We wait beneath the furnace-blast
The pangs of transformation,
Not painlessly doth God re-cast
And mould anew the nation.
Hot burns the fire
Where wrongs expire;
Nor spares the hand
That from the land
Uproots the ancient evil.
--Whittier.
On returning to Ledbury, Gabriel seized the opportunity of writing to
his father, begging that, if possible, he might see him before he left
the neighbourhood; and by the time he had found a messenger to despatch
to Hereford, Massey had returned from reconnoitring the surrounding
country. The Governor of Gloucester was in excellent spirits, for he had
reason to believe that Prince Rupert, having learnt of his arrival at
Ledbury, had halted in his march to join the King, and would probably
return and give him battle.
“I only wish it were possible to fortify this town,” he remarked as
he and his officers supped at the ‘Feathers,’ “but it is out of the
question.”
“Do you think we shall have a night attack, sir?” asked Gabriel.
“’Tis possible, for Prince Rupert ever loves that device. Yet he could
scarce be here to-night. Some of the men had best, however, bivouac
in the High Street: your detachment has had light work to-day, Captain
Harford, and shall be told off for this under Captain Bayly; I may need
you anon for the work of which we spoke.”
“In truth the men have had lighter work than we thought for, sir,” said
Gabriel, “for the desire to pull down Bosbury Cross seemed to be only on
the part of that fanatic Waghorn, and the Vicar pleaded for it with such
excellent good arguments that, under certain conditions, I gave leave
that it should be spared. I think, had you been there you would have
done the same, sir, and I trust you don’t disapprove of what I did.”
Massey laughed good-humouredly. “If you choose to incur the wrath of
that mad fellow ’tis no affair of mine,” he said. “And now I think of
it, the Vicar of Bosbury was a sensible and kindly man.”
“Ay, and hospitable,” said Captain Bayly. “He gave us a good supper
when we halted last winter at Bosbury. There was a pretty niece, too, I
remember.”
This remark brought upon Gabriel much laughter and raillery, which he
took in good part.
“Were you not there with one of the Hoptons?” he asked.
“Ay, to be sure, the younger one, that tried to defend Castle, Ditch
near Eastnor. He was worsted, and thrown into gaol at Hereford, but
managed to escape by leaping a wall, and rejoined us at Gloucester. I
don’t know where he is serving now.”
Supper being ended Massey retired to finish his despatches, and Gabriel
had orders to supervise the barricading of the streets with carts, which
kept the men hard at work throughout the evening.
The moon had risen, and the picturesque High Street with its gabled
black and white houses would have looked like a place in fairyland
had it not been for the grim preparations for defence and for the busy
soldiers moving to and fro, some carrying torches which threw a fitful
glare over the scene and made the bright helmets and gorgets glitter.
Everyone was far too hard at work to notice the silent spectator who,
wrapped in a long cloak and a hood of the sort much worn by aged men,
noiselessly shadowed Captain Harford wherever he went.
Waghorn’s hatred only increased when he saw how remarkably active in the
cause Gabriel could be, how swiftly the orders he shouted were carried
out, and what an excellent officer he made. It was impossible to
conceive one more in touch with his men, and the fanatic gnashed his
teeth when he reflected that one authoritative word from this young
fellow of two or three and twenty would have been sufficient to level
the cross with the ground.
By the time all was in readiness it was growing late, and Gabriel
and his successor, Captain Bayly, walked down the High Street to the
“Feathers,” at the door of which Massey lounged smoking his pipe.
“Bid them sound the bugle for the evening psalm,” he said, as the two
officers joined him. “The men had best sleep while they may.”
As the bugle rang through the little town and the men assembled in front
of the market-house, Waghorn, stepping forward like a bent and aged man,
stealthily approached Gabriel.
“Now will this sparer of crosses join in a psalm with the godly,” he
reflected, wrathfully. “Let his days be few! Even in the midst of his
sin shall he be stricken!”
Little dreaming that one of his worst foes stood close behind him,
Gabriel joined with rather a heavy heart in the psalm which seemed to
haunt him at every crisis in his life. Standing now in the street at
Ledbury with the manly voices of the soldiers ringing out into the
night, he remembered how the same words
In trouble and adversity
The Lord God hear thee still
had strengthened him as he stood waiting for the first attack at
Edgehill; how in the Cathedral long ago with his eyes on Hilary’s pale
face, the same words had fallen on his ears, and how in the porch at
Bosbury the psalm had on this very day been to them a bond of union.
No thought of personal danger came to him now, though Waghorn’s cloak
brushed his sleeve. It was of Hilary he thought, and of the peril that
threatened her.
At the close of the psalm the bugle sounded the “Last post,” and such
of the men as had quarters marched off; those who were to bivouac in the
street scattering into groups about the market-house, and a detachment
moving torch in hand to the upper end of the town where four ways met.
Massey invited Gabriel and Captain Bayly to have a cup of mulled claret
with him at the “Feathers.”
