Lorna Doone: A Romance of Exmoor
gun-fire in it, have gotten the tale so much amiss; and some of them
will even stand in front of my own hearth, and contradict me to the
teeth; although at the time they were not born, nor their fathers put
into breeches. But in truth, I cannot tell, exactly, even the part in
which I helped, how then can I be expected, time by time, to lay before
you, all the little ins and outs of places, where I myself was not? Only
I can contradict things, which I know could not have been; and what I
plainly saw should not be controverted in my own house.
Now we five-and-thirty men lay back a little way round the corner,
in the hollow of the track which leads to the strong Doone-gate. Our
culverin was in amongst us, loaded now to the muzzle, and it was not
comfortable to know that it might go off at any time. Although the
yeomanry were not come (according to arrangement), some of us had horses
there; besides the horses who dragged the cannon, and now were sniffing
at it. And there were plenty of spectators to mind these horses for us,
as soon as we should charge; inasmuch as all our friends and neighbours,
who had so keenly prepared for the battle, now resolved to take no part,
but look on, and praise the winners.
At last we heard the loud bang-bang, which proved that Devon and
Somerset were pouring their indignation hot into the den of malefactors,
or at least so we supposed; therefore at double quick march we advanced
round the bend of the cliff which had hidden us, hoping to find the gate
undefended, and to blow down all barriers with the fire of our cannon.
And indeed it seemed likely at first to be so, for the wild and
mountainous gorge of rock appeared to be all in pure loneliness, except
where the coloured coats of our soldiers, and their metal trappings,
shone with the sun behind them. Therefore we shouted a loud hurrah, as
for an easy victory.
But while the sound of our cheer rang back among the crags above us, a
shrill clear whistle cleft the air for a single moment, and then a dozen
carbines bellowed, and all among us flew murderous lead. Several of our
men rolled over, but the rest rushed on like Britons, Jeremy and myself
in front, while we heard the horses plunging at the loaded gun behind
us. “Now, my lads,” cried Jeremy, “one dash, and we are beyond them!”
For he saw that the foe was overhead in the gallery of brushwood.
Our men with a brave shout answered him, for his courage was fine
example; and we leaped in under the feet of the foe, before they could
load their guns again. But here, when the foremost among us were past,
an awful crash rang behind us, with the shrieks of men, and the din of
metal, and the horrible screaming of horses. The trunk of the tree
had been launched overhead, and crashed into the very midst of us. Our
cannon was under it, so were two men, and a horse with his poor back
broken. Another horse vainly struggled to rise, with his thigh-bone
smashed and protruding.
Now I lost all presence of mind at this, for I loved both those good
horses, and shouting for any to follow me, dashed headlong into the
cavern. Some five or six men came after me, the foremost of whom was
Jeremy, when a storm of shot whistled and patted around me, with a blaze
of light and a thunderous roar. On I leaped, like a madman, and pounced
on one gunner, and hurled him across his culverin; but the others had
fled, and a heavy oak door fell to with a bang, behind them. So utterly
were my senses gone, and naught but strength remaining, that I caught up
the cannon with both hands, and dashed it, breech-first, at the doorway.
The solid oak burst with the blow, and the gun stuck fast, like a
builder's putlog.
But here I looked round in vain for any one to come and follow up my
success. The scanty light showed me no figure moving through the length
of the tunnel behind me; only a heavy groan or two went to my heart, and
chilled it. So I hurried back to seek Jeremy, fearing that he must be
smitten down.
And so indeed I found him, as well as three other poor fellows, struck
by the charge of the culverin, which had passed so close beside me. Two
of the four were as dead as stones, and growing cold already, but Jeremy
and the other could manage to groan, just now and then. So I turned my
attention to them, and thought no more of fighting.
Having so many wounded men, and so many dead among us, we loitered at
the cavern's mouth, and looked at one another, wishing only for somebody
to come and take command of us. But no one came; and I was griefed so
much about poor Jeremy, besides being wholly unused to any violence of
bloodshed, that I could only keep his head up, and try to stop him from
bleeding. And he looked up at me pitifully, being perhaps in a haze of
thought, as a calf looks at a butcher.
The shot had taken him in the mouth; about that no doubt could be, for
two of his teeth were in his beard, and one of his lips was wanting. I
laid his shattered face on my breast, and nursed him, as a woman might.
But he looked at me with a jerk at this; and I saw that he wanted
coolness.
While here we stayed, quite out of danger (for the fellows from the
gallery could by no means shoot us, even if they remained there, and the
oaken door whence the others fled was blocked up by the culverin), a boy
who had no business there (being in fact our clerk's apprentice to the
art of shoe-making) came round the corner upon us in the manner which
boys, and only boys, can use with grace and freedom; that is to say,
with a sudden rush, and a sidelong step, and an impudence,--
“Got the worst of it!” cried the boy; “better be off all of you.
Zoomerzett and Devon a vighting; and the Doones have drashed 'em both.
Maister Ridd, even thee be drashed.”
