CHAPTER XLI.

IN THE FRONT OF WAR

Then came the day, memorable and terrible beyond words, the day of the final breaching. It was on a Wednesday that the great gun was first fired. It took Laurence M‘Kim and his father, together with such as they could use of the king’s folk, till Saturday late in the gloaming before they were able to make good the damage, and build such a solid butt of earth backed with stones as would stay the rearward rush of Mons Meg after she had delivered her second message.

But at ten of the clock next morning, just when the Sabbath bells were beginning to ring in a hundred parish kirks throughout the land, Sholto, who was on the watch, warned us all below. The monster had not yet said her last word. There was more and worse to follow. Again the puff of white reek, lazily disengaging itself from the summit of Knockcannon--again the dreadful pause, the rending crash, the castle rocking to its foundations!

This time the ball from the great cannon had struck the wall of the outer works to the west, toppling over one of the strong corner towers--which, however, thanks to the marvellous mixture of shell lime that held the stones together, fell outwards in one piece as if hewn from the solid rock.

The third ball struck the castle a little lower than the first (that of Wednesday), and succeeded in so enlarging the breach, that it became, even to the eyes of Sholto, quite practicable for escalade. The fourth, passing directly through the chasm already made, rattled from side to side of the _salle de garde_ like a cube in a dice-box, killing and wounding more than thirty men of the guard of Thrieve. This, with the fall of the flanking tower, caused a sort of panic among the younger and less experienced of the garrison. There seemed no hope that any within the walls could escape. Several, in Sholto’s absence, ran for the fords to the south, only to fall in midstream under the sure and deadly fire of the king’s archers and arbalest men, who were posted among the bushes on the slope above.

The fifth missile from the Byne, equally well directed, struck low on the wall of the keep, immediately above the arrow-slot which looked to the north out of our prison-house. The fine sulphury dust well-nigh suffocated us who abode and waited in the entrails of Archibald the Grim.

Strangely enough, though the north-looking slot was now wholly closed by a mass of fallen masonry, we had still plenty of air, though very much less light. Other slits opened into the inner passages of the castle, which as yet had not been obstructed.

Also, and a marvel, the children were not very greatly frightened. To them it was like a thunderstorm without the terror of the lightning. They cried out, indeed, as the great bolts struck the castle, but were comforted by clinging to their mother’s skirts. Marcelle sat silent and apart, with pale set face, her hands working nervously over her beads, and little David abode in the darkest corner by himself, with his face in his hands, repeating over and over that he was “a great boy, and thunder did not make _him_ afraid.” This he did to set himself on a higher pedestal than Ulric, who undisguisedly clasped his mother round the neck at each terrifying crash and rocking of the keep.

Those who have only seen the castle afterwards, a desolate and marvellous ruin, towering to the skies, with its riven sides and crumbled battlements, yet, for all that, grimly erect in its majesty, can have no idea of the terror of these hours when the whole building seemed ready to dissolve into a heap of stones, not one remaining upon another--as, indeed, Malise M‘Kim had prophesied would be the case.

In Archibald the Grim we women and bairn-folk were shut up. For the space of twenty-four hours we knew not what was happening above--whether those we loved were dead or wounded, or locked together in deadliest combat.

Yet, it might be said, there could be no great anxiety in my heart. For none loved me greatly--save Sholto and Maud, who (as right was) both loved each other more and otherwise. But it was not so. James Douglas was the head of the race. He was the father of the babe William, who rested under the Star in the kirkyard of Balmaghie. He, and he alone, had lain in my bosom. Together we had read all I knew of the book of life. And though that was at an end, such is the miracle of woman’s heart, that all was not as if it had never been. I did not wish James Douglas to die. I would rather have died myself--that is, if the choice had been given me.

I was glad that, in this thing at least, he was no craven. I knew he would be brave, and the thought that he was leading on the Douglases to the fight, holding the deadly breach, cheered (I admit it) these dark hours.

In Archibald the Grim we had, at least, plenty of food and water, and could we have but known what was happening above, I do not think we would have been much afraid or ill-content. But the awful “do-nothingness,” which at such times is the lot of women, preyed upon our spirits. We could not get out. The door of the dungeon was locked on the outside, and much sand and earth piled against it to lessen the danger of any rebound of the giant missiles. Sholto had seen to that in the midst of all his troubles. Indeed it was part of his strength that he always thought first of the weak things--the chief part of his greatness also, mayhap.

But there came upon Maud Lindsay and myself, penned there, prison-bound, the fierce desire to be men--to be above, combating the enemy, doing as they did, sharing their perils--if need be, dying their death.

But this, we well knew, was vain. In Archibald the Grim the night abode unbroken with us, while these last throws of the dice were being cast in the breaches above.

This it was that was happening there.

Simultaneously with the striking of the third bolt upon the castle--that which enlarged the breach--a strong force of the Angus Douglases, together with certain renegade Hamiltons from the west country, assaulted the works by the ford, where, however (for the instant), the few guardsmen held their own. But the fall of the great flanking tower to the west shook the nerve of our defenders. And those especially who, much against the will of Sholto, had been enlisted from Douglasdale and the Upper Ward, finding their own ancient friends and comrades in front of them, hoisted the white flag of surrender. A strong storming party crossed the ford and pressed towards the breach which had been made on the northern face of the castle. Their advance ought to have been galled by the bolts and shafts of our men from the ramparts. But such was the terror inspired by the new mode of warfare, that had fire descended from heaven and the levin-bolts stricken Thrieve Castle to the ground, the men of the guard could not have been in a greater amaze.

