Take Courage (27 page)

Sarah and the neighbours began to make much of these men, additions to the defending force.

“How did you know you were wanted, lads?” called out a woman next door.

“The hand of the Lord was laid on them,” replied Sarah austerely.

“Nay—it was your little Sam fetched us, Mrs. Thorpe,” said one of the men, who in better times had woven for us, laughing. “He told us Mester Thorpe said every God-fearing man in t'district were to go at once to Bradford kirk. He's a grand little lad, is yon—he went all round Little Holroyd and fair shamed us into setting off.”

“Where is Sam now?” I asked quickly. “Lister! Where are my children now?”

“I've locked 'em both up in t'kitchen,” said Lister. “They're safe enough.”

His tone was so rough and unmannerly that all there looked at him in astonishment that he should address me so. He was as white as a sheet beneath his freckles, his teeth chattered and he continually cracked his great knuckles, ill at ease.

“Are you afraid, Uncle Lister?” piped up little Sarah.

“Though an host of men were laid against me, yet shall not my heart be afraid,” chanted Lister loudly. “When the Lord calls, the godly man will not be wanting.”

God forgive me, I did not believe him; perhaps I even let my smile show my contempt. It was the last time I ever smiled at Lister. The other men joked him cheerfully on his military spirit, as they called it, being honestly aware that they were afraid themselves.

Suddenly a great shouting from the steeple belaboured our ears. While we had been busy with the band from Little Holroyd, the attention of our men in the steeple had been on them too, and the Royalists had boldly taken advantage of this diversion to send a company on foot down the field towards our row of houses. They were almost on us when the men in the steeple saw them; they gave fire at once and shouted, and the church door opened and some of our men ran out, but it was doubtful whether they would be in time, and if the Royalists had our houses, the church would be
quite cut off. The men from Little Holroyd saw they were called to action; they stood up and took hold of their weapons, but then looked about them uncertainly.

“Let God arise and let his enemies be scattered!” screamed Lister suddenly, and—his eyes glaring, foam at the corners of his mouth—he sprang out into the road and charged fiercely up the Bank, holding his pole before him like a pike. “In the name of the Lord will I destroy them!” he chanted, and the others followed, brave enough now they knew what to do. The Royalist captain, like a good officer, was running well ahead of his men with his sword drawn; “Come on then and be hanged to you!” he cried, and Lister, screaming: “Thou shalt bruise them with a rod of iron!” ran at him full tilt and struck him a sweeping blow with the pole. The captain lost his feet, the sword flew from his hand; as he stretched to retrieve it his hat fell off, so that I saw his golden head as the other men closed round him. There was the sound of blows, wood on leather and steel on steel; I saw him struggle to his feet, but they beat him down again. Then from the ground a clear high voice, half laughing, half in earnest, cried:

“Well, you have me! Quarter!”

And then there came a sudden sharp cry of pain and fear, and the voice, in earnest this time, repeated:

“Quarter, you fools! Quarter!”

“Aye, we'll quarter you!” screamed Lister madly, and he drove the spit through Francis's heart.

A long scream of agony tore the air asunder; I shall never forget that scream as long as I live.

I do not altogether know what happened then. There was a sudden rush of Parliament men up the hill—they were the long-expected men from Halifax, I learned later—and somehow I was amongst them; and the Royalists fell back and these Halifax men swept on into the church; and then I was kneeling there beside Francis, who lay stretched upon the ground, his bright face queerly slack and drooping, his fine coat stained; and Isaac Baume knelt at my side. Francis gave a sudden twist in my arms and looked up at
me, his grey eyes very wide and staring, and seemed about to say my name, but instead let his head fall back as if he were too tired to hold it up, and sighed, and was silent.

After a moment Baume said soberly: “He's gone,” and rose from his knees.

There was a hush; then the leader of the Halifax men said sharply to Lister:

“But what were you about, man? He asked for quarter.”

“Quarter?” muttered Lister stupidly. He stood staring down at Francis, with a face so tallowy white his freckles showed on it like coarse brown blotches; his hands hung down, and the pole with them, so that the blood dripped from the end of the spit to the floor. “Quarter?” he repeated.

