THE FATHERHOOD OF ALAN GWYETH
The sky was bluish black with heavy masses of clouds, but through a rift
in the west showed a bright star, by which Hugh guessed roughly it must
be within two hours of dawn. Quickening his pace to a run at that, he
came into the shelter of the park, where it was all black, and he went
forward blindly, with one arm thrust up to guard his face. Now and again
he had through the tree-tops a distant sight of the sky, and by it took
his directions; but for the most part he stumbled on haphazard, though
at a brisk pace, for the night was passing rapidly. When at length he
crushed his way through a thicket to the edge of the brook that marked
the bounds of the park, the bright western star had sunk out of sight
behind the trees.
Beyond the brook he hurried through a tract of woodland, where he bore
to the southward to keep clear of the Kingsford highway and a farmstead
that lay back from it. He came out in a cornfield, where the blades felt
damp against his face as he forced a rustling passage through, and after
that climbed over a wall into the open fields. There were no more houses
to avoid before he reached the village, so with less caution he pressed
on at a good jog-trot. For the night was waning, and Kingsford was still
to come.
An ominous pale streak showed in the east before him as he climbed the
swell of land that cut off sight of the village. Fearing lest his figure
show up too distinctly against the sky line, he made for a clump of
bushes at the summit, and had just got within their shadow when he
caught the sound of hoof-beats. Dropping flat he dragged himself in
under the bushes, where, peering out between the leaves, he saw the
black bulk of a horseman ride along the slope below him. A little to
Hugh’s left he pulled up and called to another rider a challenge that
reached the boy’s ears quite clearly, then turned and came pacing back.
They had set a mounted guard about the town, then; and with that Hugh
told himself he must slip past it and quickly, too, or the dawn would be
upon him. But first he waited for the horseman’s return, to know what
was the time between his passing and repassing, and while he waited he
strained his eyes into the dark to get the lay of the land. At the foot
of the rising ground was a hollow, he remembered, and across it, on the
higher land, stood an irregular line of three cottages, beyond which ran
a lane that led by the side wall of the churchyard. Very likely troops
were lodged about the cottages now, perhaps even more patrols in the
hollow, but all he could see was the black depths beneath him and the
outline of the nearest cottage. Then he heard the sound of hoofs loud
again, as once more the horseman on guard rode by below. Hugh could make
out his form far too clearly; dawn was coming, and he durst stay no
longer.
So soon as the man had turned and paced a rod on his journey back, Hugh
crawled from beneath the bushes and, rolling noiselessly, creeping on
hands and knees, made his way down the hillside. He remembered afterward
the feel of the moist grass in his hands, the look of the mottled dark
sky and the faint stars, and how at a distant hail in the village he
pressed flat on the cold ground. But at last he crawled across a more
level space he judged the bridle path, and scrambled down into the depth
of the hollow, where a chilly mist set him shivering. As he lay
outstretched, resting his weary arms a moment, he heard up above him the
horseman ride by.
Now that he was within the lines of the patrol only caution and
quickness were necessary. Still on hands and knees, he dragged himself
slowly up the hillside, bearing ever to the south to get behind the
cottages, yet not daring to venture too far, lest he come upon another
line of guards. As he approached the first cottage he rose half erect
and tried a short run, but the bark of a dog made him drop flat in the
grass, where he lay trembling. Next instant, realizing that it was
better to push on, whatever befell, he sprang up and made a dash to the
cover of a hedge behind the second cottage. For now the protection of
the night had nearly left him; he could see clearly the lattices of the
cottage, the whitish line of highway beyond it, and others might see him
as well. But as he crept forward, keeping to the shelter of the hedge,
he looked up, and against the gray sky saw what gave him courage. Above
the farther cottage rose the church tower, and from it stood up a staff
on which fluttered a red flag with a splotch of gold upon it; Captain
Gwyeth and his men still were holding out.
