The Black Tor: A Tale of the Reign of James the First, George Manville Fenn [love books to read txt] 📗
- Author: George Manville Fenn
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“Running away from that,” roared Purlrose; “handful of powder rolled up in a bag and thrown at you! Down with it! they’ve got no more.”
“Yes, they have,” whispered Dummy, excitedly. “Here, Master Mark, quick!”
Mark grasped the idea, without explanation, and ran back with his companion, leaving the shouting, cursing, and firing behind, to descend with him to the mouth of the mine, and then downward to the big stone shed, where Dummy tore open the great oaken closet, and drew out a bag of the coarse blasting-powder used in the mine.
“Feel in that box, Master Mark; that’s it. You know. The fuse cord.”
Mark had a roll of loose twisted hemp soaked in saltpetre and powder out of the box directly, and armed with a powder-bag each, they hurried trembling back, to reach the gateway, peer round the corner, and see that the attack was going on as fiercely as ever, while the defence was very weak, and they knew that before long the door must yield. In fact, amidst a burst of cheers, a hole had been already driven through, to be made use of by the defenders for sending thrusts out with their pikes.
“Up with you,” whispered Mark, and the two lads hurried up a little winding staircase on to the top of the inner gate-tower, from whence they could go along one side of the little yard, hidden by the crenellated battlement, till they were about five-and-twenty feet from where the men were carrying on their attack.
“Light it, and chuck it among ’em,” whispered Dummy, but he proceeded with system. “Put t’other inside the doorway,” he whispered. “Don’t want that to go off too.”
Mark obeyed, and returned unseen by those below, or the party defending the hall-door, to find that his companion, used to seeing such things done, had cut a little hole in the side of the powder-bag, inserted a piece of the fuse, and thrust the rest in his pocket.
“Here, you hold the end of the string up,” whispered Dummy; and there was a rattling noise, as he took out the flint and steel he was carrying.
A cold chill ran through Mark.
“Mind,” he whispered; “you’ll blow us to pieces.”
“Nay, I won’t,” said the lad, between his teeth. “You hold the thing in your hands; open it out a bit. I won’t send no sparks nigh the powder. Aren’t afeared, are you?”
“No,” said Mark, setting his teeth; and stooping down, he screened the bag by passing the fuse between his knees, holding the frayed-out end ready while Dummy made a low clicking noise, and cleverly sent a shower of sparks down upon the prepared hemp.
It caught directly, and began to sparkle and sputter, Mark holding it firmly, but feeling as if he were the victim of some horrible nightmare dream.
“That’s the way,” said Dummy, coolly replacing the flint and steel. “It won’t go off yet. I want it to burn till it’s nearly ready, and then heave it down right amongst ’em. Make some on ’em squint.”
“Throw it—throw it,” panted Mark hoarsely.
“Nay, not yet. They’d see it burning, and tread it out. Here, you let me have it. I’ll hold it to the last minute, and when I throw, you duck yourself down, or you might get burnt.”
Dummy took hold of the burning cord with his left hand, the bag with his right, pressing his companion out of the road, and then standing twitching the sparkling fuse, which was only a few inches away from the powder in the bag.
“I’ve often seen it done,” he whispered.
A shout came up from the little court, for the followers of Captain Purlrose had again driven their battering ram through the great door, and a shout of defiance came back from the hall from a few voices, among which Mark recognised his father’s; but he could not turn from that sparkling piece of line to glance over the stony battlement to see what was being done. His eyes were fascinated, and nothing could have withdrawn them then.
He had proved again and again that he was no coward, but a great terror chained him now, and his voice trembled as he panted out:
“Quick—quick; throw—throw!”
“Nay, not yet. I’m watching of it. Father always waits till there’s on’y about an inch, to make sure it’ll go off.”
There was not much more as he spoke, and just then, in obedience to an order from their captain, the men drew back from the doorway, balancing the beam swung between them, as, four on each side now, it hung from their hands, and backing till they were past the spot where the pair were crouching.
“Now, all together, my brave boys,” cried Purlrose; “a good run, and down goes the door. Off!”
The order answered for Dummy as well as the men, and feeling now that he had waited too long, the boy swung the bag over the battlement. The passage through the air increased the sparkling of the fuse, and before it touched the pavement, a few feet in front of the men starting for their run, there was a wondrous flash of light, a fierce wind drove the two lads backward, and then came a deafening roar, mingled with the breaking of glass, a yell of horror, and as the roof still quivered beneath the lads’ feet they heard the rush of men through the gateway, across the next court, and through the outer opening on to the bridge, and then down the first slope.
“Come on!” cried Dummy, running to the low doorway of the gate-tower, where he picked up the other powder-bag, and, hardly knowing what he did, Mark followed him down the winding stair into the gateway.
“Come on!” cried Dummy again, and Mark still followed, across the outer court and the first gateway, grasping the pick from his belt, feeling that they were about to charge the rear of the flying enemy.
