Chapter Forty Seven.
At the Point of the Sword.
Fred Forrester had been expecting the challenge from the moment they began to move, but so suddenly and unexpectedly did it come at last, that he remained for the moment speechless, gazing at the dimly seen figure framed in the arched way, with the light playing upon the sword extended toward his breast.
Samson was the first to speak.
“Take hold of the candle now,” he whispered, “and I’ll rush him. There isn’t room to strike, sir; and I can put aside his point.”
“No, no,” said Fred, forcing himself to the front, and addressing him who barred the way. “Put up your sword; we are friends.”
“Friends!” came back mockingly. “Then put up your own weapon.”
“Of coarse,” said Fred, quickly sheathing his sword. “I didn’t know who might be here. Scar Markham, we’re come to help you.”
“To help?” said the guardian of the vault, in a voice which sounded strangely hollow in the narrow place. “Is this some fresh treachery?”
“What!” shouted Fred, angrily, as he stepped forward and pressed right up to the point of the sword. Military life and training both were forgotten, and in an instant the lad felt back in the old boyish days sit home, when some sharp contention had taken place between him and his companion.
“Stand back, sir!” said Scarlett, sternly, “or—”
“No, you wouldn’t,” cried Fred. “Put down your sword. You wouldn’t be such a coward. How dare you accuse me of treachery?”
Without a moment’s hesitation, the sword-point was dropped, and Fred cried eagerly—
“Now, then, come out into the daylight, and— Oh, what a fool I am! Scar Markham, we’ve come to help you. I say, where’s Sir Godfrey? Is he safe?”
Scarlett tried to answer, but his feelings were too much for him. Hunger, misery, confinement in that dark, depressing place, and the mental agony he had been called upon to bear, rendered him speechless, and he half turned away.
Fred sprang at once to his side, and his quick movement excited Scarlett’s suspicion for the moment; but he thrust his sword back into its sheath, and stood there motionless.
“Look here,” said Fred, excitedly, “of course, we’re enemies, Scar; but we want to help you all the same.”
“I suppose we must surrender now,” said Scarlett, sadly. “I can do no more. Have you your men outside?”
“No; I haven’t got my men outside,” cried Fred, in a boyish, petulant way. “Can’t you believe me? What am I to say?”
“Nothing, Fred Forrester,” replied Scarlett, mournfully. “I believe you, though we can’t shake hands now.”
“Can’t we?” said Fred, in a disappointed tone.
Scarlett shook his head.
“I have held out as long as I could. I thought we might escape; but it was impossible with two wounded men, and I could not get through the lines in search of food.”
Fred raised the light above his head, and then bent down over where he could see some one lying on the stone floor.
“Yes; he is asleep,” said Scarlett, sadly.
“Is he much hurt?” whispered Fred.
“Terribly; but he is better now, and—”
“Here he is, Master Fred,” whispered Samson, as he knelt beside the grim-looking figure of his brother, who seemed to be smiling mockingly in his face. “Nice object, isn’t he? Brother to be proud on!”
“Silence!” said Fred, sternly; and at that moment there was an ejaculation, a hasty movement, and Sir Godfrey made an effort to raise himself upon his arm, the light, feeble as it was, dazzling him so that he could not see.
“Scarlett! My boy! Are we prisoners, then?”
“No, Sir Godfrey,” cried Fred, hastily; “right or wrong, I’d sooner go and jump off Rill Head into the sea than give you up.”
“Ah, my lad,” said Sir Godfrey, faintly, “these are sad times; but, for pity’s sake, tell me—my wife and child?”
“Quite, quite safe, Sir Godfrey.”
“Ah!” ejaculated the wounded man; and then, as he stretched out his hand to Fred, “God bless you for that news!”
Fred eagerly grasped the extended hand, and wrung it, to turn directly after in a shamefaced way toward Scarlett, as if apologising to him for letting his father grasp hands with so bitter a foe.
Scarlett stood gazing sadly at him for a few moments, and then slowly raised his own cold, thin hand, which was literally snatched by Fred, and the lads stood together in silence, neither daring to trust himself to speak.
Fred was the first to break the silence.
“What would it be best for me to do, Sir Godfrey?” he said at last.
“Send for some of your men, my boy, and I will surrender.”
“Father!” cried Scarlett, in anguished tones.
“It is not fair to you to keep you shut up in this dreadful place. Let us give up, and— No, you can leave me safely in Fred Forrester’s hands. He will not hinder your escape.”
“No, father,” said Scarlett, sadly, “he will not.”
“What do you mean, my boy?”
“You know, father.”
“Yes,” said Sir Godfrey, after a pause; and his voice sounded sadly weak and broken. “I have prayed to him to escape, Fred; but he would never leave me, and he will not go now.”
“No, father! I will not go now,” said Scarlett, turning away.
There was silence for a few minutes, and then Fred said slowly, and in a discontented way—
“I’m very sorry, Sir Godfrey, but I’m too stupid to think of anything better. This is a terrible place; but I suppose you must be here till you grow strong enough to walk or ride. We shall have to bring you food and things as well as we can.”
“No, my boy,” said Sir Godfrey, sadly; “you must not compromise yourself by helping the enemy.”
“But, then, I don’t feel as if you are an enemy, Sir Godfrey. There, it’s of no use; come what may, I will help you.”
“Don’t want to speak without leave, Master Fred, sir,” said Samson, in his gruff tones; “but I’ve been thinking about my brother here.”
“Yes, Samson; quite right,” said Fred.
“No, sir, it ain’t quite right. He’ll be no end of time getting well in a place like this.”
“I’m afraid so, Samson.”
“Well, sir, why not you and me and Master Scarlett there set to work first dark night, and get ’em away, one at a time, on old Dodder?”
“The pony?”
“Yes, sir.”
“But where to, man—where to?”
“Well, sir, I’ve been thinking about that, and I thought of the Manor, where they’d be comfortable; but that place wouldn’t be safe, nor the barns nor stables, nor none of the cottages round.”
“No; it would be madness to attempt it.”
“But it wouldn’t be, if we got ’em to the Rill caves.”
“Samson!” cried Fred; “the very place.”
“Hah!” ejaculated Samson, drawing along breath, as if perfectly satisfied with himself.
