Chapter VII: Act I: Scene I

_The Council Chamber in Berwick Castle._

[_Flourish of drums and trumpets, and shouts heard without._

_Enter_ LORD DUNBAR, SIR WILLIAM KEITH, _and_ SIR ALEXANDER SETON,
_with attendants._

SETON.

The assault continues, and the gallant Ramsay
Fills up each deadly gap with volunteers,
Mocking all masonry.

KEITH.

Ne’er doth battle shew
A fiercer front, than when her gallant yeomen
Marshal in proud array to meet th’ invader,
And die or conquer for their church and homes,
Their wives, their children, and their loved firesides.

DUNBAR.

Well said! and, with the purest hospitality
To give the audacious foe an earthly bed
Cover’d with crimson drapery. What now, sir?

_Enter_ LIEUTENANT.

LIEUTENANT.

My lords, the Mayor doth crave an audience.

DUNBAR.

Usher him in. He is an upright man,
A good, devout, and worthy citizen:
A person fitted for important matters;
But rather kind of heart for scenes like these.

_Enter the_ MAYOR OF BERWICK, _with_ AMBROSE CARMICHAEL, _his body
servant, [whom the Officer in waiting interrupts,] accompanied also
by four Sergeants-at-Mace._

OFFICER.

Back, fellow! How dare you intrude here?

AMBROSE.

Ambrose Carmichael, town-musician, town-crier, and grave-digger, at your service, sir; attendant on his honour, the Mayor. Respect the bear’s livery, and be civil. [_The_ MAYOR _motions_ AMBROSE _to stand back._

MAYOR.

My lords, I almost dread to make my suit,
Because, before ’tis made, I read too well
Refusal in your looks.

DUNBAR.

Then, pray, good sir,
Let the said suit be made to fit the wearer.

MAYOR.

The city is in flames: The trembling burghers,
Upon their knees, intreat me to implore
That ye this fated city will surrender
Before their families fall beneath the butchery
Of the rude soldiers; and their little ones
Perish of hunger, or of worse disease.

DUNBAR.

My precious gormandizers, thus you come;
Oh! cannot your Pie-powder Court supply ye.—
(I’ve heard that ye will fatten on a bell-rope,) [_Aside._
Has corporation dinners eat all up,
That thus you beard us in the face of war
With dread starvation, ere the fight’s begun?
[_The_ MAYOR, _who is a tall slender-looking man,
standing erect._

MAYOR.

My lord, I surely do not look like that!
[AMBROSE _advancing, who is a plump little man_.

AMBROSE.

Nor I, my noble lord, for my fatness comes from
my mother, rest her soul. My red complexion and
dumpling body to boot, comes from drinking nourishing
waters, as the parish clerk was wont to say, rather
than by eating gross meat from the shambles.

DUNBAR.

I suspect, fellow, thou hast not lived upon the Spittal
Spaw;[4] but be silent. Fools should not come here.

AMBROSE.

Fools will venture, my lord, where wise men dare
not enter, my lord! [_Retires._
[_To the_ OFFICER.] Why do you devour me with your
greedy eyes: didst thou ne’er see an honest man before?

MAYOR.

May’t please your lordship, ’tis no time for jesting;
O save the city ere it be too late!—
Not for myself I plead, but hapless wretches,
That run like bedlamites across the streets,
Shrieking for help; yet scarce know what they seek!
As they behold their all devour’d by fire
Lit by the glare of Ruin. For myself,
Could I shake off the manacles of age
That rivet every sinew, ye should see
Me first to mount the walls—the last to leave them.
Heard ye that shout without? I do beseech you,
With skill united, meditate our safety,
While I retire to keep the mob in order,
Lest, like the flames, they do destroy themselves.
Eternal Heav’n, why didst thou poise the world,
To hang it on such human wretchedness!

DUNBAR.

Retire, good man! and rein the brawling burghers,
While we delib’rate here, in secret council,
What best may suit the purpose of events!—
[_Exit_ MAYOR.

AMBROSE (_aside_.)

What a ravenous, rascally thing is war!—It pays no respect to persons, gentle or semple, lord or clown. In battle, as in the grave, we are all upon an equal footing at a short notice: so run, Ambrose, and keep at the tail of your master; as for poor Maggy, she must shift for herself, as the forester did when the bears devoured his wife and three sons, and he was left alone to cry out a _Bare Week_.[5]

[_Exit_ AMBROSE.

DUNBAR.

To council now, my honoured governors!
I move that we do seek a gentle truce,
Wer’t but to earth our dead; and for this purport
Seton goes envoy to the English camp,
To ask delay, while we await the issue:
Should the proud monarch grant this small request,
Keith goes to Bamburgh, to consult the Regent
What may be done.