“Come on,” shouted Dummy, for the third time, and they crossed the narrow space, which brought them to the little tower and gateway by the natural bridge, where, as Mark closed up, he could hear the babble and growl of voices from the bottom of the first slope.
“Shied it too soon,” growled the boy. “I don’t believe it’s killed one.”
“They’re coming back, Dummy,” cried Mark, “and the gate’s broken away from the hinges.”
“Then they shall have it this time,” cried the lad, and cutting a hole with his knife in one corner of the powder-bag, he held it down at one side behind the massive wall of the little tower, and striding his legs, walked slowly forward till he reached the middle of the bridge, where he plumped the powder-bag down, after leaving a little train of the black grains behind him where he walked.
Then carefully avoiding it, he stepped quickly back to where Mark was standing, and took out and handed him the flint and steel.
“You do it this time,” he said. “We shall be in shelter here. I’ll watch and say when.”
Mark took the rough implements, and knelt down by the commencement of the train.
“Hold it close down, quite steady, and give one good nick, and it will set the powder off.”
“Come on, you cowardly dogs,” cried a now familiar voice. “There’s everything that’s good in there, and the place will be ours, I tell you. What, going to be scared by a puff of smoke? The place is our own now. All here?”
“Ay,” came in a growl.
“Form in good order, three abreast, and charge right across and into the yard. Halt! Steady! To think of running for a flash in the pan!”
“You ran too,” growled a voice.
“You won’t be happy till you’re strung up, Hez Bingham,” cried the captain. “Now then: swords. Steady! Forward!”
“Now!” whispered Dummy; and as the men tramped on to the bridge for their renewed attack, Mark struck the steel with his flint, and a tiny spark or two fell.
“Quick—another!” whispered Dummy, and the men halted in the middle of the bridge.
“Forward!” shouted the captain from the rear; “what are you halting for?”
“What’s this here?” growled one of the men in the first line, for he had caught sight of the powder-bag lying in the middle of the pathway, his question taking off his comrades’ attention from the two sharp clicks which came from behind the lesser gateway.
But they saw a little line of light and smoke running over the stone paving of the bridge, and with a yell of horror, they turned and fled hurriedly back and down the slope.
“Don’t look!” yelled Dummy, forcing Mark aside, when the flash brought the castle and summit of the Black Tor into full view; then there was an awful muffled roar, which went echoing away, and as it died out, the two lads dashed across the bridge to the head of the zigzag descent, to make out by hearing that the enemy were in full retreat.
“I think that settled ’em,” said Dummy quietly. “You did it fine, Master Mark.”
“Hoi! Who’s there?” cried a voice behind them.
“Dummy Rugg, father.”
“And you, my boy? Thank Heaven! I was afraid something was wrong.”
“Then it was you two with my powder,” cried another voice out of the darkness.
“Yes, Dan Rugg, and a splendid use they made of it,” cried Sir Edward. “Well done, my lads. But come into shelter; they surprised us, with everything left open. We must lock the stable door now. Think they’ll come again, Rugg?”
“Nay, Sir Edward; not to-night. Those explosions will bring our lads up to see what’s the matter.”
“Well, secure the gates as we go in.”
Dan Rugg was right. Within half-an-hour a dozen men had come up and been admitted, ready to meet the enemy should he return, but the silence up at the Black Tor was not disturbed again that night.
“Out of revenge for you boys’ attack,” said Sir Edward, when he had heard his son’s account of their proceedings in the mine, and Dummy’s clever thought about the powder. “It might have meant the loss of this place. But there must be an end to it now. You lads were so handy with the powder-bags that you shall try your hands upon that wasps’ nest, for I can’t rest now till I’ve had it well burnt out. Pity more powder was not used this time. I don’t believe they were more than singed, and half my windows were smashed.”
“But if we had used more powder, father,” said Mark, smiling, “we might have knocked down the place.”
The rattling of a handful of tiny pebbles took Mark Eden to his window that morning—for it was beginning to grow grey in the east when he went to his bed, Sir Edward insisting upon his going, and announcing that he was going to keep watch with three men.
Mark pleaded for permission to join in the vigil, but Sir Edward firmly ordered him to go and take proper rest; so he went, feeling that after such an exciting time sleep would be impossible, and going off directly into a deep dreamless slumber, from which he was awakened by that shower of pebbles.
He threw open the casement, fully expecting to find that he had been summoned to help defend the place from a fresh attack; but only saw Dummy Rugg below in the yard, waving his arms to him.
“Dress yourself and come down, Master Mark,” cried Dummy, in a hoarse whisper, uttered between his hands. “What is it—the enemy?”
“Yes,” said Dummy, nodding his head a great deal. “He wants to see you.”
“Me or my father?”
“You,” whispered Dummy mysteriously. “Look sharp.”
Mark did look as sharp as he could, hurriedly washing and dressing, while still feeling stupid and thick with sleep.
As he went down he saw one of the servants, and asked for Sir Edward, but learned that his father had not long gone to his chamber.
He went out of the
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