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Groaning
despite himself, and caring nothing for flying ball, James Graham
rode across to the sword-flourishing, martial Crawford. 'My lord -
what is this?' he demanded hotly.

"Devilish
ill-fortune!' Ludovic Lindsay called. ‘I near had them. But a
minute or two more and the place would have been mine. Marshalling
my men for the assault. The Devil's own luck!'

'I
am not concerned with your luck, sir!' Montrose's voice quivered.
'Why are you here?'

'The
town gate, to the south, was open. We could ride in. I perceived
that I could reach the castle before you - for the south gate is
closer.'

Montrose
held out an arm and pointing finger that shook, indicative of the
effort with which he held himself in. 'Nearer, yes. But see there,
my lord - visible of approach most of the way from the lower town.'
He was pointing down the wide Castlegate. 'Only a guard asleep could
have failed to see you approach thus. Why think you I planned to
approach from the north? And commanded that you capture the lower
town, making cause with Clavering?'

Gulping,
he stopped. This would not do. Crawford was chief of a great family,
sixteenth Earl, next to Mar the most senior of all the earls of
Scotland. And an older man than he was. It was not suitable to
berate him thus, to berate any commander in front of his men.
Besides, musket-balls were coming thick and fast.

'I
advise that you get your men down into the town swiftly, my lord,'
he went on, even-voiced. 'Clavering may need your aid. And when I
last was here, there were cannon in this fort... !'

He
did not finish that, as a musket-ball screamed between them, setting
their horses dancing.

Furiously
the other earl reined around, and waved his squadron to retire
whence it had come. Aboyne's people were advancing round the
perimeter wall now. Gesturing to them to turn back, Montrose saw the
first flash, and mushroom of smoke, from the keep's
platform-roof, and the crash of the cannon coincided with his own
urgent departure from that place.

The
capture of the town itself was not difficult, with surprise, and the
full thousand cavalry to devote to it. But the failure to gain the
castle left Montrose in a serious quandary. Any siege of the citadel
demanded cannon, of which he had none. It might be best to abandon
Morpeth altogether, and concentrate on spreading alarm and
confusion behind Leslie's lines by assaulting other Tyneside towns.
On the other hand, Morpeth was astride the main north-south road,
supply and retreat line with Scotland. Holding it would more
effectively embarrass the Scots army than would any other. Yet he
could not just sit in it, under the threat of the castle's own
artillery and garrison, if only he could lay hands on some cannon
...

It
was this line of thinking that moulded his subsequent strategy. The
city of Newcastle lay only fifteen miles to the south — and
there would be cannon therein. It was still in royalist hands, but
being contained rather than besieged by a rearguard of Leslie's
force, neutralised. If the containing force could be lured away,
even for a short time . ..

James
Graham did not delay. Within hours of the castle disappointment, and
before the word could spread around the countryside, Crawford and
Clavering were sent off south-eastwards, with their squadrons,
openly, to make for North Shields, thirteen miles away. It was an
unimportant place at the mouth of the Tyne estuary; but a ferry
plied to South Shields across the river, with its small fort that
had once been Roman. A force which could capture both North and
South Shields could bottle up the Tyne, prevent supply by sea to
Leslie's thousands, and bypass Newcastle's bridge as access to a
wide area. No commander sitting outside Newcastle could ignore
such.

Montrose
waited until dusk, when a rider from Clavering arrived with news
that they had taken North Shields without difficulty - likewise
Seaton Delaval and Earsdon on the way - and all were now burning, to
draw attention to the fact. They were making great play with the
ferry-boats, and the fort at South Shields, less than a mile across
the estuary, could not but assume an attempt against it. They would
retire northwards during the night, but leave a fire-tending party
to keep the blazes bright.

Leaving
Kilpont in command at Morpeth, with Ogilvy's squadron, Montrose with
Aboyne's remaining
250
horsemen,
set out through the quiet May night for Newcastle.

A
mile short of the city, and an hour short of midnight, scouts waited
to inform them that there was a fairly large military encampment
outside the northern gate but that few men appeared to be there. It
looked as though the Scots containing force, at least on this north
side of Tyne, had been drawn off, as planned.

Montrose
had to be satisfied with that. At a brisk trot they advanced on
encampment and city gates.

They
encountered no trouble at the first. The guard, a picket of Fifers,
obviously assumed them to be part of their own army - as who would
blame them? When Montrose called out to them in his broadest Angus
Doric, the squadron was allowed to trot on without hindrance. It was
a scattered camp, really a staging post for supply convoys. There
might well be trouble here later, but meantime it was child's play.

Not
so when they reached the high city wall and the Scots Gate, however.
They reared dark, blacker than the May night, the doors solidly
closed against all comers. No answer was accorded to fairly
low-pitched calls and summonses, and Montrose was loth to bellow
demands for entry such as would resound back in the camp and arouse
immediate suspicion.

