Майн Рид
No Quarter!
Chapter Forty Five
A Town Cleverly Taken
About an hour after the capture of Kyrle’s party, a body of horse, numbering over one hundred, might have been seen descending the Kymin towards Monmouth. The fury of the storm had worn itself out, the downpour of rain being succeeded by a drizzle, while the lightning only flickered faintly, and at long intervals, the thunder muttering low and distant. But the darkness was deep as ever, and the horsemen rode down the steep incline at a slow, creeping pace, as if groping their way. In silence too, neither word of command, nor note of bugle, directing their march.
Had there been light enough to give a good view of them, it might have been guessed that something other than the darkness and difficulty of the path was causing them to advance in this noiseless, deliberate manner. For at their head would have been seen Kyrle himself; no prisoner now, on parole or otherwise, but with sword restored, and in every way acting as their commanding officer! And by his side one who carried a troop flag, with a crown upon its field, the same which had been left behind by the escaped cornet. The captured troopers were there too – as at first glance any one would suppose – forming a half-score files in front of the marching line, with a like number in rear. Only in seeming, however – only their uniforms and equipments – for they themselves were at that moment shut up in a cellar of High Meadow House, where Benedict Hall had erst incarcerated many a rebel and recusant.
A different set of men were now wearing their doublets and carrying their accoutrements in the descent of the Kymin Hill, and any one familiar with the faces of Sir Richard Walwyn’s Foresters would have recognised some forty of them thus partially disguised, with nigh twice as many more in their uniforms there, the last apparently disarmed and conducted as prisoners, their place being central in the line!
In rear of all was the knight himself, with his new troop captain, Harley; Sergeant Wilde and Hubert the trumpeter constituting the file immediately in front of them – all four, as the others, seemingly without arms.
That his oddly composed cohort had some strategic scheme in view was evident from the cautious silence in which they advanced. And at intervals, Kyrle, reining his horse to one side, would wait till the rearmost file came up; then, after exchanging a word or two with Colonel Walwyn, spur back to his place in the lead.
Thus noiselessly they descended the long, winding slope; but when near its bottom, and within some three or four hundred yards of the bridge, all was changed. The troopers began to talk to one another, Kyrle himself having given them the cue. Loudly and boisterously, with a tone of boasting, their speech interspersed with peals of light, joyous laughter. All this meant for the ears of those on guard at the bridge gate.
A sufficiently strong force was stationed there, and with fair vigilance were they guarding it. For although Massey had been reported as on hurried return to Gloucester, the fugitive cornet, having found his way back, had brought with him a different tale. Afoot, and delayed by losing his way, he had but just passed over the bridge and on to the castle, after saying some words that left the guard in a state of alarm.
It was more bewilderment, as the men seemingly so merry drew near, invisible through the pitchlike darkness. At least a hundred there must be, as told by the pattering of their horses’ hoofs on the firm causeway. Kyrle’s scouting party had gone out not half this number, yet there was Kyrle himself, talking and laughing the loudest. Many of the guard – officers and soldiers – knew his voice well, and could not be mistaken about it. What then meant the sooner return of the cornet, without his standard, and with a tale of disaster? Had he retreated from a conflict still undecided, afterwards ending in favour of the Royalist forces? It might be so.
By this the approaching party had got nearly up to the gate, in front of which the causeway showed a wide gap, and through it, far below, the flooded river surging angrily on. The officer in command of the guard was about to call out, “Who comes?” when anticipated by a hail from the opposite side, pronounced in tone of demand, – “Hoi over there! Let the drawbridge down!”
“For whom?”
“Kyrle and party. We’ve taken prisoners threescore Roundheads, and sent as many more to kingdom come. Be quick, and let us in. We’re soaking wet, and hungry as wolves!”
“But, Colonel Kyrle,” doubtingly objected the officer, “your cornet has just passed in, with the report that you and your party were made prisoners! How is it – ”
“Oh, he’s got back, has he?” interrupted the ready Kyrle, though for an instant non-plussed. “The coward! And double scoundrel, telling such a tale to screen himself! Why, he dropped his standard at sight of the enemy, and skulked off before we had come to blows! Ah! I’ll make short work of it with him.”
