Chapter Thirty Four.
A Vain Appeal.
That same night, an officer was sent with a flag of truce to the Hall, and bearing a summons to surrender.
To his intense delight at first, and intense sorrow afterwards, Fred found that it was to be his duty to bear the flag and the message to the officer in command of the little garrison.
He received his instructions and a despatch to Sir Godfrey Markham, and carrying a small white flag, and preceded by a trumpeter, he rode slowly through the evening mist, which was rising from the lake and the low meadows down by the stream, till he reached the path leading up to the Hall garden, where he stopped short, gave the order, and the man blew a cheery call, which echoed and re-echoed from the red stone walls.
Then, riding forward with his white flag well displayed, he advanced boldly to the front of the barricaded porch.
For a few minutes he sat there gazing up at the front, and wondering that no heed was paid to his coming. So still was everything, that it seemed as if the Hall had been deserted, till, happening to glance to his left, he caught sight of a dark eye at one of the windows, and directly after he realised that this eye was glancing along a heavy piece, the owner taking careful aim at him as if about to fire.
It was impossible under the circumstances to avoid a feeling of trepidation; but second thoughts came to whisper to him as it were—
“You are under a flag of truce—an ambassador, and sacred.”
“But he might be ignorant, and fire,” thought Fred, as he glanced to his right, where, to his horror, he saw a second man taking aim at him, and apparently only waiting the word.
Fred’s first thought was that he ought to clap spurs to his horse, wheel round suddenly so as to disorder the men’s aim, and gallop back for his life.
“And then,” he said to himself, “how should I dare face the general and my father?”
Drawing a long breath, he sat firm, and then fighting hard to keep down his trepidation, he turned his head, and called to his follower, bidding him summon the garrison once more.
The man raised his trumpet to his lips, and blew another call, falling back again at a sign from the flag-bearer, and though he would not show that he knew of their presence, a glance to right and left told Fred that the two men were taking aim at him still.
“They dare not fire. They dare not!” he said to himself, as he sat fast; and directly after a group of showily dressed Cavaliers appeared at the large open window above the broad porch.
He could see that Sir Godfrey Markham was in the centre, with a tall fair man with a pointed beard on one side, a grey dark man on the other, and half behind him stood Scarlett, with some dozen more.
“Well, sir,” said Sir Godfrey, sternly, and speaking as if he had never seen the messenger before, “what is your business?”
“I am the bearer of a despatch, sir,” replied Fred, “for the chief officer here.”
“That will be you, sir,” said Sir Godfrey to the gentleman on his right. “Well, boy, pass the letter here.”
“How, sir?”
“Put it on the point of your pike, and pass it up.”
Fred did as he was bidden, and sticking the folded missive on the point of the pike which carried the white flag, he held it up, and it was taken.
“You had better retire while it is read,” said Sir Godfrey, contemptuously. “I see there are two of our men paying attention to you. Rein back, if you are afraid.”
It was a hard struggle, for with those two fierce-looking troopers watching him along the barrels of their pieces, Fred’s inclination was still to turn and gallop away as fast as his horse would go.
But at that moment he raised his eyes, and could see that Scarlett was looking down at him, as if to watch the effect of Sir Godfrey’s words.
This look seemed to stiffen him, and he sat perfectly erect upon his horse, with the pike-shaft resting upon his toe, as he told himself that he hoped if the men fired they would miss; that before he would run away, with Scar Markham to laugh at his flight, they might riddle him with bullets through and through.
“Well, sir,” said Sir Godfrey, half mockingly, “are you going to retire?”
“I am under a flag of truce, Sir Godfrey,” said Fred, quietly. “I thought the Royalist party were gentlemen, and knew the meaning of such a sign.”
“Ha, ha, ha!” laughed the tall Cavalier by the general’s side. “That’s a good sharp retort for you, Markham. Well done, youngster! Don’t be afraid.”
“I am not,” said Fred, stoutly; but at the same time he said to himself, “Oh, what a horrible lie, when I’m all of a cold shiver.”
“I didn’t quite mean afraid,” said the tall officer, laughing, “I meant to say that no one here shall harm you, my young ambassador. But look here, how comes it that you, who are evidently a gentleman, are taking sides with that beggarly scum of tatterdemalions who have taken up arms against their sovereign?”
“Look here, sir,” said Fred, “is this meant for flattery or insult?”
“Neither one nor the other, young ferocity,” said the Cavalier, laughing. “But don’t look like that; you alarm me. Here, young Markham, you had better come and deal with this pernicious enemy; he is too much for me.”
But Scarlett did not move, and Fred drew a deep breath, as he prepared for the next verbal encounter, for the fair Cavalier was leaning carelessly out of the window, and looking down at him till, as if fascinated by his look, and after a long struggle to keep his gaze fixed on the stonework upon a level with his nose, Fred raised his eyes, and found that the Cavalier was regarding him with a pleasant, friendly smile.
“I did not mean to affront you,” he said; “I only thought it a pity that such a stout lad as you should be on the opposite side.”
“Thank you,” said Fred, haughtily.
“I suppose we are enemies, are we not!”
Fred nodded.
“And next time we meet you will be trying to send the point of your sword through me, or to ride me down, eh?”
“I suppose I shall try,” said Fred, smiling in spite of himself, and showing his white teeth.
“Ah, it’s a pity. You’re going wrong way, young man. Better come in here, and fight for the king.”
“Better stand up manfully for my own side, and not be a traitor,” retorted Fred, hotly. “How dare you, standing there in safety, keep on this wretched temptation?”
“Wounds and wonder!” cried the Cavalier, “what a fire-eater it is. Here, I don’t wonder that we are shut up helplessly here. I say, Roundhead, will you have a glass of wine?”
“Keep your wine,” said Fred. “I’ve come on business, not to talk and drink.”
At that moment, Sir Godfrey spoke to those about him, drawing back from the window, and the conversational Cavalier followed, leaving Fred sitting stiff and fretful, with all his moral quills set up, the more full of offence that he believed Scarlett was still watching him.
As he sat there, assuming the most utter indifference, and gazing with a solidity that was statuesque straight before him, he could hear a loud buzzing of voices, following the firm deep tones of Sir Godfrey Markham, who had evidently been laying the contents of the message before his companion.
