OF THE STAND IN THE TRENCHES.
“What is the hour?”
“Somewhat after three. The bell in the Cathedral struck the hour as we
left the gate. ´Tis very dark.”
"And colder than frost. The wind blows from the river like a
stepmother´s breath, and dries the very marrow in your bones. On my
word, Orme, I thought the relief would never come. Here have I been
since the last night, getting what warmth I could from the shelter of
the rampart, and keeping these fellows from sleeping on guard, while my
own eyes rebelled against this sentry duty and closed in spite of me.
I´m sleepy, and hungry, and tired, and am going to take a lesson in
swearing from wicked Will Talbot:
“Oh, roll me down the brae and walk me up the hill,
And all the while you carry me, I´m only standing still.”
“´Tis well to have a merry heart, Jack.”
“And, prithee, why should I not be merry if I choose? Who could be sad
with six hours of guard in the twenty-four; a measurable quantity of
meat and French butter, with a qualified modicum of very thin beer, and
a chance of getting knocked on the head every hour in the day. Is not
that enough for one man, my dear Ajax, or will nothing satisfy you? Here
we have been for a fortnight at this work, and only twice have we
measured swords with the red-coated ruffians yonder, who prefer to bowl
us over with their long guns and bury us in the mortar yonder. This
soldiering is but dull work.”
“We are like to find it brisk enough if all that I hear is true. There
is talk in the camp yonder of a general onset on our position here at
the Windmill, and when I left, Baker was sending a reinforcement to
strengthen the guard. Have you heard aught in front?”
“Not a mouse stirring. Did I think it true, I should even snatch what
sleep I could in the earthworks here, and be ready to stand by you when
the knocks were going. But following the voice of wisdom for once, I´ll
even go home to bed and leave you to enjoy that frosty wind by yourself.
Should the attack come you´ll find me among the first.”
Giving a brief word of command to his company, the young fellow went
away whistling, and left Gervase Orme to his solitary meditations as he
paced up and down the rampart, peering out into the darkness, and
devoutly longing for the first streak of sunrise. Windmill Hill was a
post of great importance and in some measure the key of the position.
The highest point of the river to the south of the city, it entirely
commanded the town; and only a fortnight before the enemy had made a
bold effort to drive in the guard, and entrench themselves upon it. In
this they had failed after a stubborn resistance, and since then the
position had been strengthened by throwing up a rampart that ran across
the summit of the hill almost to the river. The guards had been greatly
strengthened, for the recollection of the first attack had taught the
garrison a salutary lesson which they could not afford to throw away. It
had become a thing of vital importance that the hill should not fall
into the hands of the enemy, and from some source--it was scarcely known
what--they had learned that the Irish intended to attack the position in
force, and make a bold push once for all, to secure it.
Six weeks of hardship had had their effect on Gervase Orme. He had grown
accustomed to danger, and had come to look upon death as an event that
happened every day, and might be his own lot tomorrow. It had come to
seem natural now that he should waken up in the morning to find his
sword at his pillow, and listen all day to the thunder of the guns in
the batteries on Creggan and the Waterside. Successful resistance had
awakened in him as in others, an intense enthusiasm he was far from
feeling the first day he had stood on the walls and watched the white
tents stretching out on every side. At that time resistance had seemed
almost hopeless; it was their duty to fight for a cause they looked on
as sacred; but now they had measured their strength with the foe, and
they had proved the valour of the fighting-men who manned the walls and
lined the ramparts, and if relief came while there was a barrel of meal
in the magazine they would make good their defence.