With renewed hope Hugh worked his way past the hedge to the shelter of
an outbuilding, not a rod from the lane that ran white beneath the lich
wall. He could see the church clearly now, the scowling small windows,
the close side door, and the gravestones on the slope below. There was
little prospect of welcome, he was reckoning anxiously, as he lay
crouched against the outbuilding, when suddenly he heard a cry: “Stand,
there!” Off to his right in the lane he beheld a Roundhead sentinel
halted with his piece levelled.
Springing to his feet Hugh dashed across the grass plot to the lane. On
the left he heard hoof-beats, then a cry: “Shoot him down!” A bullet
struck the sand at his feet; he heard men running, and another shot. He
heard, too, the crunch of crisp weeds beneath his boots as he crashed
into the overgrown tangle beyond the lane. He felt the rough stones on
the top of the wall, then he had flung himself clear across it, and was
struggling up the slope among the graves. His boots were heavy and
hampered him, and his breath seemed gone. He looked up to the dead
windows of the church and tried to cry: “King’s men! To the rescue!” but
what sound he could make was lost in the din behind him. A bullet struck
on a headstone just to one side; then of a sudden came a numbing pain in
his left arm. He staggered, stumbled blindly a pace; then the sky was
rolled up like a gray scroll, the stars were dancing before his eyes,
and he was down flat upon the ground. Lifting his head dizzily he had a
dim sight of the lane below, men swarming from the cottages, and one he
saw leap the wall and come running toward him. Hugh’s head dropped back
on the ground; he saw the sky pale above and waited for the butt of his
pursuer’s musket to crash down upon him, and prayed it might not be long
to wait.
They were still firing, he heard; and he heard, too, quick footsteps
behind him and a man breathing fast. He was swung up bodily from the
ground, and there came a voice he knew: “Your arm round my neck, so.
Have no fear, Hugh; I’ve got you safe.”
There was firing still and faint cheering; the rest darkness; but before
it closed in on him Hugh had one blurred glimpse of a strong, blue-eyed
face above him, and he knew it was his father who held him.
The light returned to Hugh in a dim and unfamiliar place; high above
him, as he lay on his back, he had sight of a vaulted roof full of
shadows. His head felt heavy and dazed, so he did not care to stir or
speak, just closed his eyes again. There had been faces about him, he
remembered vaguely, and he felt no surprise when he heard a voice that
was unmistakably Ridydale’s: “He’s coming round, sir.”
They were pressing a wet cloth to his forehead, Hugh judged, and his
head was aching so he tried to thrust up his arm to stop them.
“Let—me—alone,” he forced the words out faintly, and opened his eyes. It
was his father who was bathing his head, he saw, and remembering what
brought him thither his mind went back to the formal message he had
framed on the way from Tamworth. “Captain Gwyeth, Sir William Pleydall
bade me deliver word, he will send you relief; it shall come to-morrow.”
“Saxon, take that word to Lieutenant von Holzberg,” Captain Gwyeth’s
voice came curtly. “Spread it through the troop that help is
coming.—Spare farther speaking now, Hugh; I understand.”
Hugh closed his eyes heavily and lay quiet. He felt a wet cloth tied
round his head, and then he winced through all his body as a knife
ripped halfway up his sleeve. “Thank Heaven, ’tis only a clean flesh
wound,” he heard the captain say. “Nay, Jack, I’ll hold him. Do you
bandage it.”
Hugh felt himself lifted up till his head rested against the captain’s
shoulder. Half opening his eyes he had a confused sight down the nave of
the church, only now it seemed unfamiliar, for the pews were torn from
their places and piled up against the great entrance door. Up and down
by the walls men were pacing, and some lay silent on the floor of the
choir, and some he heard groaning as they lay. Then he closed his eyes
and clinched his teeth, for his arm was aching rarely, so the lightest
touch made him shrink. He wondered if the bandages they were putting on
would never end, and if he could keep on biting down all sign of pain,
when at last Ridydale spoke: “There, sir, ’tis done the best I could. If
we only had water to wash the hurt properly!”
That suggested to Hugh that his mouth was dry, so he said under his
breath: “I am thirsty.”
