Take Courage (34 page)

It was indeed fortunate that he did so, else had the town
been taken by storm. The captains did not return till after nine o'clock, when it was almost twilight, and the answer they delivered was no answer at all, for they brought no terms for negotiation, but simply a summons to surrender. At this Sir Thomas's face slowly gathered a look of anger such as I had never seen on it before; he threw up his head and was just about to speak when suddenly there broke out a tremendous uproar, thundering of ordnance and crackle of musketry and wild prolonged shouting—the enemy, taking the hour as sundown and the parley as terminated, without any warning trumpet had resumed their attack on Bradford.

The next few hours our little party spent in utter wretchedness. It was plainly the enemy's intention to carry Bradford by storm; first on one side of the town, then on the other, came the roaring of the cannon; the night was almost as light as day, with so many guns firing continually; the reflections flashed in our windows and the echoes shook them. It was useless to try to make the children sleep through such a hideous din, and we did not attempt it; Lady Fairfax took Moll on her lap and held her head tight against her bosom so that the sound should not strike her ears so fearfully; my lads would not consent to this, but they held my hand and pressed close to me. The assault increased in fury; as fast as our men, rallying, beat the Royalists from one trench, they attacked another. A dread rose and rose in my mind about the ammunition; how long would it hold out, expended thus continually?

The question was soon answered.

In the dead of the night there came a lull in the firing. We were so unused to silence that we still shouted at each other, and our voices fell oddly on our numbed ears. In this silence, first Sir Thomas, and later his officers, one by one hastily entered the inn and went to the council chamber. I own frankly that Lady Fairfax opened our door, and tiptoed across the passage and set the door of the room opposite gently ajar, and returned to me smiling mischievously, and we drew chairs near and sat and listened with all our ears.

“Gentlemen, I have s-s-summoned you to council because
it is no longer possible to defend the town,” began Sir Thomas abruptly.

This laconic statement excited consternation. Exclamations of surprise, protest, even anger, came from all round the room: “No, no, sir—Why?—We've beaten 'em off now and we will again—they won't assault us again to-night—no; we gave 'em more than they expected,” and so on.

“Why run from the t-t-truth?” said Sir Thomas in an impatient tone. “We cannot s-s-sustain another assault. There is but one barrel of powder left, and no match of any kind.”

There was a dismal silence.

“Are you proposing to send commissioners to treat with the Earl for honourable surrender, then?” said an oldish voice at length.

“The enemy's notions of what is honourable,” said Sir Thomas, “have been s-s-sufficiently revealed to us over the parley this day.”

“What are we to do, then?” muttered several in tones of great discouragement.

“There is b-but one thing to d-d-do,” said Sir Thomas, “if the town is not to be t-t-taken by storm and the f-f-forces here totally lost to the P-P-Parliament. We must d-d-draw off at once and re-t-t-treat to Leeds.”

“But the town is surrounded,” objected the elderly voice again.

“I am a-w-ware of it,” said Sir Thomas drily. “We must f-f-force a way out.”

“It is a desperate adventure,” said somebody dubiously.

“I will not enf-f-force it upon anyone,” said Sir Thomas. “As I can no longer p-p-provide the f-f-forces under my command with ammunition, I will not require them to hazard themselves on this enterp-prise. The men may shift for themselves if they desire. But let all who wish to make the attempt rep-pair at once, the foot to the Market Cross, the horse to the church, and we will try to b-b-break through on diverse roads, by dint of the sword.”

No one spoke.

“The rendez-vous is Leeds, and thence to Hull, where
we may strike a b-blow for Parliament again,” said Sir Thomas in a calm cheerful tone. “But if any men of these p-parts p-prefer to b-b-b-betake themselves to help the Parliament's f-forces in Lancashire, their homes being easier of access thence across the hills, I say naught against it.” As there was still silence, he added: “Has anyone a b-b-b-better plan?”

“Is it certain there is but one. barrel of powder?” asked a voice.

“Certain,” replied Sir Thomas. He paused, awaiting further observations, doubtless, for when none spoke he went on impatiently: “Come, gentlemen, there is no t-time to lose. Is this agreed or no?”