SETON.

And on what terms shall I crave a truce,
Since haughty Edward will not grant delay,
Unless ’tis bought with obvious advantage?

DUNBAR.

That town and castle shall be render’d up,
Unless within six days we meet with succour;
But should two hundred men at arms succeed,
To cut a passage through the English host,
We stand relieved, and meet them man for man.

KEITH.

O sage in council as renown’d in war!
We shall abide, my lord, by your decision;
Plans wisely laid, must in maturity
Bear goodly fruit; meanwhile, remember, Seton,
To seek safe-conduct to Northumberland. [_Exit_ KEITH.

SETON.

Farewell, my lord, while I proceed to Tweedmouth
Upon this desp’rate mission. Heaven forfend
That it may meet the success its importance,
Big with the fate of Scotland, doth deserve;
God and St Andrew be our country’s help!
[_Exeunt severally._

SCENE II.

_Inside of a Hovel._

AMBROSE (_solus_)

Thank Heaven! there’s peace again since the blessed parley was sounded. Thrice blessed be the manes of the man who invented parleys; for they speak pleasantly to the ear of the soldier that has been long deafened with the din of war. They are like a sweet word from Maggy after a violent scolding. Why do you cry, Mag?

_Enter_ MAGGY.

MAGGY.

Woes me! they’re leading the poor lads down the Western lane like sheep to the slaughter, while their fathers are sobbing and their mothers are crying.

AMBROSE.

What poor lads, Maggy?

MAGGY.

The young hostages. Devil take that English tyke, and make a haggis of his bladder! I wonder if he has bairns of his own—and how he would like to see them led forth like two-month-old lambs. No doubt every body thinks their own crow the fairest!

AMBROSE.

Hush, Maggy, and shut your mouth, and talk lowly. There’s no doubt kings and emperors come into the world and go out of it like other folk, but they don’t care so much for their bairns as we do: seeing they get others to keep them, and teach them, and so forth. But it does not become either you or I to speak evil of authorities. Let us mind our own concerns. Do you hear that noise, honey?

MAGGY.

Let us run, Ambrose, and hide ourselves in the peat cellar, where we may pray in safety!

AMBROSE.

Get you there, while I seek the tail of my master; since, doubtless, the greatest savages in Christendom will respect the bear’s livery, and do no harm to the Mayor of Berwick. [_Exit_ AMBROSE.

MAGGY.

Then I’ll e’en go with you; since it is not meet that man and wife should be separated. [_Exit._

SCENE III.

_A Room in the Castle._

_Enter_ LORD DUNBAR.

DUNBAR.

I do not like the feature of this war,
That in the shadow of my mind appears
Too like the sun that rose on fatal Duplin,
A day to be deplored in Scottish annals.
This puppet Baliol is too well supported
By that baronial faction, that do serve
The side that suits their purpose. Honesty,
Alas! has been too long estranged from Scotland.
Am I not blamed for serving England too?
Why not?—The dazzling gewgaw of a crown
Seem’d once within my grasp; my claim as good
As Bruce and Cumyn; ay, and many more.
Was not my father’s grandam sister-in-law
To Henry Fourth of England? was not Bruce
My father’s cousin? Now for once I strive
To emulate the soul of glorious Randolph,
And serve my country with a duteous love:
Edward is in my debt! Did he not hire
The monk, that, like another Saxon Coppa,
Administer’d medicine in the shape of drugs
To the regent, Thomas Randolph, my wife’s brother,
Who yielded his dear life through this assassin,
When Scotland needed most his gracious aid;
I shall requite the king; but, hark! who comes?
_Enter_ KEITH _and_ SETON.
Sir knights, so soon returned?

SETON.

Even so, my lord.

DUNBAR.

How speeds the mission?

SETON.

I’ve succeeded well,
But rather for the mission than myself;
Since a short truce is bought at a high price
For my soul’s comfort. England, as surety,
Demands eight hostages, ’mongst which my son
Is honour’d with a sorry precedence
In the devoted list. Three short, short days,
The utmost limits of this puny truce.
Heaven waft Sir William on the eagle’s wing,
And bring the Regent here with early succour;
For many a parent’s heart will throb till then.

DUNBAR.

I feel for thee, sir knight; but thy devotion
For this lost land by Heaven will be rewarded.
The deadly blast of war will soon blow o’er,
Then shall our warriors fill the goblet high
In honour of the chiefs who saved their country;
And our fair daughters, when to grandames grown,
Shall tell their children of their great grandsires
Who fought and fell at Berwick.

KEITH.

