XXIV
Of My Ride with the Despatches
And now, whether I would or not, I was forced into active participation in this war which was being fought out ’twixt Englishman and Englishman, and made to take a part in it which I had never dreamt of playing. It was the first day of July, 1644. A hot, cloudless day it had been, with never a speck on the sky that one could interpret into a sign of rain. We had got our hay in, and Timothy Grass and another man were busily engaged in thatching the two great stacks that we had built at the end of our stackyard. Early as it was, our corn was beginning to turn, and I looked forward to commencing harvest in three weeks’ time, feeling sure that the oats would then be ready. We had had no rain during the hay-harvest, and I hoped that we should be similarly favoured during the corn-harvest. If only the war would keep away from us until we got our corn in, I felt it would be well.
I walked out with Rose that evening through the meadows leading towards Went Vale. Unconsciously my feet turned in the direction I had taken that spring morning long years before, when I set out for the ruined sheepfold to find the stormcock’s nest.
“It was the first time I had gone bird’s-nesting that year,” I said to Rose as we came upon the scene. “I remember how quickly I ran off when old Jacob told me about the stormcock’s nest. It was in yonder tree; see, there is where I climbed up the trunk. Up I climbed and down I fell, lighting on my thick skull. And then came an angel clad in a red hood and cloak, and singing as she came.”
“And she found,” said Rose, “a sturdy-looking boy, sitting upon the ground and rubbing the crown of his head with both hands. A boy who evidently liked not to have anything done for him, for when the angel, as you call her, wanted to help him he would have no help. Nay, in those days, Will, if I had offered to kiss you better, as we do with children, I think you would have refused.”
“Did I refuse when you kissed me that day you went away with your father?”
“My father?” she said. “I wonder where he is, Will. And poor Jack? ’Tis a dreadful thing, this war, to separate loving hearts one from another.”
“It is, Rose, for it is separating you from me. How long, I wonder, shall we have to wait? Every moment seems a day, every day a year.”
So talking, we went down into the valley and turned along to Wentbridge by the road along which I had passed that night I found Philip Lisle and Rose on the bridge. We stayed there talking a few minutes, and then went slowly up the hill towards Dale’s Field. The Great North Road was quiet that night; quieter indeed than it had been for many weeks, for lately there had been a regular stream of folk along it in both directions. That night, however, we climbed the hill out of Wentbridge without passing or meeting aught more than a drover taking his cattle by easy stages to Doncaster.
“How quiet the road is tonight!” said Rose, as we came to the level against Dale’s Field. “Listen, there is not a sound to be heard.”
We stood still to listen. My ears, quick to hear anything in the open air, caught the faint sound of a horse’s gallop far off along the road.
“Yes, there is a horseman coming along,” I said; “I can hear his horse’s feet. He is a long way off yet—somewhere between Barnsdale and Wentbridge, I think.”
“Let us stand under the trees here and watch him pass,” said Rose; “I like to wait in the darkness when all is quiet, and hear the horse’s feet come nearer and nearer along the highway.”
We drew back into the shadow of the trees that overhung our barns, and waited, listening to the sound that came nearer and nearer, now sinking almost into silence as horse and rider dipped into some slight hollow, now growing louder as they climbed some little hill. After awhile we heard him coming down the road into Wentbridge; then the horse clattered loudly over the bridge, and the sounds grew fainter as his gallop dropped to a trot, and then to a walk as he mounted the stiff hill we had just climbed. And at last we heard the panting and blowing of the tired animal as it came out upon the level road again, and its rider strove to spur it forward at top speed.
“Here he comes,” said Rose, pointing through the dim light. “Poor horse, how tired it seems!”
Tired indeed the horse was, from the jaded way it stepped out. But what was the matter with the rider, who reeled in his saddle like a drunken man, clinging to it with one hand, while he grasped the reins with the other?
“On, good Diamond!” he was saying as he came abreast of us. “On, on, ere this devilish wound overcome me! O, Heaven! how the blood runs yet! Diamond, I say—”
“Oh!” said Rose, clutching my arm. “See, he is falling!”
I started forward just in time to catch the man as he rolled heavily from his saddle. He sank into my arms and I felt something wet and warm as my hand touched his breast. The poor horse stopped, and stood panting and sighing in the middle of the road.
“Hold up, sir,” I said. “My house is near by; let me help you into it.”
“He has fainted!” cried Rose. “Oh, Will, carry him into the house. I will run before to warn them.”
She ran on, and I lifted the man in my arms and bore him across the orchard, his horse following behind me like a dog. I laid the man down on the great settle and looked at him. He had indeed fainted, and there was blood on his clothes and on my hands where I had touched him. A young man he was, of handsome countenance, and dressed like a Royalist officer. I wondered while my mother was attending to him what he was doing in such a plight.
“He is coming round,” said my mother. And presently he opened his eyes and looked at us.
“Do not speak, good sir,” said my mother. “You are amongst friends. Lie still and let us do what we can for you.”
And she began to cut away his garments to get at the wound, which she found to be a shot in the left shoulder, just high enough to have missed the heart. This she dressed and bandaged with rags and soft linen, so that the bleeding stopped and a little colour began to come into the man’s white face.