“What do you say, Scarlett, to that?”
“Yes,” replied Scarlett, thoughtfully, “if you think it could be done.”
“If it could be done,” said Sir Godfrey, faintly. “I might live if you could get me there, Scar, my boy. For their sake—for their sake,” he added sadly to himself.
“Oh, I know it could be done,” said Samson. “If Master Fred makes up his mind to do it, and asks me to help him, it’s as good as done. Hear that, you ugly Coombeland ruffian?” he added in a whisper, as he pressed his doubled first in the semi-darkness against his brother’s nose.
“Just you wait till I get well,” whispered back Nat, doubling his own fist and holding it against Samson’s nose in return.
“Yes, and just you wait till I get you well,” whispered Samson. “I’d give it to you now, only it would be like hitting at a bit o’ clay. Why, you’re as soft as boiled bacon! I’d be ashamed to call myself a man!”
“Just you say all that again when I get well,” whispered Nat.
“Yes, that I will a hundred times over.—Yes, sir?”
“We must be going now, Samson. Leave what food you have.”
“I stood it in the corner there, sir.”
“And the flint, steel, tinder, and matches. I wish I had thought to bring more candles. This one will not last very long.”
“So you did, Master Fred. Leastwise, I did. There’s five there, and one before makes six.”
“Hah! that’s right,” cried Fred, joyfully. “Then, now you can have a light sometimes: and look here, Scar Markham—to-morrow I’ll go and look at the Rill caves, and see what can be done, so be ready to escape at a moment’s notice. We may come any time now. Good-bye, Sir Godfrey. Lady Markham shall know that you and Scarlett are safe.”
“It is compromising yourself, my boy,” said Sir Godfrey; “but I cannot say to you forbear.”
“Good-bye!”
“God bless you, my lad! and may this war soon cease,” added the knight to himself, as his son followed their two visitors to the opening.
“Till we meet again, Scar Markham,” whispered Fred, as Samson climbed out first to reconnoitre.
“Till we meet again, Fred,” said Scarlett, once more holding out his hand.
“As friends?”
“As enemies in name. Thank you, for my father’s sake.”
“It’s all clear, Master Fred,” was whispered down the hole; and, after another word or two of warning to be prepared for a sudden move, Fred seized Samson’s extended hand, leaped up out of the hole, and they made their way back to camp unquestioned, while Scarlett Markham crept back to his father’s side, to sit there, listening to his breathing, and to think of the possibility of escape to the cavern beneath Rill Head, where perhaps they might end by obtaining a boat to go right away.
Chapter Forty Eight.
How Samson Tried to Pass the Sentinels.
“Samson!” cried Fred, the next morning, in a fit of excitement, “oh, if we had properly looked over that cave in the old days, and seen what it was like!”
“Well, sir, I s’pose it would have been better, sir. All the nicer, too, for Sir Godfrey, if we’d reg’larly furnished it, and set up a couple of four-post bedsteads, and had down carpets and such.”
“Do you mean this for banter, sir?”
“No, sir; I was only thinking it was stoopid of you to talk in that way.”
“Samson!”
“Master Fred! How are we to know what’s going to happen so as to be prepared? Human folks aren’t seeds, as you know what they’ll do. If I puts in a bean, it comes up beans; but you never know what we’re going to come up.”
“Don’t ramble on like that. Now, listen to me. We must get them to the cave at once.”
“Right, sir.”
“Then what shall we do first?”
“First thing’s wittling the place, and putting in some stores.”
“Now, that sounds sensible. Quite right. We must get some blankets.”
“From the Manor, sir?”
“Right again, Samson. And all the food we can. Why, Samson—”
“Yes, sir; I know what you are going to say. We’ve got to tell the ladies at the old home to hold their tongues, and say nothing to nobody, but go up to the Rill Head with a basket o’ wittles, and enjoy themselves, looking at the ships sailing by on the sea, and not eat nothing themselves, but tumble everything down that hole, with blankets and pillows, too, if they like, and do it every day.”
“Samson,” said Fred, joyously, “I did not think of half that, and I’ll never call you a stupid again. The very thing.”
“Ah, I am a clever one, I am, sir, when you come to know me. But how are you going to get to the Manor?”
“You will have to go with a message from me to my mother. Yes, this very day; but don’t tell them whom the provisions are for, and bid them be very cautious.”
“You leave that to me, sir,” said Samson. “And now, how are you going to get them to the cave?”
“We shall want a rope.”
“I’ll have it ready, sir. When?”
“This very night.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And we’ll take them some of our men’s caps and cloaks.”
“Good, sir, and a pair of shears.”
“What for?”
“No use to dress ’em up as our men when they’ve got long hair. Did you see our Nat, sir?”
“Yes, of course; but what do you mean?”
“Hair sprouted all over his head like a badly cut hedge, sir. He’s been trying to grow like a Cav’lier, and he looks more like a half-fledged cuckoo.”
“Don’t waste time in folly. Can you get over to the Manor this afternoon?”
“Yes, sir, if you get me leave.”
“And I will get the caps and cloaks.”
“Don’t want a donkey, I suppose, sir?”
“No, Samson; we must risk getting our horses there behind the Hall.”
“Risky’s the name for it, sir.”
“Yes; but the poor wounded men cannot walk. We can do it no other way, and at any cost it must be done.”
“Will they shoot us if we’re caught, sir?”
“Don’t talk about it. Leave the consequences, and act.”
“Right, Master Fred; but I hope they won’t catch and shoot us for being traitors.”
“Don’t call our act by that ugly name.”
“Right, sir; but if we are caught and I am shot, you see if my brother Nat don’t laugh.”
“Why, man, why?”
“Because he’ll say I was such a fool.”
“So shall I, Samson, if you talk like that. Now, I cannot ask my father for leave to go across to the Manor without his questioning me as to why I wish you to go. You must get leave to go, so do what is necessary and get off at once.”
“Don’t you fear about that, Master Fred. And about poor Sir Godfrey, Master Scar, and that brother of mine? They must be terribly hungry.”
“They must wait. We cannot go near them to-day. What we left must do, and they will be watching the more eagerly for us, all ready?”
“Then you mean it to-night, sir, without fail?”
