Of Various Events of Importance which took place during one night,
and caused us considerable Uneasiness and other Emotions.
I.
As they began to knock at the door, at first with a certain
gentleness, but afterwards in as peremptory a manner as if the
king himself had waited without, I turned to my cousin again, and
again favoured her with a hard look. She stared at me with a rising
indignation in her eyes, but I saw a questioning look in them that
nerved me to preserve my stern attitude.
“Mistress,” says I, “the enemy is at our gate, and we must perforce
parley with him. There is no one amongst us better fitted to that
task than yourself. And so, mistress,” I says, still keeping my
eyes on hers, “I must ask you to take your orders from me after
this fashion. First----”
But here she broke in upon me, standing very straight, and holding
her head very high, and looking me up and down as if I had been
some country lout that had dared to address her.
“Master Richard Coope,” says she, “I take no man’s orders, and
yours least of all. Your orders!” she says, with fine scorn.
“_Your_ orders!”
“Nay, mistress,” says I, “we do but waste time. Do not let us waste
more in explanations. You will not only take my orders, but what is
more, you will do them. What! will you oppose your girlish whims
and fancies to Sir Nicholas’s good estate?”
“Insolent!” says she, her pretty face all aflame. “_You_ to
speak--I must be dreaming or going mad,” she says, suddenly.
“Why,” says I, “’tis a pity indeed if you are, cousin, for we have
no time to listen to dreams or to deal with mad folk, nor with
mutineers either,” says I, putting on my sternest air again, “so
come, mistress, let us to business----”
“Prithee, madam,” says old Barbara, “do what Master Richard asks of
you, else we shall all be murdered in cold blood. Thank the Lord,
say I, that Master Richard should happen in on the nick o’ time,”
she says, “a man is a rare comfortable thing to have in a house at
times like these.”
But Mistress Alison gives her a cold stare and looks at me. “What
is it that you wish, sir?” she says. “Since I am in your power----”
“Nay, cousin,” says I, forgetting all my stern manner in a trice,
“it is to serve you that--but come, accompany me and John here
to the chamber over the door; I wish you to speak with these men
through the window. And believe me,” I says, lowering my voice as
she walked at my side, “I am deeply grieved to give you so much
trouble, but ’tis necessary for both my uncle’s sake and your own.
And so----”
“Nay, sir,” says she. “Spare me fine speeches, I pray you. You have
taken the affairs of this house into your own hands, and since I am
only a woman you compel me to do what I should not do if I were a
man. Pray you insult me not as well as injure me.”
“Oh,” says I, “if you will so mischievously pervert things,
mistress, why----”
But we had come to the little casement overlooking the courtyard.
In the darkness we could but barely see the men on horseback below
us. Three of them remained a little distance away and held the
horse of the fourth, the crown of whose hat we perceived outside
the porch beneath us. He was knocking at the door, this time very
loudly. “Stand back,” says I to John, and drew back myself into the
middle of the room. “Now, cousin,” I says, “open the casement, and
ask who is there, and demand his business.”
“You must put words into my mouth, then, sir,” says she, fumbling
at the latch.
“You have wit enough of your own, cousin,” I answers her. “Use it
with your accustomed sharpness, I pray.”
And to that she made no answer, but I could fancy that her eyes
flashed in the darkness, and that she bit her lips for pure
vexation. However she opened the window and leant out. “Who are you
that knock honest folk up at this hour?” she cries. “And what is
your business that you bring a troop of men into the courtyard?”
“Ah!” says Anthony Dacre from below. “Cousin, ’tis I--I am glad to
find you here--I had feared you might have returned home. Prithee,
come down and unbar the door, cousin--I have important news for
you.”
“I can hear it quite well here,” says she.
“Why,” says he, “I can’t stand here and bawl it at the top o’ my
voice, cousin.”
“My ears are very quick,” she answers. “I daresay I shall hear it
if you whisper it.”
“But ’tis of the last importance,” he says, “and besides, I have
friends with me.”
“So I perceive,” she says, coolly. “And neither you nor they are
coming within the house. So you better tell me your business at
once, Master Dacre.”
I heard him smother an oath. “Ah!” says he. “So you are still as
vixenish as ever, fair cousin? But we are coming into the house,
and so you had best be civil to us while we are without, lest----”
“Spare your threats,” she says scornfully. “I care no more for
them than for your civility. And so, if you will not tell me your
business I shall shut the window.”
“Oh,” says he. “Pretty treatment indeed! Then let me tell you,
mistress, that here are with me certain troopers from Fairfax’s
regiment who carry a warrant for Sir Nicholas’s arrest. What do
you think to that, eh? Gadzooks, I came here to see that the old
knight suffered no hurt or inconvenience, and that yourself was
protected, and you treat me like a thief! Come, cousin, ’tis a sad
business, but war is a strange matter. You had best open the door
at once--these troopers are not used to be kept waiting.”
“Then let them go whence they came,” she says. “They will wait
here long enough if they don’t.”
“Then you will not open?” he says, uneasily, and as if he could not
believe his ears.