In
a fever of frustration they waited, while various members of
the company took turns at whispered shouting, as it were, to gain
some response from within; all to no effect. It was, eventually,
that lively youth James Gordon, Viscount Aboyne's suggestion that
bore fruit. They tied together some of the horses' tethering-ropes,
with breastplates, helmets, even swords at one end, to throw up and
over the walls as improvised scaling-ladders. If sentinels there
were, they could scarcely ignore such a gesture. And if the walls
were indeed unguarded, then they might be able to get men up the
ropes, to open the doors themselves.

This
ingenious challenge was successful. The first clattering rope,
after two false throws, was tossed back at the throwers even before
the second was up, with some good, thick Tyneside objurgation.

'Guard,
there!' Montrose called. 'Hear me. I am the Earl of Montrose, the
King's Lieutenant-General. I may not shout louder, or blow trumpet,
for fear of arousing the Scots camp behind. I am come to speak with
the King's governor of Newcastle.'

That
produced little more than a snort of disbelief.

'Quickly,
man. Open the gates for us. We dare not stand waiting here.'

'D'ye
think us right fools?' a hoarse voice answered. 'To let in your
murdering Scots!'

'I
tell you, I am the King's Lieutenant. Montrose. Fetch the
guard-commander, man.'

'Ho
ho! He'd thank me for that, at this time o' night! Your
lord-generalship had better come back at a decent hour!'

‘
Fool!
We cannot wait. Fetch someone, anyone in authority. With whom I may
speak. In the King's name. Or when I get in, I will have you hanged,
see you - also in the King's name!'

That
seemed to give the spokesman pause. There was some muttered talk.

A
thought occurred to James Graham. 'Guard - can you see North Shields
ablaze, from up there?' 'Aye.'

'That
is my doing. To draw off the Scots. You would see them ride off?'
'Aye.'

'Devil
take you, fellow - have you no wits? Hanging will be too good for
you. Get your officer.'

After
a wait, wherein Montrose, cursing the guard's stupidity, had to
admit, in fairness, that the man was only right to be suspicious, an
officer did arrive above; who after some further parleying,
announced that he had seen the Earl of Montrose when he had been
captured by the Scots at Newburn, as one of Conway's force. If his
lordship would light up his face in some fashion... ?

So
flint and steel was struck, tinder ignited, and a letter from
Montrose's pocket burned before his upturned, hatless features. The
captain declared himself satisfied, and at long last the gates were
opened - and closed again almost before the last of the squadron was
inside.

Using
all his inborn and acquired authority now to obtain swift action,
Montrose spurred through the empty streets to the castle, grim,
stark and strong at the riverside, where were both the governor, Sir
John Marley and the wanted cannon, according to the watch-captain.
Marley, who was middle-aged and portly, and mayor as well as
governor, despite being put about by being found in bed with a
shrilly angry wife, was only to glad to get rid of his untimely
visitor by authorising the removal from the citadel of whatsoever
cannon were required - since he had little ammunition for them
anyway.

Montrose
had less choice of artillery than he had hoped. The heavy pieces
which he would have preferred would be too difficult to transport;
and the light, mainly naval guns would make no real impact on
Morpeth Castle walls. He took six medium cannon, but was able to
collect precious few balls to go with them.

Quickly
he had the weapons disjoined, and their barrels, wheels, axles and
carriages tied into fishnets to be slung between four horsemen each.
The few casks of powder and heavy ball likewise. Then, wasting no
time in leave-taking, he wished the governor well on all counts, and
hastened back to the Scots Gate, some hundred of his troopers
reluctantly acting carrier.

The
guard at the gate declared that there had been some stir in the
Scots encampment meantime, but not any large-scale return from down
the estuary, they thought; probably only curiosity as to what had
become of the visitors.

Montrose
formed his people up into three companies now — a fighting
spearhead of
100,
the
transporting
100
who
would inevitably be less fast-moving, and the remaining fifty as
rearguard. Then he ordered the gates to be opened.

A
fairly sedate trot was all the pact that his cannon-bearers could
muster, with their heavy and awkward loads. At this decent rate they
headed for the camp and the road.

Now
there was question, opposition, it having been realised that the
newcomers had gained admission to the beleaguered city; therefore
they could not be what they seemed. Somebody had gathered
together a fair number of men to block the way. But even in the
semi-darkness they could be seen to be only a mass, a mob rather
than any disciplined formation. Montrose whipped out his sword,
and gave the order to his advance-guard to charge.

It
was the first true charge, in anger, which many of these present had
made. But led by the dashing Scots lords, they drew steel, levelled
lances and spurred mounts. 'A Graham! A Graham!' Montrose cried -
and some even took up that strange refrain.