“If there be a drop of water in the place, fetch it,” Captain Gwyeth
bade; and a moment later Hugh’s head was lifted up and a cup set to his
lips. It was brackish water, and very little at that; he swallowed it
with one gulp, and opened his eyes to look for more. “Nay, that’s the
last,” the captain spoke out. “’Tis an ill lodging you have taken with
us. I would to God you were elsewhere!”
With the scant power of his returning strength, Hugh tried to move clear
of the arm that was about him. “I had hoped, this time, you would not be
sorry to see me,” he broke out, in a voice that quavered in spite of
himself.
He heard the captain give a sharp order to Ridydale to be off, and he
felt it was to save the dignity which had almost slipped from him. He
put his head down on the captain’s shoulder again. “Father, you are glad
to have me, after all,” he said softly.
He felt the sudden tension of the arm that drew him closer, though when
Captain Gwyeth spoke, his tone was of the driest: “After the trouble
I’ve had to get hold of you, do you not think ’tis reasonable I should
be glad?” Then he cut short all response with a hasty: “Lie you down
here now and be quiet. You’ve been knocked just enough for you to make a
fool of yourself if you try to talk.”
Hugh grinned weakly, and suffered his father to put him down with his
head upon a folded cloak. “I’ll send Ridydale to have an eye to you,”
the captain said in a low tone, “and if anything happens, I’ll be near.”
Then he rose and tramped away down the nave of the church, but Hugh,
watching him through half-shut eyes, saw him halt to glance back.
After that Hugh lay a long time in a heavy, half-waking state, where he
listened to the slow pacing up and down of those about him who kept
guard, and to the quicker step of men who, on other errands, hastened
across the reëchoing church; he heard men shout orders across the aisles
or nearer to him speak in curt monosyllables; and he heard, too, all the
time, the labored groaning of one who must lie somewhere near. Then
there were moments when, losing all sounds, he drifted off into an
unknown world, where he lived over again the happenings of the last
hours, and struggled in the water of the Arrow, and fought Oldesworth’s
troopers, and made the last run through the churchyard under the
Roundhead fire.
It was a relief to come back to consciousness and find himself lying
comfortably on the floor of the choir with the dark roof far above him.
A glint of purple sunlight from a broken window wavered on the ground
beside him, and, forcing his mind to follow one train of thought, he
contrived at last to reason out that it must be past noon. Pulling
himself up on his sound arm, he tried to look about the church, but the
effort made his head ache so he was glad to lie down. But he had got
sight of Ridydale, who stood on a bench beneath one of the tall windows
in speech with a trooper, and after a moment’s rest he called the
corporal by name.
Ridydale stepped down, carabine in hand, and came to Hugh’s side. “Is
there anything you’ll be wanting, sir?” he began.
“Yes,” Hugh replied, “I’d take it kindly of you if you’d just tell me
what hit me that time.”
Ridydale grinned and settled himself close by on the steps of the altar
with his carabine across his knees. “’Tis all very simple, Master Hugh,”
he explained. “They wasted a deal of lead trying to wing you,—they’re
clumsy marksmen, those Roundhead cowherds. Somehow, by good luck, they
contrived to shoot you in the arm. I take it you stumbled on one of
those sunken stones, then, for you went down and broke your head against
another gravestone.”
“Was that it?” Hugh asked, in some mortification.
“And then the colonel stepped out and fetched you in. We had sight of
you, those that were keeping the west windows, as you came down to the
lane. ‘It’s Hugh,’ says the colonel, sharplike; ‘unbar the door.’ Soon
as we had the barrier tore down, and we made short work of it, he out
after you. ’Twas a most improper thing, too,” Ridydale grumbled;
“captain of a troop to risk himself under a fire like that for a mere
volunteer. When there were others ready enough to go out. Maybe you were
too flustered, sir, to note what a pretty shot I had at the knave who
followed you over the wall?”
Hugh confessed he had missed that sight.