“I said so once,” she answers.
“Why, then,” says he. “I am sorry for you, cousin. I can do naught
to help you if you continue in your obstinacy. These troopers will
break in upon you, and----”
“Oh,” she says, “a truce to your talk, Master Dacre. Let me say
a word to you,” she says. “Now listen; if you and your precious
companions dare to lay a finger on door or window of this house
we will shoot you for the vermin that you are--and so now we
understand each other, Master Anthony Dacre,” says she, and slams
the casement in his face.
“Bravo, cousin!” says I. “Bravo! There was no need to give
orders--your own----”
“Oh,” says she, “spare your breath, sir. I spoke for myself, not
for you.”
“Ah!” says I. “Was it indeed so? Then perhaps, mistress, you will
be good enough to show me where those arms are with which you are
going to exterminate the vermin in the courtyard? For I doubt not,
in spite of all your brave words, that they will attack the house,
and in that case we had best be prepared to make good your promise.”
And by that time, being returned to the great kitchen, I called
everybody together, men and women, and held a council of war.
And first of all we looked to the arms. In the hall there was
a sufficiency of muskets and fowling-pieces, ranged in racks,
together with numerous pistols, most of which were in bad need of
cleaning. It turned out that Jasper and one of the lads had lately
cast a quantity of bullets, and that three small kegs of gunpowder
had been brought in but the week previous. We were therefore fairly
ammunitioned, and I immediately armed every man amongst us with a
gun, a powder horn, and twenty bullets, bidding each to shoot so
straight, if need arose, that not a shot should be wasted. And this
done, I proceeded to take a rapid survey of our position, and to
consider how we might best turn it to account.
Now, my uncle’s house was one of those ancient buildings which
stand on three sides of a square, and the courtyard was enclosed on
all but one side--the north--where it was separated by a high wall
and wide gateway from the road. There was a great advantage to us
in this, for the only door which opened from the courtyard to the
house was that at which Alison had parleyed with Anthony Dacre, and
as it stood exactly in the centre of the inner side, it could be
commanded from the windows of the other sides of the square. It was
a strong door of stout oak, liberally studded with great nails, and
secured by as many bolts and chains as there are Sundays in a year,
and we now further strengthened it by dragging a great table into
the porch and driving it between the door and the wall. This done,
there was naught but to post two of my small army in such positions
as would command a view of the door from without. Fortunately for
us, there were on the ground floor, looking into the courtyard,
but two windows, and both of these I instantly secured in such a
fashion that nothing but a battering-ram could have broken through
them. On the next floor there were more windows, and at two of
these, one on each side the courtyard, I stationed Gregory and
Jasper, with orders to fire on anyone approaching the door that
stood full in their view. These two were favourably placed, for
they could keep the wall of the house between themselves and the
enemy, and at the same time point their pieces through a broken
pane of the windows.
Of the safety of the door which gave access from the courtyard
to the house I had little fear; but there were three other doors
which caused me some uneasiness. To the front of the house, looking
towards Barnsdale and the south, there was a great door which
opened into my uncle’s flower-garden; on the right hand, opening
out of the room in which he kept his dried herbs, was a smaller
one through which he often passed to walk along a sheltered path;
on the left-hand, opening out of the scullery, there was a door
into the stable-yard. Now Anthony Dacre knew all these doors as
well as I did, and would obviously select the weakest for his
point of attack. The first thing to do, then, was to strengthen
each of them. To this we at once set to work, bringing down great
bedsteads, heavy chests, and whatever loose wood we could find in
the house, and piling it up in such a fashion that if pressure
were brought to bear on it from without, it would but drive our
barricades tighter against the stout walls within. But this done, a
great difficulty presented itself to my mind--all these doors being
flush with the several walls in which they were built how could I
place my men where they might command them? I had found that easy
in the case of the courtyard door, because two sides of the house
overlooked it, but it was impossible as regarded the other three
doors, and all I could do was to post men at the corner windows of
the second floor with orders to fire on the enemy if they appeared
to be approaching the doors with mischievous intent.
Now, as to the windows--I suppose that when they built these old
houses (my uncle had often boasted to me that his was erected in
the days of I forget which Henry) they had always in their minds
the fear of a siege, and so the windows on the ground floor were
as few as could well be, and each was supplied with exceeding
strong bolts and bars that closed over stout shutters of oak. I
saw to it that each was further barricaded and strengthened by the
piling up against it of the heaviest furniture in each room--and
when that was done there appeared to be no more that we could do
towards making the old house stronger than it was. So now I took a
survey of my arrangements, and found that they worked after this
fashion: Gregory and Jasper were posted at upper windows on each
side of the courtyard, commanding the porch-door; John and Humphrey
Stirk were at windows looking out into the front garden; the two
oldest lads, Peter and Benjamin, were stationed at a window which
overlooked the stable-yard; and the third lad, Walter, being very
young, I ordered to run from one post to the other, supplying them
with ammunition, or bringing them food or drink, as need required.
