Chapter Twenty.A Sudden Reverse.And all this time Fred Forrester rode on at the rear of his little detachment, longing to get to Newton Abbot and be rid of his painful charge. The evening grew more pleasant and cool, the moths came out, and with them the bats, to dart and flit, and capture the myriad gnats which danced here and there beneath the trees. Then, as they passed beneath some umbrageous oak, which stretched its ponderous and gnarled arms across the road, a night-hawk swooped from where it had been resting upon its parrot toes, its beak toward the bole of the tree, and skimmed round and round for a time to capture a great moth or two in its widespread, bristly-edged gape, before swiftly darting back to its perch, where it commenced its loud, continuous purring noise, which died softly away as the party rode on.Sweet moist scents rose from the dewy ground, and as they neared a marshy pool, a low, musical whining and croaking told that the frogs which made the stagnant place their home had a full belief that before long it would rain.Tired though the party were, it was pleasant travelling now, and as some horse, feeling freshened by the cool moist air, snorted and tossed its head, there followed a loud tinkling of accoutrements and an uncalled-for increase of pace.As they rode on deep down in a hollow between mighty hedges, a loud hail seemed to come from the road on the hillside, “Hoi, hoi!” which was followed by another on the opposite slope, but no one stirred. The call of the hoot-owl was too familiar to the Coombeland men to deceive.It was so dark at times down there amid the trees that the horses’ heads were hardly visible, and when fire was struck by an impatient hoof from a loose stone, the flash given forth seemed by comparison to lighten up the lane.Half an hour’s increasing darkness was followed by a glow in the east, and then, slowly rolling up, came the moon, to silver the patches of firs, to lighten the pensile birches, and make the glossy-leaved beeches glisten as if wet with rain or frosted with silver. The little river which ran at the bottom of the valley, meandering on its way, shone out with flashes of light, as the moon rose higher; and once, in the midst of Fred’s gloomiest thoughts, came, like a gleam of the moon on the water to lighten all around, the feeling that the world was, after all, a very beautiful place, and that it was man himself who made it miserable.“I mean boy,” said Fred, in his musings. “No, I do not; I mean man, for he is to blame for all this terrible war in which we are going against the king. But my father says it is just, so I have no right to think differently.”“How far are we from Newton, Samson?” he asked his follower.“’Bout four miles now, sir. We’ve got to turn out of the main west road, and go through the wood next. Soon be there now.”The turning was reached at the end of another half mile, and the advance guard soon after came to the edge of the wood, through which a good road had been cut, the only drawback being that the overhanging trees made it dark.Upon this occasion, though, the moon was rising higher and higher, pouring down a flood of silver light, which lit up the denser part with its soft diaphanous rays.The solemn beauty of the scene, with its velvety shadows and silvery light, impressed every member of the party, so that they rode on in silence, the horses’ hoofs sounding loudly, and the night being so still that the patter of the advance guard and of those in the rear was plainly audible.“How much more is there of this woodland, Samson?” asked Fred, after a time.“Not much more, sir, though I can’t be sure—it’s so many years since I rode through it with your father—when I was quite a boy.”“What’s that?”“Nothing, sir. Fox, perhaps, or a deer. Everything sounds so plainly on a night like this. Hear the advance?”“Yes. Keep close, my lads,” cried Fred. “No straggling in the darkness.”The men closed up, and they were going steadily on, congratulating themselves on the fact that they would soon be out in the open. A keen eye was kept upon the prisoners, though there was very little chance for their escape. The bonds were secure, and their horses’ bridles out of their reach, while, had there been a disposition to urge a horse away from the rest, and make a dash for it in the darkness, the chances were that the poor beast would have declined to stir from his companions. The horse is by nature an animal which, for mutual protection, goes with a drove of his fellows; and, allowing for the formality of cavalry movements, there is something in the formation of troops and squadrons so similar to the natural habits of the horse, that they keep together, to such an extent that in warfare the “trooper” that has lost his rider regains the regiment and keeps in his place.They were so near the edge of the wood now that the advance guard had passed through into the clear moonlight, and were going calmly on in full security, as they believed, when all at once a clear sharp order rang out on the night air; there was a quick trampling of horses, and the road in front was occupied by a strong body of men, whose position was between Fred’s little detachment and their advance guard.To have gone on burdened with their prisoners would have meant failure, to have plunged to right or left into the dense black wood no better than madness. There was only one course open—retreat; and in the emergency, young as he was in military evolutions, Fred proved himself worthy of his charge.Setting spurs to his horse, he dashed to the front, giving his orders promptly. The men faced round ready for action, and, in defiance of the loudly shouted commands to surrender, the prisoners’ bridles were seized and a rapid retreat commenced; but only for the little party to realise that they were in a trap, for in the darkness ahead they heard fresh shouts to surrender, from a second body of horsemen, who had been hidden in the wood till they had passed, and now occupied the road—how strong it was impossible to tell.However, here lay their route now. If he had known that he had an enemy in his rear, Fred would have made a dash forward to try and reach his advance guard. Under the circumstances, it would have been fresh waste of time to turn, so again rushing to the front, he cheered on his men, and, sword in hand, charged, hoping by a bold manoeuvre to reach his rear guard now, and gallop back with his prisoners.It was a vain hope. He had time to get his men well in hand, and the compact little body charged along the dark road, captors and captives together, for about a hundred yards, when there was the shock of meeting an advancing troop of the Royalist cavalry. The clashing of swords and the sharp rattle of blows struck at helmet and breast-piece; the plunging of horses, yells, and shouts; the deep groans of wounded men; and then, in the midst of the wild turmoil and hopeless struggle, it seemed to Fred that there was a short sharp crash of thunder, accompanied by a mingling of tiny flashes of lightning, and then the noise and confusion of the skirmish died away—and that was all.
And all this time Fred Forrester rode on at the rear of his little detachment, longing to get to Newton Abbot and be rid of his painful charge. The evening grew more pleasant and cool, the moths came out, and with them the bats, to dart and flit, and capture the myriad gnats which danced here and there beneath the trees. Then, as they passed beneath some umbrageous oak, which stretched its ponderous and gnarled arms across the road, a night-hawk swooped from where it had been resting upon its parrot toes, its beak toward the bole of the tree, and skimmed round and round for a time to capture a great moth or two in its widespread, bristly-edged gape, before swiftly darting back to its perch, where it commenced its loud, continuous purring noise, which died softly away as the party rode on.
Sweet moist scents rose from the dewy ground, and as they neared a marshy pool, a low, musical whining and croaking told that the frogs which made the stagnant place their home had a full belief that before long it would rain.
Tired though the party were, it was pleasant travelling now, and as some horse, feeling freshened by the cool moist air, snorted and tossed its head, there followed a loud tinkling of accoutrements and an uncalled-for increase of pace.
As they rode on deep down in a hollow between mighty hedges, a loud hail seemed to come from the road on the hillside, “Hoi, hoi!” which was followed by another on the opposite slope, but no one stirred. The call of the hoot-owl was too familiar to the Coombeland men to deceive.
It was so dark at times down there amid the trees that the horses’ heads were hardly visible, and when fire was struck by an impatient hoof from a loose stone, the flash given forth seemed by comparison to lighten up the lane.
Half an hour’s increasing darkness was followed by a glow in the east, and then, slowly rolling up, came the moon, to silver the patches of firs, to lighten the pensile birches, and make the glossy-leaved beeches glisten as if wet with rain or frosted with silver. The little river which ran at the bottom of the valley, meandering on its way, shone out with flashes of light, as the moon rose higher; and once, in the midst of Fred’s gloomiest thoughts, came, like a gleam of the moon on the water to lighten all around, the feeling that the world was, after all, a very beautiful place, and that it was man himself who made it miserable.
“I mean boy,” said Fred, in his musings. “No, I do not; I mean man, for he is to blame for all this terrible war in which we are going against the king. But my father says it is just, so I have no right to think differently.”
“How far are we from Newton, Samson?” he asked his follower.
“’Bout four miles now, sir. We’ve got to turn out of the main west road, and go through the wood next. Soon be there now.”
The turning was reached at the end of another half mile, and the advance guard soon after came to the edge of the wood, through which a good road had been cut, the only drawback being that the overhanging trees made it dark.
Upon this occasion, though, the moon was rising higher and higher, pouring down a flood of silver light, which lit up the denser part with its soft diaphanous rays.
The solemn beauty of the scene, with its velvety shadows and silvery light, impressed every member of the party, so that they rode on in silence, the horses’ hoofs sounding loudly, and the night being so still that the patter of the advance guard and of those in the rear was plainly audible.
“How much more is there of this woodland, Samson?” asked Fred, after a time.
“Not much more, sir, though I can’t be sure—it’s so many years since I rode through it with your father—when I was quite a boy.”
“What’s that?”
“Nothing, sir. Fox, perhaps, or a deer. Everything sounds so plainly on a night like this. Hear the advance?”
“Yes. Keep close, my lads,” cried Fred. “No straggling in the darkness.”
The men closed up, and they were going steadily on, congratulating themselves on the fact that they would soon be out in the open. A keen eye was kept upon the prisoners, though there was very little chance for their escape. The bonds were secure, and their horses’ bridles out of their reach, while, had there been a disposition to urge a horse away from the rest, and make a dash for it in the darkness, the chances were that the poor beast would have declined to stir from his companions. The horse is by nature an animal which, for mutual protection, goes with a drove of his fellows; and, allowing for the formality of cavalry movements, there is something in the formation of troops and squadrons so similar to the natural habits of the horse, that they keep together, to such an extent that in warfare the “trooper” that has lost his rider regains the regiment and keeps in his place.
They were so near the edge of the wood now that the advance guard had passed through into the clear moonlight, and were going calmly on in full security, as they believed, when all at once a clear sharp order rang out on the night air; there was a quick trampling of horses, and the road in front was occupied by a strong body of men, whose position was between Fred’s little detachment and their advance guard.
To have gone on burdened with their prisoners would have meant failure, to have plunged to right or left into the dense black wood no better than madness. There was only one course open—retreat; and in the emergency, young as he was in military evolutions, Fred proved himself worthy of his charge.
Setting spurs to his horse, he dashed to the front, giving his orders promptly. The men faced round ready for action, and, in defiance of the loudly shouted commands to surrender, the prisoners’ bridles were seized and a rapid retreat commenced; but only for the little party to realise that they were in a trap, for in the darkness ahead they heard fresh shouts to surrender, from a second body of horsemen, who had been hidden in the wood till they had passed, and now occupied the road—how strong it was impossible to tell.
However, here lay their route now. If he had known that he had an enemy in his rear, Fred would have made a dash forward to try and reach his advance guard. Under the circumstances, it would have been fresh waste of time to turn, so again rushing to the front, he cheered on his men, and, sword in hand, charged, hoping by a bold manoeuvre to reach his rear guard now, and gallop back with his prisoners.
It was a vain hope. He had time to get his men well in hand, and the compact little body charged along the dark road, captors and captives together, for about a hundred yards, when there was the shock of meeting an advancing troop of the Royalist cavalry. The clashing of swords and the sharp rattle of blows struck at helmet and breast-piece; the plunging of horses, yells, and shouts; the deep groans of wounded men; and then, in the midst of the wild turmoil and hopeless struggle, it seemed to Fred that there was a short sharp crash of thunder, accompanied by a mingling of tiny flashes of lightning, and then the noise and confusion of the skirmish died away—and that was all.
