The Fatal Marksman

I

“Listen, dame,” said Bertram the old forester of Linden to his wife, “once for all listen: it’s not many things, thou well know’st, that I would deny to thy asking: but, as for this notion, Anne, drive it clean out of thy head: root and branch lay the axe to it, the sooner the better; and never encourage the lass to think more about it. When she knows the worst, she’ll settle herself down to her crying; and when that’s over, all’s over; she submits; and all goes right. I see no good that comes of standing shilly shally, and letting the girl nurse herself with hopes of what must not be.”

“But Bertram, dear Bertram,” replied old Anne, “why not? could not our Kate live as happily with the bailiff’s clerk as with the hunter Robert? Ah! you don’t know what a fine lad William is; so good, so kind-hearted,—”

“May be, like enough,” interrupted Bertram; kind-hearted, I dare say, but no hunter for all that. Now, look here, Anne: for better than two hundred years has this farm in the forest of Linden come down from father to child in my family. Had’st thou brought me a son, well and good: the farm would have gone to him; and the lass might have married whom she would. But, as the case stands,—no, I say. What the devil! have I had all this trouble and vexation of mind to get the duke’s allowance for my son-in-law to stand his examination as soon as he is master of the huntsman’s business; and just, when all’s settled, must I go and throw the girl away? A likely thing, indeed! No, no, mistress Anne, it’s no use talking. It’s not altogether Robert that I care about. I don’t stand upon trifles: and, if the man is not to your taste or the girl’s, why look out any other active huntsman that may take my office betimes and give us a comfortable fire-side in our old age: Robert, or not Robert, so that it be a lad of the forest: I’ll never stand upon trifles: but for the clerk,—dost hear Anne?—this hero of a crow-quill, never hang about my neck or think to wheedle me again.”

For the clerk’s sake old Anne would have ventured to wheedle her husband a little longer: but the forester, who knew by experience the pernicious efficacy of female eloquence, was resolved not to expose his own firmness of purpose to any further assaults or trials; and, taking down his gun from the wall, he walked out into the forest.

Scarcely had he turned the corner of the house, when a rosy light-haired face looked in at the door. It was Katharine: smiling and blushing, she stopped for a moment in agitation, and said:—“Have you succeeded, mother? was it yes, dear mother?” Then, bounding into the room, she fell on her mother’s neck for an answer.

“Ah Kate, be not too confident when thou should’st be prepared for the worst: thy father is a good man, as good as ever stepped, but he has his fancies; and he is resolved to give thee to none but a hunter: he has set his heart upon it; and he’ll not go from his word; I know him too well.”

Katharine wept, and avowed her determination to die sooner than to part from her William. Her mother comforted and scolded her by turns, and at length ended by joining her tears to her daughter’s. She was promising to make one more assault of a most vigorous kind upon the old forester’s heart, when a knock was heard at the door—and in stepped William.—“Ah William!”—exclaimed Katharine going up to him with streaming eyes,—“we must part: seek some other sweetheart: me you must never marry; father is resolved to give me to Robert, because he is a huntsman; and my mother can do nothing for us. But, if I am to part from you, never think that I will belong to any body else: to my dying day, dear William, I will remain faithful to you.”

These bursts of wounded feeling were softened in the report of the mother: she explained to the bewildered clerk, who knew not what to make of Katharine’s ejaculations, that Bertram had no objections to him personnally; but that, simply with a view to the reversionary interest in his place as forester, he insisted on having a son-in-law who understood hunting.

“Is that all?” said William recovering his composure, and at the same time he caught the sobbing girl to his bosom.—“Is that all? Then be of good cheer, dearest Kate. I am not unskilled in hunting: for, at one time, I was apprenticed to my uncle Finsterbusch the forester-general; and it was only to gratify my god-father the bailiff that I exchanged the gun for the writing-desk. What care I for the reversion of the bailiff’s place, unless I may take my Kate into the bailiff’s house as mistress? If you can be content to look no higher than your mother did, and Will the forester is not less dear to you than Will the bailiff, then let me die if I won’t quit my clerk- ship this instant; for, in point of pleasure, there’s no comparison between the jolly huntsman’s life and the formal life of the town.”

“Oh! thou dear kind lad,” said Katharine, whilst all the clouds dispersed from her forehead and her eyes swam in a shower of glittering tears, “if thou wilt do this for my sake, then do so and speak to my father without delay—before he can possibly make any promise to Robert.”

“Stay, Kate: I’ll go after him this moment into the forest. He’s gone in search of the venison, I dare say, that is to be delivered to-morrow into the office. Give me a gun and a pouch: I’ll find him out—meet him with a jolly hunter’s salutation—and offer my services to him as his hunting-boy.”

