Of my Reconciliation with Sir Nicholas, of his Last Wish, and of
his Death and Our own Sore Straits.
I.
About eight o’clock on that, the second night of our investments,
I sat eating my supper in the parlour, all my men being at their
posts, and everything appearing of a satisfying nature. I had
carefully watched the stable door during the evening, and had
observed that when the darkness was fairly settled down there
came out a man leading a horse which he mounted at the fold-gate.
I made no doubt that this was Merciful Wiggleskirk, and that he
was riding for Pomfret on a double mission. Although I recognised
him for one of them that make a trade of canting hypocrisy I had
reason to believe that he would deliver the despatch to Fairfax.
That, then, was one errand; the other, I took to be the seeking of
reinforcement for Anthony Dacre and his party. But in good sooth,
it troubled me not at all that there was a prospect of our being
attacked in greater force, for I had all along seen that if the
enemy chose to invest us seriously we must ultimately give way to
him. It had been my hope that Anthony would fail to find further
help from Fairfax, or that he would think it dangerous to his own
plans to seek it. Indeed, I was not without hope that the morning
might find us with naught but Anthony and his own rascals to deal
with, for it seemed to me more than likely that if Fairfax made
enquiry in the matter of Merciful Wiggleskirk, he would withdraw
him and the other trooper from Anthony’s service. But whether he
did or not was all one to me, for however things turned I was in a
corner, and saw no way of getting out of it.
As I drained the last dregs of ale from my tankard there came to
my side the lad Walter, that had run about the house on one errand
or another since the siege began, and whom but a moment before I
had sent up to John Stirk with a message. He seemed in haste, and
there was that in his face which made me start to my feet. “’Tis
Mistress French,” says he; “she wishes to see you at Sir Nicholas’s
chamber-door--I heard her say something to Barbara about his
dying,” he says, staring at me.
“Say naught to the other men,” says I, and started for the stairs.
I passed Peter and Benjamin at the garden window. “Keep a good
watch, lads,” I says. “They may attempt something under cover of
the night,” and I turned from them to see my cousin advancing to
meet me. There was no lamp in the corridor, but she held a candle
in her hand, and by its dim light I saw that her face was anxious
and that she had been weeping. “You sent for me, cousin?” says I,
and for the first time since I had entered the house I took her
hand in mine. “I hope my uncle is no worse,” I says. “May I not see
him?”
“He has been asking for you,” she says. “I think--nay, I am
sure--that he is dying. He has been very quiet this long time, and
has said but little. And his mind, somehow, seems so much clearer
than it has been for some days--it frightens me to see how calm he
is.”
“Why,” says I, wishful to comfort her, “do not lose heart, cousin,
for it may be that he is somewhat better. But let me into his
chamber since he has asked for me.”
She opened the door and motioned me to step within. There was no
more light in the room than came from the logs burning in the
hearth, but I saw that Barbara sat by the bedside, and that my
uncle lay between the sheets very straight and still. “Here’s
Master Richard come to see you, Sir Nicholas,” says Barbara, and
got out of her chair with a sign to me to take it. “A’s failing
fast,” she whispers, as I drew near the bed; “but a’s bent on
seeing thee, Master Dick.”
I took the chair and leaned over towards my uncle’s face. “I hope I
find you somewhat recovered, dear sir,” says I, feeling, as I think
most men feel at such moments, very strange and ignorant of what to
do or say. “Your pain, now--I trust ’tis abated since----”
“Is it Dick?” says he, opening his eyes and trying to turn his head
on the pillow.
“Yes, sir,” says I.
“Ah!” says he, very slow and feeble in his speech. “I hear great
news of thee. We are withstanding a siege, it appears. I could wish
to give thee some advice as to what should be done, nephew.”
“I shall receive it gladly and with much respect, sir,” says I,
“if it be not too much trouble for you to speak with me on these
matters.”
“No trouble,” says he, “no trouble, nephew--in these times we must
lay aside personal----”
But here Mistress Alison steps up to the other side of the bed
and lays her hand on his. “Dear sir,” says she, very gentle and
pitiful--faith! I could not have thought she was the same woman
that had treated me to more than one sharp speech--“you will do
yourself harm to talk so much. If you will but rest----”
“Pish!” says he, in his old peevish fashion. “Let me be, wench.