Be comforted, dear friend! what man can do
To bring relief in this sad strait shall I.
I’ll spur my steed, even to its utmost strength,
Until its coal-black sides are white with foam.
I only crave your pious dame’s best prayers
To aid me in my absence—time is short,
But summer days are long, and willing hearts
Travel like Mercury: my good lords, adieu!
[_Exit_ KEITH.

DUNBAR.

There goes as brave a knight as ever wore
A pair of gilded spurs, or e’er partook
The peacock’s royal feast.

SETON.

Yes! and I promise him two spurs of gold
Should he return in time to save the city
And those within its walls.

DUNBAR.

He reins a steed
Fresh from the desert, footed by the wind;
So, Seton, be of cheer.

SETON.

Time wears apace.—
I go to muster the young hostages,
For England’s monarch will not brook delay. [_Exeunt._

SCENE IV.

_A Room in the Governor’s House._

SIR ALEXANDER SETON, LADY SETON, MASTER THOMAS SETON, _with other
eight of the Hostages,—the_ MAYOR OF BERWICK, and AMBROSE
CARMICHAEL.—_Guards appear in waiting in the back-ground._

YOUNG SETON.

Don’t weep, my dear father and mother. I shall soon, very soon return. Edward is a great and a good prince, and will not hurt us; and then I am not afraid of the English, for they wear no beards, and look ladylike.

AMBROSE (_aside_.)

Neither does the vulture; but it is best to keep out of the vulture’s claws; and I don’t like those hungry Welshmen, with their large knives.

SETON.

We shall hope the best, my dearest boy!

YOUNG SETON.

Then we’ll have such a fine view of the English camp, and those whiskered Hainaulters, and the Yorkshire bowmen. O what sport the other boys and I will have! Won’t we, Alan?

ALAN.

O yes! and we will learn to play at shuttlecock, and wrestle like big men.

THE MAYOR.

Grant Heaven may protect the poor innocents!

AMBROSE (_aside_.)

Amen!—For the tender mercies of the wicked are cruel!

SETON.

Take a father’s blessing with thee, my dear Thomas.

[_Embraces him._

YOUNG SETON.

I can take nothing better with me, my dear father.

LADY SETON.

Kiss me, my dear boy!—Be brave like your brothers. Remember always that you are a Seton, and part with your life rather than with your honour. Kneel to no earthly power; but bow to the Majesty of heaven evening and morning, and God will protect thee. Again, before you go, remember that your uncle was the bosom-friend of Wallace; and, that the whole of the Tweed will not wash the Bruce’s blood out of your veins, in whose cause you now embark. Farewell.

[_Kisses him._

YOUNG SETON.

I will remember all, my dear mother! adieu, adieu.

_Enter_ LIEUTENANT.

LIEUTENANT.

My lord governor, the boats are ready.

AMBROSE (_aside_.)

We may thank the rascally English that the young lads must walk upon water, and be indebted to the prayers of the Trinity friars for a safe passage.

YOUNG SETON.

Lieutenant, we are ready; being as impatient to go as you are to fulfil your duty. [_Exeunt severally._

AMBROSE.

Thank Heaven I am neither a burgess, nor the father of a family, else my children might have had the honour of a tramp to the enemy’s camp! [_Exit_ AMBROSE.

SCENE V.

_A Hall in the Castle._

_Enter_ AUBERY.

AUBERY (_sings_.)

Farewell! farewell! sweet day, adieu!
The sun that’s fading fast to view,
And sinks so lone in Arran’s wave,
Will rise to gild the patriot’s grave.

Yes! fare-thee-well! sweet day, farewell!
The evening chimes so softly swell:
Those silver chimes the patriot hears
Will be the last he lists in tears.

_Enter_ GOLDING.

How goes it, Golding? you look very sad.

GOLDING.

The prisoner died
Last night of hunger, after he had gnaw’d
His hand off, save what dangled in the chains.
Poor man! three weary days he was forgotten;
’Tis horrible—most horrible, and proves
Our cannibal nature. For, alas! I’ve heard,
That in the flowery vale of Annandale,
In ancient times, there dwelt a savage people
Call’d Ordovitians, who devour’d their prisoners;
And that the monstrous wives of such sad husbands
Slew them, if they forsook the battle-field,
Or were defeated.

AUBERY.

Tush, man! the event
I could have prophesied. Last night, on guard,
A little bird came flirting in my ears,
Like that thou bearest now. Bethought me, then,
The soul of man will enter into birds;
And it were heaven to the poor wretch who pines
His better part of life in the damp Keep
Half rotten above earth; yes! it were heaven
To leave his chains behind, and fly away,
And mingle with the mountain breeze, and be
A thing of liberty. I often wish
I were a tuneful linnet, that might fly
Unknown, to nestle on the shady Pease,
And serenade my Flora when she goes
To milk the kye on those romantic banks.

