IN THE FRONT OF WAR
Then came the day, memorable and terrible beyond words, the day of
the final breaching. It was on a Wednesday that the great gun was
first fired. It took Laurence M‘Kim and his father, together with such
as they could use of the king’s folk, till Saturday late in the
gloaming before they were able to make good the damage, and build such
a solid butt of earth backed with stones as would stay the rearward
rush of Mons Meg after she had delivered her second message.
But at ten of the clock next morning, just when the Sabbath bells were
beginning to ring in a hundred parish kirks throughout the land,
Sholto, who was on the watch, warned us all below. The monster had not
yet said her last word. There was more and worse to follow. Again the
puff of white reek, lazily disengaging itself from the summit of
Knockcannon--again the dreadful pause, the rending crash, the castle
rocking to its foundations!
This time the ball from the great cannon had struck the wall of the
outer works to the west, toppling over one of the strong corner
towers--which, however, thanks to the marvellous mixture of shell lime
that held the stones together, fell outwards in one piece as if hewn
from the solid rock.
The third ball struck the castle a little lower than the first (that
of Wednesday), and succeeded in so enlarging the breach, that it
became, even to the eyes of Sholto, quite practicable for escalade.
The fourth, passing directly through the chasm already made, rattled
from side to side of the _salle de garde_ like a cube in a dice-box,
killing and wounding more than thirty men of the guard of Thrieve.
This, with the fall of the flanking tower, caused a sort of panic
among the younger and less experienced of the garrison. There seemed
no hope that any within the walls could escape. Several, in Sholto’s
absence, ran for the fords to the south, only to fall in midstream
under the sure and deadly fire of the king’s archers and arbalest men,
who were posted among the bushes on the slope above.
The fifth missile from the Byne, equally well directed, struck low on
the wall of the keep, immediately above the arrow-slot which looked to
the north out of our prison-house. The fine sulphury dust well-nigh
suffocated us who abode and waited in the entrails of Archibald the
Grim.
Strangely enough, though the north-looking slot was now wholly closed
by a mass of fallen masonry, we had still plenty of air, though very
much less light. Other slits opened into the inner passages of the
castle, which as yet had not been obstructed.
Also, and a marvel, the children were not very greatly frightened. To
them it was like a thunderstorm without the terror of the lightning.
They cried out, indeed, as the great bolts struck the castle, but were
comforted by clinging to their mother’s skirts. Marcelle sat silent
and apart, with pale set face, her hands working nervously over her
beads, and little David abode in the darkest corner by himself, with
his face in his hands, repeating over and over that he was “a great
boy, and thunder did not make _him_ afraid.” This he did to set
himself on a higher pedestal than Ulric, who undisguisedly clasped his
mother round the neck at each terrifying crash and rocking of the
keep.
Those who have only seen the castle afterwards, a desolate and
marvellous ruin, towering to the skies, with its riven sides and
crumbled battlements, yet, for all that, grimly erect in its majesty,
can have no idea of the terror of these hours when the whole building
seemed ready to dissolve into a heap of stones, not one remaining upon
another--as, indeed, Malise M‘Kim had prophesied would be the case.
In Archibald the Grim we women and bairn-folk were shut up. For the
space of twenty-four hours we knew not what was happening
above--whether those we loved were dead or wounded, or locked together
in deadliest combat.
Yet, it might be said, there could be no great anxiety in my heart.
For none loved me greatly--save Sholto and Maud, who (as right was)
both loved each other more and otherwise. But it was not so. James
Douglas was the head of the race. He was the father of the babe
William, who rested under the Star in the kirkyard of Balmaghie. He,
and he alone, had lain in my bosom. Together we had read all I knew of
the book of life. And though that was at an end, such is the miracle
of woman’s heart, that all was not as if it had never been. I did not
wish James Douglas to die. I would rather have died myself--that is,
if the choice had been given me.
I was glad that, in this thing at least, he was no craven. I knew he
would be brave, and the thought that he was leading on the Douglases
to the fight, holding the deadly breach, cheered (I admit it) these
dark hours.
In Archibald the Grim we had, at least, plenty of food and water, and
could we have but known what was happening above, I do not think we
would have been much afraid or ill-content. But the awful
“do-nothingness,” which at such times is the lot of women, preyed upon
our spirits. We could not get out. The door of the dungeon was locked
on the outside, and much sand and earth piled against it to lessen the
danger of any rebound of the giant missiles. Sholto had seen to that
in the midst of all his troubles. Indeed it was part of his strength
that he always thought first of the weak things--the chief part of his
greatness also, mayhap.
But there came upon Maud Lindsay and myself, penned there,
prison-bound, the fierce desire to be men--to be above, combating the
enemy, doing as they did, sharing their perils--if need be, dying
their death.
But this, we well knew, was vain. In Archibald the Grim the night
abode unbroken with us, while these last throws of the dice were being
cast in the breaches above.
This it was that was happening there.
Simultaneously with the striking of the third bolt upon the
castle--that which enlarged the breach--a strong force of the Angus
Douglases, together with certain renegade Hamiltons from the west
country, assaulted the works by the ford, where, however (for the
instant), the few guardsmen held their own. But the fall of the great
flanking tower to the west shook the nerve of our defenders. And those
especially who, much against the will of Sholto, had been enlisted
from Douglasdale and the Upper Ward, finding their own ancient friends
and comrades in front of them, hoisted the white flag of surrender. A
strong storming party crossed the ford and pressed towards the breach
which had been made on the northern face of the castle. Their advance
ought to have been galled by the bolts and shafts of our men from the
ramparts. But such was the terror inspired by the new mode of warfare,
that had fire descended from heaven and the levin-bolts stricken
Thrieve Castle to the ground, the men of the guard could not have been
in a greater amaze.
