Despite the night’s rest, the horses were stiff after the long struggle
with rain and mud the day before. If the situation was to be saved by
a race, there seemed little chance of success with animals so tired and
discouraged. With the exception of the departure from Oxford, the riders
were more silent and melancholy than at any other time during their
journey together. They had discussed the case in all its bearings the
previous night, before the blazing fire, and had come to the conclusion
that it would be safer to part. Armstrong was now in a country that he
knew reasonably well, and he had no need to ask his direction from any
chance comer, which was an advantage to a fugitive. They had agreed to
deflect toward the east and bid good-bye to each other at Kirby Stephen,
he striking northwest to Penrith, and she taking the main road east,
entering Durham at Barnard Castle. There was no blinking the fact
that while a Parliamentarian trooper might pass through this land
unquestioned, especially as so many soldiers were making their way
North, a trooper with a beautiful young woman of aristocratic appearance
would certainly cause comment and excite curiosity. The nearer they came
to Carlisle, the greater would be the danger of embarrassing questions.
They had a wild country to traverse, bleak hills and moorland, and the
roads as bad as they could be; but although they left Clitheroe at
five o’clock it was past noontide before they reached Kirby Stephen, a
distance of less than forty miles. They had met no one, and so far as
the morning section of the journey was concerned, the road to Scotland
was clear enough. At the squalid inn of Kirby Stephen they partook of
what each thought was their last meal together for a long time to come,
and then, in spite of her protests, he accompanied her east out of the
town and into the lonely hill country. At last she pulled up her horse,
and impetuously thrust out her right hand, dashing away some tear-drops
from her long lashes with her left.
“Good bye,” she cried, the broken voice belieing the assumed
cheerfulness of the tone. “I cannot allow you to come farther. You must
now bid farewell to your scout.”
“Dear lass, it breaks my heart to part with you in this way,” stammered
William, engulphing her small hand in both of his, then drawing her to
him. “It shames my manhood to let you go this wild road alone. I must
see you to your own door, in spite of all the Cromwells that ever broke
their country’s laws.”
“No, no!” she pleaded. “We went over all that last night, and settled
it. I am safe enough. It is you who are in danger. You will come to me
when this trouble is passed and done with.”
“By Saint Andrew, I’ll come to you as soon as this letter is in
Traquair’s hands.”
“Again, no, no! Cromwell is a hard man, and if you steal through his
cordon you must not come within his power in a hurry.”
“No fear, lass, he dare not touch me. Once my foot’s in Scotland, I’m
like that ancient chap you told me of; I draw virtue from the soil and
am unassailable. Cromwell wants nothing of me when this packet escapes
him. I’ll turn back from Traquair the moment I give it to him.”
“I do not permit such folly; remember that.” She wept a little, then
laughed a little. “I do not wish to see you until your hair is grown
again. My Scottish Samson, you must come to me with flowing locks, as
when I first saw you, so that I may forget I have been your Delilah.”
For answer he kissed her protesting lips again and again, then she hid
her face in his sombre cloak and sobbed quietly. The patient horses, now
accustomed to any vagaries on the part of their owners, stood quietly
close together.
“Good-bye, good-bye, good-bye,” she cried breathlessly, then whisked
herself from him and was gone, never looking back, but waving her hand
as she rode. He sat motionless as she had left him. At the top of the
distant hill, outlined against the dark sky, she drew in and stood.
Dimly he saw the flutter of something white in her waving hand, and
he drew from his breast her own handkerchief and waved in return. He
pressed his hand across his eyes, and, when he saw more clearly, only
the blank sky and the bare hilltop confronted him.
“Now curse the man who tries to stop me,” growled Armstrong through his
set teeth. “I have been too mild with these ruffians. I’ll break him
across the pommel of my saddle as if he were a rotten spear.”
The rain began to fall once more as he passed again through Kirby
Stephen, but he paid slight heed to it and pushed on to Penrith, where
he bought a day’s provender, so that he would have no need to make
request for food as he neared the danger spot. Just before darkness set
in, the sky cleared somewhat, and he saw ahead of him the gloomy bulk
of Carlisle castle. He turned aside from the main road, and before the
night became black found quarters for himself in a barn that contained
some fodder for his horse. He threw himself down on the fragrant hay and
slept peacefully.
In the morning the rain was again falling steadily. He reconnoitered his
position. There was no dwelling near, and he determined to let his horse
rest all that day and the next night, so that he should be in trim for
anything that might happen when the pinch came. A day more or less could
make little difference with the effectual guarding of the bridge, which
was now doubtless held as strongly as it could be. He was convinced that
success must depend ultimately on the speed of his horse, and he could
not enter the contest with an exhausted animal. Bruce was never so
carefully tended as on the day before the crisis, and as his intelligent
head turned toward his master, he seemed to know that something unusual
was afoot. On the second day Armstrong thought it best not to enter
Carlisle too early in the morning. He wished to mingle with a crowd and
not to ride the streets alone. The second night in the barn, with the
rest of the day and night before, had left both himself and his horse
fit to face anything that might ensue. The day was fine; the clouds had
cleared away, and the sun was shining on the sodden ground. When he came
in sight of the main road he saw what appeared to be an army marching
North. He halted at the cross-road, in doubt regarding his next move.