“Will they surrender?” thought Fred. “I hope they will. They are debating the question. It would be a relief; and Scarlett Markham and I—no, Scar and I,” he said, mentally correcting himself—“might perhaps be together again. If he would promise not to take up arms, I dare say my father and General Hedley would let him off from being a prisoner if I asked, and he could go with me to where poor Nat lies out in the wood, and look after him.”
“Huzza! God save the king!”
The shout and words came so suddenly that the little horse Fred rode started and reared, and he was in the act of quieting it down, feeling the while that his ambassage had been in vain, when the party defending the Hall reappeared at the window.
“Youngster!” began Sir Godfrey, in a stern deep voice which annoyed Fred.
“When he knows me as well as he does his own son!”
“Ride back, and tell your leaders that I have laid the contents of their letter before the gallant gentlemen who are my companions here.”
There was a buzz, and an attempt at cheering, which ceased as Sir Godfrey went on.
“They all join heart and soul with me in the determination to hold my home here in the name of his majesty the king, so long as there is a roof above us and a piece of wall to act as shelter, to help us keep your rascally rebellious cut-throats out of the place.”
Fred felt all of a tingle, and his eyes flamed as he gazed up defiantly at the speaker.
“Tell your leaders that if they will at once lay down their arms and return to their homes, they shall be allowed to do so in peace.”
“Huzza!” came from within.
“But if they still keep in arms against his majesty, they must expect no mercy. Once more. Tell your leaders that we treat their proposal with the contempt it deserves.”
“As we shall treat your silly proposition, sir,” said Fred, quite losing his temper at being made the bearer of such an absurd defiance from a little knot of men, completely surrounded as they were. “Am I to fully understand that you are obstinate enough to say you will hold out?”
“Look here, insolent boy,” said Sir Godfrey, sternly, “you are safe—your character of messenger makes you so—but if you stay where you are in front of this my doorstep another five minutes, one of the men shall beat you away with a staff. Go!”
Fred turned white, then red, and he felt the bitterness of the general’s words the more keenly from having forgotten himself and departed from his neutral position of messenger to speak as he had. He wanted to say something angry that should show Sir Godfrey and his companions, and above all, Scarlett, that he was obliged to go, but that it was on account of his duty, and not that he feared the man with the staff. But suitable words would not come, and, bubbling over with impotent wrath and annoyance, he touched his horse’s flanks with the spurs, turned as slowly and deliberately as he could, and began to move away, but only to face round fiercely as the tall Cavalier at the window said banteringly—
“Good-bye, young game-cock.”
There was a roar of laughter from the careless party looking on.
“You coward!”
“Not I, my lad,” came back in cheery tones. “I was only joking. Good-bye, and good luck go with you, though you are a Roundhead. Think better of it; let your hair grow, and then come and ask for Harry Grey. I shall have a regiment again some day, and I shall be proud to have you at my side.”
The words were so frankly and honestly said that Fred’s eyes brightened, and passing the pike-shaft into his bridle hand, he raised his steel cap to the Cavalier, replaced it, and rode off, while the Royalist officer turned to Scarlett.
“As frank and sturdy a boy as I have ever met, excepting you, Scarlett Markham, of course,” he added, as merrily as if there were no danger near.
“Yes, he’s as true as steel,” said Scarlett, flushing. “He always was.”
“You know him?”
“It’s Fred Forrester, Colonel Forrester’s son, from the Manor. We were companions till the war broke out.”
“Three cheers for bonnie Coombeland and its boys,” said the Cavalier. “Why, Scarlett, my lad, we shall have to get him away from these wretched rebels. Can’t it be done?”
“No,” said Scarlett, gravely. “Fred is too staunch and true.”
And staunchly enough, Fred, with his trumpeter behind, was riding back to camp with his message, which he delivered to General Hedley and his father.
There was a pause after he had done, and the general sat gazing straight before him.
“Well, Forrester,” he said at last, “I have done my duty so far, and I must go on. We cannot leave this little nest of hornets in our rear to act as a point to which other insects will gather for the destruction of those who are fighting for their homes. It is of no use to give them time.”
“No,” said Colonel Forrester, sternly. “I agree with you. They must fall, or be taken to a man.”
“And their blood be upon their own heads.”
“Amen,” said Colonel Forrester, in a deep voice; and as Fred glanced at him he saw that he was very pale, while a cold chill of dread ran through the lad’s veins as, in imagination, he seemed to see stout, handsome Sir Godfrey Markham borne down by numbers, with Scarlett making frantic efforts to save him; and then all seemed to be dark—a darkness which hung over his spirit, so that he led his horse mechanically to the improvised stabling beneath the trees, seeing nothing, hearing nothing, till a voice said—
“No, no, Master Fred, I’ll see to your horse;” and he turned and found Samson there, and this set him thinking about poor Nat lying helpless in the wood.
Chapter Thirty Five.
Samson Visits his Brother.
No orders were given for attack that night, and Fred went to the rough shelter that served him for tent, to lie down, but not to sleep, for his thoughts were either at the Manor, which was to him as if it were a hundred miles away; at the Hall, where he knew that the little Royalist party were doing everything to resist the impending attack; or in the gloomy old patch of ancient forest they called the wilderness, where poor Nat lay helpless, and very little removed from death.
“I can’t sleep,” said Fred, at last, as he rose from his bed, which consisted of a pile of heather, over which his horseman’s cloak was thrown, and impetuously hurrying out, he stood gazing up at the bright stars, with the cool moist wind from the north-west bearing to his hot cheeks the freshness of the sea.
“Perhaps dying,” he said to himself at last. “I can’t lie there thinking about it. I will go, at all costs, and he shall go with me.”
He stepped back into his rough tent, buckled on his sword, threw the strap of a wallet over his head, and then took the remainder of his evening meal and a small flask, which he placed in the wallet. This done, he paused for a few moments, and then sought a scarf and a couple of handkerchiefs, which he also thrust into the wallet.