“Without fail, Samson. Sir Godfrey must be got away to-night.”
“Rope, wittles, blankets, and anything they like,” said Samson, as he parted from his master; and after hesitating a little about asking leave to quit the camp, he came to the conclusion that it would be wiser to get permission from his officer to fish, and then, after selecting a spot where the trees overhung the water, steal off through the wood.
This he proceeded to put in force at once, to be met with a stern rebuff from the officer in question, a sour-looking personage, who refused him point-blank, and sent Samson to the right-about, scratching his head.
“This is a nice state of affairs, this is!” he grumbled to himself. “Here’s Master Fred, thinking me gone off to carry out his orders, and I’m shut up like a blackbird in a cage. Whatever shall I do? It’s no use to ask anybody else.”
Samson had another scratch at his head, and then another, and all in vain; he could not scratch any good idea into it or out of it; and at last, in sheer despair, he walked slowly away, with the intention of evading the outposts, and, being so well acquainted with the country round, dodging from copse to coombe, and then away here and there till he was beyond the last outpost, when he could easily get to the Manor.
Now, it had always seemed one of the easiest things possible to get out of camp. So it was in theory—“only got to keep out of the roads and paths, cross the fields and keep to the moor, and there you are.”
But when, after making up his mind which way to go, Samson tried to practise instead of theorise, he found the task not quite so easy. His plan was to go out of the park to the south, and then work round to the west; but he had not gone fifty yards beyond the park, and was chuckling to himself about how easy it was, and how an enemy might get in, when, just as he was saying to himself, “Sentinels, indeed! Why, I’d make better sentinels out of turnips!”
“Halt!” rang out, and a man appeared from behind a tree.
“Halt? What for? You know me.”
“Yes,” said the sentry. “I know you. Can’t go out of the lines without a pass.”
“What! Not for a bit of a walk?”
“Where’s your pass?”
“Didn’t get one. No pass wanted for a bit of a ramble.”
“Go back.”
“Nonsense! You won’t turn a man—”
“Your pass, or go back.”
“Go back yourself.”
Samson took a step forward, and the man blew the match of his heavy piece, and presented it.
“Back, or I fire!” he cried.
“Yes; you dare, that’s all!” cried Samson. “Such nonsense!”
But the man was in earnest, that was plain enough; and, seeing this, Samson went growling back, made a long détour, and started again.
This time he thought he had got through the chain of sentinels, and, congratulating himself on his success, he made for a little grove of birch-trees.
“Only wanted a little trying,” he said.
“Stand!”
He started back in amazement, for he had walked right up to the muzzle of a firelock, the man who bore it proving more stern and severe than the one he had before encountered.
Samson went back, growling savagely; and this was the first line of sentinels! A second would have to be passed, and beyond that there were patrols of cavalry guarding the camp in every direction.
“Well, Master Fred shan’t say I didn’t try,” he muttered, as he made now for the back of the Hall, where the great groves of trees sheltered the place from the north and easterly winds.
Here he again hoped to be successful, and, feeling assured at last that he had avoided the the sentries, he was about to make for a narrow coombe on ahead, when once more a man stood in his path, and asked for his pass.
“Haven’t got it here,” said Samson, gruffly.
“Then go back.”
“Go back yourself,” growled Samson; and, putting in effect a west-country wrestling trick, he threw the sentry on his back, and dashed down the slope toward the coombe. “He daren’t go and tell,” muttered the fugitive, “for he’d get into trouble for letting me go by.”
Bang!
Samson leaped off the ground a couple of feet, and on coming down upon the steep slope, staggered and nearly fell. Not that he was hit, but the bullet sent to stop him cut up the turf close to his legs, and startled him nearly out of his wits.
“I’ll serve you out for that, my lad,” he muttered, “I shall know you again.”
He ran on the faster though, and then to his disgust, found that another sentry was at the bottom of the coombe, and well on the alert, running to intercept him, for the shot fired had spread the alarm.
Seeing this, Samson dodged into the wood that clothed the western side of the coombe, and by a little scheming crept out a couple of hundred yards from where the sentry was on the watch.
“Tricked him this time,” said Samson, chuckling, and once more starting, for a bullet whistled by his ear, and directly after there was the report.
But he ran on feeling that he had passed two of the chains of sentries, and that now all he had to do was to clear the mounted patrols.
This he set himself to do with the more confidence that there was no horseman in sight; and, with his hopes rising, he kept on now at a steady trot, which he changed for a walk as he reached the irregular surface of the moor, scored into hundreds of little valleys running into one another, and the larger toward the sea.
“Nothing like a bow, after all,” muttered Samson, as he ran. “Shoot four or five arrows while you’re loading one of those clumsy great guns. Got away from you this time, my lad. Ay, you may shout,” he muttered as he heard a hail. “Likely! You’d have to holloa louder to bring me back, and— Well, now, look at that!” he grumbled, as he got about five hundred yards away, and suddenly found that he was the quarry of two of the mounted men, who had caught sight of him, and were coming from opposite directions, bent on cutting him off. “Well, I think I know this bit o’ the country better than you do, and if I aren’t mounted on a horse, I’m mounted on as good a pair o’ legs as most men, and deal better than my brother Nat’s.”
He said all this in an angry tone, as he made straight for a patch of woodland at the edge of the moor, when, seeing this, and that the man on foot was steadily running in Samson’s track, the two horsemen immediately bore away so as to intercept the fugitive on the further side, and soon disappeared from view.
“I thought you’d do that,” said Samson to himself; and he turned sharply round, ran a few yards towards his pursuer, and then turned along one of the courses of a stream, and in a minute was out of sight, but only to double again in quite a different direction along the dry course of another rivulet, which wound here and there to the south.
“Get round ’em somehow,” said Samson; and, settling himself into a slow trot, he ran on and on for quite a quarter of an hour, to where the hollow in which he had been running opened out on to open moor all covered with whortleberry and bracken, offering good hiding should an enemy be in sight, and with the further advantage of being only about a mile from the Manor.
“I shall trick ’em now,” he said. “Once I’ve told ’em at the old house, they may catch me if they like; but they won’t care to when they see me going back to camp.”
“Halt!”