“Agreed—agreed,” came in despondent voices round the table.

There was some further talk which we did not hear, for Lady Fairfax had sprung up and was bustling about, throwing on her cloak and fastening up her dressing-case.

In a moment or two John came in. He looked fit to drop with fatigue, his dark face grimed with powder and sweat and his shoulders drooping, but his red-rimmed eyes were steady and undaunted.

“The Parliament's forces are withdrawing to Leeds, and Sir Thomas wishes Lady Fairfax and Miss Mary to accompany him,” he said in a cool formal tone, designed no doubt to reassure us. “Sir Thomas requests Lady Fairfax to prepare for the journey immediately.”

I picked up little Moll and rolled her in her cloak.

“And you, John?” I said. “You and David? Do you go with him?”

“We must,” said John, setting his jaw. “Do you take the children and go out to The Breck, Penninah; they will not molest a woman with two children. If there is trouble at Little Holroyd, claim kinship with the Ferrands. Uncle Giles will see no harm comes to you.”

He gave me a strange dark look as he said this, and I found nothing to say to him, but stood there silently, holding Moll in my arms.

“Farewell, my little sons,” said John, and he stooped and kissed our children. “Thomas, see you keep to your book and become a noble scholar like your Uncle David, and you, Sam, guard your mother till I can come back to you.”

His voice shook a little as he said this, and the children wept, much affected.

“John, do not go to Hull,” I begged him. “Go over into Lancashire—you can reach us then across the moors.”

“What use?” said John. “I could not return to Bradford as things are now. I am quite a noted supporter of Sir Thomas, I assure you—I should be no use to you languishing in a Royalist prison. Come—we must not keep the General waiting on us.”

He took Moll from my arms, and led the way down the stairs to the courtyard of the inn, whither Lady Fairfax had already preceded us. Here I felt rather than saw a great bustle of men and horses; the light of the lanterns picked out here a glossy haunch and a spurred boot, there a hand and a rein and the rolling white of a horse's eye; the rest was moving darkness. I saw Lister's face thus, for a brief moment while a lantern swayed; he was white and mournful, as always nowadays.

“Farewell, Pen,” said David's voice in my ear. I turned quickly to dissuade him from going, but he prevented me. “Look! John has provided me a horse,” said he, drawing the animal towards us by its bridle: “with his usual kindness.”

I put back the lock of his fair hair which fell into his eyes, and we kissed, but were broken from our farewells by the sound of Lady Fairfax's voice in a loud jarring.

“I will go with
you
, Tom,” she was saying.

“It is not p-p-possible,” said Sir Thomas coldly. “I have arranged otherwise.”

We turned to look; in the light of a lantern held at arm's stretch by the landlord we saw Lady Fairfax gazing up at her husband, who was already mounted, tearfully. Sir Thomas held little Moll in front of him on the saddle.

“This officer will take you up behind him,” went on Sir Thomas, indicating a young captain who stood by in great
embarrassment at the altercation between the general and his lady.

Lady Fairfax did not move, but stood gazing upward.

“Mount, Anne,” said Sir Thomas suddenly in a tone quite ferocious.

Lady Fairfax lowered her head, defeated; she tried to pick up her skirts but could not because of her case, so handed it to me to hold for her. We exchanged glances; mine was of commiseration; her face twitched piteously. Then she meekly put her foot on the hands the officer held for her, and mounted. Before she had settled her skirts there came a distant uproar.

“Ride, ride!” cried Sir Thomas in a fury. “That is the foot—we must go now while they divert the enemy's attention.”

He wheeled his horse and urged it swiftly through the archway. The others all followed at the trot, and in a moment the yard was empty. And John had left me without a farewell.

The children and I turned slowly away into the inn, and climbed the stairs to the room near the council chamber. Lady Fairfax's maid was there, weeping as she tidied away her mistress's nightgear. When I saw her I started, for I remembered I still held Lady Fairfax's dressing-case; I looked down at it in my hand, and was very sorry.

“Poor thing! The loss of this will put a summit on her troubles. I must take order to send it to her,” I thought: “But God knows how, in the present state of the country.”