Both mother and daughter fell upon his neck; helped to equip the new huntsman to the best of their skill; and looked after him as he disappeared in the forest, with hope, but yet with some anxiety.

II

“Upon my soul, but this William’s a fine fellow!” exclaimed the forester as he returned home with his comrade from the chace: “Who the deuce would ever have looked for such a good shot in the flourisher of a crow-quill? Well: to-morrow I shall speak with the bailiff myself: for it would be a sad pity if he were not to pursue the noble profession of hunting. Why, he’ll make a second Kuno. You know who Kuno was, I suppose?” said he turning to William.

William acknowledged that he did not.

“Not know who Kuno was! bless my soul! to think that I should never have told you that? Why Kuno, you’re to understand, was my great grand-father’s father; and was the very first man that ever occupied and cultivated this farm. He began the world no better, I’ll assure you, than a poor riding boy; and live servant with the young knight of Wippach. Ah! the knight liked him well, and took him with him to all places, battles, tournaments, hunts, and what not? Well, once upon a time it happened that this young gentleman of Wippach was present with many other knights and nobles at a great hunt held by the duke. And in this hunt the dogs turned up a stag upon which a man was seated ringing his hands and crying piteously: for, in those days, there was a tyrannical custom among the great lords that, when a poor man had committed any slight matter of trespass against the forest-laws, they would take and bind him on the back of a stag, so that he was bruised and gored to death by the herd—or, if he escaped dying that way, he perished of hunger and thirst. Well, when the duke saw this—oh lord! but he was angry; and gave command to stop the hunting; and there and then he promised a high reward to any man that would undertake to hit the stag—but threatened him with his severest displeasure in case he wounded the man; for he was resolved, if possible, to take him alive—that he might learn who it was that had been bold enough to break his law which forbade all such murderous deeds. Now, amongst all the nobility, not a man could be found that would undertake the job on these terms: they liked the reward, mind you, but not the risk. So, at last, who should step forward but Kuno, my own great grand-father’s father—the very man that you see painted in that picture. He spoke up boldly before the duke, and said:—“My noble liege, if it is your pleasure, with God’s blessing, I will run the hazard: If I miss, my life is at your grace’s disposal, and must pay the forfeit; for riches and worldly goods I have none to ransom it: but I pity the poor man; and, without fee or reward, I would have exposed my life to the same hazard if I had seen him in the hands of enemies or robbers.” This speech pleased the duke: it pleased him right well: and he bade Kuno try his luck; and again be promised him the reward in case he hit; but he did not repeat his threat in case he missed; that was, mind you, lest he should frighten him and make his hand unsteady. Well, Kuno took his gun, cocked it in God’s name; and, commending the ball with a pious prayer to the guidance of good angels, he spent no time in taking aim—but fired with a cheerful faith right into the midst of a thicket: in the same moment out rushed the hart, staggered, and fell; but the man was unwounded, except that his hands and face were somewhat scratched by the bushes.

“The noble duke kept his word, and gave Kuno, for his reward, the farm of the forest to himself and his heirs ofr ever. But, lord bless us! good fortune never wanted envy; and the favour of providence, as Kuno soon learned, is followed by the jealousy of man. Many a man there was, in those days, who would gladly have had Kuno’s reward; one man for himself, perhaps; another for some poor cousin or so, or may be something nearer of kin, but come of the wrong side the blanket: and what did they do but they persuaded the duke that Kuno’s shot had hit the mark through witchcraft and black arts: “For why?” said they, “Kuno never took any aim at all, but fired at random ‘a devil’s shot;’ and a devil’s shot, you’re to understand, never fails of hitting the mark, for needs must that the devil drives.” So hereupon a regulation was made, and from this the custom came, that every descendant of Kuno must undergo a trial and fire what they call his probationary shot before he is admitted tenant. However, the master of the hounds, before whom the trial takes place, can make it easy or difficult at his own pleasure. When I was admitted, guess what the master required of me: why from the bill of a wooden bird to shoot out a ring that fastened the bird to a pole. Well, well: up to this time not one of all Kuno’s descendants has failed in his trial: and he that would be my son-in-law and a worthy successor to me—let me tell you, William, that man had need to make himself a thorough huntsman.”

William, who had listened to this story with lively interest (as the old forester had not failed to remark with much satisfaction), rose from his seat when it was ended,—pressed the old man’s hand—and promised, under his tuition, to make himself a huntsman such as even old father Kuno should have had no cause to blush for.