A sword flashed in poor Samson’s eyes, and he found that the opening of the dry course was guarded by another mounted man, who spurred up to him and caught him by the collar before he had dashed away a dozen yards.
“Don’t choke a fellow. I give in,” grumbled Samson, as the man held him, and presented his sword-point at his breast. “There, I won’t try to run. It’s of no good,” he added; and he made no opposition to a strap being thrown round his neck, drawn tight, and as soon as the man had buckled the end to his saddle-bow, he walked his horse slowly back toward the camp.
Before they had gone far, the other two mounted men trotted up, and seemed ready to administer a little correction with the flat of their swords.
“Yes, you do,” said Samson, showing his teeth; “and as soon as this bit o’ trouble’s over, I’ll pay you back, or my name aren’t what it is.”
“Let him alone,” said his captor. “Come on, lad.”
He spurred his horse to a trot, and Samson ran beside him, while the two others returned to their posts.
As it happened, Fred was riding along the outside of the camp with his father as the prisoner was brought in, and as soon as he saw who it was, the colour flushed to his face, and he felt that it was all over, and that he would have to confess.
“How now, sir!” cried the colonel. “You?”
“Yes, sir. I was only stretching my legs a bit, and this man tried to run me down.”
“Are you the man reported by the sentry as trying to desert?”
“Me trying to desert, sir!” cried Samson, indignantly. “Do I look the sort o’ man likely to desert, colonel, unless it was to get a good draught o’ cider?”
“But you were out of bounds, sir.”
“Father,” began Fred, who was in agony, “let me—”
“Silence, sir! He is a soldier now, and must be treated as a soldier.”
“Yes; don’t you say nothing about me, Master Fred, sir. I can bear all I get.”
“Go back to your quarters, sir. You are under arrest, mind, I will deal with you to-morrow.”
Samson gave Fred a meaning look as he was marched off, and Fred’s agony of spirit increased as he asked himself whether he ought not to confide in his father. A dozen times over he was about to speak, but only to hesitate, for he knew that the colonel would sacrifice his friend on the altar of duty, even if he had to sacrifice himself.
“I must save them,” muttered Fred, as he went slowly back to his tent. “I am not firm and stern like my father;” and then, as soon as he was alone, he sat down to think of how he was to contrive the escape unaided and alone.
Night came, with his mind still vacillating, for he could see no way out of his difficulty, and, to render his position more difficult, the colonel came to his tent and sat till long after dark chatting about the likelihood of the war coming to an end, and their prospects of once more settling down at the home whose open doors were so near.
“And the Royalists, father? What of them?” said Fred at last.
“Exiles, I fear, my boy, for their cause is lost. They must suffer, as we must have suffered, had our side gone to the wall.”
“Father,” said Fred, “if you could help a suffering enemy now, would you do it?”
“If it was such help as my duty would allow—yes; if not, no. Recollect, we are not our own masters, but servants of the country. Good night, my boy. I think you may sleep in peace to-night;” and he strode out of the little tent, where his seat had been a horseman’s cloak thrown over a box.
“Sleep!” said Fred to himself, “with those poor fellows starving in that hole. I must, I will help them, and ask his forgiveness later on. But how?”
“Pst! ciss!” came from the back of the tent.
Chapter Forty Nine.
Samson is not to be Beaten.
“What’s that? Who’s there?” said Fred, sharply.
“Pst! Master Fred. Don’t make all that noise. You’ll have the guard hear you.”
The mischief was done, for there was the tramp of feet, and directly after a sergeant and his men stopped opposite Fred’s tent.
“Must have been somewhere here,” said the sergeant, in a deep voice.
“Yes,” said Fred, stepping to the tent opening; “it was I, sergeant. I thought I heard some one call.”
“No, sir; all’s well. Good night, sir.”
“Good night.”
“You nearly did it that time, Master Fred,” whispered Samson. “What made you holloa like that?”
“You, sir. How came you here?”
“Slit a hole in the guard tent, and crept out; that’s all, sir. Tent walls are soft enough. Now, then, are you ready?”
“Ready? Yes—no—what can we do?”
“What you said, sir.”
“But we cannot take them to the place to starve.”
“Who’s going to, sir?”
“What do you mean?”
“Only that I crept out o’ the tent hour and a half ago, ran down to the Manor—easy enough in the dark—and told ’em what to do as soon as it was light in the morning, and then ran back.”
“But the rope?”
“Here it is, sir; wound round me like a belt. Come along, and let’s go.”
“But the horse—how are we to get Sir Godfrey there?”
“I dunno, sir, only that we’ve got to try. Come on; we can only make a mess of it.”
Fred hesitated no longer; but taking his sword and cloak, he stepped out into the dark night, joined his man, and then stole with him cautiously along the tents to where the horses were tethered. Samson untied the halters which kept them prisoners, and led them silently away over the soft glass.
The task proved more easy than they had expected, for there were no watchers near. Strict ward and watch were kept, but only by those on duty. Those who were off devoted the time to rest and sleep.
All round the camp there was every precaution taken against surprise; but in the interior of the tented space there seemed to be none to interrupt.
“Bridles, saddles?” whispered Fred.
“If we can’t do what we want without them, sir, we shan’t do it at all,” said Samson. “Tie your halter to his head, and leave the horses alone. The two beasts ’ll follow us like dogs, and it’s all right so long as they don’t whinny.”
Samson was correct. The two horses followed them like dogs, their hoof tramp being almost inaudible, and they went on through the darkness at a pace which seemed terrible to Fred in its sluggishness, nearly down to the lake, and then round its western end, and in front of the ruined Hall.
“We shall never get them there.”
“Oh yes, we shall, if we can get them through the lines, and it’s so dark that I don’t feel no fear of that. Now, sir, we’ll tether them to these two trees, and then get to work.”
Fred followed his companion’s example, glancing round from time to time, and listening as every sigh of the wind seemed to be the breath of a watcher; and then, tethering his steed, which calmly began to crop the luxuriant grass, Fred started for the wilderness, his sword drawn to feel his way beneath the trees, and at last contrived to reach the spot where they had entered from time to time.
“Shall I go first, Master Fred?” whispered Samson.
“No, no.”