We few, who yet remained of the force which was to have won the
Doone-gate, gazed at one another, like so many fools, and nothing more.
For we still had some faint hopes of winning the day, and recovering our
reputation, by means of what the other men might have done without us.
And we could not understand at all how Devonshire and Somerset, being
embarked in the same cause, should be fighting with one another.
Finding nothing more to be done in the way of carrying on the war, we
laid poor Master Stickles and two more of the wounded upon the carriage
of bark and hurdles, whereon our gun had lain; and we rolled the gun
into the river, and harnessed the horses yet alive, and put the others
out of their pain, and sadly wended homewards, feeling ourselves to be
thoroughly beaten, yet ready to maintain that it was no fault of ours
whatever. And in this opinion the women joined, being only too glad and
thankful to see us home alive again.
Now, this enterprise having failed so, I prefer not to dwell too long
upon it; only just to show the mischief which lay at the root of the
failure. And this mischief was the vile jealousy betwixt red and yellow
uniform. Now I try to speak impartially, belonging no more to Somerset
than I do to Devonshire, living upon the borders, and born of either
county. The tale was told me by one side first; and then quite to a
different tune by the other; and then by both together, with very hot
words of reviling and a desire to fight it out again. And putting this
with that, the truth appears to be as follows:--
The men of Devon, who bore red facings, had a long way to go round the
hills, before they could get into due position on the western side of
the Doone Glen. And knowing that their cousins in yellow would claim the
whole of the glory, if allowed to be first with the firing, these worthy
fellows waited not to take good aim with their cannons, seeing the
others about to shoot; but fettled it anyhow on the slope, pointing in a
general direction; and trusting in God for aimworthiness, laid the rope
to the breech, and fired. Now as Providence ordained it, the shot,
which was a casual mixture of anything considered hard--for instance,
jug-bottoms and knobs of doors--the whole of this pernicious dose came
scattering and shattering among the unfortunate yellow men upon the
opposite cliff; killing one and wounding two.
Now what did the men of Somerset do, but instead of waiting for their
friends to send round and beg pardon, train their gun full mouth upon
them, and with a vicious meaning shoot. Not only this, but they loudly
cheered, when they saw four or five red coats lie low; for which savage
feeling not even the remarks of the Devonshire men concerning their
coats could entirely excuse them. Now I need not tell the rest of it,
for the tale makes a man discontented. Enough that both sides waxed
hotter and hotter with the fire of destruction. And but that the gorge
of the cliffs lay between, very few would have lived to tell of it; for
our western blood becomes stiff and firm, when churned with the sense of
wrong in it.
At last the Doones (who must have laughed at the thunder passing
overhead) recalling their men from the gallery, issued out of Gwenny's
gate (which had been wholly overlooked) and fell on the rear of
the Somerset men, and slew four beside their cannon. Then while the
survivors ran away, the outlaws took the hot culverin, and rolled it
down into their valley. Thus, of the three guns set forth that morning,
only one ever came home again, and that was the gun of the Devonshire
men, who dragged it home themselves, with the view of making a boast
about it.
This was a melancholy end of our brave setting out, and everybody blamed
every one else; and several of us wanted to have the whole thing over
again, as then we must have righted it. But upon one point all agreed,
by some reason not clear to me, that the root of the evil was to be
found in the way Parson Bowden went up the hill, with his hat on, and no
cassock.
CHAPTER LV
GETTING INTO CHANCERY
Two of the Devonshire officers (Captains Pyke and Dallan) now took
command of the men who were left, and ordered all to go home again,
commending much the bravery which had been displayed on all sides, and
the loyalty to the King, and the English constitution. This last word
always seems to me to settle everything when said, because nobody
understands it, and yet all can puzzle their neighbours. So the
Devonshire men, having beans to sow (which they ought to have done on
Good Friday) went home; and our Somerset friends only stayed for two
days more to backbite them.
To me the whole thing was purely grievous; not from any sense of defeat
(though that was bad enough) but from the pain and anguish caused by
death, and wounds, and mourning. “Surely we have woes enough,” I used to
think of an evening, when the poor fellows could not sleep or rest, or
let others rest around them; “surely all this smell of wounds is not
incense men should pay to the God who made them. Death, when it comes
and is done with, may be a bliss to any one; but the doubt of life or
death, when a man lies, as it were, like a trunk upon a sawpit and a
grisly head looks up at him, and the groans of pain are cleaving him,
this would be beyond all bearing--but for Nature's sap--sweet hope.”
Jeremy Stickles lay and tossed, and thrust up his feet in agony, and
bit with his lipless mouth the clothes, and was proud to see blood upon
them. He looked at us ever so many times, as much as to say, “Fools, let
me die, then I shall have some comfort”; but we nodded at him sagely,
especially the women, trying to convey to him, on no account to die yet.
And then we talked to one another (on purpose for him to hear us), how
brave he was, and not the man to knock under in a hurry, and how he
should have the victory yet; and how well he looked, considering.
These things cheered him a little now, and a little more next time; and