The next minute he was groping his way toward the place in a thick grove where the horses were picketed; and he had not far to look, on reaching his own, before finding Samson curled up in a half-sitting, half-lying position between the mossy buttresses formed by the roots of a huge beech.
Stooping down, he seized his henchman’s shoulder, and shook him, but only elicited a grunt.
He shook him again, but though his act was more vigorous, it only elicited a fresh series of grunts.
“You idle pig!” cried Fred, angrily, as he administered a kick; “get up!”
Snore!
A long-drawn, deep-toned snore.
“Samson! I want you.” No response. Samson’s senses were so deeply steeped in sleep that nothing seemed to rouse him.
“I wish I had a pin,” muttered Fred, as he kicked and shook again, without effect. “And there isn’t a thorn anywhere near. Spurs!” he exclaimed. “No,” he added in a disappointed tone—“too blunt. There’s no water to rouse him nearer than the lake; and if there was, it would be too bad to let him go about drenched. What shall I do? Samson, get up; I want you. I’ll prick you with my sword, if you don’t wake up.”
“Tell him the enemy’s here, sir,” said a sleepy man lying close by.
“Wouldn’t wake him, if he did,” grumbled another.
The men’s remarks suggested an idea which made Fred smile, as he went down on one knee, placed his lips close to Samson’s ear, and whispered—
“Well, I wouldn’t let him meddle with my garden. Your brother Nat.”
That one word, “Nat,” seemed to run echoing through all the convolutions of Samson Dee’s brain, and he started up at once, full of eagerness and thoroughly awakened, as if by a magic touch.
“Nat?” he said. “Who spoke of Nat? Here, where is he?”
“Are you awake?”
“Awake, sir? Yes, sir. I was dreaming about my brother Nat coming and interfering with our garden. Beg pardon, Master Fred, but I was dead asleep. Want me, sir? Your horse?”
“I want you to come with me.”
“Yes, sir, of course,” cried Samson, “Ready in a minute.”
He was ready in less, for all the dressing he had to do consisted in buckling on the sword, which hung from a knot in the beech-tree, and sticking on his steel cap.
“Don’t ask questions, Samson, but come along.”
Fred led the way out of the camp and down by the lake, which he skirted till he had passed round the extreme end, when, to Samson’s astonishment, Fred struck out straight for the wilderness.
“We going to surprise them up at the Hall, sir, and take it all by ourselves?” Samson whispered at last, for he could contain himself no longer.
“No; I am going to surprise you, Samson,” was the reply, in a low whisper, as they went on, their way lying between two lines of sentinels, the outposts being posted further away, and those who hemmed in the little garrison being run right up as near as possible to the Hall, so as to guard against any sally or attempt at evasion.
“Nothing won’t surprise me now,” muttered Samson, as he tramped on slowly behind his leader in a very ill humour, which he did not display, for it was not pleasant for a heavy sleeper to be roused from his rest. “But it don’t matter. I’m about ready for anything now. Why, what’s he going to do up in the old wilderness? Oh, I know; after rabbits. Well, that’s better. A biled rabbit for dinner to-morrow, and a bit o’ bacon, will be like a blessing to a hungry man. Heigh—ho! ha—hum! how sleepy I do feel.”
“Hist!”
“Right, Master Fred.”
“There are sentinels a hundred yards to the right, and a hundred yards to the left,” whispered Fred, in his companion’s ear.
“Which as you haven’t measured it, sir, you don’t know,” said Samson to himself. But replying in a whisper, he said, “Yes, Master Fred, but you didn’t fetch me out of bed to tell me that.”
“No; I tell you now, to keep you from yawning like the Silcombe bull.”
“Well, I couldn’t help it, sir; but I won’t do so no more.”
“Keep close behind me, tread softly, and as soon as we get up to the wilderness move every bough as carefully as you can.”
“Rabbits, sir?”
“No, no. Silence! Follow me.”
“’Course I’ll follow him; but what’s he going after? Well, I aren’t surprised. Nothing surprises me now that the place is turned upside down. I don’t believe I should feel surprised if my brother Nat was to want to shake hands, though that would be a startler.”
Samson went on musing after his fashion, as he kept close to Fred’s heels, and they went quickly and silently on over the soft wet grass, till a great black patch began to loom over them, grew more dark, and then, after a few moments’ hesitation and trying to right and left, Fred plunged in, to force his way as carefully as possible, but making very slow progress toward the spot he sought, for to a great extent it was guess-work in the utter blackness which reigned around.
“I say, Master Fred?” whispered Samson, as a pause was made.
“Yes.”
“You said something just now about the Silcombe bull.”
“Well?”
“I wish he was here.”
“Why?”
“So as to go first and make a way. I’m getting scratched all to bits.”
“I think we are right. Come along.”
“Come along it is, sir; but I’m getting so thirsty.”
They went on for a few minutes more, and then Samson uttered an exclamation.
“Hush!” whispered Fred.
“But didn’t you hear that, sir? It’s the guytrash.”
“Here, this way,” whispered Fred. “I can find the place now.”
“No, no, dear lad, don’t go near it,” said Samson, under his breath. “You never know what may happen, if you go near it. Don’t, pray don’t go.”
Samson emphasised his appeal by holding tightly to his young master’s jerkin, impeding his movements to such an extent that Fred turned upon him fiercely.
“You ought to be ashamed of yourself,” he said, “with your guytrashes and goblins, and witches and nonsense.”
“What, sir! Why, didn’t you hear it moan yonder?”
“I heard a sigh.”
“Well, sir, that was the guytrash calling to you to come, so as to get hold of you; and if it did I should never see you again.”
“Not if it keeps as dark as this, you stupid old grub. I know what made that sound. Come along.”
“What, are you going to risk it, sir, in spite of all I said?”
“Yes; I am going on there.”
“Very well, sir. I didn’t want to die like this in the dark, and I don’t know whether weapons is of any use against things like that; but I’ll stand by you, Master Fred, to the end.”
As he spoke, there was a faint grating sound which attracted Fred’s attention.
“Were you drawing your sword?” he whispered.
“Yes, sir.”
“What for?”
“To cut the guytrash down, if I can.”
“Put it away,” whispered Fred, angrily. “What you have come to see wants no cutting down. It’s a wounded man.”
