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In: Short Stories·Historical Novels·Adventure
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"WE'RE here at last, Kirke, and methinks none too soon," exclaimed Captain Leake, of His Majesty's frigate Dartmouth, as he pointed to the beleaguered city of Londonderry. "Now your part of the business is to commence."
Colonel Percy Kirke, the defender of Tangiers, the man who had exercised such diabolical cruelty towards the miserable peasants who had taken up arms on behalf of the rebel Monmouth, was now about to succour the Ulstermen, who were fighting for their lives and liberties against King James--the colonel's former sovereign and benefactor.
"'Tis not my business to throw troops against yonder entrenchments, Leake," he replied, with a shrug of his shoulders. "Until you can force the enemy's defences my men will remain on board the transports. Those rogues have held out for six weeks, and they can well do so for another month."
"Does it seem so?" demanded Leake, indicating the smoke-enshrouded buildings. "However, you have your orders even as I have, and since you neglect to comply with them I must needs act alone." So saying the gallant sea-captain turned on his heel and made his way to the poop, whence he could command a better view of the scene of hostilities.
It was in April of the year 1689 that the combined French and Irish forces began what seemed to be a comparatively easy task--the reduction of Londonderry. A handful of sturdy Ulstermen--of English and Scottish descent--had bid defiance to the army of the deposed King James, and, in spite of many a hard-pushed assault, had kept the besiegers at bay. Then famine was made to do the work that the sword had failed to accomplish, and in their anxiety the harassed defenders appealed to King William for aid.
Troops were embarked at Liverpool, and the relieving squadron sailed on May 16th, but, strange to relate, the English ships, in spite of their having kept the sea, did not arrive off the mouth of the Foyle until thirty days after.
Perspective glass in hand, Captain Leake made a careful examination of the upper reaches of Loch Foyle. For miles on either side batteries had been thrown up to contest the passage of the ships of the relieving squadron; while to make doubly sure the French engineers had constructed a massive boom from bank to bank at a spot where the river is barely a quarter of a mile wide.
In spite of his redoubtable courage the captain's doubts arose when he perceived the formidable obstruction. Strong baulks of fir, lashed together with thick tarred ropes and secured to either shore by means of twenty 4 in. cables, iron-shod stakes driven into the bed of the river, and equally dangerous obstructions formed by boats filled with stones and sunk in the Channel--all combined to present such a powerful means of defence that at first sight appeared to be absolutely impregnable.
Beyond the enemy's batteries rose the houses of the city, dominated by the square tower of the cathedral, on which cannons had been mounted and were keeping up a desultory fire upon the attacking party. Here and there tall columns of black smoke rose in the still air, showing that the foemen's mortars had set the houses on fire in more places than one; but though the damage done by the bombardment and frequent assaults was apparent, Captain Leake had no visible sign of the presence of a still more dreaded foe--the famine that lurked indiscriminately in both mansion and cottage.
Although the captain knew not of the full extent of this insidious evil, his experience told him that something must be done. Londonderry appealed for aid--she must not appeal in vain.
"Oh, for a strong northerly breeze," he muttered as he closed his glass, then, walking to the head of the poop-ladder, he exclaimed "Pass the word for Dymock to come aft."
In less than a minute Jock Dymock--a tall alert youth of nineteen--stood bareheaded before his chief. The lad was serving aboard the Dartmouth frigate in the capacity of acting third mate, having been chosen for promotion by the gallant Leake himself, who was ever ready to remark any special signs of ability amongst the men of his crew.
"Dymock, I've sent for you to undertake a desperate errand. Before I say more understand that whether you elect to take this business in hand or not is left entirely to your discretion. I will not order you--I merely ask. Now, you are a native of Derry, I believe? You know the coast well?"
"Not Derry born, your honour," replied the young Ulsterman. "Come from Moville, over yonder. But I claim to know every sandbank and every current in the loch, betwixt the Tuns and Derrybridge."
"Good. Now what I want you to do is this: take a letter to Governor Baker, assuring him that we will take the first opportunity of throwing a stock of provisions into the city. How you will proceed--if you make the attempt, and knowing you as I do I feel confident that you will--must rest with yourself; but at the same time I shall be curious to know how you propose to act. When you have decided upon that point let me know."
"I' faith, I'll do my best, sir," replied Dymock. "And my plans are already laid. I mean to swim to Derry."
"It's a good five miles and in the face of the enemy on both banks," observed Captain Leake tentatively.
"With the tide 'twill be aisy, your honour. High water at the bridge is an hour later than here, off McKenny's Bank. That will give me seven hours' favouring tide, and on a dark night I'll cheat the rascally Frenchman or my name's not Jock Dymock."