Chapter Twenty One.Companions in Misfortune.It was quite in keeping with his life for Fred Forrester to be awakened by the blast of a trumpet, and, according to his habit, he made one turn and was about to spring from his rough pallet.But he did nothing of the kind. He let his head fall back and his arm drop, as he uttered a groan of pain and weakness, which seemed to be echoed from close at hand.Then there was a peculiar dizzy feeling of sickness; mists floated before his eyes, and, in a confused, feverish, dreamy fashion, he lay wondering what it all meant.After a time he felt clearer, and found himself gazing at a small square window, unglazed, one through which a great beam of sunshine fell, making a widening bar of light which cast a distorted image of the opening upon a rough brick wall. That beam of light was full of tiny motes which rose and fell and danced into the brightest part, and away into the gloom till, as they skurried and floated here and there, it seemed as if he were gazing at a miniature snowstorm, of which all the flakes were gold.There were sounds outside of trampling feet; of hoofs and the snorting of horses; but all seemed distant and confused, as if his ears were stopped or the sounds were coming from a distance; but directly after a very familiar note arose—the sharp, cheery chirping of a sparrow, followed by a low groan.But it did not seem to matter, for he was tired and sleepy and in pain, and he seemed to drop off to sleep and wake again wondering what it all meant, and why it was, and how he came to be lying there.After a time he stretched out one hand in a feeble way, to find that he was touching straw, and that beneath the straw there were boards. But there was straw everywhere; even the ceiling seemed to be straw, coarse straw, till he realised that it was reed thatch, and by degrees that he must be in the upper part of a stable—the loft, for he could smell hay; and as he satisfied himself that he was right so far, he discovered something more—that there were horses somewhere below, for there was a loud snorting and the rattle of a headstall.But still it did not seem to matter, for everything connected with the war and his duties had passed entirely from his mind, till he heard once more a groan from somewhere close at hand, and then a familiar voice said—“Don’t go on like that, lad. I dare say you’re very bad, but so am I; and you’ll disturb the captain.”“Captain? what captain?” thought Fred, dreamily, and who was he that he should not be disturbed?But he felt no inclination to speak, but lay listening to the chirping of the sparrows, and moved his head slightly to find that it was resting upon a piece of sacking laid over the straw.That movement brought on the dizzy sensation again, and his head throbbed painfully for a time.But the pain grew easier, and he lay perfectly still, watching the beautiful beam of sunshine which came through the open window, above which the roof went into a point, showing him that this was the gable end of the loft where he lay.This did not surprise him, for he had been accustomed for months past to sleep in shed, stable, or loft, as well as in houses with decent rooms. At one time for a month a church had been the barracks where he had lain. Rough quarters had become a matter of course, and he lay quite still, for how long he did not know, to be roused once more by a deep groan.“Do you hear, lad? What’s the good of going on like that?” said the familiar voice again.“My head—my head!” moaned some one.“Well, and my head, and my ribs, if you come to that; but I don’t howl and groan.”“Samson!”“Master Fred! Captain, I mean. Hey, but it does a man good to hear you speak, again. Don’t die this time, dear lad.”“Die? I don’t understand you.”“Then the Lord be praised, you are not going to die!”Fred lay wondering, for there came something like a sob from close at hand, though when he tried to turn towards the sound the horrible dizziness came back.“Samson!”“Yes, Master Fred.”“What are you doing there?”“Blubbering, dear lad, like a great calf as has lost its mother; but it’s only because I’m so glad.”“But, Samson, what does it all mean?”“What, don’t you know, my lad?”“No.”“Not that you are badly wounded—cut down same as I was when we charged?”“When we charged?”“Yes, when they took us front and rear in the dark wood.”“Dark—wood?”“Yes, lad. Some of us killed—I don’t mean us—Smithers and Pelldike. The advance escaped, and so did the rear. All of us with the prisoners got hurt more or less.”“Oh!”The scene in the gloomy wood came back now clearly enough; and in an excited tone Fred exclaimed—“And the prisoners, Samson?”“Oh, they were taken again! They’re right enough.”“Scarlett Markham?”“Yes; he came up here yesterday to see how we were.”“Oh!”“What’s the matter, my lad?”“My father—my charge. Samson, I’m disgraced for ever.”“What, because about sixty men surprised us in that hollow road, and cut us all down? I don’t see no disgrace in fighting like a man, and being beaten by five to one, or more than that.”“But how came we to be surprised so suddenly?”“Dunno, Master Fred. Some one must have known we were going through that wood, and set a trap for us.”“And I allowed my poor fellows to walk right into it. Oh, Samson, I can never look my father in the face again!”“Hark at him! Nonsense! It’s all ups and downs—sometimes one side wins, sometimes t’other side. We had the best of it, and then they have the best of it, and we’re prisoners. Wait till we get well, and it will be our side again. Long as we’re not killed, what does it matter?”“Then you are wounded, Samson?”“Well, yes, lad; I got a tidy chop aside of the head, and a kick in the ribs from a horse in the scrummage. Leastwise, it wasn’t a kick, ’cause it was done with a fore leg, when somebody’s horse reared up after I’d cut his master down.”“And there is some one else wounded?”“Yes, sir—Duggen.”“Badly?”“Tidy, sir; tidy chop. But we shall soon mend again. Bark ’ll grow over, same as it does when we’ve chopped an apple tree. I was afraid, though, as you was badly, sir?”“Was I wounded, Samson? I feel so weak.”“Wounded, sir! Well, it was a mercy you wasn’t killed!”“It seems all so confused. I cannot recollect much.”“Of course you can’t, sir. All the sense was knocked out of your head. But it’ll soon come back again.”“Samson!”“Yes, sir.”There was a pause, and Fred’s henchman rose painfully on one arm to try and make out the reason of the silence, but he could only see that the young officer was staring at the window.“Poor boy!” said Samson to himself. “Seems hard for him to be made into a soldier at his time o’ life. Ought to be at school instead of wearing a sword.”“Yes, sir,” he said aloud.“Yes?”“You called me, sir.”“Did I?” said Fred, vacantly.“Yes, sir; you said ‘Samson.’”“Oh yes, I remember. Did you see much of the fight, Samson?”“As much as any one could for the dark.”“We were attacked front and rear, weren’t we?”“That’s it, sir. Trapped.”“It was all my fault, I suppose,” said Fred, with a sigh.“Fault, sir; not it. Nobody’s fault. People can’t do impossibilities. Why, there was sixty-five of ’em in the troop, and of course they regularly rode us down!”“But you did see something of the fighting?”“To be sure I did, sir.”“Did—did I disgrace myself, Samson?”“Did you what yourself, sir? Come, I like that! If digging your spurs into your horse, and shouting to us to come on, and then going to work with your sword as if it was a scythe, and the pleasaunce hadn’t been cut for a month in June’s disgracing yourself, why, I suppose you did!”“Then I did fight?”“Fight! I should think you aid.”“Like a man, Samson—like an officer should?”“Why, of course you did, sir!”“As my father would have liked to see me fight, if he had been there?”“Well, sir, that question’s a puzzler. You see, fathers is fathers, and, as far as ever I’ve been able to find out, they don’t like their boys to fight. Why, my father was always giving me and Nat the strap for fighting, because we was always at it—strap as he wore round his waist, when he wasn’t banging our heads together. You see, Nat was always at me, and knocking me about. We never did agree; but our old man wouldn’t let us fight, and I don’t believe your father would have liked to see you trying to cut people’s heads off with that sword of yours.”“Well, then,” said Fred, smiling faintly, “would my colonel have been satisfied with what I did to save the prisoners and my men?”“Wouldn’t be much of a colonel if he wasn’t. There, dear lad, don’t you fret yourself about that. I’ve heered the men here say you did wonders for such a boy, and a big sergeant who fetched you off your horse was up here yesterday—”“Yesterday?” interrupted Fred. “Why, we were travelling yesterday!”“That we were not, my lad, for we’ve been lying here two days.”“Oh!” ejaculated Fred.“While you’ve been off your head.”“Oh, Samson!”“Well, sir, that’s better than your head being off you.”“Then you are sure I did my duty?”“Duty, sir? Yes; that’s what I was going to tell you. The big six-foot sergeant who fetched you off your horse with a great cut of his heavy sword was up here yesterday to see you; and I heered him say to himself, ‘Poor boy! I feel ashamed of myself for cutting him down. What would his poor mother say to me if she knew?’”“I can lie patiently now till I get well,” said Fred, after a pause. “I was frightened by my thoughts, Samson.”“Yes; them’s what frightens most of us, sir.”“I mean by the thought that I had not done my duty by my charge.”“But you did, sir; and it’s the fortune o’ war. They was prisoners the other day; now we’re prisoners this day.”“And Master Scarlett Markham, and your brother, and the other men?”“All here, sir. There’s about a thousand of the enemy about, waiting, I suppose, to drop upon our side, if our side doesn’t drop upon them. Fortune o’ wars sir—fortune o’ war.”Samson waited for Fred to speak again; but as he remained silent, the ex-gardener went on—“I’ve been expecting to hear some news of my beautiful brother, but I haven’t heered a word, only that he’s about somewhere. Oh, I am proud of him, Master Fred! I shouldn’t wonder if we was to be sent off somewhere—Exeter or Bristol, maybe, and Master Scarlett and my brother had charge of us. Be rum, wouldn’t it?”Fred sighed as he recalled the past.“Couldn’t cut our hair short, sir, could they?”Fred remained silent, and his follower went on.“Nat said first chance he had, he’d crop my ears. That’s like him all over. But he dursn’t, sir. Not he. I should just like to catch him at it. Pst! some one coming.”Fred had already heard steps below, and then the creaking of a rickety ladder, as if some one were ascending.Directly after a door on his left was thrown open, a flood of sunshine burst into the cobweb-hung loft, and an officer and a private of cavalry came rustling through the straw till they were within the scope of the wounded lad’s gaze, and a chill of misery ran through him like a shudder as he saw Scarlett Markham, followed by Samson’s brother Nat.
It was quite in keeping with his life for Fred Forrester to be awakened by the blast of a trumpet, and, according to his habit, he made one turn and was about to spring from his rough pallet.
But he did nothing of the kind. He let his head fall back and his arm drop, as he uttered a groan of pain and weakness, which seemed to be echoed from close at hand.
Then there was a peculiar dizzy feeling of sickness; mists floated before his eyes, and, in a confused, feverish, dreamy fashion, he lay wondering what it all meant.
After a time he felt clearer, and found himself gazing at a small square window, unglazed, one through which a great beam of sunshine fell, making a widening bar of light which cast a distorted image of the opening upon a rough brick wall. That beam of light was full of tiny motes which rose and fell and danced into the brightest part, and away into the gloom till, as they skurried and floated here and there, it seemed as if he were gazing at a miniature snowstorm, of which all the flakes were gold.
There were sounds outside of trampling feet; of hoofs and the snorting of horses; but all seemed distant and confused, as if his ears were stopped or the sounds were coming from a distance; but directly after a very familiar note arose—the sharp, cheery chirping of a sparrow, followed by a low groan.
But it did not seem to matter, for he was tired and sleepy and in pain, and he seemed to drop off to sleep and wake again wondering what it all meant, and why it was, and how he came to be lying there.
After a time he stretched out one hand in a feeble way, to find that he was touching straw, and that beneath the straw there were boards. But there was straw everywhere; even the ceiling seemed to be straw, coarse straw, till he realised that it was reed thatch, and by degrees that he must be in the upper part of a stable—the loft, for he could smell hay; and as he satisfied himself that he was right so far, he discovered something more—that there were horses somewhere below, for there was a loud snorting and the rattle of a headstall.
But still it did not seem to matter, for everything connected with the war and his duties had passed entirely from his mind, till he heard once more a groan from somewhere close at hand, and then a familiar voice said—
“Don’t go on like that, lad. I dare say you’re very bad, but so am I; and you’ll disturb the captain.”
“Captain? what captain?” thought Fred, dreamily, and who was he that he should not be disturbed?
But he felt no inclination to speak, but lay listening to the chirping of the sparrows, and moved his head slightly to find that it was resting upon a piece of sacking laid over the straw.
That movement brought on the dizzy sensation again, and his head throbbed painfully for a time.
But the pain grew easier, and he lay perfectly still, watching the beautiful beam of sunshine which came through the open window, above which the roof went into a point, showing him that this was the gable end of the loft where he lay.
