ARCHIBALD THE GRIM
Nevertheless, Sholto kept a diligent watch on those things which
needed to be done before the great cannon could fire its first shot.
There were no iron or leaden bullets which would suffice to fill the
maw of the ravening monster.
But Sholto found out, by methods of his own that the quarrymen of the
king were busy cutting balls of stone from the granite sides of the
Bennan nigh to the dock of Ken, rolling them to the foot and
afterwards transporting them by water to the hill called the Byne of
Camp Douglas, where Mons Meg in her wooden jacket stood waiting a
favourable day for beginning the battering of the nine-foot thick
walls of Thrieve.
As for Earl James, he cared for none of these things. Thrieve was
intact. That was enough for him. Every outwork and bastion stood as it
had done at the beginning of the siege. The king had gained no ground.
The winter was coming on fast. This talk of a great cannon--pshaw! Had
he not seen a dozen such, and one good lance-thrust or a well-swung
battering-ram were worth them all. To think that the strong walls of
Thrieve, three yards of stone and lime, could crumble before a missile
discharged from the Byne of Camp Douglas!--it was folly so crass that
no man in his senses could possibly consider it! These, in brief, were
the opinions of the Earl James.
Nor did Sholto argue with his master. He let him go where he listed,
say and do the thing he desired. What he himself occupied his time
with appeared curious. His absences were frequent, especially after
the workmen had finished the thickening of the dungeon. Still in his
countryman’s dress, he climbed the long wooded slopes of the Bennan to
be present at the shaping of the vast granite balls for the giantess.
He knew when the powder waggons were to arrive from Edinburgh. On the
other hand, he had gone, taking counsel with none, to Kirkcudbright,
and there arranged for a little coasting vessel to wait in the
Dutchman’s Lake at a place where embarkation would be easy, “in case
of need,” as he said to the earl upon his return.
At one time it was his intention to take us all one by one through the
marshes and put us aboard that ship. But two things stood in the way
of this.
Maud would not consent to be separated from any of her children, and
the confinement to the castle during the long hot summer, the great
amount of water stagnant in the ditches and defences, as well as the
marshes to the south, had produced in Ulric and Baby David a sort of
low lingering fever.
At this time Sholto could without much difficulty have passed the earl
through, but a kind of blind determination took hold of James--who,
indeed, all through his life had been resolute in the wrong places.
Flee to England he would not! In Thrieve he would abide! He had defied
the king long. He would defy him altogether. To die--well, he was not
afraid of death! Death came to every man. So far his star had not
deserted him. So here he would abide and dree his weird; and so long
as there was a hoof of nowt behind the isle dyke or a flagon of
Bordeaux in the castle cellar, James Douglas would be noways unhappy.
So in Thrieve we remained watching with strange feelings the enemy’s
preparations for our destruction, and above all, we gazed fascinated
at that ominous shape, like a hay-wain with a wine vat a-top, pointing
at us from the Byne of Camp Douglas.
Yet the thing was so little and so far. It seemed impossible, watching
it in the still mornings from the ramparts of Thrieve, that yonder
black dot, almost invisible, that framework of iron small as a child’s
toy, should be pointed at us for the purpose of bringing our castle to
the ground and death to all of us who were there.
Nevertheless, we waited with that curious chill stillness of
indifference with which men and women of our nation face calamity
which no care can evite.
It is as if they said, “Fate is upon us--who are we that we complain,
alter, or amend?”
And such is mostly the spirit of the race of Galloway--not very
grateful for prosperity, taking it as their right, rather. Neither
greatly cast down by adversity. It is not their desert--still less
their fault. Fate--Fate hath decreed the issues of Good or Ill. And so
the true Pict of Galloway sits him down and is silent, not much
dissatisfied with the Powers Above--still less (be it said) with
himself.
* * * * * * *
The day in November when the great cannon was first fired remains very
clear in my memory.
Nor is it likely that the impression will ever fade. See, I will try
to call it up. It was what we call in Galloway “a sheep-wintering
day”--that is, the kind of day on which the shepherds from the Merrick
and the Rhinns of Kells would bring down the feck of their flocks to
the lower pastures--leaving only old seasoned rams and “snaw-breaking”
ewes to withstand the rigours of the hill storms.
To be more exact and explicatory to one who knows not our climate, the
day was clear, mildly frosty, with a sun that looked down through a
faint equal mist, granulated like glass long worn by the sea. There
was a nip in the air, not snell, but with a grim threat of oncoming
winter behind the pale sunshine of November.
About ten o’ the clock we were all out on the balcony which looks to
the north. The river was very still and flowed towards us without
apparent motion. It did not reflect--there was, indeed, nothing for it
to reflect, save that colourless canopy of haze.
