The first thing they did was to advance their carpenters behind rolling mantelets, to erect a stockade high and strong on the very edge of the moat.Some lives were lost at this, but not many; for a strong force of crossbowmen, including Denys, rolled their mantelets up and shot over the workmen's heads at every besieged who showed his nose, and at every loophole, arrow-slit, or other aperture, which commanded the particular spot the carpenters happened to be upon.Covered by their condensed fire, these soon raised a high palisade between them and the ordinary missiles from the pierced masonry.
But the besieged expected this, and ran out at night their boards or wooden penthouses on the top of the curtains.The curtains were built with square holes near the top to receive the beams that supported these structures, the true defence of mediaeval forts, from which the besieged delivered their missiles with far more freedom and variety of range than they could shoot through the oblique but immovable loopholes of the curtain, or even through the sloping crenelets of the higher towers.On this the besiegers brought up mangonels, and set them hurling huge stones at these woodworks and battering them to pieces.Contemporaneously they built a triangular wooden tower as high as the curtain, and kept it ready for use, and just out of shot.
This was a terrible sight to the besieged.These wooden towers had taken many a town.They began to mine underneath that part of the moat the tower stood frowning at; and made other preparations to give it a warm reception.The besiegers also mined, but at another part, their object being to get under the square barbican and throw it down.All this time Denys was behind his mantelet with another arbalestrier, protecting the workmen and making some excellent shots.These ended by earning him the esteem of an unseen archer, who every now and then sent a winged compliment quivering into his mantelet.One came and struck within an inch of the narrow slit through which Denys was squinting at the moment.
"Peste," cried he, you shoot well, my friend.Come forth and receive my congratulations! Shall merit such as thine hide its head? Comrade, it is one of those cursed Englishmen, with his half ell shaft.I'll not die till I've had a shot at London wall."On the side of the besieged was a figure that soon attracted great notice by promenading under fire.It was a tall knight, clad in complete brass, and carrying a light but prodigiously long lance, with which he directed the movements of the besieged.And when any disaster befell the besiegers, this tall knight and his long lance were pretty sure to be concerned in it.
My young reader will say, "Why did not Denys shoot him?" Denys did shoot him; every day of his life; other arbalestriers shot him;archers shot him.Everybody shot him.He was there to be shot, apparently.But the abomination was, he did not mind being shot.
Nay, worse, he got at last so demoralised as not to seem to know when he was shot.He walked his battlements under fire, as some stout skipper paces his deck in a suit of Flushing, calmly oblivious of the April drops that fall on his woollen armour.At last the besiegers got spiteful, and would not waste any more good steel on him; but cursed him and his impervious coat of mail.
He took those missiles like the rest.
Gunpowder has spoiled war.War was always detrimental to the solid interests of mankind.But in old times it was good for something:
it painted well, sang divinely, furnished Iliads.But invisible butchery, under a pall of smoke a furlong thick, who is any the better for that? Poet with his note-book may repeat, "Suave etiam belli certamina magna tueri;" but the sentiment is hollow and savours of cuckoo.You can't tueri anything but a horrid row.He didn't say, "Suave etiam ingentem caliginem tueri per campos instructam."They managed better in the Middle Ages.
This siege was a small affair; but, such as it was, a writer or minstrel could see it, and turn an honest penny by singing it; so far then the sport was reasonable, and served an end.
It was a bright day, clear, but not quite frosty.The efforts of the besieging force were concentrated against a space of about two hundred and fifty yards, containing two curtains and two towers, one of which was the square barbican, the other had a pointed roof that was built to overlap, resting on a stone machicolade, and by this means a row of dangerous crenelets between the roof and the masonry grinned down at the nearer assailants, and looked not very unlike the grinders of a modern frigate with each port nearly closed.The curtains were overlapped with penthouses somewhat shattered by the mangonels, trebuchets, and other slinging engines of the besiegers.On the besiegers' edge of the moat was what seemed at first sight a gigantic arsenal, longer than it was broad, peopled by human ants, and full of busy, honest industry, and displaying all the various mechanical science of the age in full operation.Here the lever at work, there the winch and pulley, here the balance, there the capstan.Everywhere heaps of stones, and piles of fascines, mantelets, and rows of fire-barrels.Mantelets rolling, the hammer tapping all day, horses and carts in endless succession rattling up with materials.
Only, on looking closer into the hive of industry, you might observe that arrows were constantly flying to and fro, that the cranes did not tenderly deposit their masses of stone, but flung them with an indifference to property, though on scientific principles, and that among the tubs full of arrows, and the tar-barrels and the beams, the fagots, and other utensils, here and there a workman or a soldier lay flatter than is usual in limited naps, and something more or less feathered stuck in them, and blood, and other essentials, oozed out.