While he was speaking there came a flash of lightning more vivid than any that had late preceded, bright enough and sufficiently prolonged for the soldiers on guard to see those on the other side of the chasm throughout the whole extended line. In front some half-score files of Kyrle’s Light Horse, whose uniform was well-known, with a like number in the rear, and between, with heads drooped, and looking dejected, the prisoners he had spoken of.
The spectacle seemed to prove his words true. Under the circumstances who could think them false? Who suspect him of treason?
Not the officer in command of that guard, anyhow; who, without further hesitation or parley, gave orders for the lowering of the bridge.
Down it went, and over it rode a hundred and odd men, counting the supposed Royalists and their unarmed prisoners. But soon as inside the gate, all seemed to be armed, prisoners as well as escort, the former suddenly bristling with weapons, which they had drawn from under their doublets to the cry, “For God and Parliament!” The opposing shout, “For God and the King?” was stifled almost soon as raised, the bridge guard being instantly overpowered, many of them cut down, and killed outright.
Then a larger and heavier force, that had been following down the Kymin Hill, Massey’s main body, came on at full gallop, over the drawbridge and through the gate. There, taking up the cry, “God and Parliament!” they went rattling on through the streets of the town, clearing them of all hostile opposition, and capturing everybody who showed a rag of Royalist uniform.
When the morning’s sun rose over Monmouth, from its castle turrets floated a flag very different from that hitherto waving there. The glorious standard of Liberty had displaced the soiled and blood-stained banner of the Stuart Kings.
Chapter Forty Six
Awaiting War News
“What a life we’ve been leading, Sab! Shut up in cities as birds in a cage! Now nearly two years of it, with scarce ever a peep at the dear, delightful country. Oh! it’s a wretched existence.”
“It’s not the pleasantest, I admit.”
“And in this prosaic city, Gloucester.”
“Ah, Vag, don’t speak against Gloucester. Think what her citizens have suffered in the good cause. And how well they have borne themselves! But for their bravery and fidelity, where might we be now? Possibly in Bristol. How would you like that?”
“Not at all,” returned Vag, with a shrug and grimace, the name of Bristol recalling souvenirs aught but agreeable to her.
“Well,” resumed Sabrina, “life there is not prosaic, anyhow – if there be poetry in scandal. Very much the reverse, I should say, supposing half of what’s reported be true. But I wonder how our foolish aunt, and equally foolish cousin, are comporting themselves under the changed circumstances?”
“Oh! they’re happy enough, no doubt; everything just as they wished it. Plenty of titled personages flitting and figuring around – at least three princes of the blood royal, with an occasional chance of their seeing the King himself. Won’t Madame open wide the doors of Montserrat House. As for Clarisse, I shouldn’t be surprised at her making a grand marriage of it, becoming baroness duchess, or something of that sort. Well, I won’t envy her.”
Vaga Powell could afford to speak thus of her Creole cousin, with light heart now, all envy and jealousy having long since gone out of it.
“Let us hope nothing worse,” rejoined the elder sister, with a doubting look, as though some painful thought were in her mind. “Clarisse is very, very imprudent, to say the least of it.”
“And very wicked, to say nothing more than the most of it. But what need we care, Sab, since we neither of us ever intend going near the Lalandes again? After the way they behaved to us, well – ”
“Well, let us cease speaking of them, and turn to some pleasanter subject.”
“Ay, if that were possible. Alas! there’s none very pleasant now – every day new anxieties, new fears. I wish this horrid war were at an end, one way or the other, so that we might get back to dear old Hollymead.”
“Don’t say one way or the other, Vag. If it should end in the King being conqueror, Hollymead will be no more a home for us. It would even cease to belong to us.”
“I almost wish it never had.”
“Why that?”
“You should know, Sab. But for my father sending him there after those worthless things, he would not now be – ”
“Dear Vaga!” interrupted the elder sister entreatingly. “For your life do not let father hear you speak in that strain. ’Twould vex him very much, and, as you yourself know, he has grieved over it already.”
“Ah, true. I won’t say a word about it again, in his hearing, anyhow – you may trust me. But it’s hard to think of my dear Eustace being in a prison – shut up in a dark dungeon, perhaps hungering, thirsting, and, worse than all, suffering ill-treatment at the hands of some cruel jailer.”
