Macpherson died toward the end of the second week in July, when the city had already begun to suffer the dire extremities of famine. The provisions in the magazines were almost exhausted; the meal and the tallow were doled out with a sparing hand. Already the citizens had begun to live upon food that at other times they would have turned from in disgust and loathing. Horse-flesh was almost becoming a luxury, dogs, rats, and cats were greedily devoured, and even of these the supply was beginning to fail. Putrid fevers had broken out which carried off multitudes; loathsome diseases of the skin grew common, and even the strongest began to find it hard to draw themselves to the walls or to help in repelling the frequent attacks on the outposts. Added to this, there was hardly a whole roof in the city, for during two months the iron hail had been continually pouring upon them. Many of them felt indeed that death would be a welcome relief, and they envied those who were already laid in the churchyard. But still they held out grimly, and with faces blackened with hunger, declared that they were ready to die rather than 281surrender. The spirit that may still be found here and there in the Imperial Province burned with an unabated flame--a pride which two centuries has not been able to remove, and strong almost to fanaticism. Yet it was not to be wondered at that discontent and suspicion should grow and spread. Some few proved insubordinate, others deserted to the enemy, but for the most part they stood loyally by their leaders.
Hamilton who was now in command of the royal troops, believing that the time had come when his overtures would be listened to, had sent a message containing liberal terms, but after some fruitless negotiations, they refused his offer and determined to hold out. A messenger had been able to find his way from the ships with a letter which had revived their hopes a little, but they had lost all faith in Kirke, and looked only with stubborn despair to the time when they could defend themselves no longer.
After the death of Macpherson, Gervase had gone about his duty as before, but he had greatly missed the wise and faithful counsellor whose friendly comfort had helped him to bear his trials. The blow that he had sustained had been very great, and he had felt unwilling to face Dorothy Carew while the wound was still fresh. He had determined to observe the old soldier′s dying injunction that she should not know by whose hand he had fallen; and he himself would have desired even if the command had not been laid upon him 282that she should remain in ignorance of it. He knew that she had already suffered much, and he was desirous of sparing her further pain. Jasper had not appeared again in the city nor was it likely that he would, so that it could serve no purpose of any sort to denounce him as the murderer.
When he had summoned up courage and met Dorothy for the first time since Macpherson′s death, she had displayed much emotion, but it had not occurred to her that she was connected in any way with the old soldier′s end. She had told Gervase that her brother had disappeared, and that she had no doubt he had gone over to the enemy, but the subject was one on which she seemed naturally unwilling to dwell much, and he on his part did not press it. It struck him, however, as singular that she did not mention De Laprade; and it was only in answer to his inquiry that she told him that he was making rapid progress towards recovery. She herself was looking very ill and wretched--so ill that Gervase was alarmed at her appearance, and her eyes were red as if she had been weeping recently.
“I thought I was strong and able to bear anything,” she said, “but my heart is breaking. Is there no hope for us anywhere?”
“There is always hope----”
“I see that you can give me no comfort. My aunt is dying slowly, and she bears it very patiently. In a day or two there will be no more food and then----”
“And then there will be plenty if God helps us, 283Miss Carew,” Gervase went on. “You have not despaired till now. You have shown us an example in patient courage we might all have profited by, and you must not let your heart fail you now. You may tell Lady Hester she will not have long to wait. In three days the ships will be at the quays and all will be well.”
“I think you have always told me the truth,” she said; “but how is this to happen?”
“When we meet again I shall tell you that and more; you must not ask me now, but I believe I speak sincerely and with truth.”
“I have always trusted you.”
“And always may; there is nothing I would not try to do for your sake. But I am growing a boaster, and I have done nothing and perhaps can do nothing. Only do not let your heart fail. When we meet again I trust the joybells will be ringing, and there will be bonfires on the ramparts; if not----”
“It is too good news. We have waited so long but it seems as far away as ever.”
“I think it is coming now. Miss Carew, if we should never meet again, I want you to remember that I thought of you till the last, and that all I did was done--nay I should not say that. I feel that we shall meet again.”
She looked at him with a look of awakened fear. “You are not going into any great peril?”
“We live among them, one and all of us.”
“But you----”
284“Would only carry your thoughts with me--Dorothy, my best beloved,” he cried, taking her hand in his, “before I go I want you to say you love me as I love you.”
She drew her hand away quickly.
“I cannot I cannot. I will tell you why hereafter. My God! I love you.”