Let it be remembered that in all the land of Scots no cannon had ever before been seen which a couple of men could not carry easily upon their shoulders. And now it was with difficulty that the granite balls shot from the huge maw of Mons Meg could be carried on mason’s mortar-board by two men holding the trams.

There was, therefore, this excuse for the men of the Douglas guard--they would have died like men under a shower of English clothyards, or encountered steadily with levelled spear the charge of knights steel-clad. But this death, inevitable, coming from far, scattering in its progress not only the bodies of men, but the very defences of solid stone and lime which ages had counted impregnable--no, I blame them not greatly!

Yet there were some who stood firm--some, but very few. One hand will count them all.

The Lord James and Sholto were in the breach of the outerworks--the high gate of Thrieve still closed behind them, and the yawning chasm in the northward face looking down upon them with the ghastly gaze of a skeleton orbit.

“Go, my lord,” said Sholto, in a low voice; “the charger waits. One of these lads will take him across the water. The other will protect you while you swim after. I will hold the enemy in play in this place long enough to give you a chance. Cross the Dee at the deepest part, plunging in where the water touches the castle wall. Andro the Penman will meet you on the bank with the horse. John here will cover your retreat with his cross-bow. With my axe in my hand I can promise you that they shall not take you in the rear through yonder gap in the hall of the guard--till, at least, you set foot on Balmaghie grass.”

This Sholto said, knowing that within a few feet of him his wife and his five children were imprisoned. But such was his duty. He was the Captain of Thrieve, and, whoever escaped, he must bide at his post. For this man, whom he was aiding to escape, was, notwithstanding all, the chief, the Douglas--and in his single person the last Douglas of the Black.

From beneath, unseen, there was the crying of men about to be slain and of men in the act of slaying. Equally without haste or a moment’s hesitation Sholto took his dispositions. He had laid aside his sword of set purpose, and, standing clear of the wall, prepared to fight his last fight, axe in hand. It was a weapon which he had made wholly himself--double-faced, the weight perfectly balanced, the handle of stout ash, well seasoned, not quite straight, but with a certain backward twist in it near the head, which, as Sholto fancied, suited his hand. It was a terrible weapon in the hand of a master of it, and fitted for the roughest battle-play. Sholto had made it neither too sharp nor yet too highly tempered, judging that the weight of the stroke would do the work. Indeed, well-nigh he had quarrelled with his father upon the subject. For the old man had fixed ideas upon tempering and the art of weapon-making. He had, however, very soon a chance of testing practically the theories of his eldest son.

Now, James Douglas, seeing that all was lost, proved not difficult to persuade. He must, he said, trust to a good horse and the ship waiting in the Dutchman’s Lake at Kirkcudbright to carry Douglas and his fortunes, for a time at least, to another country.

“After all,” he added, “I am the only one who, in the event (which seems certain) of the castle surrendering, would of a surety be executed. James Stewart simply could not spare a third earl of Douglas after slaying two already! As for you, Sholto M‘Kim, they will give _you_ quarter for the asking, and the women and bairns are as safe in Grim Archibald as in their own beds!”

“So?” said Sholto quietly; “at anyrate, it is time to be going! These Penman lads will put you safely through the deeps of the Dee. The horse is ready at the water-port. Trust me--I will keep your rear-guard until such time as I see you set spurs in your beast on the other side of the Pool of Thrieve.”

“I go,” said James Douglas, “but only under protest--since you judge it for the best! And I pray you bid farewell to”--

“I will,” said Sholto. “Go quickly!”

And James Douglas departed thus--even thus--slipping out by a secret passage from his own ancient castle of Thrieve, never to enter it again.

The same white charger which had brought him so gloriously home from Arkinholm was already gingerly pacing down the steps which led to the great western Pool of Thrieve--one of the deepest in the whole course of the Dee. Sholto had rightly judged. So strong was the enemy’s belief that on that side no one could possibly escape from the castle, that no notice was taken of the attempt till Andro the Penman and his charge were nearly across, with James Douglas swimming less strongly behind--for he was of Avondale, and little accustomed to squattering out and in of the water all day long like the lads of Thrieve.

But ere they could land a few archers ran by the fallen tower which flanks the water, clambering over the débris to shoot at the fugitives.

“_Twang!_” went the crossbow of John the Penman from the water-port.

“Good lad!” quoth Sholto, under his breath. “Now you are at a better job than sitting upon the bald rump of Douglas the Black in the midst of the shallows of Glenlochar while the kirk folk pass laughing by.”

“_Twang!_” Again Jack the Penman loosed his bow. And another Angus archer fell. Down went another, a lank, lean, flea-bitten man from the salt-marshes of Solway.

But at that moment, breaking in dense clusters through the fords, overleaping the first wall of defence, came the rush of the besiegers, solid and determined. Sholto stepped a yard to his own front, turned the axe in his fingers, hefted it till the grip suited his hand, swung it once so as to be sure of clearing everything--and was ready.