It was a fine thing to see the alacrity and courage with which the rough
yeomen and citizens went into the fight, and the spirit with which they
handled their muskets. Grumble at times they would, for horse flesh is
but poor meat to the Anglo-Saxon mind; and French butter (only a
cheerful pseudonym for tallow) and meal were somewhat apt to turn upon
the stomach of a morning. But even the grumblers did their duty, and the
cordial of religion was dealt out in plentiful doses in the Cathedral
twice a day. It was a sight to see Walker, his duty as a stout Colonel
of foot being laid aside for the nonce, mounting the pulpit with his
martial air, and drilling his flock in the duty of resistance. When the
sermon was over, and they came crowding through the door--men, women,
and children--there was a look in their eyes and a catching of their
breath, that spoke volumes for the powers of the homely orator and the
earnestness of his appeal. There was indeed nothing wanting to inflame
their zeal and strengthen their pride. The Celt was in their eyes an
inferior and a servile race, and his religion the superstition of the
scarlet woman. On them hung the fate of the kingdom, and if Londonderry
fell, Enniskillen must also surrender, and Ireland would go with James
from the Cove of Cork to Bloody Foreland. Their brethren in England--so
they said--would not let them die of want; William of Nassau was a
soldier trained in arms who knew the importance of the place they held,
and he was not one to let the grass grow under his feet. Any morning
they might rise to see a friendly fleet in the river; and they fought on
from day to day with the roofs crashing over their heads, and the first
pinch of want warning them of what might be in store.
We left Gervase Orme pacing the ramparts with his heavy cloak gathered
closely round him, looking anxiously towards the enemy´s lines. There
was not a sound to be heard; only a light glanced here and there for a
moment and then vanished into the darkness. The men lay in the trenches,
screening themselves from the sharp wind, for though it was now early in
June the nights were cold. It was weary work, this waiting for the
morning, for a light that would never break, and an attack that would
never come.
Then Gervase seated himself on an empty cask, with his face toward the
bitter east wind, and fell to thinking of Dorothy Carew. It was a habit
that had grown on him of late, for it was wonderful how it shortened the
hours, and relieved the tedium of his guard. He had seen her frequently
during the last six weeks, and though no word of love had ever been
spoken between them, he had striven to show her that he looked on her as
something more than a friend, and he thought that, though with maidenly
reserve, she returned his affection. He was seldom able to see her
alone, for Lady Hester was always anxious to see the young soldier fresh
from duty with his news of how the siege was going; and though Gervase
often longed for a tender _tête-à-tête_ he seldom managed to secure it.
How he had come to evoke the ill-will of Jasper Carew he did not know,
but the latter took little pains to conceal his enmity and on more than
one occasion, only the presence of his sister prevented Gervase from
coming to an open breach with him. He took no part in the defence, and
openly laughed at his sister´s zeal. And yet Gervase knew that he was no
coward, for he had come through several affairs of honour, and pinked
his man very creditably. But however much Gervase might have desired his
friendship, he saw no other way to peace than to avoid him so far as he
could, and let his gibes pass unnoticed when they met. He could see that
Dorothy was anxious to atone for her brother´s coldness, and that was in
itself compensation enough. And as Gervase sat on his cask, and drew his
cloak closer about him, he saw again the tender smile in her eyes and
felt the pressure of her hand. What mattered this dreary guard and the
long watching and the hardship of his life, if she loved him?
So wrapped up was he in his meditations that the sky was all flecked
with gray and barred with red, and the morning wind was blowing round
him, before he awakened from his dream. The men of his company were
walking in twos and threes below him, or were still lying crouched under
the shelter of the ramparts. He himself was numb and stiff with cold,
and as he rose to stretch his limbs his eye caught sight of the grey
tents in the valley below him. The clear note of a solitary bugle was
sounding fitfully. The camp was already astir, and away to the left
several companies of horse were moving rapidly toward the strand. In a
moment his dreams were dissipated and he was keenly on the alert. It
seemed to him that a great body of men were being massed in the hollow.
Already, as it grew clearer, he could see them gathering round the
standards, and the grey glint of steel came fitfully through the morning
mists. There was not a moment to lose, for he did not doubt that the
attack was about to be made in force, and if they were to hold their
ground, it would need every available fighting man the garrison could
send out to defend the whole line of the rampart. He could not be
mistaken; the attack they had been looking for so long, was about to
come at last.
Leaping hastily into the trench, he collected the men of his command. He
spoke to them briefly and to the point. “Now,” he said, throwing off his
cloak and drawing his sword, “Sinclair, you will make for the City with
what haste you can. Tell Baker we must stand a general attack, and that
the horse are gone toward the river. I think the grenadiers are upon the
left moving toward the bog. You, Bowden, will pass the alarm along the
line, and I myself will even go forward to reconnoitre, and see more
clearly what their meaning is. Now, my lads, see that your priming is
fresh, for we must stand to it this day like men.”