He caught her in his arms and kissed her again and again unresistingly. Then she tore herself from his embrace, and with a stifled cry rushed from the room. But he went away happy, with her last words ringing in his ears, and feeling himself ready to do the work he was about to undertake. For while he was talking to Dorothy he had hastily formed a resolution that was lying dormant in his mind for days. In his last conversation with Macpherson, the old soldier had declared his intention of reaching the ships, and Gervase had been dwelling on the project for the last ten days. He knew the task was full of deadly peril--it had already been twice attempted without success, and it seemed so hopeless that he had shrunk from undertaking it. But the sight of Dorothy′s thin and wasted face had removed all his doubts, and he had determined to make one last effort to induce Kirke to undertake the relief. He himself believed that the undertaking was not nearly so formidable as it seemed, and if once a move was made he did not doubt that the boom would prove no very serious barrier. But the great problem was to reach the ships which were lying far down the river. On both sides of the bank the 285enemy were watching with a vigilance which it seemed impossible to escape. Even if he succeeded in eluding them, he could hardly hope to swim the long six miles in the condition he was in, and to land was almost certain death. But he made up his mind to make the attempt and to trust to the chapter of accidents to carry him safely through.
As he went to look for Walker from whom he desired to obtain his credentials, he felt strong enough for anything. Had not he heard from the sweetest lips in the world the sweetest words he had ever heard spoken. Had he not everything to move him to the attempt? If he lived he would show her that he was not unworthy of her love, for this deed was one that all men would not attempt, and few could carry safely through. There was glory in it and renown, though it was neither glory nor renown that he sought.
When he had told the old colonel of his intentions, the latter at first tried to dissuade him. He was only flinging his life away, he said, for nothing. Others had tried and failed; he could not hope to succeed. Even if he succeeded in reaching the ships, which he could not do, he could tell them nothing that they did not know there. Kirke was a coward or a traitor, and they could not hope for help from him. He could send them letters that meant nothing, but that was all. But Gervase was not to be dissuaded by any argument. He had set his heart upon making the attempt, and his 286resolution was so evident that at length Walker unwillingly consented, and with a homely piety commended him to the protection of Providence that, however it might frown, had not forsaken them.
“We will say nothing of this to any,” he had said, “but will keep the matter closely to ourselves, for the folk yonder have long ears and can hear our whispers here. Some time before midnight we will even go down to the Waterside together, and as you are a brave man and a courageous, there is one old man who will pray for your safe keeping and deliverance. I shall have the epistle writ out, and I pray God Kirke may be the first to read it.”
Gervase′s preparations for his adventure were easily made. He had left a letter in which he had made a disposal of his effects, in case anything happened to him, and had written another which was addressed to Dorothy Carew. The only weapon he had provided himself with was a small hunting knife that had belonged to Macpherson, which he hoped he would not require to use but which might prove useful in an emergency. There had been some rain during the day, and the night promised to be dark and cloudy. So long as there was no moonlight there was a possibility of his making the attempt with a reasonable chance of success, but should the moon show herself he could hardly hope to remain undiscovered.
The time hung heavily on his hands while he waited 287for the hour when he was to meet Walker, and then he found himself trembling with feverish impatience. Walker, however, insisted on his taking supper before he left, and it was weeks since Gervase had seen so plentiful a meal spread before him. The old colonel watched him with a serious admiration as he made huge inroads on the food, and when Gervase had finished, he went to a cupboard and produced a flask.
“You have had the last of the meat,” he said, taking the cork out of the bottle, “and now you are going to have the last of the drink. There are two glasses left, and you shall have both of them. Whenever we meet again, if Heaven pleases, we will crack a bottle together. I love a brave lad, and if age had not taken the oil out of my joints, I should have liked nothing better than to bear you company. Now drink that off for it will keep you warm in the water.”
Going down Ship Quay Street together, they passed through the gate and came out upon the quay. The night was very dark and a slight drizzling rain had begun to fall. On both sides of the river they could see many lights, some moving, some stationary, and could hear the sound of voices calling and answering from the other bank. But the river was flowing darkly at their feet, and a night better suited for his purpose Gervase could hardly have found. When he had divested himself of his boots coat and vest, he stuck the short knife in his belt, and fastened round his waist with a strip 288of canvas the piece of bladder in which the letter from Walker was rolled.
“God bless you, my lad, and send you safe back to us. I feel even like the patriarch when he would have offered up his son, but here too, it is my trust the Lord will not require a life.”