GOLDING.

Pshaw, Aubery, away with love-sick nonsense!
But, ha! I feel a tear start in mine eye,
What of the bird?—

AUBERY.

I turn’d and gazed; and, lo! the Fleming’s tower
Appear’d on fire, (even as that beauteous chapel
Seen in the wayward walks of Hawthornden
When Roslin’s lords do pay the debt of nature;)
While I distinctly heard the clash of chains
And pond’rous armour.

GOLDING.

Probable, most probable!
The armourers were at work; yet, ’tis most sad
To be pent up within these walled towns,
And fed on horse-flesh, till the leprosy
Do rot us out. Oh! for that glorious time
When, led by Douglas ’gainst Osmyn the Moor,
I first adventured in the Holy Land:
Then I was young, and burn’d for scenes of arms,
And deem’d the soldier’s life a pleasant pastime
For gallant, generous hearts that loved adventure,
Its darker parts conceal’d in the back-ground.
Then at our tinel we had spice and wine,
Trumpets and timbrels, while the choicest flowers
Of chivalry sat round the warrior’s banquet;
Graced with those dark-eyed dames, nearer allied
To Sol than those our frigid climes produce;
Beautiful, mellow, yielding as their fruit,
With hearts as cheerful as their cloudless skies;
Yes! Aubery, then the poorest sentinel
Fed like a prince, glutting the raven War
With choicest cookery.

AUBERY.

Pshaw! kickshaws and trifles;
My bag of oatmeal now would bring content,
Could I enjoy it in a peaceful shade
With Flora, and her sister Innocence.
My light iron girdle, now it lacketh flour,
Is like a body parted with the soul,
Or like our hide-form’d cauldrons void of venison.

GOLDING.

O Aubery! Aubery!
Your wit is like St Bothan’s crystal spring,
That never fogs or freezes! always pure.

AUBERY.

Heavens! for the festival of good St Cuthbert,
That we might hamstring the five harts of Selkirk
Upon their march to holy Coldingham,
To feed the greasy monks, who lacketh not.

GOLDING.

Oh! some of those fat beevies were delightful,
Which we took up in our Northumbrian raid,
And left upon the south banks of the Wear,
To feed the glutton English. But the Douglas
Liked better to destroy than eat their cattle.
Had we such leaders now, we would not starve,
While the poor burghers, Nebuchadnezzar-like,
Feed on the grass. I have not had a morsel
Free from loath’d putrefaction this bless’d month.
What boots it, then, in hungry times like these
To rear up popinjays? I’ll teach an art,
Taught by an English archer, for that bird;
Wrestle a fall with thee; and he who wins
Shall banquet on the prize.

AUBERY.

’Twere better not,
Perhaps the bird contains the prisoner’s soul!

GOLDING.

So much the better; double meals are sweet
In hungry times like these. A portly priest,
A flesher, or a tapster; each were good;
Now, for the glorious attitude of man.
[GOLDING _places himself in the wrestler’s first
position. While they wrestle, the bird is put
below a cap._ AUBERY _is thrown_.
The prize is mine! There, Aubery, thou liest
Flat as a flounder on thy spacious back,
Which might serve Thimble for a shaping-board.
[_Takes up the bird, squeezes it, and while retiring
exclaims_,
’Twill make a precious meal! [_Exit_ GOLDING.

AUBERY (_recovering_.)

Marry, it will.
I did intend it for another purpose;
To stuff it for my Flora. Devil choke thee,
No good will come of such begotten gear.
[_Exit_ AUBERY.

_Enter_ AMBROSE, _(who had observed them unseen) in the costume of one
of the_ TOWN WAITS; _viz. a large blue cloak, faced with gold lace,
and a cocked hat trimmed with the same embroidery_.

AMBROSE.

Precious fools! thus to wrangle for jackdaws, when perhaps a piece of winged iron next moment brings their billet of reckoning. The true saying, that every bullet has its billet, supports me amidst the cracking of culverins, and the pouting of battering-rams, that shake the masonry of our ramparts like an earthquake; but I must not forget the purport of my ambassadorship. Ambrose Carmichael, town fiddler, town crier, and grave-digger, at your service, has the honour to be the bearer of a billet to the governor; herein shewing, that ambassadors are but letter-carriers, and letter-carriers but pigeons. Hush! May not these important services of mine in canny moments, hitch me into a captaincy of the town-guard. My mother was a sensible woman in her day and generation: she always said Ambrose would either be a little man or a great man; so, guess ye to which my prepondering genius has a tendency. [_Exit_ AMBROSE.