This did not surprise him, for he had been accustomed for months past to sleep in shed, stable, or loft, as well as in houses with decent rooms. At one time for a month a church had been the barracks where he had lain. Rough quarters had become a matter of course, and he lay quite still, for how long he did not know, to be roused once more by a deep groan.
“Do you hear, lad? What’s the good of going on like that?” said the familiar voice again.
“My head—my head!” moaned some one.
“Well, and my head, and my ribs, if you come to that; but I don’t howl and groan.”
“Samson!”
“Master Fred! Captain, I mean. Hey, but it does a man good to hear you speak, again. Don’t die this time, dear lad.”
“Die? I don’t understand you.”
“Then the Lord be praised, you are not going to die!”
Fred lay wondering, for there came something like a sob from close at hand, though when he tried to turn towards the sound the horrible dizziness came back.
“Samson!”
“Yes, Master Fred.”
“What are you doing there?”
“Blubbering, dear lad, like a great calf as has lost its mother; but it’s only because I’m so glad.”
“But, Samson, what does it all mean?”
“What, don’t you know, my lad?”
“No.”
“Not that you are badly wounded—cut down same as I was when we charged?”
“When we charged?”
“Yes, when they took us front and rear in the dark wood.”
“Dark—wood?”
“Yes, lad. Some of us killed—I don’t mean us—Smithers and Pelldike. The advance escaped, and so did the rear. All of us with the prisoners got hurt more or less.”
“Oh!”
The scene in the gloomy wood came back now clearly enough; and in an excited tone Fred exclaimed—
“And the prisoners, Samson?”
“Oh, they were taken again! They’re right enough.”
“Scarlett Markham?”
“Yes; he came up here yesterday to see how we were.”
“Oh!”
“What’s the matter, my lad?”
“My father—my charge. Samson, I’m disgraced for ever.”
“What, because about sixty men surprised us in that hollow road, and cut us all down? I don’t see no disgrace in fighting like a man, and being beaten by five to one, or more than that.”
“But how came we to be surprised so suddenly?”
“Dunno, Master Fred. Some one must have known we were going through that wood, and set a trap for us.”
“And I allowed my poor fellows to walk right into it. Oh, Samson, I can never look my father in the face again!”
“Hark at him! Nonsense! It’s all ups and downs—sometimes one side wins, sometimes t’other side. We had the best of it, and then they have the best of it, and we’re prisoners. Wait till we get well, and it will be our side again. Long as we’re not killed, what does it matter?”
“Then you are wounded, Samson?”
“Well, yes, lad; I got a tidy chop aside of the head, and a kick in the ribs from a horse in the scrummage. Leastwise, it wasn’t a kick, ’cause it was done with a fore leg, when somebody’s horse reared up after I’d cut his master down.”
“And there is some one else wounded?”
“Yes, sir—Duggen.”
“Badly?”
“Tidy, sir; tidy chop. But we shall soon mend again. Bark ’ll grow over, same as it does when we’ve chopped an apple tree. I was afraid, though, as you was badly, sir?”
“Was I wounded, Samson? I feel so weak.”
“Wounded, sir! Well, it was a mercy you wasn’t killed!”
“It seems all so confused. I cannot recollect much.”
“Of course you can’t, sir. All the sense was knocked out of your head. But it’ll soon come back again.”
“Samson!”
“Yes, sir.”
There was a pause, and Fred’s henchman rose painfully on one arm to try and make out the reason of the silence, but he could only see that the young officer was staring at the window.
“Poor boy!” said Samson to himself. “Seems hard for him to be made into a soldier at his time o’ life. Ought to be at school instead of wearing a sword.”
“Yes, sir,” he said aloud.
“Yes?”
“You called me, sir.”
“Did I?” said Fred, vacantly.
“Yes, sir; you said ‘Samson.’”
“Oh yes, I remember. Did you see much of the fight, Samson?”
“As much as any one could for the dark.”
“We were attacked front and rear, weren’t we?”
“That’s it, sir. Trapped.”
“It was all my fault, I suppose,” said Fred, with a sigh.
“Fault, sir; not it. Nobody’s fault. People can’t do impossibilities. Why, there was sixty-five of ’em in the troop, and of course they regularly rode us down!”
“But you did see something of the fighting?”
“To be sure I did, sir.”
“Did—did I disgrace myself, Samson?”
“Did you what yourself, sir? Come, I like that! If digging your spurs into your horse, and shouting to us to come on, and then going to work with your sword as if it was a scythe, and the pleasaunce hadn’t been cut for a month in June’s disgracing yourself, why, I suppose you did!”
“Then I did fight?”
“Fight! I should think you aid.”
“Like a man, Samson—like an officer should?”
“Why, of course you did, sir!”
“As my father would have liked to see me fight, if he had been there?”
“Well, sir, that question’s a puzzler. You see, fathers is fathers, and, as far as ever I’ve been able to find out, they don’t like their boys to fight. Why, my father was always giving me and Nat the strap for fighting, because we was always at it—strap as he wore round his waist, when he wasn’t banging our heads together. You see, Nat was always at me, and knocking me about. We never did agree; but our old man wouldn’t let us fight, and I don’t believe your father would have liked to see you trying to cut people’s heads off with that sword of yours.”
“Well, then,” said Fred, smiling faintly, “would my colonel have been satisfied with what I did to save the prisoners and my men?”
“Wouldn’t be much of a colonel if he wasn’t. There, dear lad, don’t you fret yourself about that. I’ve heered the men here say you did wonders for such a boy, and a big sergeant who fetched you off your horse was up here yesterday—”
“Yesterday?” interrupted Fred. “Why, we were travelling yesterday!”
“That we were not, my lad, for we’ve been lying here two days.”
“Oh!” ejaculated Fred.
“While you’ve been off your head.”
“Oh, Samson!”
“Well, sir, that’s better than your head being off you.”
“Then you are sure I did my duty?”
“Duty, sir? Yes; that’s what I was going to tell you. The big six-foot sergeant who fetched you off your horse with a great cut of his heavy sword was up here yesterday to see you; and I heered him say to himself, ‘Poor boy! I feel ashamed of myself for cutting him down. What would his poor mother say to me if she knew?’”
“I can lie patiently now till I get well,” said Fred, after a pause. “I was frightened by my thoughts, Samson.”
“Yes; them’s what frightens most of us, sir.”
“I mean by the thought that I had not done my duty by my charge.”
“But you did, sir; and it’s the fortune o’ war. They was prisoners the other day; now we’re prisoners this day.”
“And Master Scarlett Markham, and your brother, and the other men?”
“All here, sir. There’s about a thousand of the enemy about, waiting, I suppose, to drop upon our side, if our side doesn’t drop upon them. Fortune o’ wars sir—fortune o’ war.”
Samson waited for Fred to speak again; but as he remained silent, the ex-gardener went on—
“I’ve been expecting to hear some news of my beautiful brother, but I haven’t heered a word, only that he’s about somewhere. Oh, I am proud of him, Master Fred! I shouldn’t wonder if we was to be sent off somewhere—Exeter or Bristol, maybe, and Master Scarlett and my brother had charge of us. Be rum, wouldn’t it?”
Fred sighed as he recalled the past.
“Couldn’t cut our hair short, sir, could they?”
Fred remained silent, and his follower went on.
“Nat said first chance he had, he’d crop my ears. That’s like him all over. But he dursn’t, sir. Not he. I should just like to catch him at it. Pst! some one coming.”
Fred had already heard steps below, and then the creaking of a rickety ladder, as if some one were ascending.
Directly after a door on his left was thrown open, a flood of sunshine burst into the cobweb-hung loft, and an officer and a private of cavalry came rustling through the straw till they were within the scope of the wounded lad’s gaze, and a chill of misery ran through him like a shudder as he saw Scarlett Markham, followed by Samson’s brother Nat.
Chapter Twenty Two.Samson and his Brother.In spite of the cropped appearance of his head, a cropping that was still closer now in consequence of his having had Fred Forrester’s clumsy shearing regulated, Scarlett Markham had pretty well regained his old dashing cavalier aspect. He had somehow obtained a fresh hat and feathers, and, as he stood at the foot of Fred’s straw bed, with one hand resting upon the hilt of his long sword, the other carelessly beating a pair of leather gauntlet gloves against his leg, he looked, in his smart scarlet and gold uniform, the beau ideal of a young officer.Following the action of his leader, Nat passed on, and stopped at the spot where his brother lay, to stand gazing down at the wounded man.Fred was too weak to do more than move his head slightly, so as to gaze back at his enemy; but he met Scarlett’s stern look defiantly, and waited for him to speak.And as he lay there the rough loft and its straw seemed to pass away, for the background of his mental picture to become the park and grounds about the old Hall, on one of the old sunny days when he and Scarlett had had a quarrel about some trivial matter, and were gazing threateningly at each other after uttering dire words, and were declaring that everything between them was quite at an end, and that they were never going to speak to each other again.Then the present came back, and there stood Scarlett, looking stern and frowning, as he involuntarily passed his great gloves into his left hand, and began to let his finger and thumb play about his lips, where he tried to find—and failed—an imaginary moustache, which, all the same, he twisted up into airy points to add to his fierce aspect. A little bit of conceit which he had picked up during his soldier life.“What a miserable peacock he has grown!” thought Fred. “And I am in the power now of such a court fop, whose only idea is dress and show. Well, I’m glad I belong to the haul, quiet Parliamentarians. Better than being like that.”But somehow, all the while, Fred could not help thinking of his own plain buff-leather uniform, with its heavy, clumsy, steel breast and back plates, which, like his hard, head-aching helmet, were more often rusty than bright, and, though he would not have owned it, he could not help admiring the figure before him, and looking at it with something like envy.“Why don’t he speak?” thought Fred, with a faint flush coming into his cheeks. “Does he think he is going to stare me down?”The faint flush deepened a little, as he grew indignant at his enemy coming to triumph over him in his helplessness; and then he thought of how he had triumphed when it was his day, and how he had humbled his old companion to the dust.“And what a mean, contemptible triumph it was, and how it stung me far more than it did him! But he shan’t humble me. I can be as defiant as he is, and I’ll die before I’ll show him that he has gained the day.”But as Fred defiantly returned Scarlett’s calm, stern look, a thick mist seemed to gather slowly between them, making the face of the young Cavalier grow faint and distant, a singing noise came in his ears, and slowly and painfully everything seemed to pass away till all was dark once more.Meanwhile, Nat Dee had crept close to his brother’s head, and, kneeling in the straw, allowed a grin to overspread his rustic countenance.“You’ve got it, then, this time?” he whispered.Samson had “got it this time,” indeed, for his bandages wanted changing, and his wounds were hot and painful; but, in spite of his anguish, he echoed, so to speak—visibly echoed his brother’s broad grin, and acknowledged the fact, fully resolved that, as Nat had come to triumph over him, he should be disappointed.“Yes,” he said in a cheerful whisper; “I’ve got it this time, Natty.”“Don’t you feel ashamed of yourself?”“Not a bit.”“Then you ought to. Suppose your poor mother saw you now, what do you think she would say?”“Say? Say, ‘Get your ugly great carcase out of the way, and let poor Samson have room to breathe.’”“Nay, she would not; she’d say, ‘Here’s my wicked young black sheep as leaped out of the fold to go among the wolves, properly punished, and I’m very glad of it.’”“Well, then, I’m very glad she isn’t here to listen to her ugly son Nat telling such a pack of lies.”“Nay, it’s the truth.”“Not it,” said Samson, cheerily. “My poor old mother couldn’t say such words as that. She’d more likely say, ‘If I didn’t know you two boys was my twins, I should say that Nat belonged to some one else, and was picked up by accident.’”“Nay, she wouldn’t; she’d be ashamed of you.”“Never was yet, Nat; and if I wasn’t lying here too weak and worn-out to move, I’d get up and punch your ugly head, Nat, till you could see better, and make you feel sorry for saying such wicked things about my poor old mother.”“She’s my mother as much as she is yours.”