The Siege of Swayne Castle by R. C. Sherriff

Author:R. C. Sherriff [Sherriff, R]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Pan Macmillan UK

At dawn they found that the missiles had cut through some of the ropes that held the bolsters and the ground below was strewn with them.

They began collecting them and dragging them back into the fortress. It had rained in the night. The bolsters were sodden and heavy to lug up the narrow winding steps. At the summit they were repaired and hung again to cover the gaps laid bare.

It was an endless, straining job. As soon as one gap was repaired a missile would bring down another string of buffers and the work began again.

For some hours the garrison held their own. Few missiles hit the naked walls, but it was a perilous job out there in the open, dragging the bolsters in. The men were exposed to the ceaseless shots from the catapults. They got some protection by having a watchman who could call a warning if any threatened to fall close by and the men had time to avoid them.

Towards evening Swayne knew that they were fighting a losing battle. The ropes holding the bolsters were fraying and wearing out. Many of the hides were tearing open, strewing the ground with their stuffing when they fell.

Risking the shots from the catapults some men made a run for the gatehouse to cut away the thick cables that worked the drawbridge and to get the chains from the portcullis. Safe back, the chains and cables took the place of the worn-out ropes, and the torn and battered bolsters took the strain.

By nightfall Swayne knew that the wrenching labour and sleepless nights were dragging the men towards the limits of endurance. Another night of merciless bombardment would drain them of all resolution that remained. He had to do something to break the strain, even if it was a shameless piece of make-believe.

He went to the kitchen and talked with the cooks. What sort of meal could they serve for a special occasion? The men had done valiant work and deserved a reward. The cooks rose to it. One braved the bombardment to run to the poultry house and return with half a dozen chickens. Father Peter went to the storeroom for some of the delicacies hoarded there: honey and preserved fruit in jars: cinnamon and ginger. Flasks were filled from the barrels in the vaults.

Swayne sent round word that dinner would be served that evening in the hall. The garrison couldn’t believe it. For two days they had lived on scraped up food, crouched in the dark guardroom. The hall was a shambles of dust and debris shaken down by the bombardment. Swayne had it swept clear: lanterns were lit around the walls: a log fire was set blazing and the cooks laid the tables as if for a festive dinner.

The garrison came in, still mystified, and what happened next must have made them believe they were dreaming the scene of a past evening before the ordeal began.

Swayne came in with Father Peter and the two boys: Swayne in his

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