The note of alarm spread rapidly down the ramparts, and wherever the
little companies were gathered the excitement grew deep and strong, and
preparations were made for the coming struggle. There was now no longer
any reason to doubt that the enemy were preparing to make a general
advance. In the grey dawn they could see dark masses in motion to the
right and to the left, and hear the drums beating their lively call, and
the note of the bugle ringing out clear and loud.
Dropping from the rampart Gervase crept down the hillside, taking
advantage of the straggling line of defence that ran zig-zag down the
hill in the direction of the enemy. As he drew nearer and bent his ear
to the ground, he could hear the measured tread of marching feet and the
ring of iron hoofs. The dawn had come up with a leap; the light was now
broad and clear, and lying screened by the shelter of the fence, he
could see the different regiments rapidly taking up their position with
as much order as the irregularities of the ground would permit. What
their strength was he could not rightly estimate, but the regiment
before him was Butler´s foot, and on the left were Nugent´s grenadiers.
He could hear the hoarse word of command shouted down the ranks and the
rattle of the firelocks as the men shouldered their guns. Already they
were in motion. There was not a moment to be lost if the rampart was to
be kept that day. With the speed of a deer he made his way back to the
lines, calling out as he came up, and took the deep trench at a bound.
“They are coming,” he said, clambering up the breastwork; “they are
coming, and will be up in a quarter of an hour. We must give them a warm
welcome here. Bring out the powder, and remember to fire low; we are not
shooting snipe to-day, and must not waste a shot.”
He looked anxiously toward the city for the support that had been
promised, for he knew the little body of men who surrounded him could
not stand for a moment against the force in front of them. But the city
was all astir. The Cathedral bell was pealing out its warning summons,
and already a stream of men was pouring from the Bishop´s-gate without
order or formation. And they were not a moment too soon, for the enemy
came pouring up the hillside, a dark, crimson wave that seemed to
undulate, swaying with a slow uncertain motion, as it advanced.
The men stood within the shelter of the ramparts clutching their muskets
and watching far below them the enemy advancing slowly to the assault.
“I´m thinking I could put a brace of slugs into yon young cockerel with
the feathers in his bonnet,” said a tall, raw-boned man of Down,
glancing along the barrel of the fowling piece he carried, and turning
to Gervase with an inquiring look. “It were a pity not to let them have
a foretaste of what they´ll get by and by.”
“You must not draw a trigger till they are close up; then you may bring
him down if you will. God be praised! here come the reinforcements. I´m
glad to see you, Colonel Baker, with all my heart. They would scarce
have waited for you had you tarried.”
“Tis very well done, Mr. Orme. You deserve no small praise for your
watchfulness. This had been a serious business had they caught us
napping, but there is not a man in the camp yonder who is worth a pinch
of powder, and they come on like so many drunken drabs. Now we will show
the rogues what they may expect when they call on honest men at home.”
Rapidly and with a joyful alacrity he drew up the men into three ranks,
rank behind rank, and bade them look carefully to the loading of their
pieces, and not to waste their shot. Then he directed the first rank
that they should wait till the enemy came within forty paces of the
rampart, and when he gave the word they should fire their volley
steadily and all together; that having fired the second rank should take
their place, and that they in turn should give way to the third. The
simple measure was easily understood, and the men smiled in silence as
they handled their muskets and waited for the word.
“The women are coming to see how you have done, my sons,” Baker said,
“but I think you will not want their help to-day. Yonder fellows are but
three to one; you could spare them greater odds than that and beat them
still. I would wager a golden guinea never a man of them will touch the
rampart.”