“Yes, poor old soul; and sick and sorry she is to have such a son as you.”“Nay, it’s sick and sorry she is to have a son as deserts his king, and goes robbing and murdering all over the country with a pack of ruffians scraped from everywhere.”“No, I didn’t; I never desarted no king. I wasn’t the king’s servant, lad.”“Yes, you was.”“Not I, Natty. I was master’s servant, and he says, ‘Will you come and fight for me, Samson,’ he says, ‘against oppression?’ ‘’Course I will, master,’ I says. ‘And handle a sword instead of a spade,’ he says. ‘You give me hold of one, master,’ I says, ‘and I’ll show you.’ That’s how it was, Natty.”“Your master’s a bad man, and him and you will be hung or chopped as sure as you’re alive.”“You always was a muddlehead, Natty. It’s your master as is the bad man; Colonel Forrester’s a thorough gentleman, and we always had better fruit and garden stuff at the Manor than you had at the Hall, and that’s what makes you so wild against me.”“Yah! Why, you never grew anything but weeds at the Manor. Your garden was just as if pigs had got into it.”“Did you think so, Natty?” said Samson, good-temperedly.“Yes.”“That shows what I say ’s right. You always was such a muddlehead that you couldn’t tell good from bad, and you don’t know any better now. Poor old Nat, I don’t bear you any malice or hatred in my heart. I’m sorry for you.”Nat ground his teeth gently, for his brother’s easy-going way angered him.“Sorry for me?” he said. “Why, you’re a miserable rebel, that’s what you are.”“Not I, Natty; not a bit miserable. If you was not here, I should lie back and sing.”“Shall you sing when they take you out and hang you?”“Not going to hang me, Natty; not ugly enough. Now, if it had been you— I say, Nat, I should like to have you hung up in the Manor garden to keep away the birds.”“What?”“To scare ’em. You do look such an old Guy Fawkes. I say, who cut your hair?”Nat’s hand went involuntarily to his freshly shorn head, and a dull red glow came into his cheeks.“You wait till I get better, and I’ll crop it for you neatly. Why, you don’t look one thing nor the other now. Cavaliers wouldn’t own you, and I should be ashamed to set aside you in our ranks.”“Go on,” said Nat, grinning viciously. “That’s your nastiness; but it don’t tease me. I’m sorry for you, Samson. What a pass for a respectable Dee to come to, only you never was respectable. But there’s an end to all things. Made your will?”“Nay, Natty, not yet.”“Thought you might like to leave any clothes you’ve got to your brother.”“Well, I did think about it, Natty; but, you see, my brother’s grown to be such a high and mighty sort of chap as wouldn’t care for anything that wasn’t scarlet and gold. I say, Natty, I have got something though as you may as well have—hidden away in the roof of my tool-shed.”“Eh? What is it?” said Nat, who was betrayed into eagerness by the idea that perhaps his brother had a pot of money hidden away in the thatch.“Perhaps I’d better not let you have it. You’re proud enough as it is.”“You can do as you like with it, of course,” said Nat, with assumed indifference.“Ah, well, it will be useful to you, if what you say’s true about me. It would be a pity for any one else to get it, wouldn’t it?”“Well, I am your brother, after all,” said Nat, quietly.“Yes, so you are, Natty; and you’re just the chap to be proud of it, and wear it stuck in your steel pot. Look here, you go into the tool-shed at the Manor, first time you’re that way, and as soon as you’re inside the door, reach up your hand, and in the dark corner you’ll find a bundle of our old peacock’s moultings when he dropped his tail. You shall have ’em, Nat, and I hope I shall live to see you with ’em in your iron cap. My! you will look fine!”“If you wasn’t such a miserable scrunched-up garden-worm of a man, I’d baste you with my sword-belt, Samson,” whispered Nat, angrily.“Thank ye, Nat, lad. Thank ye. It’s very kind of you to say so. Save it up, lad, till I’m better. It will be pleasanter then for us both.”“Nat,” said Scarlett just then.“Yes, sir.”“Come here.”
In spite of the cropped appearance of his head, a cropping that was still closer now in consequence of his having had Fred Forrester’s clumsy shearing regulated, Scarlett Markham had pretty well regained his old dashing cavalier aspect. He had somehow obtained a fresh hat and feathers, and, as he stood at the foot of Fred’s straw bed, with one hand resting upon the hilt of his long sword, the other carelessly beating a pair of leather gauntlet gloves against his leg, he looked, in his smart scarlet and gold uniform, the beau ideal of a young officer.
Following the action of his leader, Nat passed on, and stopped at the spot where his brother lay, to stand gazing down at the wounded man.
Fred was too weak to do more than move his head slightly, so as to gaze back at his enemy; but he met Scarlett’s stern look defiantly, and waited for him to speak.
And as he lay there the rough loft and its straw seemed to pass away, for the background of his mental picture to become the park and grounds about the old Hall, on one of the old sunny days when he and Scarlett had had a quarrel about some trivial matter, and were gazing threateningly at each other after uttering dire words, and were declaring that everything between them was quite at an end, and that they were never going to speak to each other again.
Then the present came back, and there stood Scarlett, looking stern and frowning, as he involuntarily passed his great gloves into his left hand, and began to let his finger and thumb play about his lips, where he tried to find—and failed—an imaginary moustache, which, all the same, he twisted up into airy points to add to his fierce aspect. A little bit of conceit which he had picked up during his soldier life.
“What a miserable peacock he has grown!” thought Fred. “And I am in the power now of such a court fop, whose only idea is dress and show. Well, I’m glad I belong to the haul, quiet Parliamentarians. Better than being like that.”
But somehow, all the while, Fred could not help thinking of his own plain buff-leather uniform, with its heavy, clumsy, steel breast and back plates, which, like his hard, head-aching helmet, were more often rusty than bright, and, though he would not have owned it, he could not help admiring the figure before him, and looking at it with something like envy.
“Why don’t he speak?” thought Fred, with a faint flush coming into his cheeks. “Does he think he is going to stare me down?”
The faint flush deepened a little, as he grew indignant at his enemy coming to triumph over him in his helplessness; and then he thought of how he had triumphed when it was his day, and how he had humbled his old companion to the dust.
“And what a mean, contemptible triumph it was, and how it stung me far more than it did him! But he shan’t humble me. I can be as defiant as he is, and I’ll die before I’ll show him that he has gained the day.”
But as Fred defiantly returned Scarlett’s calm, stern look, a thick mist seemed to gather slowly between them, making the face of the young Cavalier grow faint and distant, a singing noise came in his ears, and slowly and painfully everything seemed to pass away till all was dark once more.
Meanwhile, Nat Dee had crept close to his brother’s head, and, kneeling in the straw, allowed a grin to overspread his rustic countenance.
“You’ve got it, then, this time?” he whispered.
Samson had “got it this time,” indeed, for his bandages wanted changing, and his wounds were hot and painful; but, in spite of his anguish, he echoed, so to speak—visibly echoed his brother’s broad grin, and acknowledged the fact, fully resolved that, as Nat had come to triumph over him, he should be disappointed.
“Yes,” he said in a cheerful whisper; “I’ve got it this time, Natty.”
“Don’t you feel ashamed of yourself?”
“Not a bit.”
“Then you ought to. Suppose your poor mother saw you now, what do you think she would say?”
“Say? Say, ‘Get your ugly great carcase out of the way, and let poor Samson have room to breathe.’”
“Nay, she would not; she’d say, ‘Here’s my wicked young black sheep as leaped out of the fold to go among the wolves, properly punished, and I’m very glad of it.’”
“Well, then, I’m very glad she isn’t here to listen to her ugly son Nat telling such a pack of lies.”
“Nay, it’s the truth.”
“Not it,” said Samson, cheerily. “My poor old mother couldn’t say such words as that. She’d more likely say, ‘If I didn’t know you two boys was my twins, I should say that Nat belonged to some one else, and was picked up by accident.’”
“Nay, she wouldn’t; she’d be ashamed of you.”
“Never was yet, Nat; and if I wasn’t lying here too weak and worn-out to move, I’d get up and punch your ugly head, Nat, till you could see better, and make you feel sorry for saying such wicked things about my poor old mother.”
“She’s my mother as much as she is yours.”
“Yes, poor old soul; and sick and sorry she is to have such a son as you.”
“Nay, it’s sick and sorry she is to have a son as deserts his king, and goes robbing and murdering all over the country with a pack of ruffians scraped from everywhere.”
“No, I didn’t; I never desarted no king. I wasn’t the king’s servant, lad.”
“Yes, you was.”
“Not I, Natty. I was master’s servant, and he says, ‘Will you come and fight for me, Samson,’ he says, ‘against oppression?’ ‘’Course I will, master,’ I says. ‘And handle a sword instead of a spade,’ he says. ‘You give me hold of one, master,’ I says, ‘and I’ll show you.’ That’s how it was, Natty.”
“Your master’s a bad man, and him and you will be hung or chopped as sure as you’re alive.”
“You always was a muddlehead, Natty. It’s your master as is the bad man; Colonel Forrester’s a thorough gentleman, and we always had better fruit and garden stuff at the Manor than you had at the Hall, and that’s what makes you so wild against me.”
“Yah! Why, you never grew anything but weeds at the Manor. Your garden was just as if pigs had got into it.”
“Did you think so, Natty?” said Samson, good-temperedly.
“Yes.”
“That shows what I say ’s right. You always was such a muddlehead that you couldn’t tell good from bad, and you don’t know any better now. Poor old Nat, I don’t bear you any malice or hatred in my heart. I’m sorry for you.”
Nat ground his teeth gently, for his brother’s easy-going way angered him.
“Sorry for me?” he said. “Why, you’re a miserable rebel, that’s what you are.”
“Not I, Natty; not a bit miserable. If you was not here, I should lie back and sing.”
“Shall you sing when they take you out and hang you?”
“Not going to hang me, Natty; not ugly enough. Now, if it had been you— I say, Nat, I should like to have you hung up in the Manor garden to keep away the birds.”
“What?”
“To scare ’em. You do look such an old Guy Fawkes. I say, who cut your hair?”
Nat’s hand went involuntarily to his freshly shorn head, and a dull red glow came into his cheeks.
“You wait till I get better, and I’ll crop it for you neatly. Why, you don’t look one thing nor the other now. Cavaliers wouldn’t own you, and I should be ashamed to set aside you in our ranks.”
“Go on,” said Nat, grinning viciously. “That’s your nastiness; but it don’t tease me. I’m sorry for you, Samson. What a pass for a respectable Dee to come to, only you never was respectable. But there’s an end to all things. Made your will?”
“Nay, Natty, not yet.”
“Thought you might like to leave any clothes you’ve got to your brother.”
“Well, I did think about it, Natty; but, you see, my brother’s grown to be such a high and mighty sort of chap as wouldn’t care for anything that wasn’t scarlet and gold. I say, Natty, I have got something though as you may as well have—hidden away in the roof of my tool-shed.”
“Eh? What is it?” said Nat, who was betrayed into eagerness by the idea that perhaps his brother had a pot of money hidden away in the thatch.
“Perhaps I’d better not let you have it. You’re proud enough as it is.”
“You can do as you like with it, of course,” said Nat, with assumed indifference.
“Ah, well, it will be useful to you, if what you say’s true about me. It would be a pity for any one else to get it, wouldn’t it?”
“Well, I am your brother, after all,” said Nat, quietly.
“Yes, so you are, Natty; and you’re just the chap to be proud of it, and wear it stuck in your steel pot. Look here, you go into the tool-shed at the Manor, first time you’re that way, and as soon as you’re inside the door, reach up your hand, and in the dark corner you’ll find a bundle of our old peacock’s moultings when he dropped his tail. You shall have ’em, Nat, and I hope I shall live to see you with ’em in your iron cap. My! you will look fine!”
“If you wasn’t such a miserable scrunched-up garden-worm of a man, I’d baste you with my sword-belt, Samson,” whispered Nat, angrily.
“Thank ye, Nat, lad. Thank ye. It’s very kind of you to say so. Save it up, lad, till I’m better. It will be pleasanter then for us both.”