“Better let me. I’m thicker-skinned, and it’s going to be all feeling, sir.”
But Fred would not give up, and, entering the tangled underwood at once, he went cautiously on, till about half-way, when a rush through the bushes brought his heart to his mouth.
“Only rabbit, sir. Keep on,” grumbled Samson.
“Think we are going right?”
“Yes, sir, far as I can tell; but it’s blind man’s work.”
Instinct or guess-work, one or the other, led them right to the fallen tree, when the hole was soon discovered, and Fred crept through and dropped into the passage, closely followed by Samson.
“Don’t find fault, sir,” whispered the latter, as he touched the bottom, “I should ha’ done it, only I was took.”
“What do you mean?”
“Brought a light.”
“Never mind; I can find my way.”
“Let me go first, sir.”
“No; follow closely, and don’t talk now.”
“Only this one word, sir,” whispered Samson, holding tightly by his master’s arm. “When we get ’em safe off, and my brother Nat starts boasting, mind, sir, it was to help Sir Godfrey and Master Scar I came—not him.”
“Silence!”
“How like his father he do grow!” muttered Samson; and he obeyed.
Fred wondered to himself that he felt no shrinking at the strange task, before creeping step by step into the utter darkness of this place; but he was strung up now, and determined to carry his task through, come what might.
Never before had the way seemed so long ere he struck his foot against the first short flight of steps; and then, as he reached the top unchallenged, a horrible sense of dread assailed him, for all was as silent as it was dark, and he asked himself what had happened to his friends.
He stood listening, but could hear nothing; and at last he gripped Samson by the shoulder, and whispered—
“What does it mean? Have they gone?”
“That’s what I was asking myself, sir. Speak—or shall I? Anybody here?” he said aloud.
There was a whispering echo, nothing more, and Fred felt the cold perspiration ooze from his brow, as he tried to imagine what could have happened since they were there last.
Those moments seemed long-drawn minutes, and then relief came in a long, low sigh; and as that ended, the breathing of a sleeper and a restless movement were plainly heard from the corner of the vault.
“Hist!” whispered Samson; “hear that, sir?”
“Yes; they are asleep.”
“No, sir; that behind us?”
“No.”
“Listen.”
Fred listened intently, and his hand went to the hilt of his sword, for, sure enough, there was the sound of steps coming slowly and cautiously, and as if he who made them listened, along the passage from the direction of the lake.
“Some one tracking us,” said Fred, with his lips to his follower’s ear. “Stand aside. Don’t strike. Let him enter, and then we must seize and gag him when I say ‘Now!’”
A pressure of Samson’s ear against his lips told of his acquiescence, and they stood, one on each side of the arched opening, waiting as the steps came nearer, apparently more and more cautiously, till the stairway was reached, against which whoever it was stumbled slightly, and then ascended with many pauses, and stepped right inside the vault, breathing heavily, and seeming to listen.
“What shall I do?” thought Fred. “Seize him, or what?”
“Master Fred—Master Fred, do say ‘Now’, or our chance is gone,” said Samson to himself; and as if this was communicated to the young officer by some peculiar sense, he was drawing in his breath previous to giving the word and dashing at their tracker, when a low, piteous voice said half aloud—
“Gone, or he has forgotten us. What shall—”
“Don’t you talk like that o’ Master Fred, sir,” cried Samson, in indignant tones.
“Scar!” cried Fred; and he threw his arms round his boyhood’s companion, who uttered a low sigh, and would have sunk to the stony floor but for Fred’s support.
“Samson.”
“Well, sir, what did he mean by scaring us and talking like that?”
“Have you been outside?”
“No,” said Scarlett, in a low, hesitating voice. “I was ill and feverish. I went to the end to get some water, and I think I must have fallen down and slept. I have not slept much, and it has been so long and dark, and I thought you had forsaken us.”
“Forsaken you!” cried Fred, reproachfully. “But your father—and Nat?”
“I hardly know; they seem to have done nothing but sleep.”
“Don’t talk now. Rouse them at once. You must escape.”
“Escape? Where?”
“I have provided the refuge for you. Horses are waiting in front of the Hall. Now, let’s try and get them out at once.”
“In front of the Hall?” said Scarlett, whose weakness seemed to be chased away by his old friend’s words.
“Yes.”
“Fred, we can get down from the oak chamber into the ruins. A piece of the wall has fallen. Will not that be a better way?”
“Of course,” cried Fred. “Then wake them at once.”
This was done, and the news of the coming of help conveyed to Sir Godfrey and his man, who rose with pain to their feet; but it soon became evident that the former could not stir a step, though Nat declared he could walk anywhere, and nearly fell on trying to cross the vault.
“It is of no use,” said Scarlett; “but I thank you, Fred Forrester, and I can never call you enemy again.”
“No,” said Sir Godfrey, piteously. “I am too weak to stir; but God bless you, my brave, true boy—never our enemy again.”
“Look ye here,” said a gruff voice, “I don’t know nothing ’bout no other way, so you’ve got to show me or lead me. I’ll hold a strap in my teeth, and some one can lead me by that. What you’ve got to do, Master Fred, is to set Sir Godfrey well on my back, and I can carry him anywhere. Never mind about that brother o’ mine. Chuck him down in any corner, if he won’t walk. I aren’t going to carry him.”
Nat uttered a low grunt, and muttered something out of the darkness about kicking, as, after a vain protest, Sir Godfrey was helped on to Samson’s back, the sturdy fellow stooping down, and then rising up with a bit of a laugh.
“Dessay him I was named after was pretty strong; but he couldn’t ha’ carried you, sir, any better than that.”
“My brave-hearted fellow!” said Sir Godfrey, faintly; and he set his teeth hard to keep back a moan of pain.
“Now, then,” said Samson, “what sort of a way is it?”
“Just like that we came,” said Fred, quickly as he drew Nat’s arm over his shoulder.
“Then I don’t want no leading,” said Samson; “some one go first, and I can feel my way with my ears.”
“Go first, Scar,” whispered Fred. “Don’t speak; only tell him when you reach the stairs. Now, forward!”
“Forward it is, gen’lemen. March! Never mind about that Nat. Got him all right, Master Fred?”