The window overlooking the door which opened into the west garden
I reserved to myself, feeling that an occasional surveillance of
it would suffice. To Barbara and one of her maids I gave charge of
the commissariat arrangements, and bade her stint none of my little
army, having previously satisfied myself that there was provender
in the house sufficient to last us six weeks. As for my fair cousin
I requested her to attend upon Sir Nicholas, and to employ the
other maid’s time in the like direction.
And now, all these matters being attended to--and it had taken some
little time, I promise you!--and the enemy being still debating
matters amongst themselves in the courtyard--I had taken occasional
observations of them through the window above the porch--I suddenly
turned dead tired and sat me down on the settle in the kitchen,
feeling curiously faint and hungry. I had sent an ample ration and
a mug of ale to each of my men, but I myself had tasted neither
bite nor sup for I know not how many hours. “Alack, Barbara, old
lass!” says I, thinking there was nobody but herself and myself in
the kitchen, “times are altered since I was last here! If my poor
uncle had been on his legs instead of in his bed, I should ha’ been
invited to eat and drink--faith, I ha’ touched naught since----”
But at the word Mistress Alison steps out o’ the gloom, and in
the glare of the firelight I saw her cheek aflame with the rarest
crimson. “I crave your pardon, cousin!” says she--’egad, ’twas the
first time she had so styled me since I entered the house--“I have
forgotten my duty because of all this trouble. Barbara, see that
Master Coope is served--nay,” she says, “I will see to it myself,”
and she bustles about, and brings me meat and drink, and sets it
with her own fair hands on the table before me. “Cousin,” says I,
looking hard at her, “I thank you. I am sorry,” I says, and then
stops, not knowing what more, nor what I had meant, to say. “But I
thank you,” I says. “Indeed, I am both hungry and thirsty.”
“I am sorry, too,” she says--but she did not look at me, her
eyes being fixed on the fire--“I should have invited you to
eat.” She stood there, lingering, and still she would not look
at me. “I fear,” she says at last, and faith, there was a still
brighter crimson in her cheeks, “I fear I have been somewhat
hasty--and--and--I thank you for--for what you are doing for Sir
Nicholas, cousin Richard,”--and suddenly she turned, and gave me
one shamefaced sort o’ look, and fled up the stairs.
Heigh-ho! I believe it was then that I fell in love with thee, my
sweet! Lord! what a colour, and what eyes she had!
II.
Being now considerably refreshed, and having reviewed my situation
as I sat at meat, with the result that I made up my mind to attend
to the business of the moment, and leave all thoughts of the future
until such time as they must perforce be settled with, I arose from
the table and went the round of my men, whom I found very vigilant
and ready to discharge their several duties when need arose. It
was then close on midnight and we had been invaded for nearly two
hours, but so far, the enemy had remained quiescent, and had not
so much as re-demanded our submission. He continued very peaceful,
and appeared to have temporarily withdrawn his forces. When I
reached the window at which I had posted Gregory, I found that
the courtyard was empty, and that all was so still and peaceful,
save for the sighing of a somewhat angry wind, that no one would
have guessed we were withstanding a siege. But there was naught to
reassure us in that.
“What are they after, think you?” says I, as I peered over
Gregory’s shoulder into the darkness without. “They seem to have
drawn off altogether at this present moment.”
“I warrant me they are not far away,” says he. “They put their
heads together and talked awhile after Mistress French had spoken
with them out of the window, and then they wheeled about and passed
the gate. And it’s my firm opinion, Master Richard,” he says, “that
at this moment they’re foddering their horses in our stables,
though being appointed to stand here,” he says, “I can’t decide
that matter for myself.”
“I’ll go round to the east side o’ the house,” says I, and set off
along the corridors to the window at which I had stationed Peter
and Benjamin. “Now, lads,” says I, coming up to them, “any signs of
the enemy?”
“They’re in the stables, Master Richard,” says Peter. “We watched
them come in at the gate from the lane an hour ago. First, there
was four came together, and then three more followed after them.
And they’ve turned out our horses,” says he, pointing to some
dark shapes that stood disconsolate enough in the middle of the
stable-yard, “and put their own beasts in the stalls.”
The door of the stable stood opposite the window at which we were
watching. It was one of those doors that have two halves, and the
upper one they had left open, so that we had an excellent view into
the stable. They had lighted the lanthorn that hung from the roof,
and I could just see the candle that swealed and sputtered in it.
Now and then, one or other of Anthony’s gang passed and repassed
the square of light. They were evidently making their cattle
comfortable on my uncle’s provender, and the thought of it raised
within me a roguish desire, such as a lad might have felt, to spoil
their sport. The swinging lanthorn and its glare of yellow light
gave me a thought. “Isn’t Master John Stirk a famous hand with his
gun?” says I to the lads. “I have surely heard something o’ the
sort in bygone times,” I says. “A rare hand, surely,” says Peter.