“Nat,” said Scarlett just then.
“Yes, sir.”
“Come here.”
Chapter Twenty Three.An Exciting Watch.Fred lay insensible for a few minutes, and when he did struggle back into consciousness, it seemed to him that he must be still dreaming, or else that the bewildering excitement of the civil war, with the misery, despair, and wretchedness, was all the result of his fevered imagination.What did it all mean? he asked himself. Were they back at home, and had he fallen from the pony and struck his head against a rock? or was he over at the Hall, and was this the time when he climbed the great elm to get the magpie’s nest, and had that horrible fall?No; it was all true—this was the war time—he was badly wounded, and his enemy, Scarlett Markham, the young Cavalier, was bending over him in mocking triumph at his downfall, and revenging himself for the insult he had received in the loss of his flowing curls.It was a cruel revenge—one which, in spite of his efforts, brought the weak tears to his eyes, and, as he closed them tightly to hide his emotion three or four great drops were shut out by the lids, and rolled slowly down on either side, tickling him for the time before they were washed away.Then, as the time glided on, Fred opened his eyes, and looked up in Scarlett’s, as he again asked himself whether it was all a dream, the consequence of his fevered state.For there, kneeling in the straw, was Scarlett Markham, his buff gauntlet gloves thrust in his sword-belt, his cavalier hat cast aside, and his brow knit and glistening with perspiration, as he kept on dipping a white kerchief in a bowl of cold water held by some one at the back, and carefully bathed Fred’s forehead.How cool and delightful that water felt as the kerchief was opened out, and spread right across the brow from temple to temple! Then how hot it grew, till it was softly removed, to be resoaked and applied once more with all the tender solicitude that would have been shown by a woman.Fred wanted to speak, but no words would come; he could only lie there, with his breast heaving, as he watched the calmly stern, handsome face bending over him, and thought of the past—their old boyish friendship, the delightful days when they frolicked in the park; and fished, and sought for plovers’ eggs on the moor. How short a time ago it seemed, and now they were acting the parts of men fighting on either side in the terrible civil war which was devastating old England; enemies—deadly enemies, and Scarlett Markham was pouring coals of fire upon his head.“Shall I fetch some more water, sir? This is getting quite warm,” said a pleasant voice.“Yes, I was going to ask you to get some more,” said Scarlett. “Be quick, my lass; we shall be called away directly.”Then Fred had a glimpse of a bonny, little, round-faced lass, with red cheeks and hands, as the bowl was borne away. The straw rustled, and steps were heard upon the rough loft ladder, to be followed by the rattle of a chain, and the creaking of a windlass, Fred seeming to see all as plainly as if he were there, and watching the girl’s actions at the draw-well in the yard below.And all this time the two boys gazed at each other in silence—a silence that was broken by the splash of water; then there were footsteps on the ladder again, and the red-faced lass came back, knelt down behind the injured lad’s head, the kerchief was soaked, and the cool refreshing water did its work.“And we are enemies,” thought Fred, with his eyes now closed, and a calm restful feeling coming over him like the beginning of sleep, from which he started, for there was the loud trampling of horses, the jingling of accoutrements, and the brazen bray of a trumpet.Scarlett started up, shook the water from his hands, snatched up his broad-leafed hat, and took his gloves from his belt.“Bathe his forehead for a few minutes longer, and then let him sleep. We shall be back before many hours, but the surgeon will be here before then.”“Yes, sir.”“And tell your father that General Markham will see that he is paid for all his trouble.”“Oh, sir,” said the girl, “you need not think of that. We’ll do our best.”By this time Scarlett was at the door, and Fred had turned his eyes toward him, but he did not look back.“Come, Nat,” he cried loudly; and his follower stumped over the rough straw; the steps creaked, and voices were heard below. Loud orders followed. Then the trumpet brayed out again, the trampling of horses followed, and the girl set down the bowl, and went to the end of the loft, where she climbed up and looked through the little window, staying there till the trampling of the horses had died away.“Gone,” she said, as she returned to Fred’s side, and prepared to bathe his brow once more.“No,” he said gently; “let me sleep now. But haven’t I seen you before?”“Yes, sir; you came here and brought Captain Markham and the prisoners,” said the girl, turning a deeper red, as she recalled her own action upon that occasion, and gazed suspiciously in his face for signs that he knew of all that she had done.“Yes, I remember now.”“And I suppose you were wounded when they were rescued by a party of the king’s horse?”“Yes,” sighed Fred. “I thought I remembered you. The little inn near the moor.”“Yes, sir. Father’s inn.”“And you are Royalists, I suppose?”“I don’t know what we are, sir. We only wish the war was over, and we want to do all we can for the poor wounded folk.”“For rebels, too?” said Fred, bitterly.“For any one who is in trouble, sir; and if you don’t want me to bathe your head again, I’ll go and attend to your servant. Father says there’s nothing like clean cold water for a cut.”“Yes, go and help the two poor fellows; but, one moment—there was quite a regiment there, was there not?”“Yes, sir; the greater part of one. Came from the town.”“Do you know where they have gone?”“No, sir, only along the Exeter road. News came, I think, of the enemy being there, and I’m afraid we shall be having more wounded to-night.”The girl went on to where Samson and the other man lay, and soon afterward the landlord’s red face appeared at the head of the stairs, to cry hastily—“Here, Polly! Dick has just come in from the top of the hill, and he could see soldiers riding this way to meet the regiment going along the road. There’ll be a fight not far from here, I’ll wager, and— Hark at that!”“I don’t hear anything, father.”“But I do. Horses galloping. Now can you hear?”There was a faint distant sound, gradually increasing—a sound which soon developed into the rapid beat of horses’ hoofs, and the girl climbed to the window to look out again.“Yes, father, I can see them,” she cried.“Well, well, what is it? the king’s regiment?”“Yes, father, coming galloping back along the road, and—yes, I can see them too, a great regiment of the other side galloping after them, and you can see more soldiers off on the moor.”“Coming this way?”“No; going right off behind the wood.”“To cut them off,” cried the landlord. “It’s some one who knows the country, and if the king’s regiment keeps to the road those last will get before them; they’ll be between two parties of the rebels, and they’ll be cut to pieces.”“Hooray!” came from the straw where Samson lay, and the landlord turned upon him angrily, but there was too much that was exciting outside to let him find words of reproof.The clatter of hoofs and jingle of sword against stirrup increased, and Fred lay with his eyes glittering, panting heavily as, full of excitement, he listened to the sounds of hurried flight.Then came another trumpet blast, sounding distant, and a rushing sound as of a coming storm, ever increasing in power.Then another blast, and another, both sounding farther away, and as the wounded lad lay there, he pictured to himself the advance of two more regiments of the Parliamentary cavalry rapidly coming on in pursuit, his mental pictures being endorsed by the words of the landlord’s daughter, as she forced her head out of the little opening to watch the retreat and pursuit, turning from time to time to speak to her father in answer to some eager question.“Are they keeping to the road, Polly? Quick, my girl? Why don’t you speak?”“Yes, father; they are keeping to the road.”“Can’t you tell ’em to turn off across the moor?”“No, father; they are too far away.”“Shout to them.”“It’s of no use, father. One, two, three rebel regiments are coming along at full gallop.”“All on the road?”“No; one on the road, the others across the moor.”“The poor fellows will be cut all to pieces. Can nothing be done? Here, Polly, come down, and let me look.”“There is plenty of room beside me, father. How they are galloping now!”In spite of his weakness, Fred had turned himself a little on one side, so as to watch the backs of the pair who were now blocking out the little light which came from the window; and as the exciting events went on, and he listened to the galloping of the horses, the shouts of the horsemen—his own party—and the trumpet calls, the perspiration due to excitement stood upon his brow, and he at last groaned out—“Oh, if I could only see!”“Ay, Master Fred, if we could only see!” came from close at hand. “Hark at ’em! hark at ’em!”There was no need for Samson’s adjuration, for Fred’s sense of hearing was strained to the utmost, and he was picturing mentally the effects of the scattered shots which were now being fired.“All waste, Samson; all waste,” he said hoarsely. “No man can take aim when he’s galloping full stretch.”“No, Master Fred; but it’ll scare t’other side a bit, p’raps make some of ’em surrender.”Fred shook his head slowly, and then listened again as the girl exclaimed excitedly—“Look, father; there’s one down!”“Ay, how could he expect to leap the wall on a horse blown like that?”“Those two have galloped up to him. Ah, cowards! two to one. Father, they’re killing him. Oh!”“They’re not,” cried Fred, hotly. “They’re taking him prisoner.”“Right!” cried the landlord, turning sharply; “but how did you know?”“Because I know our side would not act like butchers with a defenceless man,” said Fred, proudly, “They take prisoners, sir, and always give quarter.”The landlord uttered a grunt, and turned sharply to watch the progress of the fight and pursuit.“Look, Polly!” he cried; “they have got to the top of the hill, and see their danger.”“Yes, father; look, look—they have halted and turned. Yes; they are coming back.”“Can the two regiments trying to cut them off see them?”“No, I think not; they are down in the hollows. Look, father; they’re coming back.”“The enemy?”“No; the king’s men. Can’t you see!”“See? yes,” cried the landlord, with increased excitement. “Why, they’re mad. They’re coming right into danger. Whatever do they mean?”“I don’t know, father. Why, they’ll all be taken.”“They must have a fool for leader.”“Ah!” sighed Fred, as he strained his ears to catch every word and sound from outside.But the landlord was wrong. The king’s regiment of horse had no fool for colonel. On the contrary, he had suddenly woke to the fact that a regiment of Ironsides on his left, and another on his right, were trying to get round him by short cuts, so as to head him back to the regiment in pursuit; and, what was more, he saw that there could be no doubt of the success of the manoeuvre.With a gallantry that almost approached recklessness he faced round his regiment, and in the full intent of attacking his enemies, corps by corps, he gave the order to charge, and dashed right at the pursuing regiment.This movement resulted in bringing the engagement well within view of the spectators in the loft, or rather, it should be said, of the spectator; for, as soon as the landlord’s daughter saw that a deadly shock was inevitable, she covered her face with her hands, stepped down from beside her father, and fell upon her knees in the straw close to where Fred lay.“God help them, poor men!” she murmured. “How horrible it is!”Then there was a painful silence within that straw-spread loft, while without there was a rushing sound, as of two great torrents hurrying to meet, and above this came the jingling of sword and spur, the hoarse shouting of words of command; then the brazen blare of trumpets, followed by a distant cheer; then one more near; and then one horrible, crashing, hurtling noise, as man and beast dashed at man and beast, and came into collision. There was the clash of sword upon sword, of sword upon helmet, and again of sword upon breastplate. Yells of pain, wild shrieks, shouts of defiance, and then one confused din, broken by a loud “Hah!” from the landlord.“Polly,” he cried, “it’s awful! Ah, here comes another regiment, and—yes, here comes the other!”Almost as he spoke, came the sound of another shock, and then of another, followed by desperate clashing of steel, which grew less and less and less, and then gradually died out, to be followed by a dull, low murmur, and then silence, which lasted only a few moments, to be succeeded by a series of deafening cheers.“Is it all over, father?” whispered Polly, with hands over her face.“Yes, my girl,” said the landlord, in a sad voice; “it is all over for the poor fellows.”“Who have won, father?”“What’s the use of asking that? What could you expect, when it was three to one? Plenty of killed and wounded, and not a man escaped. Yes; there they are, two or three hundred of them, and all prisoners.”“Will they bring the wounded here, father?”“I don’t know, Polly. Where are we to put them, if they do?”“Ah!” sighed the girl, rising and wiping her eyes, “it is very dreadful, and I nearly swooned away when they brought the first wounded men here; but I must be about and ready to help when they come. They’ll want all we can do.”She smoothed down her apron in a calm, matter-of-fact way, and then moved over the rustling straw, as if ready for any duty; but she seemed to recollect something, and came back to where Fred lay.“It’s your side that has won, sir,” she said. “You will not be a prisoner any longer, and—”“Yes?” said Fred, for she stopped short.“You heard what my father said, sir? You know he likes the Royalists, and if he fought would fight for the king?”“Yes, I could see all that from his manner. I had no need to hear his words.”“But he is so good and kind, sir. He would not hurt a hair of any man’s head. You will not betray him to the soldiers, sir, and let him be treated as a spy.”Fred was conscious that the girl was talking to him, but her words seemed to be coming through a thick mist, and she looked far away somewhere down a long vista of light, which stretched right away into space, beginning upon the straw where he was lying, and passing right out through the end of the loft. And there, within this vista of light, surrounded by dancing motes, was the landlord’s daughter. Then, as if a thin filmy cloud had passed over the sun, a cloud which grew thicker and thicker, so that the broad beam of light gradually died away, the pleasant young homely face grew less and less distinct, and, lastly, all was confused and mingled with singing noises and murmurs in his head, and then—a complete blank.