There was a low chuckle by Fred’s ear that sounded like one of Samson’s, as he answered—“Yes. Go on.”
“Go on it is, gen’lemen; give the old donkey the spur, if he won’t go.”
The long passage was slowly traversed, and then began the toilsome ascent of the stairs leading to the oak chamber, poor Nat being very feeble, and Fred’s task hard; but the top was reached at last, and the soft fresh night air blew freely upon the rescuers’ heated brows, as, under Scarlett’s guidance, they crossed the little room to the corner where the wall had fallen away.
Here greater difficulties began in the getting down to the level of the ground floor, stones giving way, and the darkness adding to the difficulty. Once there was quite a little avalanche of calcined material; but perseverance won, and all stood safely at last on the trampled lawn in front of the ruined Hall.
“Shall we let them rest here for a bit?” whispered Fred.
“No, Master Fred, sir; they must rest on the horses’ backs. Come on; they’re not fifty yards away.”
A low whinny from one of the faithful beasts followed this speech, and the party listened in dread that the sound might have been heard.
“Come on, sir,” whispered Samson; “heard or no, now’s our time;” and he walked quickly to where the horses were tethered, with the others close behind. “Now, sir,” he said in a whisper, “I’ve got to get you on that horse. If you can put a leg over, do. If you can’t—”
Answer came in the shape of a brave effort on Sir Godfrey’s part, and the next instant he was sitting erect on the horse’s back.
“Hooroar!” whispered Samson. “Now t’other one. Foot in my hands like a lady. Nat, old chap. Ready? Up you go. That’s brave. Yah! I forgot as we was enemies. Come along. You lead him, Master Fred, as you would bring him along.”
“Can you walk all right, Scar?” whispered Fred.
“Yes. I’ll take hold, though, of the horse’s mane.”
“Ready, Samson?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then, forward, and not a word; we must leave everything to chance. Our only hope is that we may pass between the sentinels, and that the darkness may screen us from their eyes.”
A quarter of an hour’s slow and careful progress over the soft grassy moor, and then they stopped short, for there was the chink of metal and the sharp stamp of a horse.
“If ours challenge him with a neigh, we are lost,” thought Fred, as he stood trembling, and patting his horse’s nose.
“Poor old lad, then!” whispered Samson; and, their attention taken by their masters’ caressing hands, the brave beasts remained silent, and then moved on till there was a road to be crossed, and Samson halted.
“Can’t help it, sir; there’s no other way,” he whispered; “and it’s all stones.”
“Forward!” whispered Fred; and they crossed the road, but not without making a sharp sound or two. Then they were once more on the soft turf, and bore away more and more to their right, till Scarlett whispered—
“Are you making for the shore?”
“No; for the Rill Head—the cavern,” said Fred.
“Then it must be close here, for we are only a little way from the edge of the cliffs.”
Endorsement of his words came in the low roar of a breaking wave from below; and just then the stars peeped out from behind a cloud, and they saw exactly where they stood.
Ten minutes later they were close by the narrow entrance, and as Fred searched for the exact place he uttered a cry of satisfaction, for there by the gaping rift lay two large bundles, whose contents he pretty well guessed.
Chapter Fifty.
Back to Camp.
“Now, Samson,” whispered Fred, “we must trust to our horses standing fast.”
“You let their halters lie on the ground, sir, and they’ll not move,” was the reply. “Wait a minute, till I’ve unrolled the rope from my waist, and then I’m ready.”
“What can I do?” said Scarlett, in a low anxious voice.
“Nothing, sir. Now, Master Fred, let’s get them two down first off the horses, and they can lie on the grass till we’re ready for them. Then, if you think as I do, me being strongest, you’ll go down first, while I hold the rope.”
“Can you?”
“Can I?” exclaimed Samson, in a tone full of contempt. “Then when you’re down, I’ll lower down the stuff first, and you take it and cast the rope loose each time; and next, I’ll let Sir Godfrey down and Master Scar, and then—”
He stopped short.
“Your brother,” said Fred, sharply. “We cannot do better.”
Everything was done according to Samson’s plans, beginning with the helping down of the two wounded riders, after which Fred took the end of the rope, and was lowered into what, in spite of his determination, seemed to be an awful chasm.
But he had no time to think, for directly he touched the shaley floor, the rope was drawn up, and almost directly after, he was hastily taking from the rope the burdens which it bore, while, to his surprise, Scarlett came next.
“You?” said Fred in his wonder.
“Yes; I thought I could help most here; and it seemed so terrible a place for you to be alone.”
“Scar!” whispered Fred, quickly, as a thought struck him, due to Samson’s general forethought, “open those bundles, and see if there is anything to get a light.”
Sir Godfrey was lowered down, and when Fred was helping Nat to sink gently on the flooring of the cave, the sharp clicking of flint and steel fell upon his ears, and soon after the gloomy place was illumined by a candle stuck in a niche of the rock.
“I wouldn’t be longer than ’bout an hour, Master Fred, sir,” came down the opening. “We may as well get back safe if we can.”
Fred answered, and then set to work, to find that the forethought of those at the Manor had provided ample store for the prisoners; and if ever wine was welcome to man, it was to the sufferers lying exhausted there upon the shaley bed of the cave.
“As soon as I am up,” said Fred at last, “I shall throw down the rope, and with the light you can explore the lower part of the cave, and see what means there are of getting to the mouth; for sooner or later a boat and men shall come to take you both where you will. Now, Scar Markham, God bless you, and good-bye!”
Fred had previously bidden Sir Godfrey farewell. Nat had sunk into the sleep of exhaustion long before, and now he stood grasping Scarlett’s hands in his.
“Some day,” said the latter, sadly, “this war must end, and then we may meet again.”
“And not till then, Scar, for I can—I must do no more. Good-bye.”
He snatched his hands from the grasp that held them, caught hold of the rope, and calling up to Samson, in another minute he was half-way up, but only to call down to Scarlett—
“Have no fear about supplies; there are those not far away who will see that you have all you want.”
There was no reply, for in his weakness and misery Scarlett Markham had thrown himself upon his face, and lay for hours almost without moving, and till long after the light had burned out, and the faint bluish dawn rose from the chasm below.
