IT was at Stirling Castle. People who did not know might have called
it the shed, but that would show their ignorance. On the ramparts was
mustered a gallant band, the flower of Scotland, armed with mangonels,
catapults, and bows and arrows; below were the English, with their
battering-rams and culverins and things. Ned was the English general,
and led the storming party, and I was his staff, and Billy was the
drummer, and drummed for the king. The Scottish general was Tom, and
he had on Susie’s plaid skirt for a kilt, and his sporran was the
rocking-horse’s tail that had come off.
Well, there was lots of snow on the roof,—I mean the ramparts, and they
hurled it down on our heads, and we played ours was Greek fire, and
hit them back like fun, I tell you. There was quite a mountain down
below, where Andrew, the chore-man, had shovelled off the deep snow;
and we stood on this, and it was up to my waist, and I played it was
gore, because in Scott they are always wading knee-deep in gore, and I
thought I would get ahead of them and go in up to my waist.
I hit General Montrose (that was Tom) with a splendid ball of Greek
fire, and it was quite soft, and a lot of it got down his neck, and
you ought to have seen him dance. He called me a dastardly Sassenach,
and I thought at first he said “sausage,” and was as mad as hops, but
afterward I didn’t care.
Then Ned called for volunteers to storm the castle, and we all ran
to the ladder; but Ned climbed up the spout, ’cause he can shin like
sixty, and he got up before we did. He took the warder by the throat,
just like the Bold Buccleugh in “Kinmont Willie,” and chucked him
right off the roo—ramparts into the gore. That made Montrose mad as a
hornet, and he rushed on Ned, and they got each other round the waist,
and went all over the roof, till at last they got too near the edge,
and over they both went. Billy was scared at that and stopped drumming,
but I drew my mangonel (Susie says that isn’t the right name, but I
don’t believe she knows) and rushed on the Scottish troops, which were
only Jimmy Weaver, now that Montrose and the warder were gone. I got
Jimmy down, and put my knee on his chest and shouted, “Victory! the day
is ours! Saint George for England!”
But then I heard somebody else yelling, and I looked over the ramparts,
and there was Montrose with his knee on Ned’s chest, waving his
culverin and shouting, “Victory! the day is ours! Saint Andrew for
Scotland!”
I was perfectly sure that our side had beaten, and Tom was absolutely
certain that he had won a great victory; but just then mother called
us in to tea, so we could not fight it over again to decide. Anyhow,
Montrose got so much Greek fire down his neck that he had to change
everything he had on, and I didn’t have to change a thing except my
stockings.