Fred lay insensible for a few minutes, and when he did struggle back into consciousness, it seemed to him that he must be still dreaming, or else that the bewildering excitement of the civil war, with the misery, despair, and wretchedness, was all the result of his fevered imagination.
What did it all mean? he asked himself. Were they back at home, and had he fallen from the pony and struck his head against a rock? or was he over at the Hall, and was this the time when he climbed the great elm to get the magpie’s nest, and had that horrible fall?
No; it was all true—this was the war time—he was badly wounded, and his enemy, Scarlett Markham, the young Cavalier, was bending over him in mocking triumph at his downfall, and revenging himself for the insult he had received in the loss of his flowing curls.
It was a cruel revenge—one which, in spite of his efforts, brought the weak tears to his eyes, and, as he closed them tightly to hide his emotion three or four great drops were shut out by the lids, and rolled slowly down on either side, tickling him for the time before they were washed away.
Then, as the time glided on, Fred opened his eyes, and looked up in Scarlett’s, as he again asked himself whether it was all a dream, the consequence of his fevered state.
For there, kneeling in the straw, was Scarlett Markham, his buff gauntlet gloves thrust in his sword-belt, his cavalier hat cast aside, and his brow knit and glistening with perspiration, as he kept on dipping a white kerchief in a bowl of cold water held by some one at the back, and carefully bathed Fred’s forehead.
How cool and delightful that water felt as the kerchief was opened out, and spread right across the brow from temple to temple! Then how hot it grew, till it was softly removed, to be resoaked and applied once more with all the tender solicitude that would have been shown by a woman.
Fred wanted to speak, but no words would come; he could only lie there, with his breast heaving, as he watched the calmly stern, handsome face bending over him, and thought of the past—their old boyish friendship, the delightful days when they frolicked in the park; and fished, and sought for plovers’ eggs on the moor. How short a time ago it seemed, and now they were acting the parts of men fighting on either side in the terrible civil war which was devastating old England; enemies—deadly enemies, and Scarlett Markham was pouring coals of fire upon his head.
“Shall I fetch some more water, sir? This is getting quite warm,” said a pleasant voice.
“Yes, I was going to ask you to get some more,” said Scarlett. “Be quick, my lass; we shall be called away directly.”
Then Fred had a glimpse of a bonny, little, round-faced lass, with red cheeks and hands, as the bowl was borne away. The straw rustled, and steps were heard upon the rough loft ladder, to be followed by the rattle of a chain, and the creaking of a windlass, Fred seeming to see all as plainly as if he were there, and watching the girl’s actions at the draw-well in the yard below.
And all this time the two boys gazed at each other in silence—a silence that was broken by the splash of water; then there were footsteps on the ladder again, and the red-faced lass came back, knelt down behind the injured lad’s head, the kerchief was soaked, and the cool refreshing water did its work.
“And we are enemies,” thought Fred, with his eyes now closed, and a calm restful feeling coming over him like the beginning of sleep, from which he started, for there was the loud trampling of horses, the jingling of accoutrements, and the brazen bray of a trumpet.
Scarlett started up, shook the water from his hands, snatched up his broad-leafed hat, and took his gloves from his belt.
“Bathe his forehead for a few minutes longer, and then let him sleep. We shall be back before many hours, but the surgeon will be here before then.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And tell your father that General Markham will see that he is paid for all his trouble.”
“Oh, sir,” said the girl, “you need not think of that. We’ll do our best.”
By this time Scarlett was at the door, and Fred had turned his eyes toward him, but he did not look back.
“Come, Nat,” he cried loudly; and his follower stumped over the rough straw; the steps creaked, and voices were heard below. Loud orders followed. Then the trumpet brayed out again, the trampling of horses followed, and the girl set down the bowl, and went to the end of the loft, where she climbed up and looked through the little window, staying there till the trampling of the horses had died away.
“Gone,” she said, as she returned to Fred’s side, and prepared to bathe his brow once more.
“No,” he said gently; “let me sleep now. But haven’t I seen you before?”
“Yes, sir; you came here and brought Captain Markham and the prisoners,” said the girl, turning a deeper red, as she recalled her own action upon that occasion, and gazed suspiciously in his face for signs that he knew of all that she had done.
“Yes, I remember now.”
“And I suppose you were wounded when they were rescued by a party of the king’s horse?”
“Yes,” sighed Fred. “I thought I remembered you. The little inn near the moor.”
“Yes, sir. Father’s inn.”
“And you are Royalists, I suppose?”
“I don’t know what we are, sir. We only wish the war was over, and we want to do all we can for the poor wounded folk.”
“For rebels, too?” said Fred, bitterly.
“For any one who is in trouble, sir; and if you don’t want me to bathe your head again, I’ll go and attend to your servant. Father says there’s nothing like clean cold water for a cut.”
“Yes, go and help the two poor fellows; but, one moment—there was quite a regiment there, was there not?”
“Yes, sir; the greater part of one. Came from the town.”
“Do you know where they have gone?”
“No, sir, only along the Exeter road. News came, I think, of the enemy being there, and I’m afraid we shall be having more wounded to-night.”
The girl went on to where Samson and the other man lay, and soon afterward the landlord’s red face appeared at the head of the stairs, to cry hastily—
“Here, Polly! Dick has just come in from the top of the hill, and he could see soldiers riding this way to meet the regiment going along the road. There’ll be a fight not far from here, I’ll wager, and— Hark at that!”
“I don’t hear anything, father.”
“But I do. Horses galloping. Now can you hear?”
There was a faint distant sound, gradually increasing—a sound which soon developed into the rapid beat of horses’ hoofs, and the girl climbed to the window to look out again.
“Yes, father, I can see them,” she cried.
“Well, well, what is it? the king’s regiment?”
“Yes, father, coming galloping back along the road, and—yes, I can see them too, a great regiment of the other side galloping after them, and you can see more soldiers off on the moor.”
“Coming this way?”
“No; going right off behind the wood.”
“To cut them off,” cried the landlord. “It’s some one who knows the country, and if the king’s regiment keeps to the road those last will get before them; they’ll be between two parties of the rebels, and they’ll be cut to pieces.”
“Hooray!” came from the straw where Samson lay, and the landlord turned upon him angrily, but there was too much that was exciting outside to let him find words of reproof.
The clatter of hoofs and jingle of sword against stirrup increased, and Fred lay with his eyes glittering, panting heavily as, full of excitement, he listened to the sounds of hurried flight.
Then came another trumpet blast, sounding distant, and a rushing sound as of a coming storm, ever increasing in power.
Then another blast, and another, both sounding farther away, and as the wounded lad lay there, he pictured to himself the advance of two more regiments of the Parliamentary cavalry rapidly coming on in pursuit, his mental pictures being endorsed by the words of the landlord’s daughter, as she forced her head out of the little opening to watch the retreat and pursuit, turning from time to time to speak to her father in answer to some eager question.
“Are they keeping to the road, Polly? Quick, my girl? Why don’t you speak?”
“Yes, father; they are keeping to the road.”
“Can’t you tell ’em to turn off across the moor?”
“No, father; they are too far away.”
“Shout to them.”
“It’s of no use, father. One, two, three rebel regiments are coming along at full gallop.”
“All on the road?”
“No; one on the road, the others across the moor.”
“The poor fellows will be cut all to pieces. Can nothing be done? Here, Polly, come down, and let me look.”
“There is plenty of room beside me, father. How they are galloping now!”
In spite of his weakness, Fred had turned himself a little on one side, so as to watch the backs of the pair who were now blocking out the little light which came from the window; and as the exciting events went on, and he listened to the galloping of the horses, the shouts of the horsemen—his own party—and the trumpet calls, the perspiration due to excitement stood upon his brow, and he at last groaned out—
“Oh, if I could only see!”
“Ay, Master Fred, if we could only see!” came from close at hand. “Hark at ’em! hark at ’em!”
There was no need for Samson’s adjuration, for Fred’s sense of hearing was strained to the utmost, and he was picturing mentally the effects of the scattered shots which were now being fired.
“All waste, Samson; all waste,” he said hoarsely. “No man can take aim when he’s galloping full stretch.”
“No, Master Fred; but it’ll scare t’other side a bit, p’raps make some of ’em surrender.”
Fred shook his head slowly, and then listened again as the girl exclaimed excitedly—
“Look, father; there’s one down!”
“Ay, how could he expect to leap the wall on a horse blown like that?”
“Those two have galloped up to him. Ah, cowards! two to one. Father, they’re killing him. Oh!”
“They’re not,” cried Fred, hotly. “They’re taking him prisoner.”
“Right!” cried the landlord, turning sharply; “but how did you know?”
“Because I know our side would not act like butchers with a defenceless man,” said Fred, proudly, “They take prisoners, sir, and always give quarter.”
The landlord uttered a grunt, and turned sharply to watch the progress of the fight and pursuit.
“Look, Polly!” he cried; “they have got to the top of the hill, and see their danger.”
“Yes, father; look, look—they have halted and turned. Yes; they are coming back.”
“Can the two regiments trying to cut them off see them?”
“No, I think not; they are down in the hollows. Look, father; they’re coming back.”
“The enemy?”
“No; the king’s men. Can’t you see!”
“See? yes,” cried the landlord, with increased excitement. “Why, they’re mad. They’re coming right into danger. Whatever do they mean?”
“I don’t know, father. Why, they’ll all be taken.”
“They must have a fool for leader.”
“Ah!” sighed Fred, as he strained his ears to catch every word and sound from outside.
But the landlord was wrong. The king’s regiment of horse had no fool for colonel. On the contrary, he had suddenly woke to the fact that a regiment of Ironsides on his left, and another on his right, were trying to get round him by short cuts, so as to head him back to the regiment in pursuit; and, what was more, he saw that there could be no doubt of the success of the manoeuvre.
With a gallantry that almost approached recklessness he faced round his regiment, and in the full intent of attacking his enemies, corps by corps, he gave the order to charge, and dashed right at the pursuing regiment.
This movement resulted in bringing the engagement well within view of the spectators in the loft, or rather, it should be said, of the spectator; for, as soon as the landlord’s daughter saw that a deadly shock was inevitable, she covered her face with her hands, stepped down from beside her father, and fell upon her knees in the straw close to where Fred lay.
“God help them, poor men!” she murmured. “How horrible it is!”
Then there was a painful silence within that straw-spread loft, while without there was a rushing sound, as of two great torrents hurrying to meet, and above this came the jingling of sword and spur, the hoarse shouting of words of command; then the brazen blare of trumpets, followed by a distant cheer; then one more near; and then one horrible, crashing, hurtling noise, as man and beast dashed at man and beast, and came into collision. There was the clash of sword upon sword, of sword upon helmet, and again of sword upon breastplate. Yells of pain, wild shrieks, shouts of defiance, and then one confused din, broken by a loud “Hah!” from the landlord.
“Polly,” he cried, “it’s awful! Ah, here comes another regiment, and—yes, here comes the other!”
