nokenke and Umcityu regiments, seven thousand strong, that formed its right wing or horn, and the Imbonanbi and Nkobamikosi regiments, ten thousand strong, forming its left horn or wing. That night the impi slept upon its spears and watched in silence, lighting no fires. The king had reviewed it three days previously, and his orders to it were that it should attack number 3 column, and drive it back over the Buffalo, but it had no intention of giving battle on the 22nd, for the state of the moon was not propitious, so said the 'doctors'; moreover, the soldiers had not been 'moutied,' that is, sprinkled with medicines to 'put a great heart' into them and ensure their victory. The intention of the generals was to attack the camp at dawn on the 23rd; and the actual engagement was brought about by an accident.

Before I tell of this or of the fight, however, it may be as well to describe how these splendid savages were armed and disciplined. To begin with, every corps had a particular head-dress and fighting shields of one colour, just as in our army each regiment has its own facings on the tunics. These shields are cut from the hides of oxen, and it is easy to imagine what a splendid sight was presented by a Zulu impi twenty thousand strong, divided into several regiments, one with snow-white shields and tall cranes' feathers on their heads, one with coal-black shields and black plumes, and others with red and mottled shields, and bands of fur upon their foreheads. In their war with the English many of the Zulus were armed with muzzle-loading guns and rifles of the worst description, of which they could make little use, for few of them were trained to handle firearms. A much more terrible weapon in their hands, and one that did nearly all the execution at Isandhlwana, was the broad-bladed short-shafted stabbing assegai. This shape of spear was introduced by the great king Chaka, and if a warrior cast it at an enemy, or even chanced to lose it in a fight, he was killed when the fray was over. Before Chaka's day the Zulu tribes used light assegais, which they threw at the enemy from a distance, and thus their ammunition was sometimes spent before they came to close quarters with the foe.

Among the Zulus every able-bodied man was enrolled in one or other of the regiments – even the girls and boys were made into regiments or attached to them, and though these did not fight, they carried the mats and cooking pots of the army, and drove the cattle for the soldiers to eat when on the march. Thus it will be seen that this people differed from any other in the world in modern days, for whereas even the most courageous and martial of mankind look upon war as an exceptional state of affairs and an evil only to be undertaken in self-defence, or perhaps for purposes of revenge and aggrandisement, the Zulus looked on peace as the exceptional state, and on warfare as the natural employment of man. Chaka taught them that lesson, and they had learnt it well, and so it came about that Cetywayo was forced to allow the army to fight with us when Sir Bartle Frere gave them an opportunity of doing so, since their hearts were sick with peace, and for years they had clamoured to be allowed to 'wash their spears,' saying that they were no longer men, but had become a people of women. Indeed, had the king not done so, they would have fought with each other. It is a terrible thing to be obliged, year after year, to keep quiet an army of some fifty or sixty thousand men who are too proud to work and clamour daily to be led to battle that they may die as their fathers died. We may be sure that the heart of many a Zulu warrior beat high as in dead silence he marched that night from the heights of Upindo towards the doomed camp of Isandhlwana, since at last he was to satisfy the longing of his blood, and fight to the death with a foe whom he knew to be worthy of him.

Doubtless, also, the hearts of the white men beat high that night as they gathered round the fires of their camp, little knowing that thousands of Zulu eyes were watching them from afar, or that the black rock looming above them was destined to stand like some great tombstone over their bones for ever. Englishmen also are a warlike race, and there was honour and advancement to be won, and it would seem that but few of those who marched into the Zulu country guessed how formidable was the foe with whom they had to deal. A horde of half-naked savages armed with spears did not strike English commanders, imperfectly acquainted with the history and nature of those savages, as particularly dangerous enemies. Some there were, indeed, who, having spent their lives in the country, knew what was to be expected, but they were set down as 'croakers,' and their earnest warnings of disaster to come were disregarded.