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Crown and Sceptre: A West Country Story, a novel by George Manville Fenn |
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Chapter 39. A Fruitless Search |
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_ CHAPTER THIRTY NINE. A FRUITLESS SEARCH As Colonel Forrester and his son approached the prisoners, who were lying about on the grass in a variety of easy, careless attitudes, gazing at the fire, which had now assumed terrible proportions, Fred became aware of the fact that in place of being despondent, the Cavaliers were chatting away in the most indifferent manner. But their conversation ceased, for from behind came a loud crashing noise, caused by some floor falling, and a buzz of wonder and admiration arose as the glowing windows suddenly belched forth flame, spark, and glowing flakes of fire, in so many eddying, whirling columns, which rose up and up to mingle and gild the lower surface of the cloud of smoke which glowed with orange and purple and red, while sparks flashed and glittered as they darted here and there like the flakes of a snowstorm suddenly changed to gold. The scene was glorious now, for after a moment's pause, the burning wood which had fallen formed fresh fuel to the mighty furnace within the thick walls, and the flames rushed up with renewed violence, illumining the scene far and near. Great sombre trees grew visible, brightened by the wondrous glow; the lawn seemed to be cut up into paths of light, and further away, ruddy reflections flashed from the lake; while the noble old Hall seemed to stand out against a dark background, with every angle, battlement, and vane clearly cut, till the smallest carving was plainly defined. But for the horror of the scene, Fred could have stood and gazed with delight at the wondrous series of changes that were taking place; the clouds of smoke, which seemed to form vast spirals, ever turning, and rolling over, now dull red, now bursting into light, as if from fires therein; the eddying scintillations which crackled and exploded, and disappeared; the ruddy tongues of flame which darted in and out as if the long low windows were monstrous dragons' mouths, from which the darting forks came to play over golden stony lips, and lick the mullions and buttresses around. Then came a fresh explosion, as pent-up gases, generated by heat, burst forth to augment the fire with hiss, crackle, and flutter, as it seemed to gain its climax, and then sank down with a low dull roar. From time to time there was a sharp tinkling, as the higher windows cracked, broke, and fell upon the stones. Then came pouring down a spouting torrent of silver fire, shooting right out of a stone gargoyle-mouth as the molten lead from one part of the roof, dammed up by other lead which had not melted, at last forced its way spattering on to the paved terrace below. But after these brilliant bursts, which had enchained Fred's attention for a time, he turned once more toward the group of prisoners, whose loud, careless talking had begun again, and he passed between two of the guard stationed round them in a circle, while lying outside, in a confused heap, just as they had been thrown, were the weapons of which the Cavaliers had been deprived. As Fred drew nearer, he could see that the careless attitudes of some of the party were assumed, for in spite of the glow shed by the fire, it was plain enough that the cheeks of several were of a deathly pallor, and that they were suffering intense pain. One had a scarf tied tightly round his arm; another had a broad bandage about his brow; hardly one seemed to have escaped some injury in the desperate sally and defence. But the aim of all was to carry their defeat with an air of the most careless indifference--as if wounds were nothing to them, and they held their Puritan captors in the most profound contempt. "Hallo!" shouted a voice Fred had before heard, "here's my fire-eating young ambassador. Why, hang it all, sirrah! How is it you were not to the front before? I'd rather have given up my sword to you than have had it knocked out of my hand by the ugliest crop-eared knave I ever met." Fred, the moment before, was eagerly scanning the group in search of Sir Godfrey and his old companion; but he had searched in vain, and he was anxiously debating within himself as to whether that meant bad news or good. Had they escaped? and were they now safe, or--? He was checked by the greeting of the tall, fair Cavalier, and advanced to him at once, the high-spirited officer continuing his bantering speech the while. "Why, you heinous young rebel," he cried, "have you come to trample on your poor prisoners now you have taken them; or are we to be shot, or hung, or what?" "Don't talk to me like that, sir," said Fred, eagerly, as he paused by where the Cavalier lay; and now he could see that his jerkin was darkened in one spot with blood. "How do you want me to talk, then, eh?" "Sir Godfrey?--Scarlett Markham? Where are they?" "Escaped," said a gentleman lying by, with careless levity. "Run for it--broken through your lines, and got clean away." "Not they," said the tall Cavalier, warmly. "Sir Godfrey Markham was not the man to leave his friends in the lurch; and as for my young friend Scarlett, he would have stood by us to the end." "But they are not here?" said Fred, anxiously. "Here, sir? No. They must be with your other prisoners." "Other prisoners?" faltered Fred, turning pale, as a horrible thought assailed him, and he darted a frightened glance at the burning Hall; "there are no other prisoners but these." "What!" cried the Cavalier, starting to his feet, and then turning faint, so that he would have fallen, but for Fred's arm. "Thank you, my lad," he said frankly; "a little weak, I suppose. Yes; I will lie down." Fred helped him into a reclining position again upon the turf. "Tell me all you know about them, sir," said Fred, going down on one knee to help the wounded officer. "Scarlett and I used to be great friends. Did they escape right away?" The Cavalier seemed at first to be about to respond in his old careless, bantering, half-mocking way, but as he saw the eagerness of manner, and the anxiety in the lad's eyes, his manner changed. This was no ruse, he saw; no cunning trick to find out which way the Markhams had gone, but a true honest feeling for one who had been a friend, but was now transformed by political troubles into an enemy. "Shake hands," he said warmly. "I like you, boy. I'll tell you all I know." Fred eagerly took the prisoner's hand, as the others looked on curiously, their assumption of carelessness gone, and a dull look of despair making its appearance in their eyes and at the angles of their mouths. And as