III

William had scarcely lived one whole fortnight at the forest-house in his capacity of huntsman, when old Bertram, who liked him better every day, gave a formal consent to his marriage with Katharine. This promise, however, was to be kept secret until the day of the probationary shot, when the presence of the ducal master of the hounds would confer a splendour on the ceremony of the betrothing which was flattering to the old man’s pride. Meantime the bridegroom elect passed his time in rapturous elevation of spirits, and forgot himself and all the world in the paradise of youthful love—so that father Bertram often said to him tauntingly, that from the day when he had hit his prime aim in obtaining Katharine’s heart he had hit nothing else. The fact however, was, that, from that very day, William had met with an unaccountable run of ill-luck in hunting. Sometimes his gun would miss fire; at other times instead of a deer, he would hit the trunk of a tree. Was his hunting-bag emptied on his return home? Instead of partridges out came daws and crows, and, instead of a hare, perhaps a dead cat. At last the forester began to reproach him in good earnest for his heedlessness; and Kate herself became anxious for the event of his examination before the duke’s commissioner.

William redoubled his attention and diligence; but, the nearer the day of trial advanced, so much the more was he persecuted by bad luck. Nearly every shot missed; and at length he grew almost afraid of pulling a trigger for fear of doing some mischief; for he had already shot a cow at pasture, and narrowly escaped wounding the herdsman.

“Nay, I stick to my own opinion,” said huntsman Rudolph one night, “somebody has cast a spell over William; for, in the regular course of nature such things could never happen; and this spell he must undo before ever he’ll have any luck.”

“Pooh! pooh! man, what stuff you talk!” replied Bertram. “This is nothing but superstitious foolery, such as no christian hunter should ever so much as name. Can’st tell me now, my fine fellow, what three articles be those which make an able sportsman’s stock in trade?

“Aye, my old cock of the woods, I can tell you that,” said Rudolph, clearing his throat, “or else it were a pity:

A dog, a gun, and a skilful hand, In the forest are better than house or land.’

“Good,” said Bertram, “and these three together are an overmatch for all the spells in Germany.”

“With your leave, father Bertram,” replied William, somewhat chagrined, “here is my gun; and I should be glad to see the man that has any fault to find with that: as to my skill, I shall not boast of it; yet I think it can’t be denied that I do as well as others: nevertheless, so it is—that my balls seem to fly askance, as if the wind turned them out of their course. Do but tell me what it is that I should do, and there is nothing I will not try.”

“Strange indeed!” murmured the forester, who knew not what to say.

“Take my word for it, William,” repeated Rudolph, “it is just what I tell you. Go some Friday at midnight to a cross-road, and make a circle round about you with a ram-rod or a bloody sword; bless it three times in the same words as the priest uses, but in the name of Samiel”—

“Hush! hush!” interrupted the forester angrily: “dost know what that name is? why, he’s one of Satan’s host. God keep thee and all christians out of his power!”

William crossed himself and would hear no more; however obstinately Rudolph persisted in his opinion. All night long he continued to clean his gun, to examine the screws, the spring, and every part of the lock and barrel; and, at break of day, he sallied forth to try his luck once more.

IV

But all in vain: his pains were all thrown away; the deer flocked round him, almost as it seemed in mockery of his skill. At ten paces distance he leveled at a roe-buck; twice his gun flashed in the pan; the third time it went off, but the deer darted off unhurt through the bushes. Cursing his fate, the unhappy hunter threw himself despondingly beneath a tree: at that moment a rustling was heard in the bushes, and out limped an old soldier with a wooden leg.

“Good morning to you, comrade,” said the soldier, “why so gloomy, why so gloomy? Is it body or purse that’s ailing, health or wealth is it that you’re sighing for? Or has somebody put a charm upon your gun? Come, give us a bit of tobacco; and let’s have a little chat together.”

With a surly air William gave him what he asked for, and the soldier threw himself by his side on the grass. After some desultory discussion, the conversation fell upon hunting, and William related his own bad luck. “Let me see your gun,” said the soldier. “Ah! I thought so: this gun has been charmed, and you’ll never get a true aim with it again: and more than that, let me tell you, if the charm was laid according to the rules of art, you’ll have no better luck with any other gun you take in hand.”

William shuddered, and would have urged some objection against the credibility of witchcraft; but the stranger offered to bring the question to a simple test. “To old soldiers, the like of me,” said he, “there’s nothing at all surprising in it. Bless your soul; I could tell you stories stranger by half, from this time to midnight. How do you think the sharp-shooters would come on, that must venture here there and every where, and must pick off their man from the very heart of the thickest smoke, where it’s clean impossible to see him, how must they come on, I would be glad to know, if they understood no other trick than just aim and let fire? Now here, for instance, is a ball that cannot fail to go true, because it’s a gifted ball, and is proof against all the arts of darkness. Just try it now: just give it a trial: I’ll answer for it, you’ll not find it deceive you, I’ll be surety for it.”

