"Why, Fred, my boy, what a long face. What's the matter?"
For answer, Fred pointed to the trampled garden, the litter in the park,
and the desolation visible at the Hall, where window casements had been
either smashed or taken off, and rough barricades erected; so that where
all had once been so trim and orderly, desolation seemed to reign.
For the little band of devoted Royalists, under Sir Godfrey Markham, had
offered a desperate defence to every attempt made by the attacking
party, which for want of infantry and guns, had settled down to the task
of starving them out.
The prisoners and the wounded from the barn, irrespective of party, had
been sent to the nearest town; and as no immediate call was being made
upon his services, and his orders were to wait for reinforcements, so as
to render the men under his command something like respectable in
number, General Hedley set himself seriously to the task of crippling
the Royalist forces, by securing the person of Sir Godfrey Markham,
whose influence in the district was very great, and whose prowess as a
soldier had worked terrible disaster to the Puritan cause.
The little siege of the Hall had been going on four days, when Colonel
Forrester, who had been with the relieving party, found his son
contemplating the ruin.
"Yes," he said, "it is bad; but better so than that these Royalists
should be destroying our home, my boy."
"Is it, father?" said Fred, doubtingly.
"Is it, sir? Of course. That is the home of our most deadly enemy, a
man who has wrought endless mischief to our cause and country. Why, you
do not sympathise with him?"
"I was not thinking of sympathy, father, but of the happy days Scar
Markham and I used to spend here."
"Pish! Don't talk like a child, sir. You are growing a man, and you
have your duty to do."
"Yes, father, and I'm going to try and do it."
"Of course. That's better, Fred. As to Markham, we are behaving nobly
to him by having his wife and daughter at the Manor, and caring for them
there."
"I don't see much in that, father."
"What, sir?"
"Men do not make war upon women, and I think it was our duty to protect
Lady Markham, and I acted accordingly."
Colonel Forrester turned fiercely upon his son, but checked himself.
"Humph! Yes. I suppose you were right, Fred. There, we need not argue
such points as these. Too much to do."
"Of course, father; but one cannot quite forget the past."
"No, certainly not. But do your duty to your country, my boy, and leave
the rest."
"Yes, father," said Fred; "but are we going to attack the place again
soon?"
"Yes; and this time most vigorously. The nest of hornets must be
cleared out, eh, Hedley?" he said, as the general came up from the rough
tent erected under one of the spreading trees.
"Of what are you talking?"
"My boy, here, asks me if we are going to attack the Hall again."
"Yes; if they do not march out by to-night, and give themselves up, I
shall attack, and as I shall send them word, they must expect little
mercy. By the way, Forrester, I want to talk to you." The pair marched
slowly away, leaving Fred to his contemplation of the Hall and its
surroundings; and he seated himself upon the mossy roots of a huge beech
on the slope facing the old red stone building, and gazed eagerly at the
distant figures which appeared at the window openings from time to time,
wondering whether either of them was Scarlett, if he was with his
father, for he was not among the wounded, or whether he had escaped
among the scattered Royalists after that last fierce charge.
"He is sure to be there," said the lad to himself, as he sat on the
rough buttress with his sword across his knees. "Poor old Scar! how I
remember our taking down the swords and fighting, and Sir Godfrey coming
and catching us. It seemed a grand thing to have a sword then--much
grander than it seems now," he added, as he looked gloomily at the
weapon he held.
He gazed moodily across the lake again, and then thought of his father's
words about his duty to his country; and his young brow grew more and
more wrinkled.
"Yes," he said; "I ought to do my duty to my country. Those people can
hold us off, and there'll be a desperate fight, and some of our men will
be killed, and nearly all theirs. I could stop it all and make an end
of the fight easily enough by doing my duty to my country. But if I
did, I should be sending Sir Godfrey and poor old Scar to prison,
perhaps get them killed, because they would fight desperately, and I
should make Lady Markham and poor little Lil miserable, and be behaving
like a wretch. I don't like doing such duty."
"Let me see," continued Fred, as he gazed across the lake, "how should I
do it? Easily enough. Get thirty or forty men, and take them in the
old boat across to the mouth of the passage, ten at a time. What
nonsense! March them after dark round to the wilderness, pull away the
boughs, drop down, and thread our way right along the old passage into
the Hall, surprise every one, and the place would be ours.
"And a nice treacherous thing to do; and I should fail," he cried
joyously, "for Scar will have given me the credit of planning such a
thing, and I'll be bound to say he has blocked the place up with stones.