She was justified in calling him her “dear Eustace” now, and giving him all her sympathies. Since that night of perverse misconceptions at Montserrat House there had been many an interview between them; the thread of their interrupted dialogue by Ruardean Hill had been taken up again, and spun into a cord which now bound them together by vows of betrothal.
Of their engagement Sabrina was aware, and under the like herself, she could well comprehend her sister’s feelings. True, her betrothed was not in a prison, but she knew not how soon he might be – or worse, dead on the battlefield. Invincible as she believed him, war had its adverse fates, was full of perils, every day, as the other had said, fraught with new anxieties and fears. Concealing her own, she essayed to dispel those of her sister, rejoining, —
“Nonsense, Vag. Nothing so bad. Why should they treat him with cruelty?”
“You forget that they call him renegade. And they on the King’s side are most spiteful against all who turn from them. Think how his own cousin acted towards him; and ’tis said his father disowned him. Besides, other prisoners have been scandalously treated by the Cavaliers, some even tortured. And they may torture him.”
“No fear of their doing that. Even if disposed they’re not likely to have the opportunity.”
“But they have it now.”
“Not quite.”
“I don’t comprehend you, Sab.”
“It’s very simple. Heartless as many of the Royalists leaders are, and vindictive, they will be restrained by the thought of retaliation. At this time our people hold two prisoners to their one. A large number of these Monmouth men, with their officers, have been taken at Beachley, and that will insure humane treatment to your Eustace. So make you mind easy about him.”
It became easier as she listened to the cheering words, almost reassured by others spoken in continuation.
“In any case,” pursued Sabrina, “his captors are not likely to have the time for torturing, as you put it. Richard’s last letter says he and his troops were at High Meadow House – the Halls’, near Staunton, you know?”
“That Papist family; great friends of Sir John and Lady Wintour. I remember their place. Well?”
“He was there in advance, awaiting the Governor to come up, with every hope of their being able to take Monmouth. If they succeed, and they will – I feel sure they will, Vag – then Eustace will be a free man, and all of us go back to Hollymead, with not much danger of being again molested.”
“Oh?” exclaimed the younger sister, overjoyed by the prospect thus shadowed forth, “wouldn’t that be delightful! Back at the dear old place. Once more our walks and rides through the Forest. Our hawking, too. Bless me! my pretty Pers and your Mer, I suppose they won’t know us! I trust Van Dom hasn’t neglected them, nor my Hector either.”
And so she ran on, in the exuberance of her new-sprung hopes seemingly forgetting him around whom they all centred. Only for an instant though. Without Eustace Trevor by her side the Forest walks and rides, with Hollymead and its hawking, – would have less attraction for her now. Wherever he might be, that were the place of her choice, thenceforth and for ever. So soon the thought of his being in a prison, with fears of something worse, came back in all its bitterness.
And the shadow of returned anxiety was again visible on the brow of Sabrina. A fortified town to be taken there would needs be fighting of a desperate kind – her lover in the thick of it. A forlorn hope for storming, who so like as her soldier knight to be the leader of it? He had been so at Beachley, and proud was she on hearing of his achievements there. But at the thought of his now again undergoing such risk, with all the uncertainties of war – that he might fall before the ramparts of Monmouth, even at that moment be lying lifeless in its trenches – her heart sank within her.
For a time both were silent. Then Sabrina, with another effort to cast-off the gloomy reflections, which she saw were also affecting her sister, said, —
“Richard promised to write again last night, or early this morning, if there should be anything worth writing about. He hasn’t written last night, or the letter would have been here now. If this morning, I may soon expect it. His messengers are never slow, and a man on a swift horse should ride from High Meadow House to Gloucester in two hours, or a little over.”
From her belt she drew a quaint, three-cornered watch to ascertain the correct time. Correct or not, its hands pointed to 10 a.m. A messenger from the High Meadow could have been there before if sent off at an early hour, and on an errand calling for courier-speed.
Perhaps no reason had arisen for such, and consoling herself with this reflection, she resumed speech, saying, —
“Anyhow, we may make sure of getting news before noon, some kind or other. The Governor will be sending a despatch to the Committee, and one may have already reached them. We shall know when father returns.”
The last remark had reference to the fact of Ambrose Powell being one of the Parliamentary Commissioners for the Gloucester district, and just then in committee.