“Oh!” ejaculated Samson, as he thrust his sword back into its sheath. “Why didn’t you say so sooner, Master Fred?”
“This way—this way,” came back to him, accompanied by the rustling of branches and the sharp tearing noise made by thorns. “Yes; here we are.”
Samson followed closely, with his arms outstretched, and in a minute or two he heard a sound which made him bend down to feel that Fred was kneeling, and the next moment talking to some one prostrate there in the darkness.
“Well, how are you?”
“Is that you, Master Fred?” came in a husky whisper, which made Samson start.
“Yes; I’ve brought you some bread and wine. How are the wounds?”
“Don’t give me much pain, sir, now.”
“Master Fred.”
“Well?”
“Who’s that?”
“Can’t you hear, Samson? Your brother Nat.”
There was utter silence for a minute, during which it seamed as if Samson was holding his breath, for at the end of that pause, he gave vent to a low hissing sound, which continued till it seemed wonderful that the man should have been able to retain so much air.
“Drink some of this,” Samson heard Fred whisper; and there was the peculiar gurgling sound as of liquid escaping from a bottle, followed by another whisper bidding the sufferer eat.
“Look here, Master Fred,” said Samson, as soon as he had sufficiently recovered from his surprise to speak.
“What is it?”
“Do you know who it is you’re talking to there in the dark?”
“Yes; your brother Nat.”
Samson remained silent and motionless as one of the trees for a minute. Then he caught Fred by the shoulder.
“What is it, Samson? Do you hear any one?”
“No, sir; I was only thinking about what I ought to do now. Just stand aside, and let me come.”
“What for?”
“Well, sir, that’s what I don’t know. Ought I to—? You see, he’s an enemy.”
“Samson, we can’t leave him here, poor fellow! He may die for want of attention.”
“Well, sir, then there’d be one enemy the less.”
“Yes. Shall we leave him to die?”
“No, sir; that we won’t,” said Samson, severely. “We’ve got to make him prisoner, taking him up to my quarters, let the doctor make him well, and then I’ve got to spend an hour with him, just to set him to rights and pay him all I owe. Here, you sir, do you know who I am?”
“Yes,” said the wounded man, feebly.
“Then look here; you’ve got to come on my back, and I’m going to carry you up to the camp.”
“Master Fred.”
“Yes, my lad.”
“Don’t let him touch me,” whispered Nat. “I couldn’t bear to be moved, sir.”
“Not if we carried you gently?”
“No, sir; I feel as if it would kill me. If you could leave me some bread, sir, and some water, and let me alone, I should get well in time. I’m only doing what the dogs do, sir, when they’re hurt. I’ve crawled into a hole, sir, and I shall either die or get well, just the same as they do.”
Fred refused to be convinced, but on trying to raise the poor fellow he seemed to inflict so much agony that he gave up, and felt disposed to return to his first ideas of coming to see the poor fellow from time to time, and giving him food.
“Better, after all, Samson,” he said.
“What, leaving him, sir?”
“Yes. You do not want to see him a prisoner?”
“I don’t want to see him at all, sir. He has disgraced his family by fighting against his brother. Did you bring anything to cover him up, sir?”
“No, Samson, I did not think of that.”
“Well, sir, you mustn’t let him die,” muttered Samson; and there was a peculiar rasping sound.
“What are you doing?”
“Only getting off my leather coat, sir. Lay that over him. It may rain again any time, and he might be getting cold.”
Fred caught the coat, laid it gently over the wounded man, and he was in the act of bending down to hear what he whispered by way of thanks, when there was a sharp report close at hand.
“Quick! An attack,” said Fred, excitedly; and the next moment he and Samson were struggling out of the wilderness, just as shot after shot ran along the line, as the alarm spread, and directly after the ear-piercing call rang out on the clear night air, and was echoed again and again among the distant hills.
Chapter Thirty Six.
Colonel Forrester is not Angry.
It was no easy task to run the gauntlet of the sentinels, now that the alarm had spread, for they were falling back upon the camp, and twice over Fred was challenged, and had to run the risk of a bullet; but partly by knowing the ground far better than those who challenged, and partly from the darkness, the pair succeeded in reaching the little camp, to find all in commotion, horses saddled, men ready to mount, and an intense desire existent to know from which side to expect the attack.
After a time the hurry and excitement quieted down, for after scouts and patrols had done their work, the whole alarm was traced to one of the sentinels, who had heard whispering in the wood near which he was stationed, and had fired at once, his nearest fellow having taken up the signal, fired, and slowly fallen back.
“Better too much on the qui vive than too drowsy,” said the general, at last, good-humouredly. “I was afraid, Forrester, it was an attempt on the part of the enemy to escape.”
“And we could clear it all up with a word, Samson,” said Fred, who was full of self-reproach.
“But don’t you speak it, Master Fred,” whispered Samson, who had contrived to get another jerkin. “If you tell, they’ll go down to the wood, and find that brother of mine, and bring him in, and here he’ll be lying in clover, and doctored up, and enjoying himself, while poor we are slaving about in sunshine and rain, and often not getting anything to eat, or a rag to cover us.”
“I shall not speak, Samson, for there was no harm done,” said Fred, quietly; “but I wonder at your covering your enemy from the cold.”
“Needn’t wonder, sir. Didn’t I always cover my tender plants from the cold? It wasn’t because I liked them, but so as they’d be useful by-and-by. My brother Nat will be useful by-and-by. I want him. I shall give him such a lesson one of these days as shall make him ashamed of himself.”
A trumpet rang out again on the night air, and men dismounted, picketed their horses once more, and some lay down to snatch a few hours’ rest, while others sat together talking and asking one another questions about the attack they foresaw would most probably take place that day, for the night was waning, and they knew that before long the dawn would be showing in the east, and that it would be morn; while, in spite of plenty of sturdy courage and indifference to danger, there were men there who could not refrain from asking themselves whether they would live to see the next day.