Dick and me has matters to talk of. Hark ye, Alison, leave us to
ourselves awhile--you women are for ever in the way when there is
business of importance to discuss. See them out of the chamber,
nephew, and come back to thy seat.”
I looked questioningly at Mistress Alison across the bed. She put
the tip of her finger to her lips and nodded towards the door. As I
held it open for her, “I shall remain just without,” she whispers.
“If he seems worse, Master Richard, call me at once.” “Depend upon
me,” says I, and shut the door on her and Barbara, and went back to
the bedside. My uncle had managed to turn his head on the pillow
and he stared hard at me as I approached. “Sit thee down, nephew,”
says he. “’Tis poor work talking of serious matters when women are
about. And how goes the siege, Dick--shall we withstand the enemy?”
“Why, sir,” says I, “I see no reason why we should not. I have
taken care that all our defences are strengthened and that
everything is in proper order.”
“Aye,” he says, “aye. Alison has told me as much--she praised thy
generalship. I could like,” he says, “to know how all this came
about. What led to it, nephew?--these women, they have no talent
for telling a straight tale.”
“Why, sir,” says I, “there’s little to tell”--but I began and told
him how I had chanced to come into possession of Anthony Dacre’s
plot, and of what had befallen us since then. He lay there, very
quiet, listening to what I had to say, and making no more comment
than an occasional curse on Anthony for his villainy. And when I
had finished, “Thou hast done very well, nephew,” says he. “’Twas
well thought of to warn us of our danger. So thou didst join the
rebels, eh?” he says with a straight look at me.
“Yes, sir,” says I. “Since my duty seemed to need it--though,
indeed, I was sorry to do aught that was against your wishes,” I
says, looking straight back at him.
“Well, well,” says he. “I must not reproach thee now, Dick; and,
besides, I have known some good men that have thought as thou
thinkest on these matters. But I wish thou hadst been plain with
me--there was something of the lawyer in thy manner of departing,
nephew,” he says, favouring me with another keen look.
“Why, dear sir,” says I, very loth, as you may conceive, to excite
or vex him, “it was for your own sake that I so behaved myself. And
besides,” I says, “you would have locked me up if I had dared to
proclaim myself.”
“Swounds!” says he, with a spark of the old fire in him, “and so I
would, egad! Well, well, ’tis too late now to kick sleeping dogs,
and I’m pleased with thee, Dick, for thy recent conduct. The lass
Alison seems mighty taken with thee.”
“I was afraid,” says I, “that Mistress Alison looked on me as a
renegade, and could ill abide my presence.”
“Pish!” says he, “’tis a woman’s way. I’ll not deny,” he says,
“that she has had no liking for thee, because the wench is all for
His Majesty, and we love not to have a renegade in the family,
nephew Dick. But thy conduct of the last day or two,” he says, “has
changed her thoughts of thee, an I mistake not. There is a cordial
by thee, lad; give me a drink--I grow somewhat faint.”
“Dear sir,” says I, “I am sure that it is not good for you to talk.
Let me go away, and do you compose yourself to sleep.”
“Faith!” says he, making a wry face as he drank the cordial, “I
shall have sleep enough enow, nephew. Let me talk while I can. What
thinkest thou of thy cousin, Dick?” he says, giving me a sharp
glance.
“Why, sir,” says I, “I think she is the handsomest woman I ever
saw.”
“Ha!” says he. “Thou thinkest so, eh? I have left her all I have,”
he says, still keeping his eyes on mine. “Every acre and every
penny,” says he.
“I am unfeignedly glad to hear it, sir,” says I, “for I am sure she
deserves it.”
“It would ha’ been thine,” he says, “if thou hadst behaved thyself.”
“One must pay for misbehaviour, sir,” says I.
“I am not sure,” says he, plucking at the bedclothes, “that I
should not alter matters if there were a chance.”
“Pray you, sir,” says I, “don’t think of such a thing. I am very
well provided for,” I says. And so I was, seeing that I was pretty
sure to be either shot or hanged within the next few days.
“Well, well,” says he. “But things will turn out well. I wish thee
to marry Alison, nephew Dick.”
“Sir!” says I.
“Swounds!” says he. “Thou art not already married?”
“No, dear sir,” says I.
