From tree to tree and from hedge to hedge the men of the garrison cut their way, presenting a front, that though ragged and broken, sent the enemy to right and left. Then they reached the open space by the river, and restraining the impulse that would have driven them to rush to the boats, fell back slowly and steadily. The wounded whom they carried with them were first helped on board, and then they rapidly embarked; the last man to leave the bank being Murray, who with his sword held in his teeth pushed off the boat into the deep water. How they lived through the storm of bullets that were rained upon them Gervase hardly knew, but barely a man was touched, and they sent back a ringing cheer of defiance as they passed rapidly beyond reach of the muskets.
It was a glorious, if fruitless and foolhardy deed--one which only brave men would have undertaken in a spirit of despair, but one that they might look back on in after years with pride for the glory of it. The deed was done in sight of all the city. Their friends had watched the charge from the walls, and seen the stubborn fight for safety, and now they poured out to meet them as they came through Ship Quay Gate, and welcomed them back as if they had come in triumph. From want of the sacred poet their names have grown dim through the gathered years, but they did not fight for renown--only simple men who sought to do their homely duty.
Macpherson´s wound had proved a trifling one after all, and with the help of Gervase he was able to make his way home on foot. A spent bullet had struck him on the knee, and the wound though painful, was not likely to incapacitate him for service. He thought, on the whole, they had had a pleasant morning´s work, and declared that with such stirring entertainment he would need but half his rations.
CHAPTER XIII.
OF A STRATAGEM OF WAR.
Day by day the time crept on toward the end of June, and brought no change to the garrison. There were fewer mouths, it is true, to feed now, for disease and battle had laid them under heavy contribution, but the store of provisions was rapidly becoming exhausted. A fortnight more, so they believed and said, would bring them face to face with actual starvation, and the city must fall from want of men to line the walls and man the guns. For surrender they would not. “First the prisoners and then each other,” was their grim jest that had an edge of earnest with it. No man now dared to whisper the prudence of surrender, for the spirit of resistance, which had been strong before, now burned with a wild and splendid flame as they felt the end was coming. The enthusiasm of the Ulster man does not find its outlet in boisterous speech--as his excitement increases his silence deepens, and he is, unlike his Celtic countryman, ever readier with his hand than with his tongue. And now, though hope was growing fainter as the days dragged on, their pride--the stern pride of religion and of race--inspired them with an obstinacy that had something sublime in it. Yet all the while the ships lay in the Lough and made no effort to come to their relief. Day by day they signalled in vain from the Cathedral tower and the great guns rang out, but Kirke would make no move. So close was the investment now, every loophole guarded with the extremest vigilance, that communication was impossible. One brave man had indeed made his way from the fleet to the city after passing through perils innumerable; but though he made the attempt, he found himself unable to return. Another messenger had bravely volunteered to carry out their message of despair, but he never reached the ships. A day or two after, the enemy erected a gallows on the bastion across the river, and there in the sight of the city the gallant fellow met his fate.
Dorothy Carew never looked back on this time without a shudder. She suffered more than many, for to the hardships she endured she added a private and peculiar sorrow of her own. The first she bore cheerfully and uncomplainingly, but her brother´s secret, so base and so contemptible, oppressed her with a terrible feeling of shame and distress. After her first outburst of confidence to Gervase Orme, which she sometimes half regretted, she watched her brother jealously, and lay night after night listening for his footsteps.
But whether the warning he had received had taught him caution, or whether he had fulfilled his mission, his midnight excursions were now abandoned and he kept closely to the house. Still, to her keen and high sense of honour it was intolerable that her brother--the head of the house--should be a traitor whose guilt might be discovered at any time, and among so many brave men should act the coward and the spy. Had he gone over boldly to the enemy and thrown in his lot with them, she could have loved him. But now her love had been crushed out of her heart, and only comtempt and shame were left. Physical suffering seemed a light thing in comparison, and she envied the women who sent their husbands out to fight, and prayed for their safety when they were absent. But still she bore up with uncomplaining fortitude, and no one guessed the secret grief that was preying on her mind. Lady Hester, who had suffered agonies of fear while the bombs were raining on the city, she had encouraged with a simulated cheerfulness, and ordered her little household as she might have done in times of peace. The pinch of famine had hardly affected them yet--that was to come--but even that she looked forward to without any fear for herself.
But besides all this, she had another source of future trouble in her cousin. She could not long remain blind to the fact that his admiration for her was undisguised, and that beneath his cynical and flippant manner there had grown up a regard that was more than cousinly. It is true that he did not annoy her with his attentions, for Jasper and himself spent much of their time together. But he had shown clearly on more than one occasion that he was only waiting for a fitting opportunity to declare himself her lover. That opportunity she was anxious should not present itself. It was not, she reasoned with herself, that she loved another better, but she did not love De Laprade, and she did not wish to wound him. She did not wholly understand him, and could not tell whether he was ever in earnest or felt sincerely about anything. Then she thought of Gervase Orme, with his frank laughter and quiet speech, who treated her with a distant reverence and that was all. It was a pleasant thing to have him as a friend, full of quiet strength and honest as the day. But these were no times to think of such things, and so she put away the thought and went about her simple duties, hoping that Gervase would call to see her soon.
That evening she was seated by the open window, for the day had been close and sultry and the night was warm, a volume of Quarles´ Emblems spread open on her knees. Her brother and the Vicomte had been closeted together during the day, and Lady Hester, fatigued and desponding, had retired for the night. She was very busy with her own thoughts, and had not heard De Laprade enter the room. He came softly up and took a chair beside her.
“Of what is my cousin Dorothy so full of thought?” he said.