“A’ can hit----”
But I was hurrying along the corridor towards the post at which I
had stationed John and Humphrey. I passed near my uncle’s chamber
on the way, and from a little distance saw Mistress Alison with her
hand on the latch of the door. She bore a bowl of some sick man’s
slop or other, and had no eyes for me, so I went on to find the two
brothers leaning against the wall by the garden window, and gazing
in silence into the gloom outside. “All’s well here,” says John, as
I came up. “We heard footsteps on the path once, but ’tis a good
hour ago, and they must ha’ withdrawn for awhile.”
“They are in the stables,” says I, “foddering their beasts on Sir
Nicholas’s corn, no doubt. And since all’s quiet at present,” I
says, “come you with me, John--I lay Humphrey will guard your post
for a moment,” and I led him back to where Peter and Benjamin stood
staring at the light in the stable. “You are a good marksman, they
tell me,” I says. “Can you hit that lanthorn, do you think?”
“Aye,” he says, fingering his musket, “but not so well from here
as from below. There’s a little window in the scullery, Master
Richard, that I ha’ sometimes made use of to talk with the maids. I
could hit it from that.”
“Come on,” I says, and we went downstairs. “We will give these
rascals a lesson,” says I, as we turned into the scullery. “Now,
John, mark the candle, and out she goes.”
He opened the little window--’twas no more than a pane of dull
glass a foot square--and pushed out the barrel of his musket. On
the instant the explosion followed, and the light in the stable
disappeared. We heard the crash of the lanthorn as it was driven
against the wall, and the sudden stamping and kicking of frightened
horses.
“’Tis as dark as the grave,” says John, closing the window
carefully. “Let ’em feel their way to the corn-bins,” he says, and
we turned to go to our several posts again.
However, before we were at the head of the great staircase there
came new developments, which rather startled me and gave a
different turn to affairs. The silence of the night--which had
seemed twice as deep since John Stirk discharged his piece--was
suddenly broken by what appeared to be a regular fusilade, and
at the same moment a loud crashing of glass and splintering of
woodwork gave us notice that at last we were under fire. Close upon
their noise followed a shrill scream from the corridor where we had
left Peter and Benjamin.
“Somebody’s hit!” says I, and we ran along the passages. Ere we had
taken many steps our feet grated on broken glass or kicked against
fragments of woodwork. At the corner of the corridor leading to
Sir Nicholas’s room stood Mistress Alison, holding a lamp above
her head and gazing towards us with anxious looks, “No lights!”
roars I. “Go back, cousin--you give them a chance to see us,”
and I hurried Peter and Benjamin along the passage into an inner
chamber, where we might strike a light without danger. “I’m hit
somewhere,” says Peter. “I can feel the blood running.” But it was
only a deep scratch that he had got in his cheek, from which the
blood ran pretty freely into his neckcloth. “Off you go to Barbara
for a clout,” says I, and went back with John and Benjamin to the
corridor. The night air was blowing in raw and cold, for all the
window was shot away. “It’s a lucky thing we wasn’t in front on’t,
Master Richard,” says Benjamin. “They must ha’ fired all their
pieces at it.”
There was no great harm done by this first brush, though I was
somewhat regretful when I saw the wreck that I had not allowed
our enemies to burn their candle unmolested. However, they made
no attempt to relight the lanthorn, and as we could see naught of
them in the stable-yard, I made Benjamin fetch a great mattress
from the nearest sleeping chamber, and with this we blocked up the
open casement as well as we could. But we had no sooner got it
into place than new matters called for my attention. A door opened
suddenly and we heard a scuffle of voices, first Mistress Alison’s,
then Sir Nicholas’s, thin, piping, but exceeding angry. “Here’s
more to do!” says I, and set off for my uncle’s room, followed by
John Stirk. “This,” says I to myself, “will be harder work than
fighting,” but I went boldly within the chamber. The old knight,
startled, doubtless, by the firing, had got himself out of bed
and now sat on the side, furious because my cousin endeavoured to
persuade him to return to his pillows.
“What the murrain!” says he. “’Od’s wounds, wench, am I a child to
be--’od’s death,” he says, suddenly catching sight o’ me, “nephew
Dick, as I live! So we are in the hands of the rebels, Alison?
Faith, I never thought to see a nephew o’ mine assault me in my own
house!”
“Sir,” says I, “I am here to defend you, and I present you with my
very humble duty.”
But something seemed to twitch his poor old face as I spoke, and he
fell back on his bed. “Oh,” says my cousin, “leave us, sir, leave
us, and send Barbara to me quick!” And so John and I bundled out of
the chamber, sore bewildered.
III.
During the remaining hours of that night our enemies gave us
no more trouble than the mere observing of their movements. It
appeared to me from what I could make out, as I went from one
man to another, that they remained in the stable, and were of an
uncommon quietness. “Hatching their plans, no doubt,” says I, and
was not unthankful that things wore their present complexion. I had
no great love of fighting in the dark, and I considered, moreover,
that our chances were better in the daytime, when we could use our
eyes to some advantage, than in such a night as that when we could
scarce see aught at twenty yards’ distance. However, though they
made no further motion towards attacking us, I saw to it that a
strict watch was kept, and moved from post to post constantly, lest
any of my sentinels should forget themselves and fall asleep. So
the night passed, and in a somewhat sombre and melancholy fashion,
for there was a mournful wind without, and in my uncle’s chamber
the old man himself lay grievously sick and in constant need of
Mistress Alison’s ministrations.