“Then there is no need for astonishment,” says he. “And, egad, she
is as proper a wench----”
“Sir,” says I. “She is the handsomest woman that ever I saw, but
I fear she is beyond me. And besides,” I says, “I don’t think she
likes me.”
“Pish!” says he. “Thou art but a lad, and therefore knowest naught
of women. There is but one way of wooing, and that is to be
masterful. Let ’em see that you’re master,” he says, with a chuckle
that came very feeble, “and they’re won.”
“Faith!” thinks I. “If that’s so I must ha’ won my fair cousin
already, for I have been masterful enough with her, in all
conscience! I will bear your advice in mind, sir,” I says aloud.
“I would like to see it,” he says, as if to himself. “But my days
are numbered, nephew. Howbeit, if I die before this trouble comes
to an end, I trust to thee to see thy cousin in safety.”
“Sir,” says I. “I will defend her to the best of my power. Trust me
for that,” I says, laying my hand on his own, which was very cold
and white.
“Well,” says he, “that’s a comforting thought to me, Dick, for the
lass has served my old age with much diligence and kindliness,
though, egad,” he says, “she has the devil’s own temper, an you
stroke her the wrong way. But there’s a thing that I want to say to
thee, Dick--bend down to me--ye may both be in need of money ere
long, for things wear a troubled complexion. Hark ye, lad, there
is gold and jewels hidden away under the hearthstone of the room
where my dry herbs are kept. Use them as you think fit,” he says,
“there may be occasion to carry them about your person--there’s
more families than one homeless at this time, and nobody knows what
may happen.”
“Have no fear, sir,” says I.
“Swounds!” says he. “What’s the good o’t? A dying man hath neither
fears nor hopes, nephew. And faith, I think I have maybe talked too
much; call in the women, Dick,--Alison is the rarest nurse.”
So I hastened to the door for my cousin and Barbara, and bade
them enter. Sir Nicholas turned his head to me again. “See to thy
defences, lad,” says he. “Egad, I wish I could be with thee!” But
there his face turned very white, and the women ran to him, so I
softly closed the door and went off to see to my men.
II.
I was in some expectation during the rest of the night that a
reinforcement of the besiegers might after all take place, and that
we should be severely assaulted under cover of the darkness. The
hours went by, however, without anything of this sort happening,
and as it wore towards early morning I made up my mind that the
night was to be utterly peaceful. We had kept such observation
as we could upon the enemy, and it was my firm conviction that
some of them at least had escaped from the stable during the
night and withdrawn to more comfortable quarters. But since we
had no assurance that an assault might not be made upon us at any
moment, I kept the men to their posts, and myself patrolled the
house ceaselessly, only pausing now and then to call at my uncle’s
chamber-door and enquire for his health. About three o’clock in
the morning as I stood at the head of the great staircase resting
myself a brief moment, old Barbara came out of the kitchen and
called my name softly. “What is it?” says I, going down to her
in the darkness, which we preserved strictly, lest the besiegers
should have any profit of our lamps and candles. “Is there aught
afoot, Barbara?”
She beckoned me within the kitchen. “Master Dick,” says she,
pointing to the door that stood open ’twixt us and the scullery,
“there is the curiousest tapping noise on the little window by the
horse trough. Tap-tap-tap, tap, tap, it goes,” she says. “I ha’
listened to it this ten minutes. It must be a sign, Master Dick,”
she says fearfully. “To be sure, the blind in your poor uncle’s
chamber fell this afternoon, but signs may come more than one at a
time, eh, Master Dick? Hark you--why, ’tis there again.”
I stepped lightly towards the scullery door and heard the sound
she spoke of. “Sign or no sign,” says I, “I’ll see what it is,
Barbara,” and I stepped within. But the thought occurring to me
that this might signify some message from Merciful Wiggleskirk I
turned and closed the door. “Best not let in any light from the
kitchen,” says I, “lest the enemy see it.” So I left Barbara there
and went to the little window alone. After a time the tapping came
again. Whereupon, keeping under cover of the wall, I put out my
finger and tapped lightly in response. An answering knock coming
from without, I undid the bolt and spoke. “Who’s there?” says I.
But lest it should be some trick of the enemy I kept closely behind
the wall, for I had no mind to show my face at the window and
receive a bullet in eyes or mouth.