“Rest you there, sir,” said my mother. “We will not move you yet awhile, and we will put cushions under your shoulders to relieve the hard couch.”
The man shook his head sadly.
“I thank you, mistress,” said he, “warmly and truly, for you are a good Samaritan. But rest I cannot, for I must on and away at once. If only I had another horse!”
“Nay, sir,” said my mother, “you cannot go forward tonight except at peril of your life. Be content to rest.”
“I cannot, mistress,” said he, trying to rise. “Even if I die for it I must on. I am losing time here now. Let me up and away.”
“Sir,” said I, “I would not keep you for a moment against your will, but I tell you plainly that if you mount again you will be a dead man ere you have ridden half a mile.”
He looked at me with despairing eyes when I said this, and groaned sadly.
“Can I do aught to serve you?” I said.
He shook his head, but looked searchingly at me. “I do not know where I am,” he said presently.
“You are in the house of William Dale, yeoman,” I said. “I am he. If I can help you, tell me how.”
Then I bent lower and said in a low voice: “You look like a Royalist; we are all Royalists here, and you may trust us.”
“Ah!” said he. “Is that the truth, Master Dale? Do not mock me. I am near death, I believe.”
“It is the truth,” I answered. “See, yonder young lady is the daughter of Philip Lisle, who holds office under the King—you may know him?”
“Indeed I do, Master Dale,” said he. “Well, I trust myself to your kindness, and more than myself. Look you—I am carrying despatches to the Marquis of Newcastle at York. He must have them tonight or ’twill go ill with him. And here I am, winged in this way by some vile padfoot five miles back. What can I do?”
But I knew what was to be done ere ever he had finished speaking.
“Be at peace, sir,” I said: “I will carry the despatches to Lord Newcastle. Tell me what to do, and give me the packet and let me go. It is now close upon eleven o’clock: I shall be in York by two.”
“But you must avoid the enemy,” he said. “They are surrounding him, and you will have your work set. Well, here is the packet—prithee keep it safely. Say that Captain Trevor was bringing it and was shot on the highway. And so farewell, and—”
He had fainted again from overexertion, and my mother and Rose came forward to help him. I put the packet into my coat and went out. My horse, a great beast that could carry me a whole day without tiring, was in his stall, and uttered a little cry of joy as I put my hand on his neck. I lighted the stable lantern and saddled and bridled him quickly. And then a thought struck me, and I took the saddle off again and pushed the packet between the leather and the padding. If I was caught they would search me thoroughly, but my horse’s saddle might perchance escape.
I led Captain out into the paddock and went down to the house door and looked inside for a moment. My mother still bent over the wounded man. I beckoned Rose to me.
“Goodbye, my dear,” I said, and kissed her. “Kiss my mother and Lucy for me.”
And so I went out into the July night, the clasp of my sweetheart’s arms and the pressure of her lips fresh in my mind. I opened the gate and led Captain on to the broad stretch of turf that runs alongside the highway. The gate swung to with a little clash as I put foot in stirrup and leapt into the saddle. “On, Captain, good horse!” I whispered, and away we shot out into the darkness like an arrow out of a bow. The hedges and trees flew by me: I turned in the saddle and saw the last gleam of the farmhouse lights through the orchard trees.
How we rode along that night! The great horse might have known what mission he was upon. I can still feel the grand sweep of his legs as he went forward, the regular, smooth movement of his gallop as he tucked his great thighs under him for every stride. On and away we went past the Stapleton Woods that skirt the highway, down the road into Darrington village and up the hill beyond with hardly a break in the pace, along the highway past Grove and Castle Laith, on into Ferrybridge, across the river, and up the long hill past Brotherton and Byram, and so into the great level plain that leads to York. A fierce, mad feeling of delight seemed to come over me as we swept along in that grand gallop. I laughed and shouted and the horse beneath me heard and answered with a merry neigh. I sang to him, praised him, called him many a pet name, leaned forward and patted his great neck and shoulders, and promised him such delights as horses care for. And still on he swept, now stretching away at a raking gallop, now dropping into a trot, but never abating the speed that was drawing us nearer and nearer to York.
On, still on! Past Monk Frystone and Sherburn, through Barkston and Saxton, through Towton and Stretton, and so into Tadcaster ere yet it was an hour past midnight. I went steadily through the quiet little town, fearing lest some enemy should wonder at our great pace, but once outside we went on again past Bilbrough and Copmanthorpe until we came to Askham Bryan. And there I drew rein and pondered on what to do, for already the morning was beginning to break, and just before me the towers of the great Minster rose high in the dim light. I knew not where the Royalist forces were, nor where the enemy lay, and I feared to fall into the hands of the latter. But at last I went forward at a steady trot towards the city, intending, if I were questioned, to say that I was a farmer riding into market. And having skirted the city a little I went in at last through Mickle Gate, having met with no opposition on that side, and presently drew rein at my old inn, the Swan, in Pavement. And there came a great surprise, for I had no sooner leaped from Captain’s back than I saw Philip Lisle and Jack Drumbleforth leaning from an upper window in the courtyard, gazing at me with astonished faces.