Fred took that hand, it was cold and damp, and the grip was feeble, as its owner said slowly-- "Sir Godfrey Markham and I divided our little force, after drawing lots for choice; I won the choice, and selected the task of making the sally. It would have been too irksome to me to stay behind a barrier and wait to be attacked. I suppose you know--your people were too strong for us, and we were beaten back, followed by your men, till we were all together struggling in the dining-room, from there into the hall, and then on the great staircase. I saw Sir Godfrey and young Scarlett several times during the struggle; then we were all pell-mell, here, there, and everywhere, and I recollect no more." "But where did you see them last?" "I cannot say--in the drawing-room, I think." "Yes. What were they doing?" "What do you think they were likely to be doing, boy? Fighting bravely for their king." There was a pause. "You do not think that--" Fred did not finish his sentence. "That they set fire to the Hall? No; Sir Godfrey was too proud of his old home to destroy it." "I did not mean that," said Fred, hoarsely; "I meant--" "Wounded--killed?" Fred bowed his head. He could not speak, for there was a horrible idea tugging at his brain, one which he could not shake off. "Wounded? Perhaps. Killed? Heaven forbid! No; I hope and believe that they fought to the last, and then escaped, or else, far more likely, they are--" He stopped short, for the idea that troubled Fred had now been communicated to him, and he drew in his breath with a look of horror. Then, as if unable to control himself, he glanced sharply at the burning building, while, giddy and weak with emotion, Fred walked slowly back, to make his way to his father, who met him and took his arm. "Have you heard any news of them?" said the colonel, hoarsely. "No, father," half whispered Fred; and he repeated the Cavalier's words. Colonel Forrester glanced at the burning Hall, nearly every portion of which had now been seized upon by the flames, and he drew a deep hissing breath, as he whispered to himself-- "No, no; impossible! They must have escaped. Fred," he said aloud, "they will not tell us if we ask--it is quite natural; so we are quite in the dark as to how many the defenders were. There were none killed, and I find that the wounded were all carried out. Sir Godfrey and his son must have escaped, or if not, they will be brought in by some of the outposts." Fred made no answer; he could not speak, for a terrible picture was before his eyes--that of Sir Godfrey, wounded to the death, unable to stir, and Scarlett trying to bear him out to safety, but only to be overtaken and beaten down by the flames. He walked on by his father in silence, while the latter gazed straight before him, thinking to himself of the past, when he and Sir Godfrey were the fastest of friends. "This cruel war!" he said to himself. "Friend against friend, brother against brother. Poor Godfrey! Poor Scarlett! So full of brave manliness and courage. Fitting end for two brave spirits; but I feel as if I had assisted at their death." But at that moment Fred made a mental effort. "I will not believe it," he said, with a shudder. "It is too horrible." Then aloud, "Father, may I take something to the prisoners, and help them? They look very bad." "Yes, yes; of course," said the colonel, starting as it were back to the present. "Poor fellows! The surgeon must be with them now; but go and do your best." But hard as Fred worked by the light of the burning house, he could do little to assuage the pains, mental and bodily, of the prisoners. They assumed a careless indifference, a good-humoured contempt for their captors. They were Cavaliers--gentlemen who did not scruple to serve as ordinary soldiers for the benefit of their country; and they smiled at the rough stern men of the Puritan ranks. But deep in their hearts there was a despairing rage at being conquered, which bit and stung, and made them writhe more than the throbbings of their wounds. The refreshments Fred took to them, helped by Samson, were simple, but most welcome; and more than one eye brightened and directed a friendly grateful look at the lad who busied himself on the captives' behalf. "No; no more, my boy," said the tall, fair Cavalier, smiling at Fred, as he pressed him to eat. "I have a wound here that throbs as if some one were thrusting a red-hot iron through my shoulder. I suppose it is all right, but your surgeon has not hands like some delicate lady." "Can I do anything?" said Fred, eagerly. "Shall I bathe the wound?" "No, my desperate and deadly enemy, no," said the Cavalier, smiling as he look Fred's hand; "and look here: some of these days the war will be over, and if you and I are not sleeping too soundly, you must come and see me, and I'll come and see you. At present our duty is to kill each other, or take one another prisoner. By-and-by we shall have more time. There," he said, drawing a ring from his finger; "you wear that, and remember that Harry Grey always feels respect and esteem for a brave enemy, while for you--Oh, curse it! We are not enemies. God bless you, my lad! You and Scar Markham ought to be working together as a pair." He turned impatiently away, laid his head upon the folded cloak, of which Fred had made a pillow and closed his eyes, as if annoyed that he should have seemed weak; while, after pressing the ring tightly down in its place, Fred stood back watching the group of wounded and captive men for a few minutes, before turning away, and then stopping short by the little heap of swords of which they had been deprived. As it happened, one with a peculiarly shaped guard took his attention, for he remembered having seen it hanging to the belt of the Cavalier he had been tending. Stooping down, he was in the act of drawing it from among the others, when the sentinel made a movement to arrest his hand. "Don't interfere," said Fred, sharply. "I will be answerable to Colonel Forrester for what I have done." The man drew back, and stood resting upon his clumsy firelock again, while, as the lad stood with the sword in his hand, he raised his eyes from the hilt, and found that the Cavalier was watching him, and making a sign to him to approach once more. Fred stepped to his side. "No," he said; "you cannot have it. You are a prisoner." "Of course," said the wounded man, smiling; "though if I had it, I could not use it. I was going to say I am glad you have taken it. A capital blade, my boy. Here, unbuckle the belt, and take it and the sheath. Yes, I insist. That's right. Keep it, lad, and don't, if we meet again, use it on me. No, no thanks; it is yours by right of capture. Now I want a nap." _ |
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