“Well, sir, if you will pardon me,” said Gabriel, who longed to be
alone, “I will ask to be excused. Truth to tell, I am dog-tired, and
would fain sleep.”
Massey slapped him on the shoulder with a laugh.
“Art sick, or in love? Eh? Beshrew me, but I believe you did leave your
heart at Bosbury to-day. I’ll be with you anon, Bayly.”
Then, drawing Gabriel aside, he moved with him to the further end of the
market-house just at the corner of the narrow alley which led steeply
up to the church. Against the pale moonlit sky they could see the dark
outline of the spire betwixt the gables of the houses.
“I have written both despatches,” he said, in a low voice, “and as we
can’t tell what the next four-and-twenty hours will bring forth I will
give them now into your keeping, yet do not start until you can bear
tidings of Prince Rupert’s doings.”
“I may take part in the battle, sir?” asked Gabriel.
“Yes, if you are minded to volunteer. I will give you word when you had
best go. And remember this: a despatch-bearer needs something more than
mere courage. He needs dexterity, diplomacy and caution. If I cannot
get speech with you, and the fighting goes against us, lose no time in
escaping and make whatever circuit you deem best to reach Windsor in
safety. I’ faith, I think we have no eyes upon us now in the dark alley,
and at the ‘Feathers’ we are over-tightly packed for privacy. Stow these
safely away, and give the Commander-in-Chief all the details I am unable
to set down. But at all costs see that both despatches are delivered.
More hangs on it than you wot of.”
Under the shelter of their military cloaks the transfer of the
despatches was easily effected, and Gabriel thrust them into the inner
pocket of his coat.
“I will guard them with my life, sir,” he said, in a low voice. “And I
thank you for trusting me with the work.”
Massey laughed.
“Small matter for thanks! ’Tis ever a risky and troublesome business.
Well, good-night to you, Captain. May your affair of love prosper!”
“Good-night, sir,” said Gabriel, forcing a laugh, as he paced slowly up
the narrow alley.
Alas! was it not a very one-sided affair of love? he thought to himself,
with a sigh. If for a moment he ventured to hope that Hilary still cared
for him, the next he remembered with a pang the way in which she had
permitted Norton to dangle about her. He wondered, uneasily, what the
Vicar could be dreaming of to allow it. Dr. Coke had seemed a shrewd as
well as a generous man, yet had evidently no notion that the Governor of
Canon Frome was playing the mischief in his very household. And then he
remembered how plausible and fascinating Norton could be, recollected,
too, that strange glimpse of a noble nature which he had now and then
seen in him, and realised that very probably the Vicar and Hilary only
knew the Colonel at his very best.
A storm of despair swept over him as more and more plainly he saw the
great danger which threatened her.
“’Tis enough to madden a man!” he said to himself, writhing at the
sense of his powerlessness to help. “It may be months or years ere I
see her again, while all the time Norton can prowl round in his devilish
fashion! Yet, if I rave like this, I shall lose all control over myself.
After all, she gave me her promise to speak--I know she will keep her
promise.”
The thought calmed him, and, pausing at the head of the alley, he
stood for a minute praying silently in his usual brief, formless,
but thoroughly heartfelt way, “God of Justice! grant her Thy help and
guidance, and keep us from all evil this night.”
The wind blew softly down the narrow alley, the dark spire pointed
silently towards heaven, and in the stillness the soul of the Puritan
grew once more strong and undaunted.
As he paced back again to the High street he did not notice the dark
figure standing in the shade of a doorway, but in the manner of one well
used to bivouacking for the night he laid his sword on the ground, put
his helmet and gorget in place of a pillow, and, with his military
cloak wrapped about him, was soon sleeping soundly in one of the shallow
recesses betwixt the wooden posts on which the market-house was raised.
At some little distance a sentry paced to and fro; Waghorn, watching his
movements with a keen and wary eye, waited patiently in his sheltered
nook until he was assured that all the soldiers slept. Then seizing
his opportunity as the sentry marched back to the farthest point of his
beat, he glided noiselessly out of the shadow, heartening himself with
fierce inward ejaculations.
“Let destruction come upon him at unawares! I dread that sentinel. But
courage! I will remember Jael, the wife of Heber, the Kenite, and my
part is not to slay, merely to filch!”
Crouching down beside Gabriel he saw that he slept profoundly. In the
cold clear moonlight it was easy to trace marks of care and suffering
in the face, and, as the fanatic stealthily unbuttoned the coat, he
reflected with grim satisfaction that worse would be in store for the
sleeper when he woke.
Just then, to his dismay, he heard the footsteps of the sentry drawing
steadily nearer, and hastily stretching himself out beside his victim
he lay motionless until the danger was past and the footsteps were once
more retreating.
Then in trembling haste he partly raised himself, thrust his hand with
the control and caution that he had acquired in his wood-carving within
the pocket of the buff coat, and had actually got hold of the despatches
when the barking of a dog in a neighbouring house roused Gabriel.
“Hullo!” he cried, sitting up and gripping Waghorn by the arm. “What are
you about, fellow?”