About six o’clock in the morning, a grey light being then apparent
in the eastward heaven above Went Hill, I found John and Humphrey
Stirk with their chins resting on their muskets, and their mouths
as wide agape as young blackbirds are when the old bird comes home
with a worm in her beak. “Ha!” says I. “By your faces, lads, ’tis
high time you were relieved. Away with you to the kitchen, and bid
Barbara see to food and drink for you while I keep guard. We are
ill-mannered, but you shall have an hour’s relief while there’s a
chance,” I says, bundling them off, and feeling that it were scurvy
behaviour to treat volunteers less considerately. So they thanked
me and withdrew, and having been on my legs all night I sat me
down near the window and stared at the grey sky outside. “Faith!”
says I, yawning, “here’s a pretty state of things that I have come
into. Look upon thyself, Dick,” I says, “as a dead man, over whom
they have already said ‘Ashes to ashes.’ For thou wilt certainly be
shot if thou stayest here, and hanged if thou dost escape. However,
there’s no use in repining nor in reflecting. Shot or hanged, what
matter a century hence?”
And yet, as I sat there, I could not help but reflect, though
I can with great honesty say that I did not repine. I think it
must have been my liking for philosophic questionings that made
me reflect in the fashion I did, for, in sooth, all my thoughts
turned to the curious manner in which one small event or trifling
circumstance had led to another, until at last I was landed in a
very quagmire of serious result. But there I flew away at another
tangent, and began to ask myself whether there is any event or
action so trifling or unimportant as not to have any effect on
our happiness or misery. Certainly the events of the twenty-four
hours then drawing to a close had seemed small in themselves, and
were yet productive of results the most serious. If my horse had
not fallen dead by the wayside I should not have stayed to think
under the trees at Barnsdale, and if I had not stayed there I
should not have thought of Reuben Trippett’s farmstead and in due
course gone there, and if I had not gone there I should never have
heard of Anthony Dacre’s plot, and if I had remained in ignorance
of that I should certainly not have been sitting in my uncle’s
manor-house that morning waiting for daybreak, and feeling myself
already a lost man. “Alas!” I sighs, coming at last to a definite
opinion, “’tis most true that no event is so trifling as to be
wholly unimportant. There is naught so sure as that one thing leads
to another--the mischief is that we never know what that other is
going to be.”
I think I had gotten into this state of mind during my patrol of
the house during the night. At first my thoughts had perforce
been directed to the immediate necessities of the hour; but as
things grew quiet, I could not help thinking about my own peculiar
predicament. And the more I thought, the more certain was I of the
result of my present proceedings. “Thou art a dead man!” says I
to myself, shaking my head mournfully. “There is not a shadow of
doubt about that. As dead as if old Tobias had turned his first
shovelful----”
But at that moment--and it was a truly welcome relief, for I was,
indeed, waxing melancholy--the door of my uncle’s chamber opens
gently, and out into the corridor steps Mistress Alison. She shut
the door behind her with a pretty care, and seeing me in the grey
light, came softly in my direction.
“Good morning to you, cousin,” says I, rising from my chair and
approaching her. “I trust my uncle is somewhat recovered by this
time?”
“He sleeps, sir,” says she, still very formal. “He has had but an
ill night, and once I feared he was near to death. But he is now
asleep, and I have left Priscilla watching by him for awhile.”
By this time we stood over against the window, and I saw that her
face was pale with watching, and that much anxiety was on it. She
looked without, and something in the grey skies and dark fields
made her shiver and draw the cloak about her shoulders closer
together.
“You are weary, cousin,” says I. “Will you not seat yourself in
this chair?”
She looked at the chair and at me, but made no offer to take it.
“I was going downstairs,” says she, meditatively, “but----”
“Why,” says I, innocent enough to all outward seeming, “I have
dismissed John and Humphrey for a brief rest, and it would not be
amiss to have some one here besides myself, so that if there is
need, we can give alarm without leaving the post. With the dawn,”
says I, “they will no doubt commence operations against us.”
“I will remain in that case,” she answers, and sat her down in the
chair that I had just left “We must all do our part to defend the
house,” she says, more to herself than to me.
“Aye,” says I.
After that we were for some moments very silent. For my part, I
leaned against the wall watching her. After a time she looked at me
gravely.
“How long will this continue, think you?” she says. “Will it be for
some time, or shall we be relieved speedily?”
“Why,” says I, “I see no prospect of relief, cousin. These fellows
will doubtless be reinforced, and they will then make a desperate
assault upon us. However,” I says, seeing her grow pale at the
thought, “we will hold out as long as we can, and we will do our
best to contrive some way of escape for you and Sir Nicholas.
Faith!” I says, “I don’t see how it’s to be done, seeing that we
are hemmed in; but I’ll talk it over with John and Humphrey--the
three of us may contrive something. As for myself,” I says,
dolefully, my thoughts going back in their original direction, “I
am a dead man already, and so naught that concerns myself matters.”