William loaded his piece, and looked about for an aim. At a great height above the forest, like a moving speck, was hovering a large bird of prey. “There!” said Mr. Timbertoe, “that old devil up there, shoot him.” William laughed, for the bird was floating in a region so elevated as to be scarcely discernable to the naked eye. “Nay, never doubt; shoot away;” repeated the old soldier, “I’ll wager my wooden leg you’ll bring him down.” William fired, the black speck was seen rapidly descending; and a great vulture fell bleeding to the ground.

“Oh! bless your heart, that’s nothing at all,” said the soldier, observing the speechless astonishment of his companion, “not worth speaking of. Indeed it’s no such great matter to learn how to cast balls as good as these; little more is wanted than some slight matter of skill, and to be sure a stout heart; for why? the work must be done in the night. I’ll teach you and welcome, if we should chance to meet again; at present, however, I must be moving, for I’ve a d2d long march before me to day; and I hear it just striking seven. Meantime here’s a few braces of my balls for you,” and so saying he limped off. Filled with astonishment William tryed a second of the balls, and again he hit an object at an inaccessible distance: he then charged with his ordinary balls, and missed the broadest and most obvious mark. On this second trial, he determined to go after the old soldier; but the soldier had disappeared in the depths of the forest; and William was obliged to console himself with the prospect of meeting him again.

V

In the forest-house all was pleasure when William returned, as formerly, with a load of venison, and gave practical evidence to old Bertram that he was still the same marksman he had first shewn himself in his noviciate. He should now have told the reason of his late ill-luck, and what course he had taken to remove it: but, without exactly knowing why, he shrank from telling of the inevitable balls, and laid the blame upon a flaw in his gun which had escaped his notice until the proceeding night.

“Now, dame, dost a’ see?” said the forester, laughing: “who’s wrong now, dame, I wonder? The witchcraft lay in the gun that wanted trimming; and the little devil, that by your account should have thrown down old father Kuno’s picture so early this morning, I’m partly of opinion lies in a cankered nail.”

“What’s that you’re saying about a devil?” asked William.

“Nay, nothing at all but nonsense,” replied the old man: “this morning, just as the clock was striking seven, the picture fell down of itself; and so my wife will have it that all’s not right about the house.”

“Just as it was striking seven, eh? Ha!” And the old soldier flashed across William’s thoughts, who had taken his leave at that identical time.

“Aye, sure enough, as it was striking seven: not a very likely time for devils to be stirring; eh, my old dame? eh Anne?” at the same time chucking her under the chin with a good-na- tured laugh. But old Anne shook her head thoughtfully, saying:—“God grant all may turn out natural!” and William changed colour a little. He resolved to put by his balls, and, at the most, only to use one upon his day of trial, lest he might be unconsciously trifling away his future happiness at the wily suggestions of a fiend. But the forester summoned him to attendance upon the chace; and, unless he were prepared to provoke the old man, and to rouse afresh all the late suspicions in regard to his skill, he found himself obliged to throw away some of his charmed balls upon such occasions.

VI

In a few days William had so familiarised himself to the use of his enchanted balls, that he no longer regarded it with any misgiving. Every day he roamed about in the forest hoping to meet the wooden-leg again; for his stock of balls had sunk to a single pair; and the most rigorous parsimony became needful, if he would not put to hazard his final success on the day of trial. One day, therefore, he positively declined attending the old forester a hunting; for, on the next, the duke’s commissioner was expected; and it might so happen that, before the regular probation, he would call for some exhibition of his skill. At night, however, instead of the commissioner, came a messenger from him to bespeak a very large delivery of game for court, and to countermand the preparations for his own reception until that day se’nnight.

On the receipt of this news, William was ready to sink to the ground; and his alarm would certainly have raised suspicions, had it not been ascribed to the delay of his marriage. He was now under the necessity of going out to hunt, and of sacrificing, at least, one of his balls. With the other he vowed to himself that he would not part for any purpose on earth, except for the final shot before the commissioner which was to decide his fate for life.

Bertram scolded, when William came back from the forest with only a single buck; for the quantity of venison ordered was very con- siderable. Next day he was still more provoked on seeing Rudolph return loaded with game and William with an empty bag. At night he threatened to dismiss him from his house, and to revoke the consent he had given to his marriage with Katharine, unless ho brought home, at least, two roe-deer on the following morning. Katherine herself was in the greatest distress, and conjured him for love of her to apply his utmost zeal, and not to think so much about her whilst engaged in hunting.