However, as I had conjectured, it was Merciful Wiggleskirk that
stood without “’Tis I, master,” says he, “and I have tapped and
tapped this half-hour. I do naught by halves,” he says, “and I
could not ha’ rested until I had told you how I sped with my
mission.”
“I am beholden to you,” says I. “You delivered the despatch in
safety?”
“It is in the hands of Fairfax himself, master,” says he. “Great
news or small, he knoweth every jot and tittle on’t.”
“That’s well,” says I, much relieved. “I thank you, Master
Wiggleskirk.”
“Why,” says he, “I need naught of that sort, master, for you paid
me excellent well. But I am new come from the camp, and since you
are one of us----”
“What does that mean?” I says.
“I heard that you were of the true political creed,” says he.
“Faith, how could you be aught else, seeing that you carried a
despatch from Cromwell?”
“I perceive your meaning,” says I. “Go on, pray.”
“Why,” he says, dropping his voice to a whisper, “as you are one
of us I thought it well to tell you that ere sunrise there will be
a troop here to reduce this place to submission. I was accompanied
to camp,” he says, “by Master Dacre, who seems to have ingratiated
himself with Colonel Sands, and now you are to be closely invested
and reduced. And, hark ye, Master Coope,” he says, “if I were you I
would----”
What more he would have said was lost to me, for at that moment
Anthony Dacre’s voice called across the fold. “What the murrain,
Wiggleskirk! does it take an hour to water thy beast?” says he,
and we heard his steps on the frosted straw as he came towards us.
I shut the window and the trooper moved away. I caught sight of
his figure and of Anthony Dacre’s outlined against the darkness
beyond, and for a moment was tempted to see whether a bullet from
my pistol could not pick out the right man. But on second thoughts
I refrained, and went back to the kitchen and thence to the upper
storey to resume my patrol, encourage my men, make enquiry after
Sir Nicholas, and wait for daybreak.
Now, when daybreak came there was ample proof that Merciful
Wiggleskirk’s recent statement had been based on truth. The house
was surrounded by troopers, who rode hither and thither as if to
take observation of their position. There was an officer with them
who plainly assumed command--as for Anthony Dacre I saw naught of
him nor of his gang. I went round the posts which I had already
established and exhorted my men to be brave and vigilant. The lads
Peter and Benjamin were somewhat concerned because of the array now
set before them, and so instead of leaving them together I made
Peter exchange places with Humphrey Stirk, thinking that one tried
man and a lad together was better than two untried lads. Gregory
and Jasper I found unconcerned and ready--they had more faith in
our defences, I think, than I had.
Having assured myself that all was in order for the struggle which
I now saw we must quickly engage in, I went to Sir Nicholas’s
chamber to see how he did. He was by that time sinking fast,
having undergone a great change at cockcrow. Alison and Barbara
were in close attendance upon him, and as there was naught that
needed my immediate attention outside I prepared to stay with them
for a little while. But then came John Stirk knocking at the door
and asking if I were within. I joined him in the corridor on the
instant. “The officer,” says he, pointing to the window overlooking
the garden. “He is without there, flying a flag, and demanding to
speak with you, Master Coope.”
“Did he ask for me by name?” says I, mightily surprised. “He must
have meant Sir Nicholas.”
“He said Master Richard Coope,” says John. “There’s a fine lot of
’em without,” he says, as we went towards the garden window, and,
faith, he was right there, as I saw when I looked out. Whether
it was that he wished to make a brave show and frighten us into
resistance, I cannot say, but he had drawn up all his men in the
garden, where their horses’ feet made sad havoc with my uncle’s
trim lawns. The officer himself sat his horse a little in advance
of the rest, and when I appeared at the window was giving some
order to a man who stood at his side bearing a white flag.
I opened the window and leaned out. “You have asked for Richard
Coope, sir,” says I, looking down at the officer. “What is it that
you wish with me?”
“You are Master Richard Coope?” says he, looking at me with some
curiosity.
“The same,” says I.
“I would like to hold parley with you, Master Coope,” says he. “I
am Captain Holdsworth, and am charged with your arrest, and with
that of Sir Nicholas Coope and his niece, Mistress Alison French.
Do you purpose to submit yourselves to me?” says he, as polite as
if he asked me whether I preferred white bread to brown. “Or shall
we be under the necessity of using force?” he says, first cocking
his eye at the brave show of thirty odd troopers behind him, and
then glancing at me with an arch expression.