“A dead man?” she says, staring at me. “What do you mean by
applying such a term to yourself?”
“Why,” says I, “I mean what I say. You see, cousin, I was sent
north with a despatch from Cromwell to Fairfax, and----”
“Sir,” she says, suddenly clothing herself with a great dignity;
“I should prefer to know naught of your rene----” But there she
checked herself. “I think you are loyally serving my uncle,” she
says, “and myself,” she adds, after a pause; “and I--I thank you
for it, Master Coope; but----”
“But I am still a renegade, eh, cousin?” says I, bitterly. “Why, so
I am, I daresay, in your eyes. But, egad! a bit o’ sympathy comes
amiss to no man; and if one may not expect it from a relation--but
I’ll not intrude my confidence upon you,” I says, and I swung round
on my musket, and looked out of the window. I think her eyes must
have followed me, for after a moment she spoke, and when I turned
she was looking at me with some curiosity and concern.
“If you put it in that way,” she says, meditatively, and she looked
at me again. “I should be sorry to appear unkind to--to anyone who
had done me a service,” she says slowly.
“Oh, no thanks, cousin!” says I. “I should have done the same
for any woman. Faith, you did not think that I came here to save
you from insult because you happened to be my mother’s sister’s
daughter?”
Now, beshrew me if I did not see her catch her pretty lips together
between her teeth as if in a sudden vexation!
“I am aware that I am naught to Master Richard Coope,” she says,
cold and icy.
“I should have done it for any woman,” says I. “So no thanks, if
you please, mistress.”
And I looked out of the window again. The dawn was come by that
time, and the east was covered with a broad belt of dun-coloured
light. When I looked round again I could see her face quite plainly
under the hood of her cloak.
“But this danger of yours?” she says, looking at me and then away
from me. “I think I--perhaps it might be well--will you tell me
what it is?” she says, turning her eyes full on mine again.
“Why,” says I, “’tis just this, cousin. I bear a despatch from
Cromwell to Fairfax--here it is, stitched in my doublet. I should
have delivered it last night, and because I have not done so, I
shall certainly be hanged if Fairfax or Cromwell get hold of me.
’Tis a most grave dereliction of duty that cannot be pardoned. I
shall most certainly die for it. So that you see, between being
shot here and hanged before Fairfax’s tent door, I have a pretty
choice; and faith!” I says, “it causes me some concern, for I am
not tired of life, I assure you.”
“And if you had not heard of our danger, you would have delivered
your despatch last night?” she says.
“Why,” I says, “I was horseless; but I should have made shift into
camp somehow.”
“And did you reflect?” she says, rising from her chair and standing
before me, “upon what the consequences would be if you came here to
warn us instead of going forward with your despatch? You knew that
it was a question of our safety against your own----?”
But what else she meant to say--and I scarce knew what she was
anxious to get at--I had no opportunity of learning, for at that
moment there rang out a discharge of musketry from the fold,
answered by the shots from the corridor where Peter and Benjamin
were stationed. “That’s a beginning,” says I, and ran off, leaving
her there without further ceremony.
IV.
I found Peter and Benjamin reloading their pieces near the window
which we had barricaded a few hours previously, and immediately
called on them for news of what had happened. It appeared that as
daylight came they had watched the stable door jealously, and at
last had counted six of our assailants emerge from it with their
muskets. They had gazed up at the window which they had already
shattered, and evidently catching sight of the lads’ faces--for we
had left spaces through which we might observe whatever went on
without--they had discharged their pieces at it. Peter and Benjamin
had discharged theirs in return as their assailants crowded back
within the stable door, but they were doubtful as to whether they
had hit any of them, though Peter thought he had seen one man clap
his hand to his side as he hurried into shelter.
“But they were in and out again like a lot o’ rabbits on a sand
burrow,” says Benjamin. “You saw their fronts and backs within a
minute.”
“Poor sort of fighting,” says I, and bidding them stand to the
post, I went to find John and Humphrey.
It was by that time broad daylight, and I therefore thought it
well to go round the house and see how matters stood with us. I
found all my men at their posts, some of them a little sleepy with
their long vigil, but all keen enough to resent the enemy whenever
he thought fit to attack us. I contrived that every man should be
relieved in turn, and sent those thus discharged from duty to the
kitchen, where Barbara saw to their needs. I satisfied myself that
all our defences were in good order, and that there was little
chance of the besiegers breaking in upon us at any of the weaker
spots in our armour. In fact it seemed to me, after going round the
house for the second time, that unless some extraordinary measures
were adopted against us, there was no reason why we should not hold
our own against a whole troop as long as our provisions lasted.
I was engaged with John Stirk in further strengthening the defence
of the window that opened into the herb-garden, when Peter came
to tell me that a man was waving a flag from the stable door.
“A flag of truce,” says I, and hurried away to observe this new
action. I then saw that the enemy had tied a clout to the shaft of
a fork, and were waving it over the half-door of the stable, with
an evident desire to provoke our attention. “We’ll play the game
fairly,” says I, and hastily improvised a flag, which I bade Peter
thrust out of the window while I went to find Mistress Alison.