Almost as he spoke, came the sound of another shock, and then of another, followed by desperate clashing of steel, which grew less and less and less, and then gradually died out, to be followed by a dull, low murmur, and then silence, which lasted only a few moments, to be succeeded by a series of deafening cheers.
“Is it all over, father?” whispered Polly, with hands over her face.
“Yes, my girl,” said the landlord, in a sad voice; “it is all over for the poor fellows.”
“Who have won, father?”
“What’s the use of asking that? What could you expect, when it was three to one? Plenty of killed and wounded, and not a man escaped. Yes; there they are, two or three hundred of them, and all prisoners.”
“Will they bring the wounded here, father?”
“I don’t know, Polly. Where are we to put them, if they do?”
“Ah!” sighed the girl, rising and wiping her eyes, “it is very dreadful, and I nearly swooned away when they brought the first wounded men here; but I must be about and ready to help when they come. They’ll want all we can do.”
She smoothed down her apron in a calm, matter-of-fact way, and then moved over the rustling straw, as if ready for any duty; but she seemed to recollect something, and came back to where Fred lay.
“It’s your side that has won, sir,” she said. “You will not be a prisoner any longer, and—”
“Yes?” said Fred, for she stopped short.
“You heard what my father said, sir? You know he likes the Royalists, and if he fought would fight for the king?”
“Yes, I could see all that from his manner. I had no need to hear his words.”
“But he is so good and kind, sir. He would not hurt a hair of any man’s head. You will not betray him to the soldiers, sir, and let him be treated as a spy.”
Fred was conscious that the girl was talking to him, but her words seemed to be coming through a thick mist, and she looked far away somewhere down a long vista of light, which stretched right away into space, beginning upon the straw where he was lying, and passing right out through the end of the loft. And there, within this vista of light, surrounded by dancing motes, was the landlord’s daughter. Then, as if a thin filmy cloud had passed over the sun, a cloud which grew thicker and thicker, so that the broad beam of light gradually died away, the pleasant young homely face grew less and less distinct, and, lastly, all was confused and mingled with singing noises and murmurs in his head, and then—a complete blank.
Chapter Twenty Four.Discovering the Traitor.When Fred came to himself, he was no longer lying upon straw, but upon a comfortable bed, in a clean, white-washed room. It was evening, for the sun seemed to be low, and sending a ruddy glow through the open window.For a time he felt puzzled, and wondered why he was there; and as he tried to collect his thoughts, and the memory of the fight which he had heard came back, it seemed as if it was all a dream.But no; that was no dream. Tramp—tramp! tramp—tramp!—the heavy march of an armed man. It was a sentinel going to and fro beneath the window sure enough; for the footsteps sounded faint, grew gradually louder, as if passing close to the window, became gradually fainter, and then grew louder once more, and this over and over again.At the same time that he was listening to this, he became aware of a peculiar scratching noise close by, but until in his heavy drowsy state he had settled in his own mind that it was a sentinel, he could not pay any heed to the scratching.By degrees he recognised the sound as being that of a pen, and knew that some one was writing, and just as he had arrived at this conclusion, there was the faint scrape of a chair, a clinking noise such as might be made by the hilt of a sword against a breastplate, and directly after a sun-browned, anxious face was gazing earnestly into his.“Father!” whispered Fred, feebly.“My dear boy! Thank Heaven!”The first sentence was uttered aloud—the second breathed softly.“How is it with you, Fred?”“Bad, father, bad,” he murmured. “I seem to have no strength left, and—and—and—oh, father,” he gasped, as he clung to the hand which took his, “I did—indeed, I did my best.”“Why, Fred, my boy, Fred. Don’t—don’t take it so seriously as that. You were overpowered and wounded.”“Yes, father, but you trusted me with the prisoners, and I allowed myself to be out-manoeuvred, and I have disgraced myself.”“What! How?”“And I did try so hard to do my duty. I wish now I had been killed.”“Fred! My son!”“Don’t be angry with me now I am so weak.”“Yes, too weak, my dear boy,” said Colonel Forrester, as he knelt down by the bedside, and passed his arm beneath the lad’s neck as he kissed his forehead, “too weak to talk about all this. Be silent and listen to me.”Fred answered by a look.“You think you have disgraced yourself by letting your enemies out-manoeuvre you, and with the prisoners turn the table on your little escort?”Fred gave another pitiful look.“That you have disgraced yourself for ever as a young officer?”“Yes,” whispered the wounded lad.“And that I, your father and your colonel, am angry for what you look upon as a lapse?”Fred tried to bow his head, but failed.“Well, then, my dear boy, let me set your poor weak head at rest. I know everything you did from your start until you were trapped in the wood, the enemy letting you pass one troop, and having another waiting for you at the end of the wood.”“Yes, that is how it was, and I did not take sufficient care.”“Yes, you did, my boy; your precautions were all that an officer on such a duty could take, and all that I should have taken.”“You seem to be giving me fresh life, father,” whispered Fred. “But how did you know?”“Partly from the advance guard, partly from Samson; and both join in saying that my son behaved as a gallant officer should. I am quite satisfied, my boy. I sent you upon a dangerous expedition, and in spite of the perils of your journey, you have escaped with life, and you are no longer a prisoner. In fact, we have turned the tables on the enemy again, and read them a lesson they will not forget.”“Yes; I heard the fighting, father.”“And do you know whose men they were?”“No.”“Sir Godfrey Markham’s.”“Father?”“Yes; and his son, lately your prisoner, was with them.”“And they are prisoners now?”“No, my boy; they cut their way out with about a hundred mere, and escaped. This war is one of constant change.”“Then you are not angry with me, father?”“On the contrary, Fred, I am proud. You acted better than many older officers would have done.”“You say that to comfort me over my disgrace.”“I say it because it is true, and because you are not in disgrace. A far more experienced man would easily have been led into such an ambush, betrayed as you were.”“Betrayed?” said Fred.“Yes; some one must have carried information to the enemy.”“You think that?”“Of course.”“But who could have done so? We had no traitors with us.”“Perhaps not, but the enemy may have had friends near.”“Impossible, father!”“Quite possible, my boy. Where did you stay to refresh your men?”“Here, father—at this very place. At least,” added Fred, as he glanced round, “if this is the little inn where I was a prisoner in the loft.”“The very place, my boy; and now the secret is out. Lie still now, and don’t speak.”Fred gazed at his father eagerly as he rose from his knees and crossed to the door, which he opened, passed out on to the landing, called for the host, and returned.Instead of the florid landlord, there was a heavy step on the stairs, and the shock-headed boy of the place entered the room to look from Fred to Colonel Forrester and back.“Where does the nearest doctor live?” said the colonel, quietly.“At Brownsand,” replied the lad, with another sympathetic glance at the wounded officer.“Rather a long ride?”“Only twelve miles, sir.”“But that’s where a body of the king’s men lie, is it not?”“Well, no, sir, I don’t think so now. Those is them that you had to fight with. They were at Brownsand t’other day.”“You have a horse here, have you not?”“No, sir, only a pony; and if I took the short cut it would not be a long journey.”“But could the pony do the journey to-day?”“Do it to-day, sir? Yes; she’s as hard as a stag.”“That will do for the present,” said Colonel Forrester.“Shall I ride over for the doctor, sir?”“No. Send up your master.”The lad went down quite sulkily, and delivered his message, while Colonel Forrester smiled at his son.“Well, Fred,” he said, “I suppose you see now?”Fred’s answer was cut short off by the heavy step of the landlord, who came up with a sympathising look in his face, and seemed eager to serve.“The young gentleman’s not worse, sir, I hope.”“You are sorry for him, then?” said the colonel, quietly.“Sorry for him, sir? Why of course I am.”“As sorry as you were for the young prisoner he brought by here.”“Oh yes, sir, I was sorry for him, too; but he was not wounded.”“You treacherous dog!” cried the colonel, in a voice of thunder, as he seized the landlord by the throat, and forced him to his knees; “so nothing would do but you must bid that boy take the pony and ride over to Brownsand so as to betray the fact that an escort of prisoners had halted at your house and were gone on by the Brownsand road.”“No, sir; I never—I never did.”“You lie, you old villain: tell the truth before I hand you over to my men, and have you hung for a spy on the nearest tree.”“I swear, colonel, I never did anything of the kind,” cried the landlord, piteously.“No, sir, it is not true,” cried a girlish voice; and the landlord’s little daughter appeared in the doorway.“Then pray who did?” cried Colonel Forrester.“I did, sir,” said the girl, undauntedly.“And pray, why?”“Because I heard that the young officer was Sir Godfrey Markham’s son, and it seemed so horrible that he should be dragged off a prisoner.”“What do you know of Sir Godfrey Markham?” asked the colonel, sternly.“I had heard my father speak of him, sir.”“And so you planned all this and executed it yourself?”“Yes, sir; I sent our lad off with a message to where the king’s men lay.”“I need not ask, I suppose, whether you are telling the truth,” said the colonel, grimly.“No, sir. Why should I tell a lie?” replied the girl, quietly; and she looked unflinchingly in her questioner’s face.“And at the first opportunity, I suppose, you will betray us into the enemy’s hands?”“Oh no, sir,” said the girl, with the tears in her eyes, as she glanced at Fred. “I would sooner try and save you, though you are the enemies of our king.”“Silence, girl! there is no king now in England, only a man who calls himself king. A tyrant who has been driven from the throne.”The girl flushed and held up her head.“It is not true,” she cried, proudly. “God save the king!”“What!” cried Colonel Forrester, in a voice of thunder; and for the first time the innkeeper spoke, his ruddy face now mottled with white, and his hands trembling as he placed them together beseechingly.“Don’t take any notice of what she says, sir. She’s a foolish, wilful girl, sir. I’ve been a miserable coward to hold my tongue so long, but I will speak now. It was all my doing. I held back so as not to seem in the business, because I wanted to be friends with both sides, sir; but I could not bear to see the young squire carried off a prisoner, and I winked at it all. It was my doing, sir. Don’t believe a word she says.”“Father, what have you said?” cried his child, clinging to him.“Hush! Hold your tongue,” he whispered angrily.“So we have the truth at last,” said the colonel. “You convict yourself of being a spy and traitor; and you know your fate, I suppose?”As Colonel Forrester spoke, he rose and walked to the window, made a sign with his hand, and directly after heavy steps were heard upon the stairs, accompanied by the clank of arms.In an instant the girl was at the colonel’s feet.“Oh, sir, what are you going to do?” she shrieked. “He is my father.”The guilty innkeeper’s lips were quivering, and the white portions in his face were gradually increasing, to the exclusion of the red, for the steps of the soldiers on the stairs brought vividly before his eyes the scene of a spy’s fate. He knew what such a traitor’s end would be, and, speechless with terror, he could hardly keep his feet, as he looked from his child to the stern colonel and back again.“Father!” she cried, “why don’t you speak? Why don’t you ask him to forgive us?”“Mercy—mercy!” faltered the wretched man.“What mercy did you have on my poor boy?” cried the colonel, fiercely. “Through your treachery, he was surrounded by five times the number of his own men; and, for aught you cared, instead of lying wounded here he might have been dead.”“Mercy! I did not know,” gasped the miserable culprit.“Mercy? Yes; you shall have the choice of your own trees on which to hang,” cried the colonel.“No, no; mercy!” gasped the trembling man, dropping on his knees; “for my child’s sake—for Heaven’s sake—spare me!”“Father!” cried Fred, excitedly.“Silence, boy! I am their judge,” said Colonel Forrester, sternly. “Yes, man, for your child’s sake, I will spare you, in spite of your cowardly treachery.”“Father, father!” cried the girl, excitedly; but he could not speak.“Yes, I will spare you for your child’s sake,” said the colonel again. “There, little woman, I forgive you, for you are as brave and true-hearted as can be. I believe you—every word. Your little heart was moved to pity for the prisoner, as it has been moved to pity for my poor boy here, and for my men.”He took her hand in his, and held it.“I have heard of all your busy nursing, and I do not blame you; I would rather praise. There, help the old man downstairs, and I am not afraid of your betraying us.”The girl raised his hand and kissed it before rushing to her father, flinging her arms about him, and helping him away, so weak and semi-paralysed by fright that he could hardly totter from the room, the colonel following to the door, and signing to the soldiers to go down.“There, he has had his punishment,” said the colonel, smiling; “and now you will be able to rest in peace.”“Thank you, father, thank you,” whispered Fred, huskily.“You see you were not to blame now.”“Not so much as I thought, father.”“Not to blame at all. There, make haste and grow strong, my boy, before we are driven out in turn by the enemy.”“Are they near, father?”“No; as far as I know, my boy. But the victors of yesterday are the defeated to-day, perhaps to win again to-morrow. Ah, my boy, it is fratricidal work! and, though I love my cause as well as ever, I would give all I possess as one of the richest men in our county to see home smiling again in peace.”