The men, in a long line, were on foot, trudging sullenly, wearily
forward, water-soaked and mud-covered. No man looked up or seemed to
take an interest in anything but the dismal work in hand. Far on toward
the gates of Carlisle rode a group of horsemen, and at the rear another
squad of mounted men encouraged the laggards to keep up for a little
longer. Armstrong sat on his horse until the latter company was abreast
of him.
“That is Carlisle ahead, I hope,” said one of the officers.
“Yes,” answered Armstrong. “Is this the Manchester contingent?”
“Yes. Brutal weather we’ve had,” growled the officer.
“It was that,” assented William, cheerfully, falling into line with
them, “but it seems on the mend.”
“Aye, now that our march is finished.”
“Oh, you are likely to go farther afield, across country, when you reach
Carlisle.”
“I suppose so,” replied the officer, gruffly, not too good-natured
over the prospect. No one asked Armstrong who he was, and the elaborate
fiction he had prepared to account for himself was not called for. The
troopers were worn out by their contest with the elements and the roads,
and all curiosity was dead in them. There stood Carlisle in front, and
that was enough. The foot soldiers struggled on, in no definite order of
formation, each doing the best he could. The officers rode silent behind
them. Thus they all marched into Carlisle without question, and in their
company the man the army was seeking. After a slight delay and pause in
the streets the new troops moved on to the castle. Armstrong found no
difficulty in falling behind, being thus free of the town. He knew every
turn of every street and lane in the place as well as he knew the inside
of his own pocket. He resolved to ride leisurely to the bridge, cut
through the guard, if it did not prove too strong, and then trust to the
spur. The town was thronged with military, but no one paid the slightest
attention to him. As he jogged along very nonchalantly, more contented
with the prospect than a few days before he would have thought possible,
Bruce awoke the echoes by neighing loudly.
“Now, old man, what did you that for?” whispered William.
He looked ahead and was stricken speechless for the moment by seeing
Frances Wentworth on her horse, without doubt a prisoner, two troopers
riding on either side of her, and a young officer in front. She had
unquestionably seen him, for her brow was wrinkled with anxiety; but her
eyes gazed steadily past him into the distance. As he made toward the
party they flashed one look of appeal upon him, which said as plainly
as words, “For Heaven’s sake, ride on and do not recognize me!”--but the
young man was oblivious to everything except the fact that she was in
some trouble.
“Where are you going with this lady?” he demanded of the officer.
“You may well ask,” said the man, in no accent of pleasure. “We have
come across country to Carlisle under orders from one in authority,
and now we must hale her back to Durham, where General Cromwell is
stationed; and those are the orders of some one else.”
“But it is all a mistake,” cried William.
“That’s what I’m telling you,” said the man, with a short laugh.
“This lady is the sister of Captain Wentworth of our army.”
“So she says. Others say she is the woman who was with the Scotch
renegade. I know nothing of it and care less. I obey orders.”
“Sir,” said Frances, coldly, “I beg you not to interfere. It is a
mistake that will be explained in due time, but these men must do as
they are told. That much you should know.”
Although her words were spoken harshly enough, her eloquent eyes
were bringing him to his senses and a realization of the unwisdom and
futility of his behaviour. Before he could speak again, a sharp voice
behind him rang out: “Why are you loitering there? Get on with you!”
Without turning, he knew who the speaker was, and if he had not, the
gleam of fear in the girl’s eyes might have warned him of peril.
“This man questions my orders,” said the officer.
“No man has a right to question your orders. Who is he?”
Armstrong was edging away, but De Courcy spurred the horse he rode in
a semicircle to cut off his retreat. Instantly the Frenchman raised a
shout that echoed through the streets of the town, and arrested every
foot within hearing.
“The Scot! The Scot!” he roared. “Stop that man; never mind the woman.
After him. Sound the signal and close the bridge. The thousand pounds
are mine, by God!”
Now Bruce was doing his best down the main street of Carlisle. A dozen
shots spattered fire harmlessly, and a big bell began to toll. Armstrong
was well ahead of the troopers who followed him, and he gained ground at
every stride. The pursuers were continually augmented from each lane
and alley, and came thundering after the flying man like a charge of
cavalry. A turn in the road brought the bridge in sight, and Armstrong
saw it was guarded only at the end nearest him, and that merely by two
lone pikemen. He would mow them down like grass, he said to himself, as
he drew his sword.
“Stand aside,” he yelled. “The Scot is loose, and we’re after him.”
The men jumped aside, glad they were not called upon to arrest such a
progress as they beheld coming down upon them. It was apparently one
of their own officers who commanded them, and there was neither time
to think or question. As the horse’s hoofs struck the bridge, the
deep crash of a cannon boomed from the castle, and before the fugitive
reached the centre there arose at the other end of the bridge--he could
not guess from whence they came--a troop of horse, as if the thunder of
the gun had called the company magically from the earth. Bruce stopped
on the crown of the bridge, at a touch of the rein, quivering with
excitement, raised his head, and gave a snort of defiance at the
blockade ahead of him. Armstrong glanced back; the bridge had closed on
him like a trap, both ends stopped by forces impossible for one man to
contend against.