“They desire a parley,” says I, “you must play spokeswoman again,
if you please, cousin.”
“I had rather do aught than bandy words with Anthony Dacre,” says
she, following me unwillingly. “Put the words into my mouth, if you
please, Master Richard.”
However, there was no need for her fears on this occasion, for
instead of Anthony Dacre there appeared one of the troopers in
answer to our signal. He came across the fold, carrying his flag of
truce in his right hand, and looking somewhat quizzically at the
barricaded window. “A queer fellow this,” says I, observing him
closely. “We should have some sport with him.”
Mistress Alison looked at me with a little flash in her eyes.
“Sport!” she says, and seemed as if she would have said more. But
the man had by that time come close beneath the window, and stood
looking up at it. He was a tall, gaunt fellow, with as long a face
as ever I saw, and a mouth that seemed to twist itself naturally to
the pronouncing of long words.
“Within there!” say he. “Ye that do suffer investment, and are as
captives in the beleaguered city--does anybody hear me or not?”
“I hear you, sir,” says Mistress Alison, putting her face to the
opening which we had contrived. “What is your wish?”
“Why, mistress,” says he, trying to catch a glimpse of her, “as
for wishes they are casual things, and I have long eschewed them. I
wish naught save to accomplish my duty----”
“I have no time to stand here chattering,” says Mistress Alison.
“Come, your errand!”
“I come as a messenger of peace,” says the fellow. “Know, maiden,
that my name it is Merciful Wiggleskirk, and that my nature is no
less merciful than my name. I am a man of war, and yet my soul
hankers exceedingly after peace----”
“Am I to stand listening to this babbler all day?” says my cousin
to the rest of us. “Come, fellow!” she says sharply. “What is it
that you want?”
“I desire your surrender, mistress,” says he. “There are some of
us”--he cocked his eye in the direction of the stable--“that do
carnally desire the sight and smell of blood, which are matters
that I cannot abide. Therefore, I come, merciful as my name, to bid
you yield yourselves in the interest of peace. Let there be peace
between us, I pray you,” he says, rolling his eyes towards the
window.
“Is that all you have to say, fellow?” asks my cousin.
“Verily, I have spoken, maiden,” says he.
“Then,” she says, “you can go back and say that there will be much
blood--yea, enough to turn your squeamish stomach sick, Master
Merciful Wiggleskirk, unless you and your fellow rascals depart
on the instant. What! you come like thieves and robbers, and then
insult us with your offers of mercy--oh!” she says, “get you within
shelter, lest we fire upon you.”
“Peace, peace!” he says. “Peace, mistress. Woe in me that I
should----”
“Get your musket in order, Peter,” says she in a loud voice.
Whereupon the long-faced man uttered a deep groan and hastened back
to the stable, holding his flag above his head. Mistress Alison
turned away without a word, and I was following her when John Stirk
stopped me.
“Master Dick,” says he, “there’s a thought strikes me that’s worth
meditating upon. They’re all in the stable now, and there is but
one door through which they can come, and this window commands it.
Why should they be allowed to come through that door, Master Dick?
Why,” says he, “shouldn’t they have a taste of besiegement?”
“Faith!” says I, “a rare notion, John. Why did it not strike me
before? However----”
“Humphrey and me,” says he, “posted at this, window will stop any
of them from coming through yonder door.”
“And so you shall,” I says, and gave the necessary orders,
transferring Peter and Benjamin from the window where we stood to
John and Humphrey’s old post over the garden door. And since we now
knew with certainty where all our enemies lay concealed, I withdrew
Gregory and Jasper from the courtyard windows and bade them take
the rest of which, being oldish men, they were somewhat sore in
need. This done, I went back to John and Humphrey, and waited the
next move of the game.
Now, after Merciful Wiggleskirk had returned to the stable there
was for some time no sign of any action on the part of the enemy,
both halves of the door being shut to behind him. But at the end of
an hour, the upper half was swung open, and Jack Bargery’s head and
shoulders appeared. He was evidently in dispute with those inside,
for he appeared to be talking in a loud voice, and shook his head
fiercely as he fumbled at the latch of the lower half of the door.
“There would be little loss to anybody if a bullet found its billet
in his ugly carcase,” says I. “Fire, Humphrey.”
“With good will,” says he, and pulled the trigger.
The fellow at the stable door staggered and clapped his hand to
his shoulder. “Three inches too high,” says Humphrey musingly,
and began to reload his piece. “First blood to us, anyway,” says
John, “and ’twill read them a lesson.” And so it did, for none
of them showed so much as a nose-end at the stable door for the
next six hours. Instead of being bottled ourselves we had bottled
them fairly. And yet, as I knew quite well, we were enjoying but
a temporary respite, for naught could be easier when the darkness
came on, than for one of them to slip away to Pomfret and bring
assistance from Fairfax’s camp. I marvelled more than once that
they had not done this the previous night, but I suppose Anthony
Dacre had considered that matters would go better for him if he
conducted his operations with a small posse instead of a large one,
the command of which would doubtless have been in other hands than
his.