“Why, sir,” says I, “I fear you will be under the necessity you
speak of, for we have no mind to submit ourselves to you. Why
should we?” I says, giving him back a smile as gracious as his own.
“This is Fairfax’s own hand,” says he, producing a paper, and
pointing to some writing in the corner.
“I am so far away from it that I do not recognise it, sir,” says I.
He put the paper within his doublet. “Can we not talk matters over,
Master Coope?” says he.
“With all the pleasure in the world, sir,” says I. “That is,” I
says, “if you love to discuss matters in so public a fashion.”
He looked round him. “But I don’t,” he says. “Come, Master Coope,
we are gentlemen and can trust each other. I will dismiss my men
to a distance and you shall come down and talk with me--or I will
enter the house and talk with you. I am quite indifferent,” he says.
“Why, sir,” says I, “’tis, I assure you, no easy matter for me to
leave the house or for you to enter it. But if you will dismiss
your forces, or give me your word of honour that you will not
suffer them to molest or hinder me, I will come into the garden and
talk with you right willingly.”
“I will do both, Master Coope,” says he. And therewith he turned
and dismissed his men, bidding them retire into the meadow that lay
beyond the garden. “You have safe conduct out and in,” he says,
looking at me. “I await your coming with eagerness, Master Coope.”
As I passed my uncle’s door Alison came out of his room and laid a
hand on my arm. “Barbara tells me you are going to hold parley with
the enemy,” she says. “You will have no dealings with him in the
way of surrender?” she says, looking at me very hard.
“Surrender?” says I, smiling. “Come, cousin, what do you take me
for?”
“I have better thoughts of you than that,” says she. She turned and
looked at the door that separated us from Sir Nicholas. “He is near
the end,” she says sadly. “Let him die a free man, Richard, even if
the old house is tumbling about his death-bed.”
“Give me your hand on it, cousin,” says I, strangely moved. She put
her hand in mine and looked into my eyes. “I trust you,” she says,
and withdrew her hand, and went back into Sir Nicholas’s chamber.
I called John Stirk to me as I ran down the stairs, and with his
aid I moved sufficient of the barricade that secured the window in
the herb-room to enable me to get out. “Wait there with your musket
until my safe return, John,” says I, and hurried round the corner
of the house into the flower-garden. The officer waited me there,
leaning against his horse. “So we are to talk, sir,” says I, coming
up to him.
“And I am glad of the chance, Master Coope,” says he, frankly.
“This is a strange business, and to tell you the truth, though I
must and shall do my duty as a soldier. I am loth to be mixed up in
it.”
“Sir,” says I, “I am utterly at a loss to understand you.”
“Are you so?” says he. “Look you, Master Coope, how would you
explain such things as these? Three days ago, Fairfax issues
his warrant for the attachment of Sir Nicholas, your uncle,
who has been mighty active of late in vexing and annoying the
Parliamentarian forces now investing Pomfret Castle. In order that
the thing may be done with as little violence as possible to the
old knight’s feelings, he entrusts the warrant to your kinsman,
Master Dacre, who on coming to the house, finds it already prepared
to withstand a siege. Now within twenty-four hours of his sitting
down before it----”
“Or skulking in the stable,” says I, “but I interrupt you, sir,” I
says. “Pray proceed.”
“Within twenty-four hours of its investment,” he says, “you
secretly hand a most important despatch to one of his troopers,
bidding him----”
“Bribing him,” says I.
“Why, of course,” says he, laughing, “but at any rate, he was
to carry it to Fairfax. And so he does, and it proves to be a
despatch from Cromwell, of great moment. And so, naturally, Fairfax
wants to know how you, the bearer, came to be in the house of a
Royalist when you should have been making all speed to him with
the despatch--and since he wants to know, he will know, and that,
Master Coope,” he says, “is why I’m here.”
“Sir,” says I, “if I tell you the exact facts of the case, will you
make Fairfax immediately acquainted with them? For I can assure you
they are somewhat different to the representations made to him by
that fox, Anthony Dacre,” I says, looking hard at him.
“I will indeed fulfill your wish,” he says. “Faith, I thought there
must be some other aspect of the case.”
