And they came near to quarrel, as men do when their hearts grow cramped from lack of action. And then Towneley laughed, remembering his whole, round faith in this life and the next.
“We’re grown men,” he said, “and very near to death. We’d best not quarrel, like children in the nursery.”
The next day the garrison looked out on a gentle fall of sleet that half hid the Duke’s investing army. It was the day of Christmas, and those without might do as they liked; but the Governor and Colonel Towneley were aware that Catholic souls must keep the feast of great thanksgiving.
They made their rounds with no less zeal, but with greater precision, maybe, knowing that the sword-hilt is fashioned like the Cross. And about seven of the evening they sat down—Rupert with them, and all the gentry of the garrison who could be spared—at the well-spread supper-board.
They were simple at heart, these revellers who had known more fast than feast days lately. They had gone to Mass that morning with thoughts of the Madonna, who had changed the world’s face, giving men a leal and happy reverence for their women-folk. They had remembered these women-folk with a pang of tenderness and longing knowing they would not see another Christmas dawn. But now they sat down to supper with appetites entirely of this world and a resolve to wear gay hearts on their sleeves.
It was an hour later that Hamilton, the Governor, rose and passed his wine across a great jug of water that stood in front of him. “To the King, gentlemen!” he said.
And, from the acclamation, it would have seemed they toasted one who was firmly on the throne, with gifts to offer loyalty. Instead, their King was an exile on French shores, and the only gift he had for them was this grace they had found to die selflessly and with serenity for the Stuart whom they served.
For a doomed garrison, they had supped well; and when Towneley got to his feet by and by and sang a Lancashire hunting-song, all in the broad, racy tongue of the good county, they called for another, and yet another. Discipline—of a drastic sort—was waiting for them. Meanwhile, they were resolved to take their ease.
And suddenly there was a knocking on the door, and then a rattling of the latch, and the sound of stumbling feet outside. And then the door opened, and into the middle of the uproar and the laughter came a figure so ludicrous, so dishevelled, that their merriment was roused afresh.
The man was dripping from head to foot—not with clean rain, but with muddy water that streaked his face, his hands, his clothes. And he stumbled foolishly as he moved to the table, and, without a by-your-leave, poured himself a measure of wine and gulped it down. Then he tried to straighten himself, and looked round at the company.