"No; I couldn't do that, and if ever we meet again as friends, and Scar
tells me he was sure I should attack them there, and that he guarded
against it, I'll kick him for thinking me such a dishonourable traitor."
Fred sat musing still--wondering what the garrison were doing, and
fighting hard to keep the thought of the secret passage out of his mind.
What would his father say if he knew of the secret he was keeping back?
and conscience ran him very hard on the score of duty to his country.
"But," he said at last, "duty to one's country does not mean being
treacherous to one's old friends. I'm obliged to fight against them;
but I'll fight fairly and openly. I will not, duty to my country or no
duty, go crawling through passages to stab them in the dark."
It was a glorious day, succeeding two during which a western gale had
been blowing, drenching the attacking party, and making everything
wretched around; and as Fred rose from where he had been seated and
walked slowly along by the edge of the lake towards its eastern end, the
water, moor, and woodlands looked so lovely that there was a mingled
feeling of joy and misery in the lad's breast.
He thought of the besieged, then of those who were in all probability
still at the Manor, from which duty had kept him absent, even his father
having refrained from going across, though they had had daily
information as to Mistress Forrester's welfare. Fred thought then of
his own position, and all the time he was gazing down into the clear
water, where he could see the bar-sided perch sailing slowly about, and
the great carp and tench heavily wallowing among the lily stems, and
setting the great flat leaves a-quiver as they floated on the surface.
Ah, how it all brought back the pleasant old days when he and Scar used
to spend so much time about the water-side!
"I wonder whether he can see me now," he muttered, as he came up to one
of the little patches of woodland, and stood gazing across the lake at
the ivy and bush-grown bank where the secret passage had its opening.
"No; I don't suppose Scar would know me at this distance," he said; and
he took half a dozen steps forward, to be stopped short by the rattle of
arms and a sharp "Halt!"
For the moment Fred thought himself in the presence of one of the enemy,
and his hand darted to the hilt of his sword; but he realised directly
after that it was one of their own men posted there, and he shivered as
he wondered whether the sentry had noted the direction of his gaze.
"Only taking a stroll round, my man," said Fred, as he gave the
password.
"Not going into the wood, are you, sir?"
"Yes; right on, towards the Hall."
"Better take care, sir. There are some clever marksmen there, and I
should get into trouble if you were hurt."
"Don't be alarmed," replied Fred, smiling. "I'll take care."
He pushed on, and the sentinel remained at his hidden post, while, as if
he found a certain pleasure in revisiting the spots familiar to him in
the boyish adventures with his old companion, Fred wandered listlessly
here and there, meeting sentry after sentry, posted so that the besieged
should not have an opportunity of getting away, or sending a messenger
in search of help.
"And all the time," muttered Fred, "I know how easily a messenger could
be sent, and help obtained."
He stopped short at last, with his head in a whirl, wondering which
course he ought to pursue, as the thought occurred to him that he should
be answerable for the injury to his own party if Scarlett did send for
assistance, making use of the passage as a means by which he could avoid
the sentries.
"But he would not avoid the sentries, for they would catch the messenger
all the same," he cried; "and I am driving myself half crazy about
nothing, and--What's that?"
He stood listening, for it seemed to him that a low harsh moan had come
from out of the dark shady woodland near where he stood.
He listened, but there was no further sound, and then he looked round,
puzzled for the moment as to where he was. But he recognised certain
features in the dense piece of forest directly after, and found that he
had during his musings wandered in and in among the trees till he was in
the old wilderness, close to the great fallen tree where they had made
the discovery of the broken way into the hole.
He turned angrily away, for the thought of the secret passage brought
back his mental struggle, as to which course he ought to pursue, and
flight being certainly the easiest, he was about to hurry off, when once
more the low harsh moan smote his ear.
"Two boughs rubbing together," he muttered, after listening for a
repetition of the sound, recalling the while what peculiarly strange
noises two fretting branches would make.
"But there's no wind," he said to himself; and directly after there came
the sharp chirp of a bird, and then the low moan.
It was so unmistakably a cry of pain, that Fred took a few steps forward
among the dense bushes, and then looked around.
There was nothing visible, but he was not surprised, for he was close
now to the hidden hole down which he had fallen when he made his jump,
and crushed through part of the touchwood trunk, and everywhere there
was a dense thicket of undergrowth, through which, after another pause,
he forced his way.