“Aye, quarter! He surrendered—we all heard him—not to give quarter is against all the usages of war,” explained the Halifax man impatiently.

“The word does not bear that sense in Holy Writ,” said Lister, obstinate. “Every idle word men shall speak, they shall give account thereof in the day of judgment. Quarter!”

“They'll make us pay for this, I'll wager,” said the Halifax man in a vexed tone.

“They'll storm the church if we don't look about us, Hodgson,” said John's voice from behind, sardonic.

“Will you try a sally, then?” asked Hodgson, who seemed a knowledgeable man in military matters.

“Aye! Now, while they're daunted. After their next discharge,” said John.

His words were drowned in the roar of the cannon. The hush which followed was sharply broken by shouted commands and a flurry of footsteps, and John opened the church door, and they all poured out after Hodgson.

“Come on, man!” said Baume to Lister, clapping him on the shoulder. “There's no need to grieve over a malignant quarter or no quarter.”

Lister shook his head and muttered: “Quarter!” but suffered himself to be led out, stumbling and awkward.

Then all sounds died away, save for the groans of some wounded men who lay propped against the wall, amongst whom I dimly remember seeing Mr. Atkinson; and all the world seemed empty, save for myself and Francis.

I knelt beside Francis and raised him in my arms, I took his head on my breast, but it hung down heavily; I called him by name: Francis, my love, my darling, Francis, my sweet heart, my own dear lad. I begged him to speak to me. It seemed cruel that he would not speak to me, would not call me Pen, would not kiss me or caress me. He seemed hardly to know that I was there beside him. I stroked back the thick golden hair from his forehead—I can see it yet, springing back so strong and curling; I kissed his eyes, his mouth, his cheek, his hands. But they were cold, so cold; I warmed his hands in mine, but they were cold and heavy. To have him so close in my arms, after lacking him so long, and yet he would not speak to me! It was cruel, cruel. Francis, speak to me! Francis!

After a long time I felt a hand resting gently on my shoulder, and heard a voice murmuring quietly in my ear. When I became aware of them, I knew they had been there for a long time. “Mrs. Thorpe, Mrs. Thorpe,” said the voice, a kind homely voice; and after a while it broke a little, and whispered: “Mistress Penninah!” Then I looked up and saw a scarlet Royalist coat, and above it an oldish friendly face I used to know; it was Ralph, the Ferrands' servant, and what seemed strange to me then, his eyes were full of tears.

“It's Ralph,” I said dully.

“Yes, it's Ralph, Mistress Penninah,” said the man in a fond soothing tone. “See, Mistress; it will be best for you to go home now, before Mr. Thorpe and the rest return. They're off pursuing our men now, but I reckon that won't last long, they'll be back on their necks, soon enough. You go home now.” I put out a finger and touched his coat. “I'm Master Frank's body servant,” said the man, answering my unspoken question; and at my dear love's name his face contracted. “I let myself be captured,” he went on in
a high trembling tone, “so as to be with him. But you'd best leave him now if you value your good name, Mistress.”

He took off his scarlet coat and made to put it over Francis's face.

Then I knew that Francis was truly dead, and gone from me for ever, and I held Ralph back, and, trembling, for I had never done this office for anyone before, I drew down the lids over my love's blank eyes. My tears fell on him, and I raised my skirt and wiped them from his face. Then Ralph covered him, and put his hand beneath my elbow and urged me to my feet, and gently drew my cloak together to hide my dress where it was stained with Francis's blood. But still I could not bring myself to go, to leave Francis.

There came sudden footsteps and loud cheerful voices, and the Bradford men with Isaac Baume, and the Halifax men with Hodgson, and the Little Holroyd men with John, were all round me in the church, laughing and talking. They breathed heavily, and their faces were thick with sweat; some of them were wounded, with blood on face or arm, but all seemed very proud of themselves and their exertions.

“I've never seen such a skirmish in my life!” exclaimed Hodgson in a tone of high delight. “Fifty men to pursue a thousand! We must have been mad or drunk to hazard it.”

“It's true we shot as if we were mad,” said John grimly.

“And the enemy as if they were drunk,” cried Baume, with a loud foolish laugh.

