"And what of Kirke? What are his troops doing?" vociferated the crowd. "Are we to be fed on promises?"
"Ay, what is Kirke doing, young sir?" asked Governor Baker. "A month ago we heard that his troops were on their way to our aid."
"That I cannot say, sir." replied Dymock. "But concerning Captain Leake's promises I can stake my life that he'll carry them out. Further, to prove my faith in my chief, I'll right willingly remain with you till I see the ships of the squadron break the boom—fighting with you and faring with you, come good or ill."
* * * * *
But in spite of Captain Leake's resolution the wind kept in a south-westerly direction day after day, and the squadron remained inactive in Loch Foyle. Meanwhile the deposed King James determined to expedite the work of investment, and accordingly sent de Rosen—a barbarous soldier whose instincts were little better than those of a savage—to supersede Hamilton, who had hitherto exerted himself to the utmost to subdue the city.
De Rosen behaved with such brutality that his methods even appalled his royal master, and once again Hamilton assumed command over the French and Irish allies.
Within the city things were going badly. Following famine came pestilence; till with wounds, hunger, and disease the stout-hearted Ulstermen's numbers were rapidly thinning.
Yet in spite of these adversities, the beleaguered garrison kept up their courage: "No surrender" was their watchword. Londonderry would hold out for King William till the last man perished behind the crumbling defences. As for Dymock his energy was unbounded. Working on the shattered ramparts during the brief intervals when the enemy relaxed their activities, rushing to man the gaping breech caused by the springing of a mine, or assisting in quenching one of the numerous fires that the enemy's shot had caused with persistent frequency, he behaved like a hero amongst heroes. Yet in common with his comrades in arms he cast many anxious, longing glances towards the loch, where the topmasts of the English squadron were to be seen day after day in apparent inactivity.
At length, in the afternoon of July 28th, the wind backed suddenly to the northward. The city was in a state of feverish excitement, and the watchers on the cathedral tower were kept busily engaged in satisfying the anxious inquiries of their fellows on the shattered ramparts.
"No sign of any movement," was the answer, with monotonous and depressing frequency, till at sundown the joyous cry arose, "The ships are setting sail."