Nothing to see--nothing to hear; and he paused again, listening
intently, and bending forward in the direction of the hidden opening, as
the thought struck him that the cry might come from there.
Still, there was no further sound, and feeling convinced that he had hit
upon the true source of the noise, and with a shiver of dread running
through him as a dozen terrible suggestions offered themselves in
connection with the sound and with Scarlett, he was about to force his
way to the hole and drag away some of the broken branches which they had
heaped there, and which he could now see were intact, and with the ferns
and brambles and ivy growing luxuriantly, when a fresh moan met his ear,
evidently from quite another direction.
It was with a feeling of relief that he turned from the way to the
passage, and forcing his way on for some little distance, he paused
again, and listened with almost a superstitious dread, for the sounds
heard were in the midst of the gloomy wilderness, where the foot of man
rarely trod, and appealed strongly to the superstitious part of the
youth's nature.
In fact, after listening some time, and hearing nothing, the
uncomfortable sensation increased, and he began to back away, when the
sound was again heard--a harsh, wild, but very subdued cry from quite a
different direction, thrilling the lad's nerves, and making him turn
hastily to flee from the dark precincts.
For it was like no other sound which he had ever heard. No animal or
bird could cry like that. The hedgehog, if shut up in a pit, would
sometimes utter a wild strange noise, which, heard in the darkness, was
startling as the shriek or hoot of an owl. But it was none of these,
and giving way for the moment to ignorant superstition, Fred began to
get out of the wilderness as fast as he could, till he stumbled over a
briar stretched right across his way, fell heavily, and as he struggled
up again, he heard the cry repeated.
"Oh, how I wish some one was here to knock me over!" he muttered
angrily. "What a miserable coward I am!"
And now, fully convinced that some unhappy wounded man had crawled into
the thicket to die, he went sharply back to where he had seemed nearest
to the sound, and began to search once more.
It was for some time in vain, and probably he would have had to give up
what seemed to be a hopeless task, had he not suddenly seen a bramble
strand feebly thrust aside, and the point of a rusty sword directed
toward him.
He drew his own weapon, and beat the rusty blade away, hacking through a
few bramble strands, and there, deep down in a tunnel of strands and
boughs, was the ghastly blood-besmeared countenance of a man, with
hollow cheeks, sunken eyes, and a look of weakness that strongly
resembled that which, to his sorrow, he had so often seen upon the field
of battle.
The wretched man seemed to make an effort to raise his rusty sword
again, but it fell from his grasp, and he lay staring wildly at his
finder.
"Who are you? How came you here?" began Fred, involuntarily, though he
felt that he knew; and then, with a cry of surprise and horror, he
dropped upon his knees beside the wounded man. "Nat, my poor fellow,"
he cried, "is it you?"
The man looked at him wildly for a few moments, as if he were dreaming,
before the light of recognition came into his sunken eyes.
"Master Fred!" he whispered. "You? That's right. Put me out of my
misery at once."
"Are you wounded?"
"Water--for Heaven's sake, water!"
Fred started up.
Water? How could he get water?
The lake was close at hand, if he could reach it unseen, for he shrank
from calling help, which meant condemning the poor fellow to a
prisoner's life as soon as he grew better. So, forcing his way along as
cautiously as he could, he contrived to reach one of the trees whose
boughs overhung the lake, and taking advantage of the shelter, he lay
down upon his chest, grasped a stout hazel, lowered himself to where he
could reach the surface, where he took off his steel morion, dipped it
full, and rose carefully to bear the refreshing fluid to the suffering
man.
It was not an easy task, for the undergrowth seemed to be more tangled
than ever; but by stepping cautiously, he managed to bear almost every
drop, and kneeling down, he gave the poor fellow a little at a time, an
appealing look in the sufferer's eyes seeming to ask for more and more.
"Can you speak, Nat?" Fred said at last, as the man lay back with his
eyes closed, and without opening them he softly bent his head.
"Are you wounded?"
"Yes; badly," came in a faint whisper.
"You were hurt at the last encounter?"
"Yes, and crawled here. Water!"
Fred administered more, every drop seeming delicious to the fevered lips
of the wounded man.
Just then Fred remembered that he had a little bread in the wallet at
his side; and breaking it up, he soaked a small piece in the water, and
placed it between poor Nat's lips.
This was eaten, and a few more scraps, the refreshment seeming to revive
the sufferer wonderfully, and he looked up now in Fred's eyes, as he
whispered faintly--
"I was dying of thirst. I hid here--after the fight--and used to crawl
at night to my old garden for food. Then I grew too weak. Master Fred,
it would have been all over, if you had not come."