“You shall see the true one,” I says, and I told him of all that
had chanced since I came to the top of the road at Barnsdale. He
listened attentively. “And a much more likely story than t’other!”
says he, when I had finished. “I will repeat it to a trusty
messenger and send him on to Fairfax at once. But, Master Coope,”
says he, “why not submit yourselves and go with me to Fairfax? Tell
him your tale with your own lips,” he says.
“Why, sir,” says I, “personally, I have no objection to going
before Fairfax. But within the house, my uncle lies dying, and my
cousin is at his bedside, and neither will yield to you except by
force. And while they’re there,” says I, “there I shall stay.”
“Then our negotiations must fall through,” says he, regretfully.
“Is there no chance, Master Coope--for look you, I must do my
duty--Fairfax and Sands are stern men, and I am jealously watched.”
“Sir,” I says, “there is no help for it--we must each do our duty
in our own fashion. Your bullets,” I says, with a glance at the old
walls, “will find something to resist them.”
“Well,” says he, “’tis a pity, Master Coope, but--at least let us
shake hands ere we fight,” he says, and held out his own.
“With all the pleasure in the world,” says I.
“We shall meet again, I think,” he says--and so I left him and
hastened to rejoin John Stirk and make good the window.
III.
As we were now to engage in operations to which those that we had
already gone through were as child’s play, I thought it well to
call all my men together and give them some inkling of what was
about to take place. I had no doubt that Captain Holdsworth and
his troopers would presently attack us with much persistence, but
as my sentinels were already posted to the best advantage, and as
we should mainly have to depend upon the strength of the old house
itself and of the barricades that we had constructed, I reflected
that a few moments given over to friendly consideration of our
position would not be spent amiss. I therefore sent John Stirk to
collect our forces, who presently met me in the great hall, each
man bearing his weapon, and evidently agog with excited interest as
to the result of my parley with the enemy.
“Now, lads,” says I, facing them, “we are at last in for some hot
work. I have parleyed with the leader of the troops outside, and
found him as reasonable a gentleman as ever bestrode a horse, but
as firm in his notions of duty as I trust you and I are. He has
to do his duty, which is to arrest Sir Nicholas, Mistress French,
and myself. We have to do ours, and what that is,” I says, looking
quickly from one face to another, “what that is, lads, you all
know. So there’s naught for it but for him to attack, and for us
to defend. But, lads, since we are all of us volunteers in this
matter, so to speak, tell me whether I have done the right thing
in refusing to submit? Have I done what my uncle would have done
had he been elsewhere than on his death-bed? And have I done what’s
good to all of you? Speak, lads.”
“’Tis what Sir Nicholas had done, and it is good to me,” says
Gregory, grounding his musket with a bang.
“So say I,” says Jasper.
The three lads said naught, being of a shy disposition, but they
nodded their heads and handled their guns, and looked from one to
the other of us. John and Humphrey said “Yes--’tis good,” in one
breath. But so that we might all know what we were after, I spoke
again.
“Now, lads,” says I, “let’s understand matters fairly. We may all
very soon be shot or slain in some other way--is there any of you
that would like to make his escape while there’s a chance? If there
is, let him speak.” I looked at the lad Walter who was youngest of
all of us. “What say you, lad?” says I. “Come, speak out--we shall
not think the less of thee if thou wouldst like to be free of this
business.”
But the lad shook his head, and flushed as red as a peony. “I’m
for biding where I am, Master Dick,” says he. “And me, too,” says
Peter, “and me,” say Benjamin.
“Why,” says I, “I think we’re all of a mind. So now to our posts,
lads, and let’s do our best. They will not break through our
defences so easily, and we have the advantage of safe cover.”
And there I was right, and events quickly proved it. When we
reached the upper storey, and I could keep an eye on the operations
of the enemy, I perceived that Captain Holdsworth was putting his
men at various points around the house, with the view of covering
those of our positions which previous incidents had made Anthony
Dacre already acquainted with. Thus he had placed a squad in the
stable, and they were now engaged in piercing the wall at intervals
from the inside; several men were in the summer-house across the
garden, while others occupied the barn, and commanded the window
on the right hand side of the courtyard. I made note of all these
preparations, and bade my men observe them with care, but directed
that no shot should be fired until the enemy actually came to the
attack. I was somewhat curious to see in what mode they would do
this, and felt that it would repay us to save our powder and ball
until we knew just what was going to be done.
