The G.A. Henty

by G. A. Henty

  Upon nearing Hiniltie one day, just as the new year had begun, Oswald was alarmed at seeing smoke wreaths ascending from the knoll behind the village upon which the Armstrongs’ hold stood. Galloping on, he soon saw that his first impressions were correct, and that his uncle’s tower was on fire. He found the village in confusion.

  “What has happened?” he asked, reining in his horse for a moment.

  “The hold was suddenly attacked, two hours ago,” a man said. “A party of reivers rode through here. None had seen them coming, and there was no time for us to take our women and children, and hurry to the shelter of the hold. Adam Armstrong is away at Roxburgh. Young Allan, with what few men there were at the hold, had but just time to shut the gates; but these were hewed down, in a short time, by the troopers. There was a stout fight as they entered. Allan was cut down and left for dead, and the troopers were all killed. Dame Armstrong was slain, and her daughters carried off by the reivers; and these, as soon as they had sacked the house, set it alight and galloped off. Most of the men here were away in the fields, or with the flocks in the valleys, and we were too few to hinder them, and could but shut ourselves up in the houses, until they had gone.”

  Oswald had dropped his reins, in speechless dismay.

  “It is terrible,” he said, at last. “Aunt killed, Janet and Jessie carried away, and Allan wounded, perhaps to death!”

  “Whence came these villains?” he asked suddenly. “From beyond the Cheviots? It can hardly be so, for this part is under the governor of Roxburgh, and no English raiders would dare to meddle with any here. Besides, my uncle has always been on good terms with them, holding himself aloof from all quarrels, and having friends and relations on both sides of the border.”

  “We believe that it was the Bairds,” a man said. “There has long been a standing quarrel between them and the Armstrongs, partly about stolen cattle, but more, methinks, because of the relationship between the Armstrongs and your people”—for Oswald’s visits to his uncle had made his face familiar to the villagers—“and they say that the Bairds have sworn that they will never rest, until they have slain the last of the Forsters.”

  “Where is Allan Armstrong?”

  “They have carried him down to the last house in the village. The priest and Meg Margetson, who knows more of wounds and simples than anyone here, are with him.”

  “Has his mother’s body been recovered?”

  The man shook his head.

  “The hold was on fire, from roof to cellar, before they left,” he said. “I and others ran up there, directly they had galloped away. The house was like a furnace. And indeed, we knew not of her death until a boy, who had seen her slain, and had dropped from a window and hidden himself till they had gone, came out and told us. He, and two or three others, are the only ones left alive of those in the hold, when we arrived and saved young Allan; and indeed, whether he lives now, or not, I know not. The priest said, when we carried him in, that his state was almost beyond hope.”

  Oswald galloped on to the end of the village, leapt from his horse, and threw the reins to Roger, who had been muttering words that he certainly would not have found in the missals, or the books, of the monastery.

  “Is there nothing to be done, Master Oswald?”

  “Not at present. We must wait till my uncle returns.”

  Then he entered the house. He had met the priest frequently, during his stay with the Armstrongs; as he entered the room, he was standing by a pallet on which Allan was laid, while a very old woman was attending to a decoction that was boiling over the fire.

  “Is there any hope, father?”

  “I know not,” the priest replied, shaking his head sorrowfully. “We have stanched the wounds, but his head is well nigh cleft open. I have some skill in wounds, for they are common enough in this unfortunate country, and I should say that there was no hope; but Meg here, who is noted through the country round for her knowledge in these matters, thinks that it is possible he may yet recover. She is now making a poultice of herbs that she will lay on the wound; or rather on the wounds, for he has no less than four.”

  “I think that he will live, young master,” the old woman said in a quavering, high-pitched voice. “’Tis hard to kill an Armstrong. They have ever been a hardy race and, save the lad’s father, have ever been prone to the giving and taking of blows. I watched by his grandfather’s bed, when he was in as sore a strait as this; but he came round, and was none the worse for it, though the blow would have killed any man with a softer skull.

  “A curse upon the Bairds, I say. They have ever been a race of thieves and raiders, and it is their doings that have brought trouble on the border, as long as I can remember.”

  “Has any gone to bear the news to Adam Armstrong, father?”

  “Yes. I sent off a messenger on horseback, as soon as they had gone. Adam left early, and the man will meet him on his way back.”

  Half an hour later, indeed, Adam Armstrong rode in. Oswald met him outside. His face was set and hard, and Oswald would scarce have recognized the kindly, genial man who had always received him so heartily.

  “There are hopes that he will live,” Oswald said.

  There was a slight change in the expression of Armstrong’s face.

  “’Tis well,” he said, “that one should be saved, to take revenge for this foul business. All the others are gone.”

  “I hope we may rescue my cousins.”

  “We might as well try to rescue a young lamb, that had been carried off by an eagle,” he said bitterly. “Even could an archer send a shaft through the bird’s breastbone, the lamb would be bleeding and injured, beyond all hope, ere it touched the ground. We may revenge, Oswald, but I have no hope of rescue.”