But the anticipated news reached them without being brought by him. As they stood conversing in an embraced window, which, terrace-like, overhung the street, they heard a clattering of hoofs, almost at the same instant to see a horseman coming on at quick pace. When opposite the house in which they were, he halted, flung himself out of the saddle, and disappeared from their sight under the projecting balcony. Long ere this they had recognised Sir Richard’s henchman Hubert.
There was a loud rat-tat-tat at the street door, and soon after a gentle tapping against that of their room, which both recognised as from the knuckles of Gwenthian, simultaneously exclaiming, “Come in.”
In came she with a letter that seemed terribly soiled and crumpled.
“Hubert has brought this, my lady,” she said, holding it towards Sabrina, for whom the sharp-witted Welsh maid knew it was meant. “Poor man! he be wet to the skin, and all over mud, and looks as if just dropped out of a duck pond.”
The “poor man” was but a mild, evasive form of expressing her sympathy. Had she put it as she felt, it would have been “dear man,” for long ago had Gwenthian entered into tender relations with the trumpeter.
Neither of the sisters gave ear to what she was saying, for the elder had snatched the letter out of her hand, and torn it open on the instant, while the younger stood by in eager, anxious attitude.
There was contentment in Sabrina’s eyes as she glanced at the superscription. It became joy on reading the first words written inside, and she cried out, in tone of enthusiastic triumph, —
“Glorious news, sister! They’ve taken Monmouth?”
“They have! Heaven be praised!” Sabrina was about to read the letter aloud, when some words caught her eye which admonished first running it over to herself hastily, as the other was all impatience. It ran: —
“My love, – We are inside Monmouth, thanks to little strategy I was able to effect, with the help of an old Low Country comrade, Kyrle, of Walford, whom you may know. For all, we had some sharp fighting by the bridge gate, where Kyrle proved himself worthy of his ancient repute as soldier and swordsman. Had we failed there this letter would not have been written, unless, perhaps, inside a prison. And now on that subject I’m sorry to say E. Trevor is still in one, but, unluckily, not at Monmouth. Taken by Harry Lingen from the Hereford side, they have carried him off that way, likely to Goodrich Castle. What’s worse, he has been wounded; whether severely or not, I haven’t yet been able to ascertain. Soon as I can learn for certain where he is, and what the nature of his hurt, you shall hear from me, as I know your sister will be in a sad state of anxiety. We’ve made many prisoners, and now, commanding Monmouth, may hope to gather in a good many more. If we succeed in clearing the Wye’s western bank of the wolves so long infesting it you may all safely return to Hollymead.”
The letter did not conclude quite so abruptly. There were some expressions tenderer and of more private nature, which she was scarce permitted to read, much less dwell upon. For Vaga, all the while gazing in her face with a look of searching interrogation, saw a shadow pass over it, and unable longer to bear the suspense, cried out, —
“There’s something wrong? Ah! it’s Eustace; I know it is!”
“Nothing wrong with him more than we knew of already. He is still a prisoner; but, of course, not at Monmouth, or he’d have been released. They have taken him away from there, as Richard thinks, to Goodrich Castle.”
There was that in her manner, with the words and their tone of utterance, which led to a suspicion of either subterfuge or reticence. And Vaga so suspecting, with another searching look into her eyes, exclaimed, —
“You’ve not told me all. There’s something in that letter you fear to communicate. You need not, Sab. I’ll try to be brave. Better for me to know the worst. Let me read it.”
Thus appealed to the elder sister gave way. The thing she desired to conceal must become known sooner or later. Perhaps as well, if not better, at once.
Tearing off that portion of the sheet on which were the words of tenderness concerning only herself, she passed the other into the hands of her sister, saying, —
“All’s there that interests you, Vag; and don’t let it alarm you. Remember that wounds are always made more of than – ”
“Wounded!” came the interrupting cry from Vaga’s lips, intoned with agony. “He’s wounded – it may be to death! I shall go to Goodrich. If he die, I die with him!”
Chapter Forty Seven
Old Comrades
“Well, Dick, for a man who’s just captured a city, you look strangely downhearted – more like as if you’d been captured yourself.”
It was Colonel Robert Kyrle who made the odd observation; he to whom it was addressed being Colonel Sir Richard Walwyn. The time was between midnight and morning, some two hours after Monmouth had succumbed to their strategic coup-de-main; the place Kyrle’s own quarters, whither he had conducted his old comrade-in-arms to give him lodgment for the rest of the night.