About half-past nine o’clock I perceived that we were about to
enter upon the struggle. Some twenty-five troopers were arrayed at
our front, finding such cover as they could in the summer-house,
behind the wall, and in the rear of the trees. Captain Holdsworth,
who had dismounted, was going hither and thither, but it was also
evident that something was developing close to the house wall,
which we, from our position in the upper windows were unable to
see. “We must know what’s going on,” says I, “but how to do it I
can’t think.” And, indeed, the thing was difficult, for all the
windows on the ground floor were barricaded and strengthened, so
that it was impossible to see out of any of them. “What of the
garret windows?” thinks I. “I may get a peep from one of them
without being seen,” and on the instant I ran up the stair and
into a little place immediately above the garden door. I opened
the casement, and pushed out head and shoulders, and as I did so I
heard the report of a musket below, and felt a sudden sharp pain
as if a hot needle had been laid against the skin of my forehead.
I withdrew my head instantly, and as I did so another half-dozen
of bullets came rattling about the window. “Too late, my masters!”
says I and ran, laughing, down the stairs, satisfied with my
endeavour. For in the rapid glance that I had taken of the garden
below I had seen and comprehended what they were after. From the
stackyard beyond the barn they had brought one of the great pieces
of timber on which the foundations of a hayrick was laid, and a
half-score of stalwart fellows were getting it into position, so
that they might batter the door in. As I came to John Stirk’s post
again we heard the first blow, and felt the old walls shake with
its force. “Let them batter,” says I, and wiped away the blood that
ran down my nose from the scratch on my forehead. “They will want a
stout ram to break through our barricade,” says I, and I picked up
my musket and prepared for action.
As our defences seemed to be most needed at the front of the
house, I sent the lad Walter to fetch Humphrey Stirk from his post
overlooking the fold, and Gregory from the courtyard window. There
were now five of us in the corridor, and to each man I assigned
a window, bidding all to shoot straight, and keep under cover as
closely as was possible. “And since we’re all ready,” says I,
raising my voice, and presenting my piece, “pick your man, lads,
and let them have it.” And therewith, keeping behind the wall as
well as I could, I knocked out a pane of glass, and took aim at
Holdsworth, who was directing operations, partly covered by a tree.
The others fired at the same time, and almost on the instant there
came back a volley from the enemy, and the garden, from the high
wall to our windows was filled with smoke that hung heavy in the
damp air. And after that there was no need for us to knock out more
panes of glass when we wished to point our muskets, for with the
first fusilade the enemy shattered our windows to pieces, and the
corridor was strewn with splinters of wood and glass, and fragments
of the plaster that came tumbling from the wall behind us.
It was on this scene that Mistress Alison’s eyes fell when she
suddenly opened the door of my uncle’s chamber, and came hurriedly
towards me. “Back, cousin!” says I, rushing to meet her. “Your
life----” But she came on, holding out her hands to me. “Quick!”
she says. “Oh, be quick, cousin!” And then I knew what she meant,
and threw aside my musket, and with a hasty cry to my men to stand
to their posts I took her hand and hastened with her into Sir
Nicholas’s room.
Faith! in the days that came afterwards I have often thought,
always with a deal of softness, of the good old knight’s death-bed.
He lay there, very straight and calm, with me on one side of
him, and Alison on t’other, and poor old Barbara, weeping and
bemoaning him, at his feet, and thanks to the stout door and the
heavy curtain the chamber seemed peaceful, and yet through all its
peacefulness there came the thump, thump, thump, of the battering
ram and the crash and rattle of the musketry. When I first
approached him I think he knew naught, but presently a fiercer
discharge, that seemed like to bring the old house tumbling about
our ears, called him back to life, and he opened his eyes, and
looked at me.
“Ah!” says he, very feeble and low in voice. “So we are at it,
Dick?” There was a sudden flash of fire in his old eyes, and a
blot of colour showed itself on his cheek, that had grown thin and
pale. He looked at Alison, and from her to me again. Another fierce
rattle of musketry came from without, and one bullet, glancing from
the casement in the corridor, struck and buried itself in the door
of the chamber. My uncle made some faint show of raising himself in
his bed. “To thy post, Dick!” says he, and suddenly drops back on
his pillow, and died as quietly as a child goes to sleep.