“Your husband has done notable execution, Mrs. Thorpe,” said Hodgson, catching sight of me. “When I saw you surrounded by those three, Thorpe, I own I feared for you. But he discharged his musket on one of them, Mrs. Thorpe, struck down the horse of another with the thick end, and broke the third's sword, beating it back to his throat; and so put all to flight and returned safe to you.”

They all laughed again, so that I felt a strong repulsion from them; it seemed to me that they were drunk with
killing. Behind them I caught a glimpse of Lister; to do him justice he looked white and dazed, but his mouth, like the rest, was set in a silly grin, so that I felt sickened.

“If it is safe now, I will go home,” I said in a low voice.

John turned and gave me a strange hard look. “Aye, go home, Penninah,” he said. “Go home and keep close. And you, Ralph, go with her. You are my prisoner on parole. See you break this news gently at the Hall, Ralph,” he went on, with a disparaging motion of his hand towards Francis.

“Was the Captain a friend of yours?” said Hodgson at this, lifting the coat from Francis's face.

“Not a friend,” said John harshly, turning away. “A cousin.”

“He seemed a bold, gallant officer,” said the Halifax man, dropping the coat. “Pity he couldn't have been better persuaded.”

John made no reply.

“If i survive these days, I shall wonder how I endured to live through them,” I often thought to myself in the months that followed, and I have, indeed, often wondered whence I drew the strength to endure the sorrows which then heaped themselves upon my head. Perhaps it was from the children's need of me, perhaps it was from a desire to make reparation to John, perhaps it came from God Himself, who in His infinite mercy did not wish to cast away even so notable a sinner, perhaps it was only from that strong love of life which is implanted so firmly in every human breast. I do not know; but I know that although every hour of every day was one of searing anguish to me, yet I ate and slept and saw to the children's wants and administered to my household, and kept a face on it all not too revealing of my inner suffering, and so somehow lived.

About noon on the next day following Francis's death, Ralph came timidly to our door to fetch me to Holroyd Hall.

“You must come, Mrs. Thorpe. There's nobody but you,” he whined. “Mr. Ferrand said I was to fetch you. Nobody'd do it better nor you.”

“What is it you want of me, Ralph?” I asked. (The very sight of him was torture.)

“To be with Mrs. Ferrand when we bring him home,” whispered Ralph.

In half sentences and obscure phrases, for he could not bring himself to speak clearly, I learned his meaning. It seemed that Mr. Ferrand, having fled to Sir Richard Tempest at Boiling Hall to avoid arrest, was with the Royalist
force, and had caused a trumpeter to be sent out to our men in the church to demand his son's body, which this morning had been delivered to him. He had brought Francis nearly home, but now his courage failed him, and he dared not break the news to his wife alone. It was clear to me that Ralph had reported my mourning over Francis yesterday, that Mr. Ferrand thus knew that I still loved his son and felt he had a right to claim my aid. I shuddered at the task, but I would not refuse any office concerned with Francis, nor was I without a desire to look once more on my love. So I threw on a cloak and followed Ralph.

In the lane I found Mr. Ferrand on horseback beside a cart; he sat very still, but his hands trembled and his sanguine face was pale and drawn. He would not meet my eyes, but glancing aside towards the cart said that Francis lay in it, and that he would give me a few minutes at the Hall to tell his wife before he came.

“I'm much obliged to ye, Penninah,” he concluded huskily.

So I went on and began that fearful task which so often falls to women. The servants at the Hall were all, I found, forewarned, and admitted me quickly and silently, their looks showing their sad understanding. Mrs. Ferrand must have heard the noise of my entry, however, though it was so slight, for she ran out of the parlour. Her face fell when she saw me.

“I thought it was Francis,” she said, pettishly.

It was so long since I had seen her close that I had forgotten her trick of swallowing her r's till I heard it now again; it made her seem very young and innocent. She was still a pretty woman; her cheek had its former smooth milk and roses, though now it sprang from art rather than nature, and her hair, though not as abundant as of old, was elaborately arranged in many curls about the forehead, and still very golden. The poor woman, knowing that Royalists were in the neighbourhood, hoping for another visit from her son, had dressed herself in her best, a light flowered silk of some kind, so that it was piteous to see her.