Snug quarters they were, in every way well provided. Kyrle was a man of money, and liked good living whether he fought for King or for Parliament. A table was between them, on which were some remains of a supper, with wines of the best, and they were quaffing freely, as might be expected of soldiers after a fight or fatiguing march.
“Yet to you,” added Kyrle, “Massey owes the taking of Monmouth.”
“Rather say to yourself, Kyrle. Give the devil his due,” returned the knight, with a peculiar smile.
Notwithstanding his serious mood at the moment, he could not resist a jest so opportune. He knew it would not offend his old comrade, as it did not. On the contrary, Kyrle seemed rather to relish it, with a light laugh rejoining, —
“Little fear of him you allude to being cheated of his dues this time. No doubt for all that’s been done I’ll get my full share of credit, however little creditable to myself. They’ll call me all sorts of names, the vilest in the Cavalier vocabulary; and, God knows, it’s got a good stock of them. What care I? Not the shaking of straw. My conscience is clear, and my conduct guided by motives I’m not ashamed of – never shall be. You know them, Walwyn?”
“I do, and respect them. I was just in the act of explaining things to Massey up by the Buckstone when your letter came – that carried in the cadger’s wooden leg.”
“Most kind of you, Dick; though nothing more than I expected. Soon as I heard of your being at the High Meadow, I made up my mind to join you there, even if I went alone as a common deserter. Never was man more disgusted with a cause than I with Cavalierism. It stinks of the beerhouse and bagnio; here in Monmouth spiced with Papistry – no improvement to its nasty savour. But the place will smell sweeter now. I’ll make it. Massey has told me I’m to have command.”
“You are the man for it,” said the knight approvingly. “And I am glad he has given it to you. Nothing more than you’re entitled to, after what you’ve done.”
“Ah! ’tis you who did everything – planned everything. What clever strategy your thinking of such a ruse!”
“Not half so clever as your carrying it out.”
“Well, Dick, between us we did the trick neatly, didn’t we?”
“Nothing could have been better. But how near it came to miscarrying! When they flung that Cornet in your teeth I almost gave it up.”
“I confess to some misgiving myself then. It looked awkward for a while.”
“That indeed. And how you got out of it! Your tale of his cowardice, and threat to make short work with him, were so well affected I could scarce keep from bursting into laughter. But what a simpleton that fellow who had command of the bridge guard! Was he one of those we cut down, think you?”
“I fancy he was, and fear it. Among my late comrades there were many I liked less than he.”
“And the Cornet, to whom you gave credit for making such good use of his heels. Has he escaped?”
“I’ve no doubt he’s justified what I said of him by using them again. He’s one that has a way of it. I suspect a great many of them got off on the other side – more than we’ve netted. But we shall know in the morning when we muster the birds taken, and beat up the covers where some will be in hiding. Hopelessly for them, as I’m acquainted with every hole and corner in Monmouth.”
There was a short interval of silence, while Kyrle, as host, leant over the table, took up a flagon of sack, and replenished their empty cups. On again turning to his guest he could see that same expression, which had led to him thinking him downhearted. Quite unlike what face of man should be wearing who had so late gained glory – reaped a very harvest of laurels – on more than one battlefield. The exciting topics just discoursed upon had for a time chased it away, but there it was once more.
“Bless me, Walwyn! what is the matter with you?” asked Kyrle, as he pushed the refilled goblet towards him. “You could not look more sadly solemn if I were Prince Rupert, and you my prisoner. Well, old comrade,” he went on, without waiting for explanation, “if what’s troubling you be a secret, I shan’t press you to answer. A love affair, I suppose, so won’t say another word.”
“It is a love affair in a way.”
“Well, Walwyn! you’re the last man I’d have looked for to get his heart entangled – ”
“You mistake, Kyrle. It has nothing to do with my heart – in the sense you’re thinking of.”
“Whose heart then, or hearts? For there must be a pair of them.”
“You know young Trevor?”
“I know all the Trevors – at least by repute.”
“He I refer to is Eustace – son of Sir William, by Abergavenny.”
“Ah! him I’m not personally acquainted with; though he’s been here for several days – in prison. Lingen’s men took him at Hollymead House, near Ruardean; brought him on to Monmouth on their way to Beachley; and going back have carried him with them to Goodrich Castle. They left but yesterday, late in the evening. He’s got a wound, I believe.”