The enemy had advanced to within a hundred yards of the ramparts and
then halted to complete their formation, which had been broken by the
straggling fences of which we have already spoken. The silence behind
the earthworks had been so complete that they looked for an easy victory
over the guards on duty there. It was now broad day, and the defenders
could see all along the line their enemies hastening to the attack. With
a loud cheer the latter advanced at the double, and were close upon the
ramparts when they were met by a sudden spurt of fire that ran
simultaneously along the line, and by a shower of bullets that brought
them to a stand. But the check was only momentary. Believing that they
had now to deal with empty barrels, they sprang forward with redoubled
ardour, and were within a few paces of that fatal rampart when a second
time the leaden hail smote them with withering effect. They halted in
confusion and fired wildly into the smoke-covered curtain. Above the
clamour and din rang out the voice of Baker--
“Steadily, my children, they are nearly satisfied. Advance! Fire!”
And the men of Londonderry with sublime faith in their captain and with
the steadiness of men on the parade ground, took their place and gave
another volley. Then the foe broke up into confusion and lost all
semblance of formation. Many of them threw away their muskets and made
what speed they could for the rear; while others encouraged by the
shouts of their officers and still full of fight, made for the ramparts,
and leaping into the trench climbed up the curtain with muskets clubbed.
But they had little chance of success. All along the line they were met
by an enemy flushed with the first success and having the advantage of a
superior position. In some places, indeed, they succeeded in topping the
line, and a hand to hand fight took place, but they could not keep their
hold on the ground they had won. They were driven back into the trench
with their assailants on the top of them. But for the most part the
garrison stood stoutly by the ramparts, meeting their enemy with the
muzzles of their guns and a steady fire.
Then Baker turned to Gervase with his face all aglow. “Should you live a
thousand years you will never see a prettier fight than that. ´Tis over
now, for we have taken the heart out of them and they will not form
again. I pray God we have done as well elsewhere, but I fear the horse
have pressed us harder by the Waterside. You must not tarry here. Away
thither like the wind, and tell Gladstanes that I can spare him a half
dozen companies if he need their help.”
However reluctant to leave till he had seen the end, Gervase obeyed and
made what haste he could down the line of the ramparts towards the
strand. All along the earthworks the men were standing steadily to their
guns, but down by the river the fight was going hard.
Two hundred horse, gentlemen, for the most part, of high spirit and
rank, had taken a solemn oath, as the chroniclers say, to top the line
or perish in the attempt. Gervase came up as they were about to make the
charge and delivered his message to the stout soldier who commanded
there. “Not another man do I want,” was the answer; “we have enough for
glory. Now, my lads, here they come, and let them have it!”
Carrying faggots before them with which to fill up the trench, the horse
came on at a gallop, the steel swords and scarlet coats making a gallant
show. Dashing up within thirty yards of the ramparts, they suddenly
wheeled to the right, and made for the open space between the rampart
and the river, intending to take the enemy on the flank. As they came on
they were met by a storm of bullets that seemed without effect, for
barely a man went down. Then Gervase heard a familiar voice call
out--the deep trumpet tone of Macpherson: “They carry armour under their
gay clothes. Aim at the horses and we´ll take the riders afterwards.”
But the order had come too late. Already they had passed the line of
defence and gained the open ground within. Hastily clambering out of the
trench, the defenders rushed to meet them with pikes and muskets, in a
compact and stubborn body.
Gervase was looking about him for some more serviceable weapon than the
small sword he carried, when he saw Simon Sproule making prodigious
efforts to lift himself out of the trench under the weight of his heavy
firelock. The face of the little linen-draper was ghastly pale, the
perspiration was running in streams down his face, and his eyes were
like those of a startled hare. Reaching him his hand, Gervase helped him
to his feet.
“Now,” he said, “steady yourself and play the man. If you attempt to
flee, which I verily think you do, I´ll even run you through the body,
and tell your wife why I did it.”
“Never fear for me, Mr. Orme; I´ll stand by you like a man; but this is
a fearful trade for a citizen. D--do you think they´ll run?”
“We´ll do our best to make them,” answered Gervase, picking up a pike;
“follow me, and do the best you can.”
“Never fear for me.”
The horsemen came on gallantly, but could make no impression on the iron
wall that met them at every point. The horses went down in dozens, but
the riders leaping to their feet still strove to make good the vow they
had taken, and fought with a stubborn spirit. On every side they were
surrounded by that cruel wall of pikes and scythes, and a spirit as
stubborn as their own. Then they were broken up into little knots, and
it became a hand to hand fight in which the advantage was altogether on
the side of the garrison.