  Then he went into the house, without further word.

  CHAPTER 12

  A Dangerous Mission

  Half an hour later, Adam Armstrong came out of the cottage where his son was lying. His mood had changed. He had gathered hope from Meg Margetson’s confident assurances that there was ground for it.

  “Now, let us talk of what had best be done, Oswald,” he said, as he led the way into the next cottage, where the woman at once turned her children out, and cleared a room for him.

  “What force could you gather, Uncle?”

  “In my grandfather’s time,” he said, “two hundred Armstrongs, and their followers, could gather in case of need; but the family was grievously thinned, in the days when Edward carried fire and sword through Scotland; and for the last fifty years Roxburgh and these parts have been mostly under English rule, and in that time we have never gathered as a family. Still, all my kin would, I know, take up this quarrel; and I should say that, in twelve hours, we could gather fifty or sixty stout fighting men.

  “But the Bairds would be expecting us, and can put, with the families allied to them and their retainers, nigh three hundred men under arms. Their hold is so strong a one that it took fifteen hundred Englishmen, under Umfraville, three weeks to capture it. It was destroyed then, but it is stronger now than ever.

  “Could we get aid from Roxburgh, think you?”

  “I fear not, Uncle. I know that the governor has strict orders not to give Douglas any pretext for invading us, and to hold his garrison together; since the earl may, at any moment, endeavour to capture the town before help could arrive. And even were he to send four or five hundred men, the Bairds could hold out for a fortnight, at least; and long before this Douglas would be down, with an army, to his rescue.

  “I have been talking it over with my trusty companion, here, and he agrees with me that, unless a body of men-at-arms that would avail to capture the fortalice by a sudden assault can be raised, we must trust to guile rather than force; and I propose that he and I shall, at once, start for the hold and see how matters stand, and where the prisoners are confined, and what hope there is of getting them free. I propose to send my other man to Yardhope, to tell my father what has happened, and to ask him to warn his friends t
o be ready to cross the border, and to join any force you can gather for an attack on the Bairds. It is true that stringent orders have been issued that there is to be no raiding in Scotland, but my father would not heed that for a moment. The attack that has been made upon you, the killing of his wife’s sister, the wounding of Allan, and carrying off of his nieces would be deemed, by him, a grievance sufficient to justify his disregarding all orders. Besides which, he has the old grievance against the Bairds, which is all the more bitter since they led the Scots to attack Yardhope. I can guarantee that, when he gets word from you as to the day and place, he will meet you there with at least a hundred spears. It is true that, with this force and that which you can bring, he could not hope to capture the Bairds’ hold; but together you could carry sword and fire through his district, before he could gather a force to meet you in the field.”

  “I fear that would not do, Oswald. William Baird would be capable of hanging the girls from the battlements, when the first fire was lit.”

  Oswald was silent. From the tales he had heard of the ferocity of these dreaded marauders, he felt that it was more than probable that his uncle was right.

  “It seems to me,” he said, after a pause, “that it were best for you to send two men to Parton; which is, as I have heard, though I have never been there, ten miles south of the Bairds’. Let them give the name of Johnstone; and, at the tavern where they put up, say they expect a relative of the same name. As soon as I can find out how the affair had best be managed, I will give them instructions as to the plans I propose. One will carry them to you, and the other to my father. Will Parton be a good place for you to join forces?”

  “As well as any other, Oswald. Your plan seems to me a good one. At any rate, I can think of nothing better. My brain is deadened by this terrible misfortune. Had I my own will, I would ride straight to the Bairds’ hold and challenge him and his brothers and sons to meet me, one after another, in fair combat; and should be well contented if I could slay one or two of them, before being myself killed.”

  “I can quite understand that, Uncle. But your death would be, in no way, an advantage to the girls; nay, would rather render them more helpless, therefore I pray you to let me carry things out as I have planned.”

  His uncle nodded.

  “I shall send out a dozen runners to my friends,” he said, “and beg them to be here tomorrow morning, early. Then, when I have talked matters over with them, I shall ride to Roxburgh and lay the matter before the governor. I know that I shall get no help from him; but at least, when he hears of a gathering here, he will know that ’tis with no evil intention against the English.”

  Ten minutes later, Oswald’s messenger started for Yardhope, with a full account of the step he was taking, and of the arrangements that had been made. This done, he had a long talk with Roger.

  “Now, Roger,” he said, “this will be the most dangerous business in which we have been concerned; and I should not venture to undertake it, did I not know that I could rely, absolutely, upon you.”

  “I will do my best, master, and will adventure my life all the more willingly, since it is in the service of Allan and Janet Armstrong. They were always pleasant and friendly with me, at Yardhope, and I like them for themselves, as well as because they are your cousins. Now, master, what is to be done?”

  “Have you your gown with you, Roger?”

  “No, master. I know you always told me to take it with me, thinking that it might come in useful, and I carried it under my saddle all the time we were in Wales; but, seeing that this was but a ride to Jedburgh and back, I thought that there would be no occasion for it.”