At ten o'clock that same night Jock Dymock, stripped and smeared from head to foot with soot and tallow, went over the side of the frigate and entered the long-boat that was waiting alongside. He was unarmed save for a short keen-bladed dagger slung round his neck, while placed within a close-fitting cap was Leake's letter to the Governor of Londonderry.
With muffled oars the boat's crew pulled up stream, guided by the glare of the enemy's watch-fires. The young flood had just set in, but on either hand the vast unbeaconed sandbanks still rose high above the rippling water. Silently the men urged their craft up the channel, taking their directions from Dymock's outstretched hand. The creaking of a thole, an involuntary sneeze, or thoughtless word or exclamation, would be sufficient to draw upon them a heavy fire from the French and Irish musketeers who lay thick on either shore.
Presently, with an almost imperceptible jar, the long-boat's forefoot grounded on the edge of McKenny's Bank. The daring messenger leapt out and waited till the long-boat backed and was lost to view in the darkness. Then, with every faculty on the alert, he set his face resolutely towards the city of Derry.
At about every hundred yards Dymock had to cross one of the numerous deep channels that intersect the sands, till further walking was impossible at the edge of the main channel. Here he was within a hundred yards of the northernmost of the enemy's batteries. He could distinguish the sentries slowly pacing to and fro, their figures silhouetted against the glare of the camp-fires.
As noiselessly as a water-rat the intrepid messenger glided into the swift-flowing stream, and, swimming with a powerful breast-stroke, soon began to visibly lessen the distance 'twixt him and his goal. Now the outermost battery was left behind. Should the alarm be raised his retreat would be cut off, for at the faintest suspicion, armed boats, provided with bright lanterns, would push off and patrol the narrow channel.
Against the loom of the lights he could see a low-lying dark mass stretched across the stream from bank to bank. It was the boom. Fifty strokes brought him up to the obstruction, but in vain his fingers sought to find a hold upon the slimy weed-covered baulks of timber. The suction of the current swept his legs beneath the woodwork, and only by an effort was he able to kick himself clear of the floating mass.
"Then if I can't climb I must needs dive under it," muttered Dymock, for he felt that in the struggle his strength was failing him, and unless something was done he would be pinned by the dark torrent against the side of the boom.
Taking a deep breath he swam downwards. Dark as was the night the utter blackness of the water was still more so. He was groping blindly beneath the waves.
Already he had lost all sense of direction. He realised that he must keep to the required depth and trust to the current to sweep him beneath the floating mass of timber. He felt that he must rise--yet dared not. His breath was well-nigh exhausted.
Suddenly he felt his body come in contact with a sharp pointed object. It was one of the stakes fixed in the bed of the river. Then the terrible thought assailed him--was the space enough betwixt the tips of the stakes and the bottom of the boom?
Rising slightly he felt the tide sweep him past the obstruction. The iron point scraped his flesh, but in his anxiety and with the numbness of his body the pain was not worth noticing. It was mental not bodily torment that he felt. Even as he rose his head struck a barnacle-covered baulk, but with barely six inches to spare he was swept betwixt his Scylla and Charybdis: then up and up he swam till his head emerged above the surface and he drank in pure night air.
Turning on his back Dymock floated, breathing deeply and resting his tired limbs. The worst of his journey was now over, thought he; with the tide the passage betwixt the remaining batteries was merely a question of time. Now he could discern the low ramparts, the shattered houses, and the battered cathedral tower of the beleaguered city. With renewed energy, fired by the sense of duty, he once more struck out, though his strokes were more feeble than of yore.
But Dymock's assurances were short-lived. Rowing straight in his direction was a boat--not one of the besiege's patrol craft, but a small skiff manned by two rowers, who were taking a French officer across the river.
Ceasing to strike out the swimmer allowed himself to sink till the water rose to his lips, trusting that in the darkness his soot-smeared face would escape notice. As he did so some salt water entered his mouth, and, in spite of his efforts to suppress it, he gave vent to a cough.
"Hey! What was that?" demanded the French officer, and bidding the rowers desist he drew a lantern from beneath the stern bench and held it aloft.
"There. On your bow!" shouted the Frenchman. "A rat-eating rebel! Smite him over the head with your oar, Gaston."
The bowman stood up and aimed a vicious blow at Dymock's head, but the swimmer dived.
"Back your oars, rascals!" exclaimed the officer. "He must come up, then, ma foi, I'll wing him."
Drawing a pistol the Frenchman cocked the weapon and held it at the ready, while the rowers backed, following the swirl that denoted the course of the hunted man.
At length Dymock rose; only to find that his dive had proved of little avail. The boat was within an oar's length of him.
The officer snapped his pistol, but the flint refused to draw fire. With an oath he threw the weapon into the boat, and shouted to his men to run down the fugitive.
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