Gervase had lost sight of Simon Sproule in the melée, and, indeed, had
altogether ceased to think of him, having business enough of his own to
attend to at present. As yet the fortune of the fight hung in the
balance. Back to back, and shoulder to shoulder, stood the men of the
garrison, handling their muskets and pikes with the steadiness and
precision of veterans. Never since the siege began and the first shot
had been fired, had there been a fight like this. It was dry work and
warm work, and Gervase felt his throat baked like a kiln. He heard some
of the men crying round him for water and saw them go staggering, faint
and exhausted, to the rear. And though Gervase did not see it there was
help for them there. The women of the city, who had been watching with
anxious hearts from the walls, could bear the suspense no longer, and
regardless of the bullets and cannon shot from across the river, had
come down to their aid with food and drink. It was even said, and the
chroniclers record it with a touch of pride, that they took their share
in the conflict, and fought with stones with as bold a heart as the
stoutest among the men. Certain it is that they put new life into the
weary fellows who were tired of hacking at the steel breastplates and
head-pieces, and who for the most part had not tasted food since the
evening before. It seemed to Gervase that the slaughter of horses and
brave men would never cease. No sooner was one down than another had
taken his place, hewing for his life at those pikes that would not bear
back an inch.
“Stand close and strike home,” a voice would cry, and a little knot of
horsemen went rolling to the ground. There was now no hope of escape for
them. A dense phalanx of pikemen and musketeers had drawn between them
and the entrance to the lines. Back to back each man fought only for his
life. No quarter was given or asked, but each man went down where he
stood.
For nearly two hours by the sun the battle had been raging, and the end
was now at hand. Gervase had been carried in the melée down toward the
river, and was making his way back toward the ramparts among the
slaughtered horses and dead and wounded men, when he saw half a dozen
pikemen surrounding a dismounted horseman, who was making gallant play
with his sword. Anxious to save his life Gervase was about to interfere,
when he heard the sound of his voice raised in disdain of his
assailants; “Five to one! _ventre de Dieu_, I care not for you all. A
gentleman of France has never learned to yield.”
It was the voice of his friend De Laprade. Gervase was just in time;
another minute and he would have been too late. Pushing his way into
their midst, he warded off a blow that was aimed at the Vicomte, and
loudly commanded his assailants to forbear. Covered as he was with blood
and grime, De Laprade did not at first recognize him, but still stood on
the defensive.
“This gentleman is my friend,” cried Gervase, placing himself before him
and guarding him with the pike he still carried. “I will not have him
touched.”
Then as the men fell back willingly enough, the Vicomte recognized his
deliverer, and flinging away his sword, held out his hand. “There is no
need for this now,” he said, “and I could not surrender it even to you.
This is the second time, Mr. Orme, I have to thank you for my life. I
grow weary of your kindness.”
“I am very troublesome without doubt,” Gervase answered with a smile. “I
hope you have not been touched.”
“Not the prick of a pin point, but these men of yours fight like devils
and against all the rules of war.”
“They are learning their trade,” Gervase answered, “and you cannot
expect beginners to be perfect But they have made a complete rout of
your horse, and left but few of them to carry back the story to the
camp. They have got Butler yonder, and are carrying him to the town.”
“Whither, I suppose, I must bear him company? I am weary of the camp and
would prefer to visit your city for a change. You do not eat your
prisoners?”
“It has not come to that yet, but I think it may. Now, Vicomte, if I can
do aught to lighten your captivity be assured I will do my best to that
end. But in the meantime, I must send you in with the guard as my work
is not yet finished.”
“Put yourself to no inconvenience for me,” said the Vicomte cheerfully,
“I am quite content.”
Placing De Laprade in custody of the guard which had already secured the
other prisoners, and telling them that he was under obligations to the
gentleman, whom, he hoped, they would treat with consideration, Gervase
went to assist in looking after the wounded.
Only three or four of the horsemen had succeeded in cutting their way
back to the camp, and it was a matter of congratulation that so complete
a victory had been won with so little loss. A great victory, won in the
open field against the very flower of the enemy´s cavalry and with no
great superiority of numbers, was a thing of which they might be fairly
proud. The women were looking after those who had fallen, many of whom
had crawled back to the trench and were waiting there to be carried to
the city. A crowd of soldiers were gathered round their colonel, who was
reading them a striking homily on the lessons of the day.