“Ay, ’twas not a shot to be ashamed of,” the corporal resumed, pulling
his mustache with much satisfaction. “’Twas brisk give and take we were
having then, sir. The colonel had a bullet through the skirts of his
coat ere he got you within the church. Ay, ’twas improper conduct of
him. What would have become of us all, tell me now, had he been hurt?”
“Why, just the same that will become of you now he is not hurt,” the
captain struck in crisply as he came up. “Tell me, Hugh, did it commend
itself to the sapience of Sir William Pleydall to say what time Saturday
we might look for relief?”
“No, sir.”
“Perhaps it does not matter to him whether it gets here at sunrise or
sunset,” the captain remarked dispassionately. “It makes a mighty deal
of difference to us, though.” He stuck his hands in his pockets and
stood staring up at the broken window where the sun came through. In the
strong light Hugh noted how haggard his face looked about the eyes, and
how three days of neglect showed in the red-gold beard. But when the
captain turned from the window there was a laugh in his eyes. “Jack,” he
addressed Ridydale, who was standing at attention, “what devilry do you
suppose Tommy Oldesworth is at now that he keeps so quiet?”
“Shall I try a shot to stir him up, sir?” the corporal proffered.
“Not for your life, Jack. Go rest you, while they let us.”
As Ridydale strode off, Captain Gwyeth, with a soberer look, set himself
down in his place. “You ought to know, Hugh, that we’re in a bad way,”
he spoke out in a brusque, low tone.
“There’s help coming,” Hugh answered stoutly, and dragged himself up on
one elbow so he could rest against the steps beside his father.
“Ay, but it must be quick,” the captain replied, “for Oldesworth is hot
upon us. He came hither this morning under the white flag to advise us
surrender to his mercy ere he batter down our walls.”
“Ordnance?” Hugh asked blankly.
“He may bring it from Warwick. Our only hope is that he may be so long
in the bringing it— Well, he’s bravely worried that you got in to us,
else he’d not have offered us terms. He’s troubled about that relief;
and, faith, I’m troubled, too. The men will hold out another twenty-four
hours in the hope, but we’ve had neither food nor drink since yesterday
afternoon. And we are scant thirty men now, and there are six with
disabling wounds besides.”
“Couldn’t I make one in the fighting?” Hugh ventured hesitatingly. “I
might not be able to steady a carabine with one hand, but I could load—”
“Then we could not use you long,” the captain said, with a dry laugh.
“That’s the crowning curse of it all, Hugh; there’s not above three
bullets left to a man.”
Hugh gazed down the dismantled church, where the pews were all turned to
sorry defences and the windows were shattered with the rebel balls. He
noted, too, the set, weary faces of the nearest men on guard, and
something of the hopelessness of the whole position came home to him.
His face must have shown his thought, for the captain suddenly put a
hand on his shoulder. “That’s why I’m sorry you are here,” he said
briefly.
“I care not for that,” Hugh choked, “but if they do not bring aid in
time,—Peregrine said they would hang you.”
“Peregrine?” the captain queried. “Tut, tut! He should be old enough by
now to know a gentleman does not let himself be taken and hanged while
he has weapons in his hands. Though I knew from the start ’twould be a
fight to the death if ever I came sword to sword with the Oldesworths.”
There was a space of silence, then he broke out: “I suppose they taught
you I was a scoundrel, did they not?”
“At the last, yes, my grandfather said it,” Hugh admitted, “but while my
mother lived she told me only good of you.”
“Then, she had forgiven me?” the captain asked in a low tone.
Hugh’s eyes were not on him, but straying across the church to where the
great Oldesworth pew had stood; even at that distance he seemed to read
on the tablet set in the wall the name, “Ruth Gwyeth.” “She did not hold
there was anything to forgive; she said the wrong had all been hers,” he
broke out; “she said you were the best and noblest gentleman that ever
lived, and far too good for her.”
“Poor lass, poor lass!” the captain said under his breath; he was
sitting with one hand shielding his eyes, Hugh noted, but of a sudden he
looked down at the boy and spoke curtly: “So you came seeking me,
believing all that, and then I thrust you out of doors?”
