Alfgar the Dane or the Second Chronicle of Aescendune Part 34

The trench and mound were completed, but the enemy did not advance. He planted his black raven banner two miles off in the plain, arranged his forces, and halted for the night.

"We must fight tomorrow at dawn of day," said Edmund. "Now, bid the campfires be lighted; we have plenty of meat and bread, mead and wine; bid each man eat and drink his fill. Men never fight well on empty stomachs. Then return yourself to my side, and share my tent this night; perhaps--perhaps--for the last time."

"If so, woe to England--woe!" said Alfgar. "But I have confidence that her day of tribulation is pa.s.sing from her. The blood of the martyred saints cries aloud for vengeance on the Danes."

CHAPTER XXI. EDMUND AND CANUTE.

The watch was duly set; campfires were lighted, and joints of meat suspended over them; barrels of wine and mead were broached, for all the country around contributed with loving willingness to the support of its defenders; and when hunger was appeased the patriotic song arose from the various fires, and stirring legends of the glorious days of old, when Danes and Nors.e.m.e.n fled before the English arms, nerved the courage of the men for the morrow's stern conflict.

Around the fire kindled next the tent of Edmund sat the warrior monarch himself, with all the chieftains, the ealdormen, and lesser thanes who shared his fortunes.

The minstrels and gleemen were not wanting here, but none could touch the harp more sweetly than Edmund himself; and, the banquet over, he sang an ancient lay, which kindled the enthusiasm of all his hearers, and nerved them to do or die, so that they longed for the morrow.

Before it was over the trumpet announced some event of importance, and soon a messenger brought the tidings to Edmund that a large force was advancing from the west.

All rose to look at them, not without anxiety; as yet they were far distant, across a wild moor, but as they drew nearer, and their standards could be more clearly discerned, it became gradually evident that it was a reinforcement; and so it proved, for heralds, galloping forward, announced the men of Dorsets.h.i.+re.

They were most gladly received, for now the English forces were equal in number to their adversaries, and every man felt the hope of victory strong within him.

At length Edmund bade messengers go through the camp, and cause every man to retire to rest, for they must all be stirring by dawn on the morrow.

He himself, with Alfgar, went through the host and then inspected the watch. When he came to the outpost nearest the foe he found Hermann on duty as officer of the watch, and spoke earnestly to him and his men.

"Be on your guard," he said, "as men who know that the welfare of England depends upon them; if you see the least movement on the part of the crafty Canute, rouse the camp at once; they are not unlikely to attack us by night if they can surprise us, not otherwise."

Alfgar was standing on a low mound contemplating the opposite camp, that of his own countrymen, attentively.

"Well, Alfgar, my son, do you see aught?" said Edmund approaching him.

"I fancied I saw some figures seek the hollow where the ditch pa.s.ses from us to them."

"We will wait and see whether aught comes of it," said the king; "how do you like our prospects?"

"Well, my lord, I would sooner be with you at this moment than in any other place in England."

"Even than in Aescendune?"

"Yes; just now."

"Alfgar, do you think your father yet lives?" said Edmund, as he again gazed upon the Danish camp.

"I think not; I fear he is numbered amongst the dead; I have over and over again inquired of Danish prisoners whether they knew aught of him; they all said he had not been known in their ranks for years."

"The chances of a warrior's life are so many that he may not improbably be gone, but remember you found another father at Carisbrooke."

"I shall never forget that, my lord."

Here Hermann interrupted them.

"My lord, would you look closely at that little clump of furze upon the banks of the brook?"

"By St. Edmund, there they are! now to catch Danish wolves in a steel trap; creep back within the mound."

The whole guard was speedily aroused.

"Shall we alarm the camp?" said Hermann.

"Not for the world, they want all the sleep they can get; this will only be a reconnoitring party; did they find us asleep they would of course cut our throats, and then bring their brethren to attack the camp. As it is, I think we shall cut theirs instead."

"They have disappeared."

"Only to appear with more effect; they will be creeping like snakes coming to be scotched; they won't find a man like Edric at the head of the English army now--one who always chose the sleepiest and deafest men for sentinels. Ah, well! he is openly with the enemy now; I only hope he will come within swing of my battle-axe tomorrow.

"Ah! There they are."

"Where?" inquired two or three low voices eagerly.

"Creeping up the slope; now get your arrows to your ears; take the opposite men when they arise."

A few moments, during which men could hear their own hearts beat, when up rose the Danes from the gra.s.s like spectres, and rushed for the mound. A storm of arrows met them, to which nearly half succ.u.mbed.

Swinging his axe, Edmund, followed, by the rest, jumped from the mound to meet the survivors; numbers were nearly equal, the English now slightly superior. Each man met his individual foe. Young Hermann's sword broke against a Danish axe; he rushed in and got within the swing of the weapon; both wrestled for the deadly steel, they fell, rolled over and over on the gra.s.s; at length Hermann grasped his opponent's throat like a vice with his mailed hand, and held till the arms of his foe hung nerveless by the side and the face grew black, when, disengaging his right hand, he found his dagger, and drove it to the victim's heart.

"Well done!" said Edmund; "you are the last, Hermann; Alfgar has finished some time; we have been watching you; this little beginning promises luck tomorrow.

"You and I must retire now, Alfgar.

"Good night, Hermann; good night, my men; wipe your swords on the gra.s.s; keep them bright."

The morning dawned bright and radiant; and with the first appearance of the sun the horns of the English blew their shrill summons, and the whole army awoke as a man. A hurried meal was partaken of, hurried of necessity, for the Danes were already emerging from their camp, and forming their lines in order of battle. They evidently meant, as usual, to take the initiative; in fact, in the recent reign, had they not done so, there would never have been any fighting at all.

Every one, both friend and foe, expected that Edmund would await the onset in his entrenched camp. Great, therefore, was the surprise, when he led his forces without the entrenchments, with the observation that the b.r.e.a.s.t.s of Englishmen were their best bulwarks.

He knew his forces, that they had confidence in him; and he could not have shown better his confidence in them, and his feeling that the time had now at length come to a.s.sume the offensive.

Canute was doubtless somewhat surprised, yet he was learning to know Edmund.

The English hero divided his army into three divisions: The right wing, where he posted around his own person the chosen band whom he had trained during the last few years of retirement; the left wing, chiefly composed of the men of Wess.e.x; the centre, the weakest and newest recruits, whom he posted there with as deep a design as led Hannibal to use the same strategy at Cannae.

The Danes advanced impetuously to the attack, led by Canute himself, somewhat similarly divided, and Edmund at once advanced his forces to meet them. One hundred yards apart, both armies paused, and glared upon each other. There was no flinching. With teeth firmly set, lips compressed, and the whole body thrown into the att.i.tude of a tiger about to spring, each warrior gazed upon the foe.

The Danes, clad in black armour, with their ponderous battle-axes, and fierce visages, upon which no gentle ray of mercy had yet shone; the English, their minds set upon avenging the outraged national honour, the desolated homes, the slaughtered families: the Danes bent on maintaining their cruel superiority; the English bent on reversing it or dying: the Danes. .h.i.therto victorious on nearly every field; the English turning upon their oppressors as men to whom the only thing which could make life tolerable was victory.

Canute's voice was heard crying, "Now, warriors, behold the hounds ye have so often chastised await your chastis.e.m.e.nt once more."