The day wore on in quietness, John and Humphrey keeping a sharp
watch on the stable door. From the time that Jack Bargery had
dropped back with a bullet in his shoulder until late in the
afternoon there was no sign of our assailants. But as it grew
dark, the top half of the door was thrown open again and the flag
once more thrust out. I was on guard at the moment, the brothers
being gone to the kitchen for a bite and sup, and I immediately
despatched a messenger for Alison while I waved our own flag
through the window. It was Merciful Wiggleskirk who once more
appeared, and he came across the ford as Alison answered my summons.
“I fear I must trouble you again, cousin,” says I. “’Tis another
flag of truce. Will you make inquiry of the messenger as to its
meaning?”
She frowned as she put her face to the opening. “Well, fellow?”
says she. “You are come again, eh?”
“On a merciful errand, mistress,” he answered. “In truth, we are
at war, but should our enmity extend to the very animals? I pray
you, mistress, to call a truce while we lead our horses across the
ford to drink at the trough. The poor beasts do thirst exceeding
sore--yea, even as the hart desireth----”
“No blasphemies, fellow,” says she, and turns to me inquiringly.
“What shall I say?” she asks.
“No,” I says. “’Tis but a trick that they may get out of the
stable. Once under cover of the house wall they may go where they
please untouched. In their present position we have them safe so
long as daylight lasts.”
“Yes,” she says, meditatively. “Yes--but--there’s a notion struck
me,” she says, looking at me with a queer expression in her eyes.
“Your danger, Master Richard--I think I see a way out of it. Would
there be any harm if we allowed this man to water his horses, one
at a time, on condition that none of his fellows leave the stable?”
“No great harm in that,” I says, not quite seeing what she aimed
at, but having some faith in her woman’s wit; “but assure him that
if any of the others leave the stable they will be shot.”
She turned to the window. “Listen, fellow,” says she. “You may
bring out the horses yourself, one at a time, and water them at the
trough, but if one of your companions shows his face we shall shoot
him.”
“Agreed, mistress,” says he. “’Tis for the poor animals.”
“And hark ye,” she said, “there is a little window near the
trough--place yourself near it when you come with the horses--I
have something to say to you.”
I saw the man’s face light up with a greedy look, as if he saw some
prospect of gain to himself. “I understand, mistress,” says he, and
hurried off to the stable, while Alison turned to me again.
“I don’t comprehend your meaning, cousin,” I says. “What is your
notion?”
“That you should bribe this trooper to carry your despatch forward
to Fairfax,” says she. “It will but be a day late--and you can
explain the cause of delay--and--and--it may be the saving of your
own neck, Master Richard,” she says.
I stood very still looking at her. “Hah!” says I, at last. “So
you’ve been thinking of that, cousin. Why, that’s kind----”
“Nay,” she says, with a heightened colour, and her eyes that had
wandered away coming back to me, “let us have no misunderstandings,
pray! I could ill bear the thought,” she says, “that any man should
come to his death through rendering me a service. And so if you
think it a wise plan----”
“I’ll try it,” says I, and made haste to summon John and Humphrey
back to their posts. “If any man leaves the stable door except
Wiggleskirk,” I says, “shoot him on the instant,” and with that I
ran down to the little window that opened on the fold just against
the great horse-trough. As I waited there for Wiggleskirk, I cut
the stitches that secured the despatch to my doublet. Then I
bethought me that it might be well to write some explanation of my
conduct, so I hurried to the kitchen and found pen and ink and
hastily wrote a few lines on the back of the paper. “The bearer of
these,” I wrote, “delayed by untoward circumstances, sends them
forward by the only available opportunity.” “That’s all that’s
possible,” says I, and went back to the window.
Wiggleskirk was there, keeping the horse and the pump between
him and the stable. When he caught sight of my face, he started.
“Hist!” says I, “come closer, but make no sound. Hark ye, lad, art
willing to carry something to Fairfax at Pomfret for a handful of
gold pieces?”
“To Fairfax?” he says, with some suspicion. “And what may it be,
master?”
“A despatch from General Cromwell,” says I, “that should have been
delivered last night if I had not been surrounded in this fashion.”
“From Cromwell to Fairfax?” says he, his mouth agape. “Why, that’s
very serious matters, master. A handful of gold, did you say? But
what shall I tell----”
“There’s naught to tell,” says I. “Here’s the despatch, and there’s
the money. Now, will you take it, saying naught to your companions
out there, and asking no questions?”
He looked at the packet, and then at the handful of gold that I
had laid on the window-sill. “Agreed!” says he. He looked curiously
into my face. “As soon as it’s dark,” he says. “Rely on me--though
’faith, I don’t understand----”
“There’s no need that you should,” says I, and shuts the window in
his face. I gave a sigh of relief as I drew the bolts to--I had,
at any rate, thanks to Alison, done something to rid myself of the
despatch and to secure its delivery.