Hugh nodded without looking at his father; he was conscious of a queer,
shamed feeling, as if he had been himself at fault.
“Yet you stood up before that hound Bellasis and took that hack in the
face for me. I used you like a villain, Hugh,” the captain blurted out;
“even Ruth could not forgive me for it. But, lad, if we come alive from
this, I’ll strive to make you forget it.”
“I am forgetting now,” Hugh said honestly. “And if you’d looked as if
you wanted me, I’d ha’ come to you before.”
“I did want you. And you waited for me to look it, did you? I’m thinking
we’re something alike, lad.” He put his arm about the boy’s neck with a
sudden, half rough caress. “Turner said you had as decent a courage as
most lads and a bit more sense,” he broke out. “Faith, I believe him.
And if we come through here you shall have a chance to show it to every
man in the troop, yes, to the same fellows that flogged you.”
Hugh edged a little nearer his father. “I’d do my best to show them; I’d
like the chance,” he answered; then added thoughtfully, “Though, after
all, I am not sorry for that flogging. If I’d not known some hard knocks
already, they might have been able to frighten me yesterday.”
There he stopped, unavailingly, for the captain pounced down on him and
did not rest till he got the whole history of the last hours. Hugh put
all the emphasis he could on Master Oldesworth and on Lois, but
Peregrine and Thomas Oldesworth were dragged in at the captain’s
urgence, and the captain’s face grew ominous. “’Twas not clean dealings
on Tom Oldesworth’s part,” he said betwixt his teeth. “Well, when it
comes to the last we’ll remember it against him.”
With that he got up to go about his business, but presently strode back
with a cushion. “Put that under your head, Hugh,” he bade, and taking up
the cloak helped the boy wrap it round him. “You’ll find it cold here in
the church as soon as the sun goes down,” he explained. “Try to sleep,
though; get what strength you can against to-morrow.”
After he had gone, Hugh settled himself to sleep, but it took a time,
for his arm ached relentlessly, and his head was hot and his mouth dry.
Moment after moment he lay staring down the dusky church, where the
twilight was filling in, and harked to the slow step of those on guard.
The shades had gathered dark, and his eyes were closing, when he
realized that the man who had been groaning in the transept was quiet
now. He guessed what that meant, and something of the ugliness of death
came home to him. He sat up eagerly to look for some companionship, then
felt ashamed and lay down again to listen and listen once more, and
think on Peregrine’s threats and Thomas Oldesworth’s set, implacable
face. When he went to sleep at last his kinsmen followed him, even
through his dreams.
Dreams, recollections, of a sudden all were blotted out. He was sitting
up, he knew, in a place that save for two feeble flickers of light was
pitchy black, he heard men running and shouting, and, over all and
subduing all, he heard a crash, crash which he judged bewilderedly to be
of cannonading. The roof must fall soon, he feared, and scrambling to
his feet he ran forward into the darkness and tumult. Above the uproar
he caught Captain Gwyeth’s voice, steady and distinct: “Lieutenant von
Holzberg, your squadron to their stations at the windows. Corporal
Ridydale, take six men and bear the wounded down into the crypt.”
Following the voice, Hugh stumbled into the transept and, getting used
to the dark, had a vague sight of his father, who, with his hands behind
him, stood giving orders to right and left. Hugh leaned against the wall
close by and kept his hand to his head that throbbed and beat with each
stroke of the cannon and shake of the building. During a lull in the
firing he caught the captain’s voice in a lower key: “You here, Hugh?”
“I—I take it I was frightened up,” he stammered. “You’ll help me to a
sword before the end?”
“No need for that yet,” Captain Gwyeth answered. “They’ll not be able to
batter in these walls for hours. And by then—” His voice took a curious
change of tone: “You are sure, Hugh, they made no mention of what time
Saturday the aid would come?”
“No, none,” Hugh replied; “but ’twill surely come, sir. Dick promised.”