It was somewhere about sunrise when Fred fell asleep, to dream of being in the dense thicket, carrying Nat, the Hall gardener, on his back to the hole broken through into the secret passage, where he threw him down, and covered him up with bushes to be out of the way till he got better; but, as fast as he threw him down, he came back again, rebounding like a bladder, till Samson came to his help, drew his sword, and pricked him, when he sank down to the bottom and lay still. Then Scarlett seemed to come out of the hole and reproach him for being a coward and a rebel, seizing him at last and shaking him severely, and all the while, though he struggled hard, he could not free himself from his grasp. So tight was his hold that he felt helpless and half strangled, the painful sensation of inability to move increasing till he seemed to make one terrible effort, seized the hands which held him, looked fiercely in his assailant’s eyes, and exclaimed, “Coward, yourself!”
“Well, sir, dare say I am,” was the reply; “but what can you expect of a man when you take him out of his garden and make a soldier of him all at once.”
“Samson!”
“Yes, sir. Breakfast’s ready, sir, such as it is. What’s the matter with you? I never had such a job to waken you before.”
“I—I was very sound asleep,” stammered Fred, rising hastily. “Did—did I say anything?”
“Pitched an ugly word at my head about not being so brave as you thought I ought to be, that’s all.”
“Don’t take any notice of what I said, I must have been dreaming.”
“That’s what I often wake up and feel I’ve been doing,” said Samson. “I often don’t know whether I’m on my head or my heels; it seems so strange. Wonder how that Nat is. He always gets the best of it. Lying there with nothing to do. Just his way, sir, curling himself up snug, and letting other people do his work. There you are, sir, bucket of clean water from the lake. Have a good wash, and you’ll feel like a new man. What a difference it must make to you, sir, dressing yourself out here, after having your comfortable room at home, and you so near it, too. Why, sir, the colonel might have told you to go home to sleep. Say, sir!”
“Well?” said Fred, taking his head out of the bucket of clear cold water, and feeling afterwards, as he rubbed himself dry, that new life was running through his veins.
“Wouldn’t it be nice for you to run down to the Manor to breakfast, sir, and bring back a few decent things to eat? I wouldn’t mind coming with you and carrying the basket.”
Fred looked hard at Samson, whose face was perfectly stolid for a few moments; but a little ripple gradually spread over his left cheek, and increased till it was a broad grin.
“Well, sir, you see it is so tempting. I’d give anything for a bowl of new warm milk. When are we going to have a good forage again, so as we might catch some chickens and ducks or a young pig?”
“I’m afraid there’ll be other work on hand to-day, Samson,” replied Fred, sadly, as he glanced in the direction of the Hall. “There, take away that bucket.”
“Yes, sir. Done you good, hasn’t it? and you can dry your head. Puzzle some of them long-haired chaps to get theirs dry.”
Samson went off with his young master’s simple toilet arrangements, and Fred joined his brother-officers in their frugal meal, after which he spent the morning in a state of indecision.
“I will do it,” he said, when afternoon had come; and, giving his sword-belt a hitch, and thrusting his morion a little on one side, he began striding forward, planting his boots down heavily on the soft heather, in which his great spurs kept catching till he at last nearly fell headlong.
Recovering himself, he went on, hand upon hip, and beating his gloves upon his thigh, till he came to where Colonel Forrester was slowly pacing up and down, with his hands clasped behind his back.
As Fred drew nearer, an orderly came up to the colonel, and presented a letter, which brought the lad to a standstill. He had been having a long struggle with self, and had mastered his shrinking, but he was so near the balance of vacillation still, that he felt glad of the excuse to hang back, and walked aside, feeling like one who has been reprieved.
“How do I know what he will say?” thought Fred, glancing back at his father’s stern, wrinkled countenance as he read his despatch. “It isn’t like the old days, though I used sometimes to feel shrinking enough then. It is not between father and son, but between colonel and one of his followers.”
Fred felt as if he would like to walk right off; but there were those at the Hall occupying his thoughts, and he made an effort over his moral cowardice and stopped short, meaning to go to his father as soon as the messenger had left.
He had not long to wait, for the orderly saluted and rode off, but there was something else now to check him. His father looked so very severe, and as if there was something very important on his mind.
“I have chosen a bad time,” thought Fred. “I’ll go away and wait.”
“No, no,” he said, half aloud; “how can I be so foolish? I will go up and speak to him like a man. It is mean and cowardly to hang back.”
He stepped toward the colonel again, but there was another reprieve for him, the general riding up; and for the next quarter of an hour the two officers were in earnest converse.
“Yes,” said Fred; “I have chosen a bad time. I’ll go.”
But he did not stir, for at the same moment he felt that the general might be planning with his father that which he sought to prevent.
“I’ll go and speak now they are together,” he said to himself, desperately. “General Hedley likes me, I think, and he could not be very cross.”
“No, I dare not,” he muttered; and he paced to and fro again till the general touched his horse’s flanks, and rode slowly away, Colonel Forrester following him thoughtfully for some distance, till in a fit of desperation Fred hurried to his side.
“Want me, my boy?” said the colonel, gravely.
“Yes, father. I want to ask you something.”
“Yes; go on. I am very much occupied just now.”
Fred looked at him piteously, his words upon his lips, but refusing to be spoken.
“Well, my boy, what is it? Are you in some great trouble?”
The words came in so much more kindly a tone, that Fred made a step toward his father, and the barrier of discipline gave way, and it seemed to be no longer the stern officer but the father of the old Manor house days he was longing to address.
“Well, my boy, what is the trouble?” said Colonel Forrester, kindly.
“It is about—”
Fred did not finish his sentence, but pointed across the lake.
“Ah, yes, about the Hall!” said the colonel, with a sigh. “Well, my boy, what do you wish to say?”
“Are they keeping to what was in Sir Godfrey’s message, father?”
“Yes, my boy,” sternly.
“But don’t you think they could be persuaded to surrender?”
“Yes, Fred.”
“Oh, father, I am glad,” cried the boy, joyously.
“Yes, persuaded,” continued Colonel Forrester, in measured tones, “with sword and gun, not till they are utterly helpless. Then they may.”
“Oh, father!”
“Yes, my boy; it is very sad, but they will not see that their case is desperate.”
“Is the attack to be made to-day, father?”
“I am not the general in command, my boy. That is a matter for another to decide.”