When Fred came to himself, he was no longer lying upon straw, but upon a comfortable bed, in a clean, white-washed room. It was evening, for the sun seemed to be low, and sending a ruddy glow through the open window.
For a time he felt puzzled, and wondered why he was there; and as he tried to collect his thoughts, and the memory of the fight which he had heard came back, it seemed as if it was all a dream.
But no; that was no dream. Tramp—tramp! tramp—tramp!—the heavy march of an armed man. It was a sentinel going to and fro beneath the window sure enough; for the footsteps sounded faint, grew gradually louder, as if passing close to the window, became gradually fainter, and then grew louder once more, and this over and over again.
At the same time that he was listening to this, he became aware of a peculiar scratching noise close by, but until in his heavy drowsy state he had settled in his own mind that it was a sentinel, he could not pay any heed to the scratching.
By degrees he recognised the sound as being that of a pen, and knew that some one was writing, and just as he had arrived at this conclusion, there was the faint scrape of a chair, a clinking noise such as might be made by the hilt of a sword against a breastplate, and directly after a sun-browned, anxious face was gazing earnestly into his.
“Father!” whispered Fred, feebly.
“My dear boy! Thank Heaven!”
The first sentence was uttered aloud—the second breathed softly.
“How is it with you, Fred?”
“Bad, father, bad,” he murmured. “I seem to have no strength left, and—and—and—oh, father,” he gasped, as he clung to the hand which took his, “I did—indeed, I did my best.”
“Why, Fred, my boy, Fred. Don’t—don’t take it so seriously as that. You were overpowered and wounded.”
“Yes, father, but you trusted me with the prisoners, and I allowed myself to be out-manoeuvred, and I have disgraced myself.”
“What! How?”
“And I did try so hard to do my duty. I wish now I had been killed.”
“Fred! My son!”
“Don’t be angry with me now I am so weak.”
“Yes, too weak, my dear boy,” said Colonel Forrester, as he knelt down by the bedside, and passed his arm beneath the lad’s neck as he kissed his forehead, “too weak to talk about all this. Be silent and listen to me.”
Fred answered by a look.
“You think you have disgraced yourself by letting your enemies out-manoeuvre you, and with the prisoners turn the table on your little escort?”
Fred gave another pitiful look.
“That you have disgraced yourself for ever as a young officer?”
“Yes,” whispered the wounded lad.
“And that I, your father and your colonel, am angry for what you look upon as a lapse?”
Fred tried to bow his head, but failed.
“Well, then, my dear boy, let me set your poor weak head at rest. I know everything you did from your start until you were trapped in the wood, the enemy letting you pass one troop, and having another waiting for you at the end of the wood.”
“Yes, that is how it was, and I did not take sufficient care.”
“Yes, you did, my boy; your precautions were all that an officer on such a duty could take, and all that I should have taken.”
“You seem to be giving me fresh life, father,” whispered Fred. “But how did you know?”
“Partly from the advance guard, partly from Samson; and both join in saying that my son behaved as a gallant officer should. I am quite satisfied, my boy. I sent you upon a dangerous expedition, and in spite of the perils of your journey, you have escaped with life, and you are no longer a prisoner. In fact, we have turned the tables on the enemy again, and read them a lesson they will not forget.”
“Yes; I heard the fighting, father.”
“And do you know whose men they were?”
“No.”
“Sir Godfrey Markham’s.”
“Father?”
“Yes; and his son, lately your prisoner, was with them.”
“And they are prisoners now?”
“No, my boy; they cut their way out with about a hundred mere, and escaped. This war is one of constant change.”
“Then you are not angry with me, father?”
“On the contrary, Fred, I am proud. You acted better than many older officers would have done.”
“You say that to comfort me over my disgrace.”
“I say it because it is true, and because you are not in disgrace. A far more experienced man would easily have been led into such an ambush, betrayed as you were.”
“Betrayed?” said Fred.
“Yes; some one must have carried information to the enemy.”
“You think that?”
“Of course.”
“But who could have done so? We had no traitors with us.”
“Perhaps not, but the enemy may have had friends near.”
“Impossible, father!”
“Quite possible, my boy. Where did you stay to refresh your men?”
“Here, father—at this very place. At least,” added Fred, as he glanced round, “if this is the little inn where I was a prisoner in the loft.”
“The very place, my boy; and now the secret is out. Lie still now, and don’t speak.”
Fred gazed at his father eagerly as he rose from his knees and crossed to the door, which he opened, passed out on to the landing, called for the host, and returned.
Instead of the florid landlord, there was a heavy step on the stairs, and the shock-headed boy of the place entered the room to look from Fred to Colonel Forrester and back.
“Where does the nearest doctor live?” said the colonel, quietly.
“At Brownsand,” replied the lad, with another sympathetic glance at the wounded officer.
“Rather a long ride?”
“Only twelve miles, sir.”
“But that’s where a body of the king’s men lie, is it not?”
“Well, no, sir, I don’t think so now. Those is them that you had to fight with. They were at Brownsand t’other day.”
“You have a horse here, have you not?”
“No, sir, only a pony; and if I took the short cut it would not be a long journey.”
“But could the pony do the journey to-day?”
“Do it to-day, sir? Yes; she’s as hard as a stag.”
“That will do for the present,” said Colonel Forrester.
“Shall I ride over for the doctor, sir?”
“No. Send up your master.”
The lad went down quite sulkily, and delivered his message, while Colonel Forrester smiled at his son.
“Well, Fred,” he said, “I suppose you see now?”
Fred’s answer was cut short off by the heavy step of the landlord, who came up with a sympathising look in his face, and seemed eager to serve.
“The young gentleman’s not worse, sir, I hope.”
“You are sorry for him, then?” said the colonel, quietly.
“Sorry for him, sir? Why of course I am.”
“As sorry as you were for the young prisoner he brought by here.”
“Oh yes, sir, I was sorry for him, too; but he was not wounded.”
“You treacherous dog!” cried the colonel, in a voice of thunder, as he seized the landlord by the throat, and forced him to his knees; “so nothing would do but you must bid that boy take the pony and ride over to Brownsand so as to betray the fact that an escort of prisoners had halted at your house and were gone on by the Brownsand road.”
“No, sir; I never—I never did.”
“You lie, you old villain: tell the truth before I hand you over to my men, and have you hung for a spy on the nearest tree.”
“I swear, colonel, I never did anything of the kind,” cried the landlord, piteously.
“No, sir, it is not true,” cried a girlish voice; and the landlord’s little daughter appeared in the doorway.
“Then pray who did?” cried Colonel Forrester.
“I did, sir,” said the girl, undauntedly.
“And pray, why?”
“Because I heard that the young officer was Sir Godfrey Markham’s son, and it seemed so horrible that he should be dragged off a prisoner.”
“What do you know of Sir Godfrey Markham?” asked the colonel, sternly.
“I had heard my father speak of him, sir.”
“And so you planned all this and executed it yourself?”
“Yes, sir; I sent our lad off with a message to where the king’s men lay.”
“I need not ask, I suppose, whether you are telling the truth,” said the colonel, grimly.
“No, sir. Why should I tell a lie?” replied the girl, quietly; and she looked unflinchingly in her questioner’s face.
“And at the first opportunity, I suppose, you will betray us into the enemy’s hands?”
“Oh no, sir,” said the girl, with the tears in her eyes, as she glanced at Fred. “I would sooner try and save you, though you are the enemies of our king.”
“Silence, girl! there is no king now in England, only a man who calls himself king. A tyrant who has been driven from the throne.”
The girl flushed and held up her head.
“It is not true,” she cried, proudly. “God save the king!”
“What!” cried Colonel Forrester, in a voice of thunder; and for the first time the innkeeper spoke, his ruddy face now mottled with white, and his hands trembling as he placed them together beseechingly.
“Don’t take any notice of what she says, sir. She’s a foolish, wilful girl, sir. I’ve been a miserable coward to hold my tongue so long, but I will speak now. It was all my doing. I held back so as not to seem in the business, because I wanted to be friends with both sides, sir; but I could not bear to see the young squire carried off a prisoner, and I winked at it all. It was my doing, sir. Don’t believe a word she says.”
“Father, what have you said?” cried his child, clinging to him.
“Hush! Hold your tongue,” he whispered angrily.
“So we have the truth at last,” said the colonel. “You convict yourself of being a spy and traitor; and you know your fate, I suppose?”
As Colonel Forrester spoke, he rose and walked to the window, made a sign with his hand, and directly after heavy steps were heard upon the stairs, accompanied by the clank of arms.
In an instant the girl was at the colonel’s feet.
“Oh, sir, what are you going to do?” she shrieked. “He is my father.”
The guilty innkeeper’s lips were quivering, and the white portions in his face were gradually increasing, to the exclusion of the red, for the steps of the soldiers on the stairs brought vividly before his eyes the scene of a spy’s fate. He knew what such a traitor’s end would be, and, speechless with terror, he could hardly keep his feet, as he looked from his child to the stern colonel and back again.
“Father!” she cried, “why don’t you speak? Why don’t you ask him to forgive us?”
“Mercy—mercy!” faltered the wretched man.
“What mercy did you have on my poor boy?” cried the colonel, fiercely. “Through your treachery, he was surrounded by five times the number of his own men; and, for aught you cared, instead of lying wounded here he might have been dead.”
“Mercy! I did not know,” gasped the miserable culprit.
“Mercy? Yes; you shall have the choice of your own trees on which to hang,” cried the colonel.
“No, no; mercy!” gasped the trembling man, dropping on his knees; “for my child’s sake—for Heaven’s sake—spare me!”
“Father!” cried Fred, excitedly.
“Silence, boy! I am their judge,” said Colonel Forrester, sternly. “Yes, man, for your child’s sake, I will spare you, in spite of your cowardly treachery.”
“Father, father!” cried the girl, excitedly; but he could not speak.
“Yes, I will spare you for your child’s sake,” said the colonel again. “There, little woman, I forgive you, for you are as brave and true-hearted as can be. I believe you—every word. Your little heart was moved to pity for the prisoner, as it has been moved to pity for my poor boy here, and for my men.”
He took her hand in his, and held it.
“I have heard of all your busy nursing, and I do not blame you; I would rather praise. There, help the old man downstairs, and I am not afraid of your betraying us.”
The girl raised his hand and kissed it before rushing to her father, flinging her arms about him, and helping him away, so weak and semi-paralysed by fright that he could hardly totter from the room, the colonel following to the door, and signing to the soldiers to go down.
“There, he has had his punishment,” said the colonel, smiling; “and now you will be able to rest in peace.”
“Thank you, father, thank you,” whispered Fred, huskily.
“You see you were not to blame now.”
“Not so much as I thought, father.”
“Not to blame at all. There, make haste and grow strong, my boy, before we are driven out in turn by the enemy.”
“Are they near, father?”
“No; as far as I know, my boy. But the victors of yesterday are the defeated to-day, perhaps to win again to-morrow. Ah, my boy, it is fratricidal work! and, though I love my cause as well as ever, I would give all I possess as one of the richest men in our county to see home smiling again in peace.”