In a despairing mood William set off to the forest. Kate, in any case, he looked upon as lost; and all that remained for him was a sad alternative between the two modes of losing her, whether by the result of this day’s hunting, or of the trial before the commissioner. This was an alternative on which he felt himself incapable of deciding; and he was standing lost in gloomy contemplation of his wretched fate when all at once a troop of deer advanced close upon him. Mechanically he felt for his last ball; it seemed to weigh a hundred weight in his bands. Already he had resolved to re- serve this treasure at any price, when suddenly he saw the old wooden-leg at a distance and apparently directing his steps towards himself. Joyfully he dropped his ball into the barrel, fired, and two roe-bucks fell to the ground. William left them lying, and hurried after the wooden-leg; but he must have struck into some other path for he had wholly disappeared.

VII

Father Bertram was well satisfied with William; but not so was William with himself. The whole day long he went about in gloomy despondency; and even the tenderness and caresses of Kate had no power to restore him to serenity. At night-fall, he was still buried in abstraction; and, seated in a chair, he hardly noticed the lively conversation between the forester and Rudolph, till at length the former woke him out of his reverie.

“What, William, I say,” cried Bertram, “sure you’ll never sit by and hearken quietly whilst such scandalous things are said as Rudolph has just been saying of our forefather Kuno. I’m sure, I won’t.” “If good angels stood by, and gave help to him and to the poor innocent man on the stag’s back, why nothing but right: we read of such cases in the Old Testament; and let us thank God, for that and all his mercies and marvels; but as to black arts and devil’s shots, I’ll not sit and hear such things said of our Kuno. What, man? Kuno died in his bed quietly and with a christian’s peace amongst his children and children’s children; but, the man that tampers with the powers of darkness never makes a good end. I know that by what I saw myself at Prague in Bohemia, when I was an apprentice lad.”

“Aye? what was that,” cried Rudolph and the rest: “tell us, dear father.”

“What was it? why bad enough,” said Bertram, “it makes me shudder when I think of it. There was, at that time, a young man in Prague, one George Smith by name, a wild daring sort of a fellow, not but he was a fine active lad in his way, that was terribly fond of hunting, and would often come and join us; indeed, I may say, whenever he could. And a very fair hunter he might have proved; but he was too hasty by far, and flung his shots away in a manner. One day, when we had been joking him on this, his pride mounted so high that nothing would serve him but he must defy all the hunters in a body: he would beat any of them at shooting: and no game should escape him whether in the air or in the forest. This was his boast: but ill he kept his word. Two days after comes a strange huntsman bolt upon us out of a thicket, and tells us that a little way off, on the main road, a man was lying half dead, and with nobody to look after him. We lads made up to the spot, and there, sure enough, lay poor George torn and clawed all to pieces, just as if he had fallen amongst wild cats: not a word could he speak; for he was quite senseless, and hardly shewed any signs of life. We carried him to a house: one of us set off with the news to Prague; and thither he was soon fetched. Well, this George Smith, before he died, made confession that he had set about casting devil’s balls, with an old upland hunter; devil’s balls, you understand, never miss; and because he failed in something that he should have done, the devil had handled him so roughly, that what must pay for it but his precious life?

“What was it then that he failed in,?” asked William falteringly: “is it always the devil that is at work in such dealings?”

“Why, who should it be?” rejoined the forester: “the devil, to be sure, who else? Some people I’ve heard talk of hidden powers of nature, and of the virtue of the stars. I know not: every man’s free to think what he likes: but it’s my opinion, and I stick to it, that it’s all the devil’s handicraft.”

William drew his breath more freely. “But did George not relate what it was that brought such rough treatment upon him?”

“Aye, sure enough, before the magistrates he confessed all. As it drew towards midnight, it seems, he had gone with the old hunter to a cross-road: there they made a circle with a bloody sword; and in this circle they laid a skull and bones cross-ways. Then the old man told George what he was to do. On the stroke of eleven, he was to begin casting the balls, in number sixty and three, neither more nor less; one over or one under, as soon as twelve o’clock struck, he was a lost man. And, during all this work, he was not to speak a word, nor to step out of the circle, let what would happen. Sixty of the balls were to carry true, and only three were to miss. Well sure enough, Smith began casting the balls; but such shocking and hideous apparitions flocked about him, that at last, he shrieked out and jumped right out of the circle: instantly he fell down senseless to the ground, and never recovered his recollection till he found himself at Prague, as if waking out of a dream, in the hands of the surgeon, and with a clergyman by his side.”