Gervase did what he could for the brave fellows who were lying round
him, and was about to make his way back to the city, when he came upon
Mistress Sproule looking the picture of despair.
“Oh! Mr. Orme, for the love of God, have you seen Simon anywhere? I´m
told he was here among you in the very front of the fighting, but I
cannot find him yonder, and I cannot find him here.”
Then Gervase remembered having helped the little citizen out of the
trench, and though he did not think there was much likelihood of his
being very forward in the melée, he was concerned to hear that he had
not made his appearance to receive his wife´s congratulations on their
successful stand, as he probably would have done had he been in the land
of the living.
“I saw him,” he answered, “when we were going into the fight, but I have
not seen him since. Never fear for Simon; you will find him safe and
sound, I have no doubt. He will have gone back to the city.”
“That he hath not--he´s killed, I tell you. Had he been alive he would
have been yonder where the Colonel is preaching his sermon. He was ever
fond of preaching.”
Gervase was heartily sorry to think the little man should have been
knocked on the head, and did all he could to comfort his inconsolable
spouse. “Come with me,” he said, “and I´ll show you where I left him.
We´ll make inquiries by the way, and you´ll find him, I warrant, safe
and sound, as I say.”
But no one had seen Simon either in the fight or afterwards, nor could
anyone tell what had become of him, though he was well known for a
courageous and eloquent little man, ever forward with bold counsels.
Then they came to the trench where Gervase had lifted him up with his
musket on his shoulder, and as they stood there looking up and down,
Gervase caught sight of a figure lying half hidden under the shelter of
the rampart. Leaping into the trench he ran down and bent over the
prostrate body. The face was lying buried in the arms, and the feet were
drawn up almost to the chin. Beside him lay his musket. There was no
doubt of his identity; it was Simon Sproule. Gervase was almost afraid
to touch him; then he bent down and turned him slightly over.
The little man raised his face with the fearful look in his eyes that
Gervase had seen before. “Don´t hurt me,” he cried, “I surrender
peacefully. Why, God bless me! Mr. Orme, is it you? Is it all over, sir?
and have we held our own? It hath been a dreadful day. I do not think I
shall ever walk again.”
“Your wife is here to look for you, Simon,” Gervase said, with a gravity
he found it hard to maintain; “she will look after your wound; where is
it?”
“Oh! it is even all over--from the crown of the head to the sole of the
foot. This hath been a terrible time for me. Thank God! Elizabeth, you
have come to see the last of me.”
Raising himself upon his elbow, he looked at his wife with so forlorn
and piteous an expression that Gervase imagined for a moment that he was
wronging him by his suspicions, and that the little man had in reality
been wounded. It never for a moment occurred to the mind of his wife
that he had crept under the parapet to be out of the way of evil, and it
was with grief and consternation that she began to investigate his
injuries. With the aid of Gervase he was lifted out of the trench, and
though no wound could be found on his person that would account for his
condition, his wife continued to ply him with questions which he as
resolutely refused to answer.
“I think,” he said, after a while, “I shall try to stand. I thought my
back was broken, but the feeling hath come back into my extremities, and
I may yet recover the use of my faculties. Thank God for our merciful
deliverance!”
“Had you been killed, Simon,” said his wife, “I should have grieved
sorely, but it would have been my consolation that you fell in the way
of your duty.”
“Truly that is the case,” her husband answered in the same tone, “but I
have, I hope and trust been mercifully spared to you and the children. I
think, though, I have got this day what will shorten my arm for the
future. I even fear I have seen my last fight.”
“I am thinking,” said his wife, whose strong common sense was gradually
overcoming her alarm, “that you are more frightened than hurt. I would
just like to know how it came that we found you in the trench with never
a scratch on your body?”
“And you´ll know that,” said Simon, plucking up heart and sending his
imagination on an airy flight, a course his mind would seldom take.