I was so wearied, nay, so completely exhausted by all that had recently happened to me that I felt I had no strength left, bodily or spiritual. I sank down on a chair and looked at my two little lads; they stared back at me with cheeks so pale, heads so drooped, eyes so blinking, that I perceived they were half-dead with sleep, and I determined they and I should have a quiet night here, and not set off for The Breck till it was morning. Though indeed that was not very far off, perhaps, for I thought I saw a lifting of the dark as of dawn coming, against the window-pane. I rose and put the boys to bed—it was hard to keep them
awake long enough to get their little arms out of their doublets—and I was just laying hands on my own gown to shed it, when I heard a great clamour which seemed to come from up beyond the church.

“O God! They are caught! David! John! David!” I thought, and I threw on a cloak and ran downstairs again, my heart beating very heavily.

The landlord and his wife ran out with me into the street, and we all hurried down the hill and turned into Kirkgate. The darkness was thinning, but there was nothing to see, no movement anywhere, except something which seemed to be swinging where a darker grey indicated the church steeple. This swinging object looked very eerie in the half-light, but as we peered it proved to be nothing but a woolpack dangling from the single cord left to it—the only one the Royalists had not brought down by their cannon shot. We listened, straining our ears, imagining we heard shouts and blows and even (once) a woman's scream, and exchanging conjectures about these fancied sounds with divers fellow-townsfolk. Indeed every inhabitant left in Bradford town seemed gathered there, speculating mournfully about the escape or capture of Black Tom, and also about the fate of Bradford. The town had resisted so long and so manfully, said some, that it was likely the Earl of Newcastle would be greatly irritated. Others contended that now the garrison was gone, the enemy could not be hot against mere townsfolk, that being not the military usage; others again said that might be so, but the Royalist soldiers would surely sack the town—they had not a good name when it came to plunder and booty.

While we were standing there thus, very wretched and downcast, but easing our hearts a little by being together, the clamour over Barker End seemed to die down; and we began to hope that perhaps our men and Sir Thomas had escaped after all, when we dimly saw a horseman coming towards us through the mist which hung over the beck bottom. The landlord called out a challenge, boldly.

“Who's there?” he cried. “Friend or foe?”

The answer came back: “Friend—it's David Clarkson.”

As he drew near and rose out of the mist I saw that it was indeed my tall slender scholarly brother, leading a tired horse by its bridle.

“Why, David!” I cried, pushing forward to him. “What do you here?.What has befallen the others?”

“Sir Thomas has broken through, and John Thorpe, and some twelve others,” said David. The little crowd exclaimed joyously, and thronged about him. “I saw them on the hill, well beyond the leaguer. But the rest are all taken—Lady Fairfax amongst them.”

The crowd was silent with dismay, but then began a torrent of questions. David replied as fully, I saw, as he could, and repeated all he knew many times, very patiently.

“What ha' they done wi' Lady Fairfax, then?” asked one woman sympathetically.

“I believe they have taken her to Boiling Hall,” said David.

“How come it Sir Thomas got away?” said a trooper who just then joined us. “It's not like him to be t'first to run.”

“He led the charge,” explained David. “He pushed through the enemy, not away from them.”

The crowd murmured understanding, and nodded.

“And why did you come back, then, Mester Clarkson?” asked the landlord.

David hesitated. “The charge was so hot. I could make no headway,” he answered: “And so I am now seeking Joseph Lister. I thought that he might guide me out of the town, through bye-ways.”

“Lister?” said the Pack Horse landlord. “He was in our yard before Sir Thomas left; I saw him holding Mester Thorpe's bridle.”

“I saw him there too,” I said faintly. “But, David—”

“He's likely gone off to Church Bank, to the Dentons',” suggested a woman.

“I'll seek him that way,” said David, turning.

“I will come with you,” I said, and though he tried to dissuade me I walked along beside him, while the little crowd broke up and went soberly homeward.

“David,” I said, panting a little: “Tell me the truth, the truth! Is John hurt? Is he dead?”

“No, no, Pen,” said David in surprise. “I told you I saw him safe through the leaguer, with Sir Thomas.”