Suddenly Sholto lifted his voice.
“All to shelter!” he cried. And gathering up the three younger
children, he carried them down into the deeps of Archibald the
Grim--the dungeon which he had spent so much time in making
cannon-proof for us.
Maud followed with the others, but I lingered a moment, curious. There
was nothing to be seen upon the hill of Camp Douglas--at least no more
than the ordinary number of black dots, who were always bustling about
like ants in a disturbed nest. If anything, these seemed to be at a
somewhat greater distance than was usual from the dark muzzle of Mons
Meg.
As I stood gazing, there came from beneath the voice of Sholto M‘Kim.
“My Lady Margaret, your place is waiting, and I am waiting! Come!”
“One moment only!” I cried, anxious to see.
“Not one!” he answered. “I command at Thrieve, and I am responsible
for your safety. Come!”
And I could not help smiling to myself, even at such a moment. For
well I knew that Sir Sholto was quite capable, in the event of the
least delay, of catching me up like one of the bairns and shutting me
in Archibald the Grim with the low door locked behind me.
And, indeed, locked it was, and that upon the instant. And what a
strange feeling to be shut up from all hope of succour--there, in the
deepest deeps of the castle. But Sholto had been thoughtful for us,
knowing that we were but women, and of that curious tribe whose first
mother cost mankind Paradise.
Perhaps, on the other hand, he had made those slits for light and air
before he knew that the great piece was to be dragged from Carlinwark
to the hill northward of Thrieve, called the Byne of Camp Douglas.
Be these things as they may, it is certain that I had no small
pleasure and satisfaction in looking through a little guarded
arrow-slot in the direction of the fatal hill. Behind me Maud was
busied with the children, disposing them upon the beds and benches
which Sholto had provided. A dim but sufficient light from the narrow
slots, mere lines of light penetrating from without, filled the
interior of Archibald the Grim.
From a wooden stage attached to the wall hung a “cruisie” lamp, made
of iron. The upper palm-shaped hollow was filled with oil, and carried
a floating wick of teased linen. This, however, we were ordered not to
light without closing carefully all the apertures which gave to the
north.
I was instantly at the fortunate arrow-slot. It was well-nigh on the
level of the river, and over the low rampart in front only the utmost
top of the Byne of Camp Douglas could be seen. The long black wine-tun
in her cradle had been pushed clear of the covering shed, and behind
and to either side there stood a compact crowd of black
dots--doubtless curious spectators come out to see the proof of that
which had been so long in the making.
Somehow I had upon me a feeling that Laurence was up there. As indeed
he was, bringing all his
[Illustration: I HAD NO SMALL PLEASURE AND SATISFACTION IN LOOKING
THROUGH A LITTLE GUARDED ARROW-SLOT IN THE DIRECTION OF THE FATAL
HILL.]
mathematics to bear on the problem of how to point and elevate the
mouth of the iron monster so that shot might strike the centre of the
castle of Thrieve.
Meantime, on the battlements of the highest tower, Sholto and James
Douglas watched with interest and without the least fear the trial
which might bring them death the next moment. For thus are some men
made--some, not all.
An instant more, and a puff of white smoke appeared on the summit of
the Byne, rapidly mounted and spread outward in the shape of a
cabbage, the top being blown off into haze by the light wind.
Followed by an unutterable pause--of moments which seemed
years--æons--eternities!
Then--_crash!_ The castle was shaken to its foundations. The walls
seemed to rock. We heard the thunder of a great explosion. Something
high above us seemed to rip like torn cloth, and in front of our
little arrow-slip descended a rain of fragments of stone and the dust
of lime, blown fine and powdery. The curious sulphury smell of a
hammer stricken on blue whinstone pervaded everything.
For a time it appeared to us as if the whole castle had been
destroyed. The keep itself seemed to have fallen upon our heads,
almost crushing the solid stone roofing and tripled masonry of
Archibald the Grim flat like the leaves of a book. Nevertheless Maud,
quite unmoved, occupied herself in soothing little David. The twins,
Cuthbert and Bride, scuffled for a place at the window, while, holding
each of his brothers by a leg, sturdy Ulric complained even to tears,
between his tugs, “I wants to see--I wants to see!”
Then presently we heard the voice of James Douglas without the
dungeon.
“Goes all well within?” he cried.
“All is well,” answered Maud, starting quickly. “Where is Sholto?”
“He is safe and untouched,” said the earl, “but the castle has been
breached in the midst of the first storey, above your heads. Many have
been hurt--some, I fear, killed outright! Sholto is caring for them.
He bade me come hither to ask after your welfare!”