“Well, well, we’ve much to hope,” said the captain, “and, faith, that’s
all we can do now. Sit down here, Hugh,” he went on, leading him over to
the pulpit stairs. “I’ve a notion ’twould be pleasing if I could lay
hands on you when I want you.”
Then he went back into the din and confusion of the nave, and Hugh,
leaning his head against the balustrade, harked dazedly to the
successive boom of cannon. Through it all he found space in his heart to
be glad that his father had not suggested sending him down into the
crypt with the other wounded.
Out through a shattered window to the east he had sight of a strip of
sky, uneven with clouds, and some small stars. Little by little they
paled while he sat there, and still the guns kept up their clamor. Once,
after the shot, came a great rattling, and a piece of stone crashed down
from the western wall; Hugh heard a confused running in that direction,
and the captains voice that checked it. Once again, when oddly he had
fallen into a numb sort of doze, came another shattering crash, and
right upon it a man screamed out in a way that made Hugh shudder and
choke. After that he dozed no more, but rigid and upright sat listening.
It was light enough to distinguish faces when at length Captain Gwyeth,
with his brows drawn and his teeth tugging at one end of his mustache,
came up to him. “I’ve a sling here for that arm of yours,” he said
brusquely, beginning to fasten the bandage. “’Twould be in your way for
any fighting purposes. And here’s a sword. You may have to use it,
unless our friends come quickly.” Then he paused a time by Hugh, not
speaking, but scowling upon the floor, and at last strode moodily away.
The light broadened and brightened within the church; a patch of
sunshine gleamed upon the floor, and through an east window Hugh could
catch the rays of yellow light glinting across the sombre leaves of the
yew tree. It was a rare, warm, August day, a strange time for a life and
death struggle, he told himself, as he drew the sword clumsily from its
scabbard. Then he looked to the western wall of the church, where the
light was smiting in now at a great gap and the crumbled stones lay
scattered across the floor. Up above he saw a broken fragment of the
roof that hung and swayed so its motion fascinated him. Of a sudden, as
he gazed stupidly, he became aware the cannonading had ceased, and he
wondered that he had not marked it before. Then he heard again his
father’s curt, quick tones, and saw the troopers quit their stations to
gather opposite the gap in the wall.
Getting to his feet, Hugh went down to join the others. At the west door
he perceived Von Holzberg standing with six men, but he passed on into
the nave of the church. There at the gap the men had fallen into double
line, a battered, haggard little company, some in their breastpieces,
some in their shirt-sleeves. There were bandaged arms and bandaged heads
among them, Hugh noted, but the carabines were all in hand, and each had
his sword, too, ready at his side. Captain Gwyeth was with Ridydale,
peering out at the gap in the wall, but now he turned to his men. “As
you see, they have made a practicable breach in our walls,” he began.
“Now they have it in mind to storm us, and afterward knock us o’ the
head. So it behooves you fight for your worthless skins. And in any
case, if they destroy us, see to it a good crew of these cursed rebels
go to hell before us.”
Then he looked about till his eyes fell on Hugh, and, coming to him, he
took him by the shoulder and brought him over to front the troop. Hugh
faced the men he had once served, and he saw Unger on the farther end of
the front line, and Saxon, with his head tied up, and Jeff Hardwyn, who
looked at him and fumbled with his carabine. Somehow his eyes rested on
Hardwyn, as the captain began speaking briskly: “I’m thinking some of
you know this gentleman, my son. He has risked his neck twice to break
through the lines and share this fight with us. So I set him in Cornet
Foster’s place, and you will follow him as your officer. Cornet Gwyeth,
you will take six men and make good the north door.”
Right on that, some one, Hugh guessed it was Saxon, broke into a cheer,
which the others took up. Under cover of the noise, Captain Gwyeth,
still holding Hugh by the shoulder, whispered him hurriedly: “When they
come in, and we have the last fight, try to get to me. We’ll fight it
out back to back, if it be God’s will.”
Just there Ridydale, standing by the breach in the wall, spoke: “Captain
Gwyeth, the rebels are advancing up the hill.”