“Yes; but you know, father, and you can trust me.”
“Of course I can, Fred, and I will. Yes; the attack is to be made directly.”
“And will it succeed?”
“It must. It shall. No. I will not interfere,” he added to himself a moment later.
“And you, father?” said Fred, anxiously.
“Well, my boy, what of me?”
“You— Oh, father. Must I speak out. Don’t be angry with me. I have no right to say such things to you, but I always looked upon Scar Markham as a brother, and they always treated me at the Hall as if I was a son; and it does seem so terrible for you to be going up at the head of armed men to attack our dear old friends.”
Colonel Forrester stood with his brow knit.
“You are angry with me, father; but I can’t help speaking. I say it seems so terrible. You ought not to do this thing.”
Fred’s hesitation had gone. He had taken the plunge, and now he felt desperate, and ready to speak on to the end. He gazed full in the stern face with the lowering brows, but it checked him no longer. His words came fast, and he caught his father by the arm.
“If you speak to General Hedley, he will listen to you, for Sir Godfrey is your oldest friend; and think, father, how horrible it would be if the Markhams were to be killed.”
The brows appeared to be knit more closely, and Colonel Forrester’s gaze seemed fierce enough to wither his son.
But Fred kept on, begging and importuning his father to do something to change the general’s purpose, without obtaining any reply.
“Then you are going to lead the attack on the Hall, father?” said Fred at last.
The colonel turned upon him sharply.
“You must not, you shall not,” cried Fred, excitedly. “Yes; I see you are angry with me; but—”
“No, my boy, not angry,” said the colonel, gravely; “but very, very proud of you. No, my boy, I am not going to head the fight.”
“Father!” cried Fred, joyously.
“And I have done more than beg General Hedley to excuse me from all participation in to-day’s work.”
“Then it really will be to-day?”
“Yes, my boy, it really will be to-day, and I’d give anything for this day to be past, and the worst known.”
“But they will give them quarter, father?”
“Yes, my boy, of course, but who can say what may happen in dealing with fierce, reckless men, fighting as they believe for their lives. Those with whom they are engaged may be willing to take them prisoners, but they will fight with terrible desperation, incited by Sir Godfrey’s example, and no one can say how the attack will end.”
“Yes, father, I see,” said Fred, sadly, “but could you not persuade General Hedley to give up the attack?”
Colonel Forrester was silent for a few moments, and then said sadly—
“No.”
“Oh, father! think of Lady Markham and of little Lil.”
“I have thought about them, my boy,” said the colonel, speaking in a slow, measured voice, “and I have three times over begged of the general to spare the Hall and its defenders, and to let us go on at once.”
“And what did he say?” cried Fred, eagerly.
“He asked me if it was the voice of duty speaking, or that of friendship, and what could I say?”
Fred looked at him piteously.
“How could I leave that nest of hornets to harass our rear, and gather a fresh and stronger force together, so as to be ready for the next detachment which comes along west. No, boy, I am obliged as an officer to agree with my superior that every man must be cleared out of that Hall before we can stir. Sir Godfrey Markham has his fate in his own hands.”
“What do you mean, father? Surrender?”
“Of course. He shall have due respect paid to him and his followers; but it is madness to expect it of him, even for their sake.”
“For their sake, father?”
“Yes, my boy. There, I may as well tell you. I am not the stern, implacable enemy you think me. I wrote to Sir Godfrey last night, asking him to surrender for his wife and daughter’s sake.”
“You did this, father?” cried Fred, eagerly.
“I did, my boy.”
“And what did he say?”
“He sent a stern, insulting message, similar to his last, and those who were with him threatened to crop the next ambassador’s ears if he dared present himself at the Hall.”
“Let me go and make another appeal to Sir Godfrey.”
“You heard the threat?” said Colonel Forrester, looking at his son curiously.
“Yes, I heard, father.”
“And will you risk it, if I give you a message to take?”
“Yes, father, it was a vain boast. They dare not insult a messenger.”
“No, my boy, you shall not go,” said Colonel Forrester, laying his hand upon his son’s shoulder. “It would be courting injury for no good purpose.”
“But if it would save Sir Godfrey and poor Scarlett?”
“It would not, Fred.”
“Don’t say that, father. If I could see Scar Markham, he would perhaps listen to me; and if he did, he might have as much influence upon Sir Godfrey as I have upon you. Father, let me try.”
“No, Fred, it cannot be,” said the colonel, sternly. “I am not in command here. The general has sent twice, the second appeal being made through my request, and in each case the answer was an insult.”
“Bit, father—”
“It is useless, my boy, so say no more. Sir Godfrey brings the assault on himself. I have done all I can. General Hedley acknowledges it, and you see I have ceased to be the stern officer to you, and have spoken kindly and in the spirit you wish.”
“But one moment, father. Do you think we could persuade Sir Godfrey through Scarlett?”
“No, my boy, and I am afraid I should act precisely the same were I in his place. No more now.”
“But, father, shall I be expected to go forward with the troops?”
“No. I have provided against that, Fred. You and I will not be combatants here.”
“Why, father!” cried Fred, excitedly. “Look!”
“Yes,” said Colonel Forrester, sadly. “They have begun. I thought it would not be long. I dreaded being in the general’s confidence over this.”
Chapter Thirty Seven.
Watching the Attack.
That which Fred had dreaded had indeed begun, for about a hundred and fifty men had been told off for the attack, and these had prepared themselves by picketing their horses, arming themselves with stout axes for the barricades, and dragging after them stout scaling-ladders.
The advance had seemed to be dilatory before, and the generally received opinion in the camp had been that the defending party, to save risk, was to be starved into submission.
But those who judged did not know the general. He had been waiting his time, for sundry reasons: respect for Colonel Forrester, and mercy, being among these; but now that he found it necessary to adopt strong coercive measures, he was prompt and quick in every step.
Fred Forrester was freed from the terrible necessity of taking part in the attack, but that did not lessen his eagerness to see what would be the result, and in consequence he hurried to the top of the nearest woodland summit, and from thence prepared to witness the issue of the fight.