Then, I think, there was not one of us who did not know that the end
of the siege could not be far off. This our castle impregnable had
been breached with the very first ball of Mons Meg--what might not the
second do? I looked forth at the hill and the little groups of moving
dots upon it. Would it come a second time? Where would it strike? Whom
would it slay? If the missile broke a way into the castle so easily
through walls nine feet thick, would even Grim Archibald be safe--that
mother--these little babes?
Even then, God be thanked! I had the grace not to think very much
about myself. Indeed, wherefore should I? Life or death were but
slight things to me, knowing what I knew, having drunken deep of the
bitter without once fairly tasting the sweet.
But what was the strangest thing of all, there came no second shot at
all that day. The deadly black vat on wheels was nowhere to be seen.
All the men ran to and fro, looking more like ants than ever over the
smooth grey-green surface of the Byne--now and henceforth for ever to
be called only “Knockcannon,” the hill of the cannon.
What happened we knew not then. We heard afterwards at length. The
great iron murderer had rushed backwards with the recoil of the shot,
almost killing Malise M‘Kim, who had fired the piece after Laurence
had levelled the muzzle to direct a ball of granite, the weight of a
Carsphairn cow, upon Castle Thrieve. This same Laurence, seeing his
father’s danger, pulled him forcibly to the left. Whereupon Mons Meg,
charging backward with the force of a peck of powder in her belly,
knocked a hole through the rear of her wooden shed, and, before any
could stop her, had run down the gently sloping sides of the Byne,
overturning in the marsh at the bottom--without, however, doing
herself any considerable harm.
But it was obvious to the M‘Kims, and especially to Laurence, the
engineer of the family, that a strong backing of wood and earth must
be built immediately upon the summit of the Byne, compacted with
pales, in order to prevent a repetition of this performance after each
shot.
So for several days we in Thrieve had rest; but all felt that it was
only the reprieve of the condemned criminal before execution. No power
on earth could save us when once they gat the gun into position again.
So Sholto, after all the wounded men had been removed and the dead
buried at the farther end of the isle, permitted us to come forth once
more to breathe the air.
It was a strange and memorable spectacle that awaited us when we
mounted to the great hall of Thrieve, commonly so grave and peaceful,
with its black oak furnishings and ancient tapestries. The window
which had given upon the tranquil river, and through which I had
looked so often, was now a huge, yawning gap, irregularly toothed,
some of the blocks above hanging only by the strength of the shell
lime in which they had been embedded, and threatening every moment to
descend into the gulf beneath. After effecting this havoc, the great
ball of Bennan granite had passed through a group of soldiers of the
guard, who had been peering from the window, scattering and slaying on
its way; then it had broken through the arched and solid masonry upon
which the hall was built, and plumped into the _salle de garde_
beneath, where again many more had been slain.
With sorrowful hearts we walked outside on the green sward, Maud, with
the children about her, looking across at the fatal Cannon Hill, now
bare and deserted, all the king’s folk, doubtless, having descended
into the marshes at the opposite foot of the incline to watch the
raising of the monster from her soft bed, and the efforts of a hundred
horses to place her again in position in her iron cradle.
But what did we see? Instead of the noble wall of Thrieve, rising with
its narrow but well-moulded windows, straight as a cliff to the giddy
battlements, a hundred feet above, lo! a great black gash, ragged and
unseemly, with gillyflowers and small scaly-leaved ferns clinging
droopingly to the edges of the ruin.
And from the hill, whence our fate had descended upon us, there came
the sound of a wild crying, which sounded very forlorn and
desolate--though likely no more than the voices of the waggoners and
engineers of the king urging their horses to the task of rescuing the
iron murderer from the suction of the bog.
To us, thus walking, approached James Douglas, courteous and easy in
his demeanour as ever.
“This is no place for women and children,” he said, holding his steel
cap in his hand. “I would that I had you all in a place of safety--in
some nunnery or holy house, afar from the storms of war!”
“Trouble not yourself, my lord--we need it not,” said Maud. “For me, I
am happy to abide by my husband and my children!”
Which was of the nature of an hard saying for me and perhaps for the
earl also.
At anyrate, James Douglas looked at her long and earnestly.
“It is my duty to remain by the castle so long as one stone stands in
its place,” he said. “Then--the race of the Douglases of the Black
shall have an end!”
To all this I answered naught, nor opened my lips. For in my heart I
knew that, with a certain nameless little grave in the kirk acre of
Balmaghie, a tomb which carried no inscription or brass monumental,
there had, some time before, come to an end the ancient race of the
Douglases of Douglas, of Avondale, and of Galloway--a fair, sweet end
to a race called so Black.
Furthermore, I trusted not at all in the great swelling words of
James, Earl of Douglas, who had been my husband.
For I knew him.