Meanwhile Fred had reached the top, lowered down the rope till its weight made it glide swiftly from his hands, and then mounted his horse to ride back, through the darkness, trusting to chance to reach the camp unchallenged.
This time they were not so successful, for all at once a sharp voice bade them halt and give the word.
“Forward’s the word, Master Fred,” whispered Samson, “full speed, knee to knee.”
Their horses answered to the touches of their heels, and bounded through the darkness, the man who challenged trying to fire in their direction; but the match merely made the priming flash, and before he could communicate with his fellows, Fred and Samson were far over the moor toward the park, dashing by an outpost, whose men fired and raised the alarm. It was too late to stop the adventurous pair, who were close up to the tents and off the horses, which they left to their fate, while the men whom they encountered now treated them as others who had been alarmed by the firing on the moor. Drums were beating, trumpets sounding, and men mustered quickly, waiting a night attack, till the sentinels were questioned and told their tale. An hour more, and it was broad daylight, and the men dismissed, after what was treated as a false alarm.
“And when I went to the tethering stakes, Master, Fred, sir,” whispered Samson, “there were our horses standing alongside o’ the others, with their halters hanging down just as if they’d never left their places.”
“But weren’t you missed? You were a prisoner.”
“No, sir, s’pose not. I should ha’ thought they’d ha’ looked at me now and then; but I’d done nothing very wrong, and when a man did tramp into the tent, he found me lying down, and didn’t see the slit through which I crept out and in.”
“Then you are released, Samson?”
“Yes, sir; your father ordered me to be let out, and, oh, how sleepy I do feel! I say, though, sir, if the colonel know’d all we done last night, what would he say?”
“Don’t talk about it, my good fellow. I hope he would be glad at heart; but as a soldier— Samson, we must keep our secret, perhaps for years.”
Samson gave his mouth a slap with his horny palm, and walked away.
Chapter Fifty One.
Greetings after Long Years.
During the month which followed Sir Godfrey’s escape, the forces of the Parliamentarians achieved success after success, Colonel Forrester and his son being despatched with a little column to the east two days later.
The dilemma to Fred before starting seemed terrible, but just as he felt that there was nothing left for him to do but confess all he had done to his father, he encountered Samson.
“Why, Master Fred!” he exclaimed, “you look as if you’d got the worries on you.”
“Worry? Why, man, we have to march almost directly, and those poor people in the cave are—”
“What poor people? in what cave? Only wish I was one of ’em. Having it luscious, that’s what they’re a-having, Master Fred, sir. Chicken and eggs, and butter and new bread, and milk and honey, and nothing to do. Blankets to wrap ’em in, and cider and wine, and ladies to go and talk to ’em.”
“Samson, are you sure of this?” cried Fred, joyfully.
“Wish I was as sure as all this human being cock-fighting was nearly over, Master Fred.”
“Then you’ve been over?”
“’Course I have, sir. I aren’t like the colonel, about here all these weeks, and never going home nor letting you go. I got leave this time, for I met the general, and told him how near I was to my garden, and how anxious I was about the weeds, and he laughed and give me a pass directly.”
“And my mother?”
“Your mother, Master Fred? Why, I couldn’t get to know about them in the cave for her asking me questions about the colonel and her boy! She would call you a boy, sir, though you think you’re a man, and no more muscle in your arms than a carrot.”
“But the people in the cave, Samson?”
“Don’t I tell you they’re all right, sir—right as right can be; and first chance there’s going to be a boat round from Barnstaple to take Sir Godfrey and Miss Lil and my lady away across the sea to France, and Pshaw! I never heard the like of it; they’re going to take that great rough ugly brother of mine with them. They’re all right.”
Many weeks of busy soldiering followed, by which time the king’s power was crushed, and the Parliamentary forces had swept away all opposition. Regiments were gradually disbanded, and the Forresters at last returned to the Manor, from which Colonel Forrester’s stern sense of duty had kept him away, as much as the calls of his military life.
“There, Samson,” he said, smiling, as they rode home, “you may sheathe your sword, and sharpen your rusty scythe; while you, Fred—what are we to do with you? Send you back to school?”
“No, father, I must be what I am—a soldier still,” said Fred, proudly; “but I hope in peace more than in war.”
“Yes; we have had enough of war for years to come.”
The colonel drew rein that sunny afternoon as they were passing the ruined Hall, and Fred heard him sigh, but he forgot that directly after in his eagerness to get home; and soon after father and son were locked in turn in sobbing Mistress Forrester’s arras.
There was abundance to tell that night as they sat in the old, old room, where mother and son exchanged glances, each silently questioning the other with the eye as to whether the time had not come for telling all; but still they hesitated, till all at once Colonel Forrester exclaimed sadly—
“This is nearly perfect happiness—home and peace once more; but it is not complete. You say Lady Markham and her daughter left a month ago for France?”
“Yes, dearest,” replied Mistress Forrester.
“Ah!” sighed the colonel, “I’d give all I have to know that mine enemy was saved from the horrors of that terrible evening.”
“Will you give your forgiveness, father?” said Fred, rising.
“Forgiveness?”
“Yes: to one who was somewhat of a traitor to his cause.”
“My boy! what do you mean?” cried the colonel; and Fred told all he knew, Mistress Forrester supplementing his narrative with a vivid description of how the fugitive Royalists had been helped into the cavern, and had then escaped by sea.
The colonel rose, and stood staring straight before him, and then he slowly went to the door, signed to them not to follow, and they heard him go upstairs, where, in dread at last, Mistress Forrester followed, to find him on his knees.
When, half an hour after, he returned to the dining-room, his face seemed charged, and there was a bright look in his eyes as if a weight had been lifted from his mind, while twice over his son heard him whisper softly—“Thank God! Thank God!”
It was after years had passed, and various political changes had taken place, that one bright May day, bright as such days are sometimes seen in the west, a heavy carriage drawn by four horses, and attended by two gentlemen and a sturdy servitor on horseback, passed slowly up and down the hills along the road leading to the Hall.
One gentleman was stern and grey-looking, the other tall and grave beyond his years, while, seated in the carriage were a careworn-looking lady and a beautiful, graceful-looking girl.
As they neared the old entrance to the park, the gentleman ordered the coachman to stop, and himself opened the carriage door, after dismounting, and handed the ladies out on to the soft turf.