As he reached the clump of beeches which crowned the hill, he caught sight of the back of some one lying at the very edge of the wood, in the commanding spot he had selected for himself, and where he had often stood to make signs to Scarlett in the old boyish days. For a moment or two he hesitated, and then approached, wondering who it could be, and taking the precaution to draw his sword, for it was not likely to be one of their own men.
It was disconcerting to find any one there, and for the moment he was ready to draw back. But, on the other hand, it might be a spy of the enemy, who had crept up there to watch their proceedings; and under these circumstances, Fred felt that there were only two courses open to him, flight or bold attack.
To make such an attack in cold blood required consideration. It was not like taking part in an exciting charge, amid the stirring din of battle, when the pulses were bounding, and the bray of the trumpet called them to advance. He, a mere youth, had to go single-handed to an encounter with a great broad-backed fellow, who, at the first brunt, might turn the tables upon him.
“But he is a spy,” said Fred to himself; “and he is sure to be half afraid;” and without further hesitation, the lad advanced softly, keeping well behind.
As he drew nearer he could see that the man was upon his chest with his arms folded for a support; his morion was tilted back over his ears, so that it covered his neck, and as he watched the advance, he slowly raised first one and then the other leg, crossing them backwards and forwards, and beating the ground with his toes as if they were portions of a pick-axe.
A peculiar feeling of hesitation came over Fred again, and he found himself asking whether he ought not to go down for help, and whether there were any of the man’s companions near.
This he felt was only common prudence; and, stepping back, he carefully searched among the trees and round the edge of the hill. But no, the man seemed to have come up quite alone; and, gaining confidence from this, he went softly back, taking care not to trample upon any dead twig, so as to give the alarm.
In a few minutes he was again at the edge of the wood, near enough to see that the man wore a backpiece, and that the hilt of his sword was quite near his hand.
The hesitation was gone now. A glance showed that the attacking party were near the end of the lake, and that outposts of three or four men were dotted here and there, ready to drive back or capture any of the Cavaliers who might try to make their escape.
“I’ll do it,” said Fred to himself; and, stooping down, he crept nearer and nearer, holding back any twig or obtruding branch with his sword, and wincing and preparing for a spring, when a bramble grated against the edge of his blade.
But the man was too intent upon the scene below, and paid no heed to a warning which, had he been on the alert, would have placed Fred at a terrible disadvantage.
The lad’s eyes, as he crept on with sword in advance, were fixed on the back of the man’s half-hidden neck; and he had made his plans, but for all that he could not help glancing down at the advancing men, and pausing to note that the Cavaliers were at the barricaded windows, ready for their enemy.
And now for a moment Fred again wondered whether he was doing right, and whether his more sensible plan would not have been to go down to the camp and spread the alarm.
His answer to this thought was to set his teeth, which grated so loudly that his grip tightened on the hilt of his sword, and he felt sure that he must have been heard.
But no; the man lay perfectly still, watching intently, as motionless, in fact, as if he had been asleep; and Fred crept step by step nearer and nearer, till he felt that he was within springing distance, and then stopped to take breath.
“How easy it would be to kill him,” he thought, “and how cowardly;” and he was about to put his first idea into action, namely, to make one bold spring forward, and snatch the man’s sword from the sheath.
But the sword might stick, the sheath clinging to it tightly, as it would sometimes; and if it did, instead of the man being helpless, it would be he who was at the mercy of one who might beat him off with ease.
So, giving up that idea, he paused a few moments, till the man raised his head a little higher, so as to get a better view of those below, and then with one bold spring, Fred was upon his back, with the point of his sword driven in a peculiar way into the soft earth.
That idea had occurred to him at the last moment, and even in the intense excitement of the moment he smiled, as he saw in it success, for it effectually baffled the man in what was his first effort—to draw his sword, which was pinned, as it were, to the ground by Fred’s weapon being passed directly through the hilt.
There was an angry snort, as of a startled beast, a tremendous heave, and a coarse brown hand made a dart at the sword-blade, and was snatched away with an exclamation of pain. Then in fiercely remonstrant tones a harsh voice shouted—
“You coward! Only let me get a chance!”
“Samson!” cried Fred, starting back as he removed his knee from the back of the man’s head, and the ex-gardener’s steel cap rolled over to the side.
“Master Fred!” was the answer; and Samson turned over and sat up, staring in his assailant’s face.
“You here?”
“Here, sir, yes; and look what you’ve done. Don’t ketch me sharping your sword again, if you’re going to serve me like that.”
He held up his hand, which was bleeding from the fact of his having seized hold of the blade which had pinned down his hilt.
“But I thought you were one of the enemy—a spy.”
“Then you’d no business to, sir. I only come up here to see the fight.”
“But I thought you were down in the ranks—gone to the attack.”
“Me? Now, was it likely, sir, as I should go and fight against the Hall? No, sir, my bad brother Nat, who is as full of wickedness as a gooseberry’s full of pips, might go and try and take the Manor, if it was only so as to get a chance to ransack my tool-shed; but you know better than to think I’d go and do such a thing by him. Would you mind tying that, sir?”
Samson had taken a strip of linen out of his morion, and after twisting it round the slight, freely bleeding cut on his finger, held it up for Fred to tie.
“Thank ye kindly, sir. I meant that for a leg or a wing, but it will do again for them.”
“I am very sorry, Samson,” said Fred, giving the knot a final pull.
“Oh, it don’t matter, sir; only don’t try any o’ them games again. So you thought I was a spy?”
“Yes.”
“And what was you going to do with me?”
“Make you a prisoner, and take you down to camp.”
“Well, you are a one!” said Samson, looking at his young master, and laughing. “Think of a whipper-snapper like you trying to capture a big chap like me.”
Fred winced angrily.
“Well, not so much of a whipper-snapper as Master Scarlett, sir; but you haven’t got much muscle, you know.”
“Muscle enough to try.”
“Yes, sir,” said the ex-gardener, thoughtfully; “but it isn’t the muscle so much as the try. It’s the thinking like and scheming. You see a bit of rock stands up, and you can’t move it with muscle, but if you put a little bit of rock close to it, and then get a pole or an iron bar, and puts it under the big rock and rests it on the little, and then pushes down the end, why, then, over the big rock goes, and it’s out of your way.”