"Thank Heaven! I heard you," said Fred, giving the poor fellow a few
more scraps of the moistened bread till he signed to him to cease, and
then he looked up in his benefactor's face with a faint smile on his
parched and cracked lips.
"Oughtn't you to kill me, Master Fred?" he whispered.
"Oh, Nat, don't talk like that, my lad! I can't forget the past."
"Nor can I, Master Fred. But tell me, lad, Master Scarlett? Don't say
he's dead."
"No, no; I believe he's alive and well," cried Fred, eagerly. And he
saw the poor fellow close his eyes and lie back, with his lips moving as
if he were in prayer.
But he opened them again, and looked round wildly, as if he were
slightly delirious, but as his eyes rested on Fred's face he grew calm,
his lips parted, and he looked earnestly at him who was playing the good
Samaritan where he lay.
"Ah, that seems to put life in me!" he sighed; "but you'll get in
trouble, Master Fred, for helping such a one as me. We're enemies,
don't you see?"
"Wounded men cease to be enemies, Nat," said Fred, bluntly, "so don't
talk about that. You were separated from your master?"
"Yes, sir, with a sword. I don't know whose it was; but it went through
my shoulder and laid open my head."
"Ah, well, don't talk. Drink a little more water, and I'll go and bring
some men with a litter to fetch you away, and you shall be tended
carefully; rest assured of that."
"No, no, Master Fred; let me bide here. How do I know but what Master
Scar will come looking for me with some of our lads. I've been
expecting them every minute, ever since I crawled in among the bushes;
but it seemed a long time, and no one came, and no one--"
He ceased speaking, and lay back fainting.
Fred sprinkled and bathed his face for a few minutes, and then becoming
alarmed at the poor fellow's long-continued swooning, he was about to
get up and run for help, when Nat slowly opened his eyes again and his
lips moved.
"Where's that Samson?" he whispered faintly.
"With my regiment."
"Not hurt badly like me, is he, Master Fred?"
"No; he has escaped wonderfully."
"I'm glad of that, sir, because I shouldn't like for anybody else to
give him his lesson. That's to be my job, as soon as I get better. I'm
going to take him in hand, Master Fred, and weed him. He's full o'
rubbish, and I'm going to make him a better man. A villain! fighting
again his own brother."
"There, Nat, drink a little more water, and eat some of this cake, and
then I'll go and get help to have you carried up to camp."
"What? A prisoner? No, Master Fred. Sooner die where I am, than let
that Samson see me like this, and jump upon me."
"Nonsense! Samson's a good fellow at heart, and as soon as he sees you
in trouble, he'll be only too glad to help you."
"Not he, sir; he's my born enemy."
"He's your brother, and I shall send him, for one, to fetch you."
"No, Master Fred, don't; don't, pray don't, sir. Let me lie here. I
don't feel the cold and wet much, and if you'd come once a day and bring
me a bit o' bread and a drop o' water, I shall soon get well. Don't
have me made a prisoner, sir."
"But I can't leave you helpless, and--"
He was about to add dying, but he checked himself.
"And free, Master Fred? Why not? You let me alone, sir. You've saved
me this time, for I was going to die to-night. Now I'm going to live.
Rather strange for enemies, sir, isn't it? Hark!"
Fred was already listening to a trumpet call, and springing to his feet,
he prepared to go.
"I shall send a litter for you to be borne up to camp," he said.
"No, Master Fred, please. I'm a poor helpless thing now, not strong
enough to lift a spade, but if you leave me the rest of that bread, I
shall do; and if you can come and look at me once or twice, that will be
all I shall want. But, Heaven bless you, sir! don't have me made a
prisoner."
"Well, Nat, I shall leave you to-night, as it's going to be fine. But
let me look at your wounds."
"No, sir, let them bide. I did all I could to them. Come back
to-morrow, sir, and if I ain't better then, you may talk of sending me
away a prisoner, with my brother Samson to stand and sneer because I am
so weak."
A second trumpet call rang out, and, unable to stay longer, Fred hurried
back into the open, and made his way over to the little camp, asking
himself whether he had not better disregard the poor wounded man's
prayers, and have him fetched out, always coming back to the conclusion
that he would at all events leave him for another day, when he would
take him an ample store of provision, if possible, and decide then as to
his future course.