“That cannon-shot did it. Well planned,” he growled to himself, his
horse now drawn across the bridge, alert for the word of command
whatever it might be. Below, the swollen Eden, lipping full from bank to
bank, rolled yellow and surly to the sea. Right and left, at either end
of the bridge, stood a mass of steel-clad men, impregnable as the walls
of the castle itself. De Courcy sprang off his horse and advanced with
a valour which Armstrong, sitting there, apparently calm, had not given
him credit for.
“He’s my man,” he cried. “Shoot him dead if he raises his hand.” Then to
the Scot. “Surrender quietly. You have no chance. A score of muskets are
turned on you.”
“If they shoot, some of them will wing you. Better warn them not to
fire,” replied Armstrong mildly, as if proffering to a friend advice
which did not concern himself.
“Do you surrender?”
“Come and take me, if you are anxious for the thousand pounds. It’s
worth the money.”
The Frenchman hesitated, edging cautiously along the parapet, so that if
his friends shot he would be as much as possible aside from the line
of fire. Seemingly his confidence in their marksmanship had not been
augmented by Armstrong’s warning.
“If you raise your hand to a weapon,” said De Courcy, “they will fire on
you, and I cannot stop them. They will not wait my word.”
“I know. I shall not raise my hand.”
The Frenchman dashed forward and seized the bridle of Bruce.
“Come quietly,” he shouted.
“I will,” said Armstrong. He leaned forward; said sharply to his horse,
“Over, my lad!” and smote him a rising blow on the shoulder with his
open hand. The horse raised his powerful front, and stood poised for
a moment like a statue, then launched himself into space. As De Courcy
felt his feet leave the stones, he let go the rein and fell sprawling
on the parapet, but Armstrong leaned over and grasped him by the loose
folds of his doublet.
“Come down with me, you traitor!” he cried. There was a scream of
terror, and the next instant the river roared in Armstrong’s ears. When
he came to the surface he shook his head like a spaniel, swept the water
from his eyes, and looked aloft at the great bridge. The parapet was
lined with troopers, all stricken motionless, as if they had been
transformed to stone. De Courcy, one moment afloat, shrieked for help,
then sank again. Armstrong knew that the paralysis on the bridge would
not last long, and he turned his horse toward the bank of raw clay.
“No one in command up there, apparently,” he muttered. “We must make the
most of it, old man.”
The panting horse, breathing laboriously, essayed the bank and slipped
back. Armstrong let loose his sodden cloak and flung it on the flood,
turning the horse that he might take the ascent at an angle. The crowd
still stared at him as if it were a show they had come out to see.
Bruce, his feet once more on firm ground, shook his mane and gave forth
a wild whinny of delight. Now the voice of command came in a blast of
anger from the bridge.
“After him, you fools! What are you staring at?”
“Too late, my lads, I think,” ventured William, as he leaped his
horse across the ditch that divided the fields from the road. Once the
followers came near him, and he turned in his saddle, threatening them
with his pistols, and they, forgetting that his powder was water-soaked,
fell back.
The troopers found no difficulty in believing that a man who jumped
his horse over Carlisle bridge into the Eden was directly aided by the
devil, as had been rumoured, and they made no doubt the powder would
soon dry on such a pit-scorched favourite as he. They felt sure he could
put the pistols to deadly use in case of need.
From the moment Bruce struck his hoofs on the road the horses behind had
no chance of overtaking him. They fell farther and farther to the
rear, and at last the silvery Esk gleamed ahead, while all along, since
pursuit grew hopeless, William had been feasting his eyes on the blue
hills of Scotland. He walked his horse through the Esk, but it, too, had
been swollen by the rains, and Bruce again had to swim for it before
he reached the other side. William sprang to the ground, flung his arms
round the neck of his sterling companion, laying his cheek against that
of the horse.
“You’ve won the race, my boy. All the credit is to you, and Bruce, my
lad, poets will sing of you.” Then, with a choking in his throat, he
knelt down and kissed the soil, the sensible horse looking on in wonder.
As the young man rose to his feet and saw, on the other side of the Esk,
the troopers lining up, his mood changed, and he laughed aloud. Drawing
forth his leathern bottle, he held it aloft and shouted to them: “Come
over, lads, and I’ll give you a drink. Don’t be feared; none o’ the
water got into this.”
But the officer dared not cross the boundary, Cromwell’s orders had been
strict, so he and his men stood glum, making no response to the generous
invitation.
“Well, here’s to us a’,” cried William, raising the bottle to his lips.
“And now, my friends,” he continued, replacing the flask and springing
into the saddle, “don’t be so down in the mouth. You’ve seen a Scotchman
run, which was more than your ancestors saw at Bannockburn.”
And with that he rode for Traquair Castle.