“You will remember, Mr. Orme, how you and I were even plunged in the
thick of it, with those swearing devils swinging their long swords and
cracking their pistols about our ears. I saw you borne forward and like
to come to evil, but I could not help you, strive as I might. I had work
enough of my own to save my head, and I and some others--who they were I
know not--were borne back here. We made a stout defence, but I was
struck or pushed from behind and only remember falling back heels over
head into the trench thinking I should never see wife or children again.
And now, God be thanked! we have gained a great victory, and that let
none gainsay.”
“The day is hardly over,” said Gervase, who could not restrain his
amusement; “they are still pushing us hard in the ramparts down by the
Bogside, and I heard a whisper that our men had been driven in there. If
you feel able we might go thither and see if we cannot strike a brave
blow together.”
“The Lord forbid--I mean--that is--I have had my share of this day´s
fight, and so look you, Mr. Orme, I say with all courage, I think I´ll
even turn my steps homeward, if my wife will lend me her arm, and will
not keep you waiting here. You are young and lusty, and hot blood must
have hot blood.”
Mistress Sproule who was herself so courageous, that she was unable to
suspect cowardice in others, still imagined that Simon had sustained
some internal injury, and with great tenderness and solicitude took him
under her arm and led him to the city.
This was a memorable day in the annals of the siege. The men of the
garrison had fought with heroic courage, and only in the intrenchment by
the Bog had there for a moment been any doubt as to the result. There,
indeed, the defenders had been taken by surprise, and the grenadiers had
gained possession of the trenches, but only to hold them for an hour.
That night the bell in the Cathedral rang out a joyous peal, and hearts
that were beginning to despond took fresh courage.
Starvation and disease were now the only enemies they feared, but as
they gathered on the walls that night and shook one another by the hand
in joyful congratulation, they were unable to foresee the horror and
despair that lay before them and the suffering they had yet to undergo.
Gervase had supped early and was about to retire to bed, when, with a
humble knock, Simon Sproule opened the door and came into the room.
“Elizabeth thinks I am safe in bed,” he said apologetically, “but I
could not go to sleep till I had seen you. I would not ask you to strain
your conscience, but I will take it as a favour if you will tell her
that I have done my best, which is but the plain and simple truth.”
“But how can I do that, Simon?”
“With a full heart, sir. I did my best though I´m free to admit, it was
far from well. I can march with the bravest and carry my musket like a
man, but when the bullets begin to fly, and I catch sight of those
murdering sword-blades, the Lord knows my knees are loosened under me
and my heart dies in my breast. And all the while I would, if I might,
be up and playing the hero, but I cannot. ´Tis a fearful position for an
honest man to be placed in; my wife who is as bold as a lion itself
thinks there is not a braver man in the city, and the neighbours that I
have lived among all my life, cry out ‘There goes the gallant Sproule,´
and all the while I´m but a pitiful coward. I declare to God this life
will kill me, Mr. Orme, and I want your aid and counsel----”
“Make a clean breast of the matter, Simon, and tell them how you feel.”
“No, that I cannot do now. I have boasted like the Philistine and talked
loudly like a man of war and how can I, who am an elder in my church and
an honest burgher that may sometime be an alderman, confess that I am
but a liar and a braggart. I could never hold up my head again among my
neighbours; and for my wife--no, Mr. Orme, I cannot do it.”
“Then I am afraid I cannot help you. You know”, and Gervase smiled
significantly, “you have been wounded, and such wounds are ever long in
healing.”
“A month?” Simon asked doubtfully.
“I trust to heaven less than that, but even a month if need be.”
“You have struck the mark for me and saved my credit,” cried Simon
joyfully. “Twill be hard work but there is no help for it. And you will
lend me your countenance as far as your conscience will let you?”
“Nay,” said Gervase, “I cannot be a partner in your fraud, but no man
will know from me that you are not as stout as Murray himself, and that
you have not got a wound as deep as the well of St. Colomb. I can go no
further than that. Now, Simon, away to bed, for Mistress Sproule must
not find the wounded knight keeping his vigil here.”
“Remember, Mr. Orme, I rely on your discretion,” cried Simon, halting
for a moment at the door; “and I think with your help I shall be able to
save my reputation.”