And there I was right, and events quickly proved it. When we reached the upper storey, and I could keep an eye on the operations of the enemy, I perceived that Captain Holdsworth was putting his men at various points around the house, with the view of covering those of our positions which previous incidents had made Anthony Dacre already acquainted with. Thus he had placed a squad in the stable, and they were now engaged in piercing the wall at intervals from the inside; several men were in the summer-house across the garden, while others occupied the barn, and commanded the window on the right hand side of the courtyard. I made note of all these preparations, and bade my men observe them with care, but directed that no shot should be fired until the enemy actually came to the attack. I was somewhat curious to see in what mode they would do this, and felt that it would repay us to save our powder and ball until we knew just what was going to be done.
About half-past nine o’clock I perceived that we were about to enter upon the struggle. Some twenty-five troopers were arrayed at our front, finding such cover as they could in the summer-house, behind the wall, and in the rear of the trees. Captain Holdsworth, who had dismounted, was going hither and thither, but it was also evident that something was developing close to the house wall, which we, from our position in the upper windows were unable to see. “We must know what’s going on,” says I, “but how to do it I can’t think.” And, indeed, the thing was difficult, for all the windows on the ground floor were barricaded and strengthened, so that it was impossible to see out of any of them. “What of the garret windows?” thinks I. “I may get a peep from one of them without being seen,” and on the instant I ran up the stair and into a little place immediately above the garden door. I opened the casement, and pushed out head and shoulders, and as I did so I heard the report of a musket below, and felt a sudden sharp pain as if a hot needle had been laid against the skin of my forehead. I withdrew my head instantly, and as I did so another half-dozen of bullets came rattling about the window. “Too late, my masters!” says I and ran, laughing, down the stairs, satisfied with my endeavour. For in the rapid glance that I had taken of the garden below I had seen and comprehended what they were after. From the stackyard beyond the barn they had brought one of the great pieces of timber on which the foundations of a hayrick was laid, and a half-score of stalwart fellows were getting it into position, so that they might batter the door in. As I came to John Stirk’s post again we heard the first blow, and felt the old walls shake with its force. “Let them batter,” says I, and wiped away the blood that ran down my nose from the scratch on my forehead. “They will want a stout ram to break through our barricade,” says I, and I picked up my musket and prepared for action.
As our defences seemed to be most needed at the front of the house, I sent the lad Walter to fetch Humphrey Stirk from his post overlooking the fold, and Gregory from the courtyard window. There were now five of us in the corridor, and to each man I assigned a window, bidding all to shoot straight, and keep under cover as closely as was possible. “And since we’re all ready,” says I, raising my voice, and presenting my piece, “pick your man, lads, and let them have it.” And therewith, keeping behind the wall as well as I could, I knocked out a pane of glass, and took aim at Holdsworth, who was directing operations, partly covered by a tree. The others fired at the same time, and almost on the instant there came back a volley from the enemy, and the garden, from the high wall to our windows was filled with smoke that hung heavy in the damp air. And after that there was no need for us to knock out more panes of glass when we wished to point our muskets, for with the first fusilade the enemy shattered our windows to pieces, and the corridor was strewn with splinters of wood and glass, and fragments of the plaster that came tumbling from the wall behind us.
It was on this scene that Mistress Alison’s eyes fell when she suddenly opened the door of my uncle’s chamber, and came hurriedly towards me. “Back, cousin!” says I, rushing to meet her. “Your life——” But she came on, holding out her hands to me. “Quick!” she says. “Oh, be quick, cousin!” And then I knew what she meant, and threw aside my musket, and with a hasty cry to my men to stand to their posts I took her hand and hastened with her into Sir Nicholas’s room.
Faith! in the days that came afterwards I have often thought, always with a deal of softness, of the good old knight’s death-bed. He lay there, very straight and calm, with me on one side of him, and Alison on t’other, and poor old Barbara, weeping and bemoaning him, at his feet, and thanks to the stout door and the heavy curtain the chamber seemed peaceful, and yet through all its peacefulness there came the thump, thump, thump, of the battering ram and the crash and rattle of the musketry. When I first approached him I think he knew naught, but presently a fiercer discharge, that seemed like to bring the old house tumbling about our ears, called him back to life, and he opened his eyes, and looked at me.
“Ah!” says he, very feeble and low in voice. “So we are at it, Dick?” There was a sudden flash of fire in his old eyes, and a blot of colour showed itself on his cheek, that had grown thin and pale. He looked at Alison, and from her to me again. Another fierce rattle of musketry came from without, and one bullet, glancing from the casement in the corridor, struck and buried itself in the door of the chamber. My uncle made some faint show of raising himself in his bed. “To thy post, Dick!” says he, and suddenly drops back on his pillow, and died as quietly as a child goes to sleep.
“’Tis over, cousin,” I whispers across the bed. Alison looked from his face to mine, and I saw that the girl had a rare faculty of keeping her feelings in control. “Leave us now, cousin,” she says. But since that might be the last chance that I should ever have of seeing my uncle again, I took another look at him and laid my hand on his. Then I turned to the door, and passed from the quietness of the death-chamber into the hell that raged without.
The corridor was thick with smoke: my feet kicked against the splintered wood and glass, or stumbled over the heaps of plaster that were being rapidly piled up along the floor. Faith, the enemy were making hot work of it! But my men were unhurt, save that John Stirk had been struck in the side by a half-spent bullet, and that Peter’s face was scratched by a shower of falling glass. “Stand to your posts!” I cried to them, and ran downstairs to see how the garden door had withstood its battering. I found it safe as a rock—what it might have suffered without I know not, but within, its heavy bolts and bars, supported by the mass of furniture that we had piled against it, still held the thick oaken frame sound, and I felt assured that naught less than a cannonade would break through it.