“It is more humble for pilgrims to travel a-foot,” he said, with a sad smile. “Do you think you feel strong enough to bear the visit?”
The lady could not answer for a few moments. Then, mastering her emotion, she said, “Yes;” and, taking the speaker’s arm, they were moving off, followed by the younger pair, the whole party looking like courtly foreigners, when, after tethering the horses to so many trees, and leaving them in charge of the coachman, the stout serving-man strode up to the elderly gentleman.
“Would your honour let me have a look at my old garden once again?”
“Yes, Nat, yes. Take a farewell look. It is a fancy to see the old place in ruins, and have an hour’s dream over the past. Then we will say good-bye for good.”
The man touched his hat, and turned off through the plantation, while the party moved on slowly along the familiar old drive, the ladies, with their eyes veiled with tears, hardly daring to look up till they had nearly reached the great entrance to the fine old place, when they started at a cry from the younger man.
“Father!” he cried. “What does this mean? This is your work—a surprise?”
“Scar, my boy, no; I am astounded.”
For there before them, almost precisely as it was of old, stood the Hall, rebuilt, refurnished, bright and welcoming, the lawn, terrace, and parterre gay with flowers, all as if the past had been a dream, while at that moment Colonel and Mrs Forrester appeared with Fred, hat in hand, in the porch.
Sir Godfrey Markham drew himself up, and his eyes flashed as he turned upon the colonel.
“I see,” he cried. “Usurper! Well, I might have known!”
“That this was the act of an old friend to offer as a welcome when you should return,” said Colonel Forrester, holding out his hand.
Sir Godfrey looked at the extended hand, then in Colonel Forrester’s eyes, and again round him in utter astonishment.
“I—I—came,” he faltered, “to—to see the ruins of my dear old home. How could I know that the man whom I once called friend—”
“Till all those dreadful changes came, and set us wide apart. Yes, I heard you were coming down.”
“Godfrey! husband!” whispered Lady Markham; “can you not see?”
“I am confused. I do not understand,” he faltered, as he caught his wife’s hand in his.
“Lil, can’t you shake hands with your old friend?” said Fred, as the tall graceful girl looked at him half pleased, half shrinkingly.
“And your father has done all this, Fred?” said Scarlett, in an eager whisper.
“Yes; I found him busy one day when I came home for a visit, and it has been his task ever since.”
“But—for Heaven’s sake, man, be frank with me—he meant it for your home?”
“Scarlett Markham, because my father differed from you in politics, and sided against the king, don’t brand him as a cowardly miser. No; he said that some day Sir Godfrey would return, and that he would show him that he had not forgotten they once were friends.”
“Father, do you hear this?” cried Scarlett. “Colonel Forrester, is the old time coming back?”
“Please God, my boy, now that the sword is to be beaten into a ploughshare. Godfrey Markham, I did this in all sincerity. Will you accept it from your enemy?”
“No,” cried Sir Godfrey; “but I will from my true old friend.” And as, trembling with emotion, he grasped the colonel’s hands, he turned to see Lady Markham in Mistress Forrester’s arms.
Meanwhile, a curious scene had been taking place at the back of the Hall, where Nat had directed his steps to lament over the weeds and ruin of the neglected place. He had walked on along familiar paths through the plantation to the back of the kitchen garden, passed through an old oaken gate in the high stone wall, and there stopped aghast.
“Here, who’s been meddling now?” he cried. “Who’s been doing this?”
For, in place of the ruin he had expected, he found everything in the trimmest order—young crops sprung, trees pruned, walks clean, everything as it should be; and, worse than all, a broad-shouldered man, looking like himself, busy at work with a hoe destroying the weeds which had sprung up since the last shower.
Nat did not hesitate, but walked down the path, and at right angles on to the bed, where he hit the intruder on the chest with his doubled fist.
“So it’s you, is it, Samson?”
“Yes, it’s me, Nat,” was the reply; and the blow was returned.
“How are you, Samson?” said Nat; and he hit his brother again on the other side.
“Tidy, Nat. How are you?” replied Samson, returning the blow.
“You’ve got a bit stouter.”
“So have you.”
“Long time since we met.”
“Ay, ’tis.”
“Like this here garden?”
“Middling.”
Each of these little questions and answers was accompanied by a blow dealt right out from the shoulder, sharp and short, till the men’s chests must have been a mass of bruises. Then they drew back, and stared at each other.
“Who told you to come and work in my garden?” said Nat at last.
“Nobody; I did it out of my own head.”
“And pray why?”
“Because I thought, if ever you came back, it would make you mad.”
“So it has. How would you like me to come and rout about in your garden?”
“Dunno. Come and try.”
“Well, I would ha’ put in that row o’ beans straight if I did.”
“Straight enough, Natty; it’s your eyes are crooked. Come back to stop?”
“No; going back to furren abroad.”
“Then what’s the good of my master building up the house again?”
“What? Did he?”
“Ay; came and see me doing up your garden as it had never been done up before, and went away and ordered in the workpeople.”
“Hum!” said Nat.
“Ha!” said Samson.
“Well, aren’t you going to shake hands?”
“Ay, might as well. How are you, Nat?”
“Quite well, thank you, Samson. How are you?”
“Feel as if I should be all the better for a mug o’ cider. What says you?”
“Same as you.”
“Then come on.”
And Nat came on.
For peace was made, and though rumours of the next war at the Restoration came down to the west, those who had been enemies stirred not from the ingle-side again till Fred Forrester was called away; but Scarlett had become a student and a scholar, and the young friends met no more in strife. When they did encounter, and ran over the troubles of the past, it was with a calm feeling of satisfaction in the present, and the old war time as years slipped by seemed to them both as a dream.
“Yes,” cried Sir Godfrey, eagerly, as he laid his hand on Colonel Forrester’s shoulder; “some day, with all my heart.”
“I am very glad,” said the stern colonel, smiling at a group by the house where the ladies were seated, and Fred and Lil, so intent on each other’s converse, that they did not perceive that they were watched.
But other eyes had noted everything during the past year, and it was evident that the time would come when Fred Forrester and Scarlett Markham would be something more than friends.