  “That is unfortunate, Roger, for it is upon this that we must depend to get an entry into the Bairds’ hold.”

  “Well, master, I can doubtless get some rough cloth of the colour, at Jedburgh; and indeed, there is a small monastery about three miles hence on the road, and it may be that, if Adam Armstrong will go with us and say wherefore it is wanted, the prior will let him have one.”

  “I will see him at once. No time must be lost. While he is away, you must shave your head again.”

  Roger’s face fell.

  “’Tis hard, master, after it has grown so well to match the rest. Still, for so good a purpose I must even give in.”

  On hearing what was wanted, Armstrong mounted and rode off at once and, while he was away, one of the villagers shaved the top of Roger’s head again. In an hour, Armstrong brought back a monk’s gown.

  “He was loath to let me have it even, for such a purpose, though I told him that you were once a monk of the order. Finally he said that his conscience would not allow him to lend it, but that he would sell it to me for six pennies, which I gladly gave him.”

  “It is dark now,” Oswald said, “and I know not the road. Can you give me some man to put me on the way? We will not make straight for the Bairds’, but will strike the road from Glasgow, some ten or twelve miles north of his place, so that we can come down from that direction. Then our guide, after taking us on to the road, had best take charge of the horses and lead them to Parton, there to remain with them until your messenger, and the one from Yardhope, arrive. It would be as well to have the horses there, for we cannot know what need we may have of them.”

  “That I will arrange at once, Oswald. Is there aught else?”

  “Yes, Uncle, I must leave my armour and clothes here, and borrow others that will pass as a disguise.”

  “How would you go, Oswald?”

  “In truth, it is a difficult matter. That of a minstrel would be the best passport, but I know nought of harp or other instrument. I might go as a vendor of philters and charms, a sort of half-witted chap, whose mother concocted such things.”

  “They would never let you into the Bairds’ castle, Oswald.”

  “Then I must be a rough man-at-arms, one who had been in the service of the Earl of March; and who, when he turned traitor and went over to the English, found himself without employment; and asked nothing better than to enter the service of someone who will give him bread and meat, in return for any services that he can render, whether in hunting up any cattle among the hills, or striking a shrewd blow in the service of his employer, if needs be.”

  “That must do, if we can think of nothing better, Oswald. I will speedily bring you the things you require, as they will be found in every house in the village; and some, alas! will be needed no more by those who wore them.”

  “They must be of good size, Uncle.”

  “Ay, ay, lad. There must have been some tall fellows, among those they slew today.”

  Half an hour later, Roger and Oswald mounted. His uncle sent two of his men with them, saying that it would look strange were one man to come, with two horses, to Parton; but that two, saying that their masters would follow, would seem a more probable tale.

  “They will, if they can, find some quiet farmhouse a mile out of the village, and there get lodgings for themselves and beasts. You can arrange with them to take up their station on the road, so that you can, if needs be, find them.”

  It was with a sigh that Roger flung himself into the saddle. It was not the horse on which he had ridden there, but a strong, shaggy pony.

  “He does not look much,” one of the men said, “but there is no better horse, of the sort, in the country. He has both speed and bottom, and can carry you up or down hill, and is as sure-footed as a goat.”

  Roger had assented to the change, for his own horse was as unlike one that a monk would have bestrode as could be well imagined. He had obtained a stout staff, to which the village smith had added two or three iron rings at each end, rendering it a formidable weapon, indeed, in such hands.

  “It reminds me of our start for Dunbar, master,” he said. “One might have a worse weapon than this;” and he swung it round his head, in quarterstaff fashion; “still, I prefer a mace.”

  “That staff will do just as well, Roger. A man would need a hard skull, indeed, to require more tha
n one blow from such a weapon.”

  Now that Adam Armstrong had done all that there was to do, he went again to the cottage where Allan lay. He had paid several visits there, in the afternoon; but there was nought for him to do, and no comfort to be gained from the white face of the insensible lad. Meg assured him, however, that he was going on as well as could be expected.

  “He is in a torpor, at present,” she said; “and may so lie for two or three days; but so long as there is no fever he will, I hope, know you when he opens his eyes. There is nought to do but to keep wet cloths round his head, and to put on a fresh poultice over the wound, every hour.”

  Now Armstrong took his place by his son’s pallet. For a time, the work of making preparations for Oswald’s departure, and of sending off messages to his friends, had prevented his thoughts from dwelling upon his loss. Throughout the night, the picture of his home, as he had left it when he rode out that morning; and the thought that it was now an empty shell, his wife dead, his daughters carried off, and his son lying between life and death, came to him with full force, and well nigh broke him down.

  In the meantime, the little party were making across the hills, and before morning they came upon the northern road, fifteen miles from the Bairds’ hold. Here Oswald and Roger dismounted. It was arranged that the men should return with the horses into the hills, and should there rest until late in the afternoon, and then mount and ride for Parton. One or other of them was to come down, at seven o’clock each evening, to the road half a mile from the village; and was there to watch till nine. If no one came along, they were then to return to their lodging.