“’Tis over, cousin,” I whispers across the bed. Alison looked from
his face to mine, and I saw that the girl had a rare faculty of
keeping her feelings in control. “Leave us now, cousin,” she says.
But since that might be the last chance that I should ever have of
seeing my uncle again, I took another look at him and laid my hand
on his. Then I turned to the door, and passed from the quietness of
the death-chamber into the hell that raged without.
The corridor was thick with smoke: my feet kicked against the
splintered wood and glass, or stumbled over the heaps of plaster
that were being rapidly piled up along the floor. Faith, the enemy
were making hot work of it! But my men were unhurt, save that John
Stirk had been struck in the side by a half-spent bullet, and that
Peter’s face was scratched by a shower of falling glass. “Stand
to your posts!” I cried to them, and ran downstairs to see how
the garden door had withstood its battering. I found it safe as a
rock--what it might have suffered without I know not, but within,
its heavy bolts and bars, supported by the mass of furniture that
we had piled against it, still held the thick oaken frame sound,
and I felt assured that naught less than a cannonade would break
through it.
While I stood in the hall, examining our defences, there came the
thump, thump of the battering-ram from the other door leading to
the courtyard. I laughed when I heard it, for the enemy might as
well have tried to break in through a twelve-foot wall as through
the barricade which he was now attempting. The door opened into a
porch, and the porch was filled with heavy flagstones that we had
hastily torn up from the scullery and pantry floor, and disposed in
such a fashion that the whole formed a tight wedge between the door
itself and the stout wall facing it on the inside. But secure as
I felt about the door, I was not so sure of our ability to direct
a smart fire upon the men engaged in battering it. I hastened to
the window on the right hand side of the courtyard, and found that
Holdsworth’s troopers, stationed in the barn, were keeping up such
a fusilade upon us as rendered it impossible for my men to do more
than get an occasional shot from a sharp angle of the casement.
I accordingly withdrew them to the window on the other side, and
from this point we did considerable execution, until Holdsworth
brought up a number of men behind the low wall of the orchard that
ran between the gable end of the house and the village street, and
there directing their fire upon us, we were compelled to retreat
to safer cover. However, the door remained as impregnable as that
leading into the front garden, and presently the men drew off and
there was an interval of peace, after which the fight was continued
by the interchange of occasional shots on either side, both of
us keeping a sharp lookout, and discharging our pieces whenever
besieged or besiegers drew out of cover. And as we were in a much
better position than they, we succeeded in effecting much damage
amongst them at no cost to ourselves.
About the middle of the afternoon Captain Holdsworth himself was
shot dead by Humphrey Stirk as he incautiously made across the
garden, where he was evidently going to give orders to the men
posted in the summer house. I was sorry to hear this news, for he
had parleyed with me in the frankest manner, and had shown some
solicitude for our position, but, after all, ’twas the fortune
of war, and might have been my own fate, or Humphrey’s. However,
there was no doubt that it made matters still more difficult for
me, in one respect--if we managed to escape with our lives and fell
into Fairfax’s hands, he would not deal any the more mercifully
with me because one of his officers met his death in the effort to
apprehend me.
We continued to exchange shots with the enemy until night fell,
when a cessation of hostilities took place, save for an occasional
fusilade when either side showed a light. That was a sad night,
for everybody in the house knew that Sir Nicholas lay dead in
our midst, and there was none that did not mourn him with much
sincerity. As for me I was sore concerned as to what was to
come, for I felt sure that Fairfax would eventually reduce us to
submission, and the thought of what might then chance to Alison
made me anxious. But here again I was somewhat helped by that
curious fellow, Merciful Wiggleskirk, who came tapping in the
darkness at the little window pane in the scullery, and bade Walter
fetch me to him.
“You here again?” says I. “What is it, friend?”
“Master Coope,” says he, “you paid me nobly, and I’ll give you a
hint. If you can get out o’ the house,” he says, “do so on the
instant. Captain Blackburn is coming in the early morning with more
men, and they are bringing cannon with them. Make your way out o’
the house during the night, Master Coope.”
He ran off across the fold, and I shut the window and stood musing
in the dark scullery. If they were bringing cannon against us it
was all over. “We shall have the old house heaped in ruins over us
ere noon!” I says. But since I was not yet weary of life, I sought
my cousin, intending to take counsel with her as to our next step.