“I feel that I shall come back, colonel,” said Gervase; “never fear for me. Have the bonfires ready to give us a welcome.”
The old man in the excess of his emotion, took him in his arms and kissed him on the forehead, and then Gervase wringing his hand, dropped noiselessly into the water and struck out into the stream. He knew that it was necessary for him to husband his strength for it would all be needed; so after he found himself well in the middle of the river, he began to swim slowly, and to let the current carry him down. If the night should continue dark it would be impossible that he could be discovered from the land; he himself could only dimly make out the banks, and trusted to the lights to help him to direct his course. But the rain had ceased and he feared that the clouds were beginning to break; in the moonlight they could hardly fail to see him.
Still, every yard he made was a yard nearer safety, and to some extent lessened the chances of discovery, for the further he descended the stream, the more lax in all likelihood would their vigilance become.
As he swam on steadily with a slow strong stroke, his thoughts were busy with many things.
289He thought of Dorothy, who loved him and would repay him for his labour; of Macpherson, whose brave spirit was perhaps keeping him company on this perilous venture; and pardonably enough, of the honour he would gain for this deed. It never occurred to him that having reached the ships there would be any difficulty about the relief of the city. When once his story had been told, they must up with their anchors, if there was any manhood among them, and try the mettle of their guns. He imagined to himself with what joy Dorothy would welcome him back when he came among the first with the good news.
So he swam on for half an hour carried slowly down by the current, and then for the first time he began to feel that he had overestimated his strength, and that his extremities were growing numb and cold. He had long since passed the lights of Pennyburn; he must now be coming close to the boom where would be his first great danger, for the lights yonder on either side of the river must be the lights of the forts that guarded the barrier. The water seemed somehow to have grown colder and less buoyant, and worst of all, the moon was beginning to show through the masses of broken cloud. Three months ago he would have found little difficulty in swimming twice the distance, but now he dragged himself with difficulty through the water, and his shoulders were growing stiff and painful. What if he failed to reach the fleet after all! His mind was filled with despair at the thought, and he pulled 290himself together with an effort and swam on with an obstinate determination to keep himself afloat. With the wind blowing freshly, the waves came leaping past him with an icy shiver that seemed to take away his strength.
But there was gradually forcing itself upon his mind the conviction that, after all, he must land and make his way upon foot till he came opposite to where the ships were riding at anchor. It would be better to make for the shore at once while three hours of darkness still remained, for when the light came it would be impossible to travel. While he was making up his mind as to where it would be safest for him to land, the moon came out suddenly with a startling brilliance, lighting up the river and the banks on either side. He could now see Charles Fort distinctly, and he fancied that he could discern lying across the river the dark fabric of the boom, with the water leaping into white waves against it. It was out of the question to attempt to cross the barrier now; even where he was swimming his position was perilous in the extreme.
Then he saw, near the shore, a small hooker lying at anchor, and almost without knowing why he struck out towards it. There was little or no likelihood of there being anyone on board and if, as seemed to be the case, he should have to lie concealed the whole of the day, he might find some food on board the little craft. He swam cautiously round her, but he could hear no sound; then catching hold of the cable, he lifted himself up by the bowsprit 291and found himself on board. She was decked forward, and though he did not know for what purpose she was used, there was a large gun covered with a piece of canvas lying amidships. But though there was no one on board, a small lamp suspended from a beam was burning dimly in the forecastle. He felt that it would not be wise to tarry long, so diving hastily down the companion, he began to investigate the contents of the lockers. In one he found several louis which he left undisturbed, but in another to his joy he discovered some oat-cakes and a quantity of rum in a case bottle. The latter was particularly welcome, and after a dram he felt that he had got a new lease of strength and vigour.
The circulation was beginning to return to his hands and feet. He sat down on the edge of a bunk and chafed his limbs till the cramp that he had begun to experience, was entirely gone. He was beginning to think that it was time to take his departure, when he heard the sound of oars creaking in their rowlocks and voices almost alongside. Hastily extinguishing the light he drew out the knife with which he was armed, and creeping out of the forecastle dropped cautiously down close to the great gun, where he concealed himself under the canvas. Then as the bow of a boat grated against the side of the hooker, he could see from where he lay a man and a lad clambering on board, the latter with the painter in his hand. “Make fast,” said the former, “and come and help 292me to get the mainsail up. They′ll be aboard in an hour.”
The man made his way into the forecastle growling and swearing at............