Waghorn in vain tried to escape; he was held as in a vice. Fortunately
for him his face was in shadow, and he was completely disguised by his
cloak and hood. With ready tact he began to whimper and moan like one
half-witted.
“’Tis naught but daft Lubin, sir; naught but daft Lubin,” he pleaded.
“Daft Lubin, indeed!” said Gabriel, impatiently. “I should think you
_were_ daft to wake up a tired man in the dead of night. Ho! sentry!
call the guard and let this crazy fellow be taken up, or he’ll be
disturbing the men again.”
Waghorn whimpering, struggling and protesting all the way up the street
that he was “naught but daft Lubin,” was remorselessly hurried away by
the guard.
Yawning and shivering with the discomfort of one roused in his first
sleep, Gabriel stretched his stiff limbs.
“What was the row?” muttered Captain Bayly, drowsily.
“Naught but an old half-witted beggar,” said Gabriel. Then suddenly
noticing that his coat was unbuttoned, he felt in consternation for
the packet, and gave an ejaculation of relief on finding the despatches
safe.
“The night grows cold,” said the other, wrapping his cloak more closely
about him.
“’Tis naught to some of the nights we had in Waller’s time,” said
Gabriel. “He took no heed of frost or damp, though now and again he was
sorry for the horses.”
With another prolonged yawn he stretched himself out face downwards, and
was soon once more wrapped in profound sleep.
Towards morning he had a curiously vivid dream. He thought he was
swimming across a blood-red lake, and he knew that he bore despatches
which should warn Cromwell of a dastardly attempt about to be made on
his life. He had nearly gained the shore when the dark hull of a boat
loomed into sight, and Norton leaned over the bows with a mocking
smile on his lips and dealt him a blow which sent him down--gaspingly
down--through the red depths. Yet he rose again to the surface, and
flung the despatches with a last dying effort to the shore; and when for
the second time he rose, the packet was being lifted from the ground by
his father. Then he finally sank and was vainly fighting for breath when
a bugle sounded “To arms!”
He sprang up instantly on the alert; the red light heralding the sunrise
suffused Ledbury, drums beat the alarm, the guard shouted, “To arms! to
arms!” and Massey’s soldiers came pouring out of their night quarters
in every direction. In two minutes Gabriel was in the stable saddling
Harkaway with his own hands, and learning with a thrill of excitement
that Prince Rupert, by a forced march through the night, was now close
to the town, and was resolved to give them battle.
Colonel Massey, in excellent spirits, came riding out of the courtyard
of the “Feathers,” and rapidly gave directions to his officers. To
Captain Bayly fell the work of defending the market-house and the
entrance to Church-alley, and soon from the upper end of the town
came sounds of incessant firing, and the hoarse cry of the contending
watchwords, “St. George!” and “Queen Mary!” from the Royalists, and “God
with us!” from the Parliament soldiers. The chief barricade higher up
the street kept the Prince’s troops at bay for some time, but in the
meanwhile an attempt was made by a detachment of the Royalists to enter
the town by Church-alley at right angles with the High Street, and some
sharp skirmishing took place there, in which Gabriel bore a part.
Scarcely had they beaten back the attack from this quarter when shouts
and uproar warned them that the main barricade had been broken down
after a resistance of about half-an-hour. This opened the High Street
for the Prince’s horse to charge, and though Massey made a gallant
counter-charge and his men fought bravely, they were borne down.
Rallying for a time by the market-house, he endeavoured to protect the
retreat of his foot, and signing to Gabriel to approach, spoke a few
hurried words to him.
“Seize your chance now,” he said, “and ride off. With a circuit you
should be able to bear them safely. We shall charge again and fall back
in good order on Gloucester.”
Without further delay he urged his men forward against the approaching
Royalists. And Gabriel obediently, but with not unnatural reluctance,
turned Harkaway’s head in the opposite direction, and was about to ride
from the town when a loud outcry made him glance to the right.
Down Church-alley rode once more a detachment of Prince Rupert’s men,
and he saw the figure of “daft Lubin” wildly accosting the leader, and
heard him shout the words: “Fire on yon officer! He bears despatches!
Fire in the King’s name!”
Urging on Harkaway, Gabriel rode like the wind. A sudden crash and a
numbness which made the reins fall from his left hand and his arm drop
powerless at his side warned him that a ball had struck him; for a
moment his eyesight threatened to fail him, but with an effort he
recovered himself, gathered up the reins in his right hand and set spurs
to his horse.
Waghorn at the corner of the alley stood staring after him in blank
astonishment.
“Curse him! how can he ride after that?” he exclaimed. “Ha! he reels in
the saddle! Fire again, men! fire again! Now he clings to the horse’s
neck--he must fall--he is ours! he is ours! Evil shall hunt the wicked
person to overthrow him!”
At that instant one of the Prince’s troopers, finding his way blocked by
the fanatic, pushed roughly past.
“Out of the way, you prating Puritan!” he cried, “or I’ll dash your
brains out!” And with that he dealt Waghorn a blow on the head which
left him groaning on the ground.