“Yes, Samson,” said Fred, thoughtfully, as he watched the advance; “and so you didn’t care to go to the attack?”
“No, sir, I wouldn’t; but it was tempting, though; ay, that it was.”
“Tempting?”
“Well, you see, Master Fred, Nat has got some chyce cabbage seed, and he’d never give me a pinch, try how I would; no, nor yet sell a man a pen’orth. He kept it all to himself, just out of a nasty greedy spirit, so that his cabbages might be bigger and heavier than ours at the Manor. I’d have had some of that seed if I’d gone, for he couldn’t have come and stopped me now.”
“No, poor fellow! I wonder how he is?”
“Getting better, sir. He’s as tough as fifty-year-old yew. Nothing couldn’t kill him; but look, sir, look! See how they’re getting up to the terrace. Ah!”
This exclamation was made as a white puff suddenly seemed to dart from one of the windows of the Hall, and then there was another, and another, the reports seeming to follow, and then to echo from the next hill.
But no one in the attacking force seemed to fall, neither did it check them. On the contrary, they appeared to be spurred into action, and instead of creeping on as it were in a slow steady march, they broke up into little knots, and dashed forward, while a second line kept steadily on.
“Look at them! look at them, Master Fred! Don’t it make you feel as if you wished you was in it?” cried Samson, excitedly. “That’s it; fire away; but you won’t stop ’em. All Coombeland boys, every man-jack of ’em, and you can’t stop them when they mean business.”
“No,” said Fred between his teeth, as he tried to keep down the feelings of elation engendered by the gallantry of the attack, by forcing himself to think of how it would be were he Scarlett Markham, and these men enemies attacking his home. “Look, look, Samson!” he whispered, with his throat dry, his tongue clinging to the roof of his mouth, and the scar of his worst wound beginning to throb.
“Yes, I’m a-looking, sir,” said Samson, in as husky a voice. “There, they’ve got a ladder up against the big long window, and they’re swarming up it. They’ll be indirectly, and drive the long-haired gentlemen flying like leaves before a noo birch broom.”
“No,” said Fred, shading his eyes with his hands; “no. Ah, did you hear the crash? How horrible! Some of them must be killed.”
“Not they, Master Fred. But I don’t see how they did it. Fancy turning the ladder right back with seven or eight lads running up it! But it was well done.”
“Can you see whether any one is hurt?”
“Not at this distance, sir. Not they, though, unless they’ve got any of those long thin swords skewered into them. I’ve tumbled twice that height out of apple-trees, and no one to fall upon. They’d all got some one to tumble on, except the bottom one, and I don’t suppose he’s much hurt.”
“Hurt, man? He must be killed.”
“Tchah! not he, sir. T’others would be too soft. Look, sir; don’t lose none of it. You may never have such a chance again. Yes; there, they’ve got the ladder up once more, and some’s holding it while the others goes up. Yes. Huzza! they’ll do it now. No. If they haven’t overturned it again.”
“Yes,” said Fred, sadly, and yet unable to help feeling pleased, so thoroughly were his sympathies on both sides. “They’re giving it up, Samson; they’re retiring.”
“No, sir; only carrying some of the hurt ones out of the fight. There goes another ladder up—two. Hah! look at that!”
Fred’s eyes were already riveted on the fresh scene, for, plainly seen even at that distance, the strong oaken-boarding screen nailed over the window at the end of the terrace on the ground floor was suddenly thrown down, and with a shout which was faintly heard on the hill, a party of about five and twenty Cavaliers rushed out, sword in hand, taking the attacking party in the flank with such vigour that they gave way, the two scaling-ladders were overturned, and for the moment the Puritans took to flight, and the attack seemed to have failed.
“Beaten, Samson,” said Fred, unable to crush down a feeling of satisfaction, even at the reverse of his own party.
“Beaten, sir? Not they. Only driven back. It’s just like the waves down by the cave, yonder; they come back again stronger than ever. Told you so, sir. Look at that.”
Samson Dee was right, for a solitary figure had suddenly stepped forward from the second rank, rallied the beaten men, and advanced with them slowly and steadily. There was a desperate mêlée, as the Cavaliers, reinforced by more from within, tried to complete their rout, and then, as it seemed to the excited watchers, the Royalists were driven back step by step, by sheer force of numbers. Then in the midst of a seething confusion, all swayed here and there along the terrace, and on and on, till the barricaded windows and porch were reached, and then, as they were checked by the stubborn walls as water is stopped by a pier, they struggled fighting ever sidewise, a stream of mingled men along the front of the house and over the broken-down boarding, till the tide of confusion set right through the open window into the Hall.
At first this human current was a mingling of both sides; then the Cavalier element seemed to disappear, and as Fred watched with starting eyes, he could see at last that it was a steady stream of their own men which flowed through the opening.
“They’re in, Master Fred! The day’s ours. Hark! Hear them firing inside? Look! Look!”
It was plain enough to see: from the window, whence the scaling-ladders were thrown down, men come dropping forth sword in hand, Cavaliers evidently, to be encountered by those of the Puritan party still without. Then out came other Puritans, to take the Cavaliers in the rear, as they fought together in a knot facing all round, with their swords flashing as they made their gallant defence.
Then a rush seemed to take place, and they were overpowered, while the smoke came slowly rolling out from the open window, though the firing had ceased.
The fighting still went on within for a few minutes; then a rush as made out from door and window, and a tremendous cheer arose, loud enough to strike well upon the spectators’ ears, helmets were seen flashing, swords flourished in the air, and it was plain enough that resistance had ceased, while the attacking force were gathering together once again.
“Smoke seems long while rolling out, Master Fred; must ha’ been a deal o’ firing we did not hear.”
“Oh!” shouted Fred, as like a flash the truth came home to him.
“What’s the matter, lad? Are you hurt?” cried Samson.
“No, no; look! The dear old Hall!” cried Fred. “Don’t you see?”
“Smoke, sir? Yes.”
“No, no, my good fellow, not smoke alone; the poor old place is on fire.”
And without another word, Fred, followed closely by Samson, dashed down the hill.