“Yes. It’s about that I’m uneasy. Can you tell me anything as to the nature of it? Dangerous, think you?”
“That I can’t say, not having seen him myself. Some one spoke of his arm being in a sling. Likely it’s but a sword cut, or the hack of a halbert. But why are you so concerned about him, Dick? He’s no relative of yours.”
“He’s dearer to me than any relative I have, Kyrle. I love him as I would a brother. Besides, one, in whom I am interested, loves him in a different way.”
“Ah, yes! the lady of course; prime source and root of all evil.”
“In the present case the source of something good, however. But for the lady, in all likelihood Monmouth would still be under Royalist rule – nay, I may say surely would.”
“How so, Walwyn? What had she to do with the taking of Monmouth?”
“A great deal – everything. She was the instigator; her motive you may guess.”
“I see; to get young Trevor out of prison. Well!”
“I had some difficulty in convincing Massey the thing was possible; and, but for her intercession with him, I might have failed doing so. Our success at Beachley, however, settled it; especially when I laid before him the scheme we’ve been so fortunate in accomplishing.”
“Well, we should thank the lady for it. May I know who she is?”
“Certainly. The daughter of Ambrose Powell, of Hollymead.”
“Ah! That explains why Trevor was there when taken?”
“In a way, it does.”
“I’ve but slight acquaintance with Powell, myself; though, as neighbours, we were always on friendly terms. He and his family are now in Gloucester, are they not?”
“They are. For a time they stayed at Bristol – up to the surrender.”
“Luckily they’re not there now. A sweet place that for anything in the shape of a young lady. Master Powell may thank his good star for getting him and his out of it. Two daughters he has, if I remember rightly, with names rather singular – Sabrina and Vaga?”
“They are so named.”
“With whom is young Trevor in relations?”
“The younger, Vaga. Poor girl! she’ll be terribly disappointed when she hears of his having been carried on out of our reach, and so near being rescued!”
“Out of our reach!” said Kyrle, an odd expression coming over his features, as if some thought had struck him. “Is that so sure?”
“Why not? He’s in Goodrich Castle. You don’t think it possible for us to take it?”
“Not at present; though, by-and-by, it may be within the possibilities. No man wishes more than I to see the proud pile razed to the ground, and Henry Lingen hanged over the ruins. Many the fright he has given my poor father with his cowardly threats. But I hope getting quits with him before the game’s at an end.”
“What chance then of rescuing Trevor? Have you thought of any?”
“I have. And not such a hopeless one either. You’re willing to risk something to get him free?”
“Anything! My life, if need be.”
“That risk will be called for; mine too, if we make the attempt I’m thinking of.”
“An attempt! Tell me what it is. For heaven’s sake, Kyrle, don’t keep me in suspense!”
“It’s this, then. Lingen, it appears, don’t intend lodging any prisoners in Goodrich Castle. Since the affair at Beachley he has some fear of his castle being besieged; and in a siege the more mouths the worse for him. By the merest accident I heard all this yesterday; and that the party he took away from here will be sent on to Hereford under escort first thing to-morrow morning – that is this morning, since it’s now drawing up to it.”
“I think I comprehend you, Kyrle.”
“You’d be dull if you didn’t, Walwyn.”
“You mean for us to strike out along the Hereford Road, and intercept the escort?”
“Just so. ’Twill be venturing into the enemy’s ground dangerously far; but with a bold dash we may do it.”
“We will do it!”
“What about leave from Massey? Do you think there will be any difficulty in our getting that?”
“I don’t anticipate any. In my case he can’t object. My command is independent of him; the troop my own; and, though now numbering little over a hundred, they are Foresters, and I’ve no fear to match them against twice their count of Lingen’s Lancers – the gentlemen of Hereford, as they style themselves.”
“Then you agree to it? We go if Massey gives permission?”
“I go, whether he gives it or not. In fact, I don’t feel much caring to ask him.”
“Egad! that may be the best way, and I’m willing to risk it too. Suppose we slip out without saying a word? Time’s everything. Our only chance with the escort will be to take them by surprise – an ambuscade. For that we’ll have to be well along the Hereford road before daylight. I know the very spot; but we must be into the saddle at once.”
“Then at once let us into it!”