Let it be remembered that in all the land of Scots no cannon had ever
before been seen which a couple of men could not carry easily upon
their shoulders. And now it was with difficulty that the granite balls
shot from the huge maw of Mons Meg could be carried on mason’s
mortar-board by two men holding the trams.
There was, therefore, this excuse for the men of the Douglas
guard--they would have died like men under a shower of English
clothyards, or encountered steadily with levelled spear the charge of
knights steel-clad. But this death, inevitable, coming from far,
scattering in its progress not only the bodies of men, but the very
defences of solid stone and lime which ages had counted
impregnable--no, I blame them not greatly!
Yet there were some who stood firm--some, but very few. One hand will
count them all.
The Lord James and Sholto were in the breach of the outerworks--the
high gate of Thrieve still closed behind them, and the yawning chasm
in the northward face looking down upon them with the ghastly gaze of
a skeleton orbit.
“Go, my lord,” said Sholto, in a low voice; “the charger waits. One of
these lads will take him across the water. The other will protect you
while you swim after. I will hold the enemy in play in this place long
enough to give you a chance. Cross the Dee at the deepest part,
plunging in where the water touches the castle wall. Andro the Penman
will meet you on the bank with the horse. John here will cover your
retreat with his cross-bow. With my axe in my hand I can promise you
that they shall not take you in the rear through yonder gap in the
hall of the guard--till, at least, you set foot on Balmaghie grass.”
This Sholto said, knowing that within a few feet of him his wife and
his five children were imprisoned. But such was his duty. He was the
Captain of Thrieve, and, whoever escaped, he must bide at his post.
For this man, whom he was aiding to escape, was, notwithstanding all,
the chief, the Douglas--and in his single person the last Douglas of
the Black.
From beneath, unseen, there was the crying of men about to be slain
and of men in the act of slaying. Equally without haste or a moment’s
hesitation Sholto took his dispositions. He had laid aside his sword
of set purpose, and, standing clear of the wall, prepared to fight his
last fight, axe in hand. It was a weapon which he had made wholly
himself--double-faced, the weight perfectly balanced, the handle of
stout ash, well seasoned, not quite straight, but with a certain
backward twist in it near the head, which, as Sholto fancied, suited
his hand. It was a terrible weapon in the hand of a master of it, and
fitted for the roughest battle-play. Sholto had made it neither too
sharp nor yet too highly tempered, judging that the weight of the
stroke would do the work. Indeed, well-nigh he had quarrelled with his
father upon the subject. For the old man had fixed ideas upon
tempering and the art of weapon-making. He had, however, very soon a
chance of testing practically the theories of his eldest son.
Now, James Douglas, seeing that all was lost, proved not difficult to
persuade. He must, he said, trust to a good horse and the ship waiting
in the Dutchman’s Lake at Kirkcudbright to carry Douglas and his
fortunes, for a time at least, to another country.
“After all,” he added, “I am the only one who, in the event (which
seems certain) of the castle surrendering, would of a surety be
executed. James Stewart simply could not spare a third earl of Douglas
after slaying two already! As for you, Sholto M‘Kim, they will give
_you_ quarter for the asking, and the women and bairns are as safe in
Grim Archibald as in their own beds!”
“So?” said Sholto quietly; “at anyrate, it is time to be going! These
Penman lads will put you safely through the deeps of the Dee. The
horse is ready at the water-port. Trust me--I will keep your
rear-guard until such time as I see you set spurs in your beast on the
other side of the Pool of Thrieve.”
“I go,” said James Douglas, “but only under protest--since you judge
it for the best! And I pray you bid farewell to”--
“I will,” said Sholto. “Go quickly!”
And James Douglas departed thus--even thus--slipping out by a secret
passage from his own ancient castle of Thrieve, never to enter it
again.
The same white charger which had brought him so gloriously home from
Arkinholm was already gingerly pacing down the steps which led to the
great western Pool of Thrieve--one of the deepest in the whole course
of the Dee. Sholto had rightly judged. So strong was the enemy’s
belief that on that side no one could possibly escape from the castle,
that no notice was taken of the attempt till Andro the Penman and his
charge were nearly across, with James Douglas swimming less strongly
behind--for he was of Avondale, and little accustomed to squattering
out and in of the water all day long like the lads of Thrieve.
But ere they could land a few archers ran by the fallen tower which
flanks the water, clambering over the débris to shoot at the
fugitives.
“_Twang!_” went the crossbow of John the Penman from the water-port.
“Good lad!” quoth Sholto, under his breath. “Now you are at a better
job than sitting upon the bald rump of Douglas the Black in the midst
of the shallows of Glenlochar while the kirk folk pass laughing by.”
“_Twang!_” Again Jack the Penman loosed his bow. And another Angus
archer fell. Down went another, a lank, lean, flea-bitten man from the
salt-marshes of Solway.
But at that moment, breaking in dense clusters through the fords,
overleaping the first wall of defence, came the rush of the besiegers,
solid and determined. Sholto stepped a yard to his own front, turned
the axe in his fingers, hefted it till the grip suited his hand, swung
it once so as to be sure of clearing everything--and was ready.