NOTTINGHAM
"This is a day that will be remembered in the history of these times,"
said the lady at the window.
Her brother made no answer, but continued to lace up his long riding
gloves.
They were in an upper chamber of a house of the better sort in the town
of Nottingham; the dark panelled walls, the dark floor and ceiling,
the heavy furniture, with the fringes to the chairs and the worked
covers to the table, showed vividly to the least detail in the strong
afternoon rays of the August sun, which was, however, now and then
obscured by heavy clouds which veiled the whole town in dun shadow and
filled with gloom the apartment.
Both the lady and her brother were very young; but on her countenance
was a melancholy, and on his a resolution, ill-suited to their years.
The Cavalier was fair-haired, slight, grave, and arrayed in the garb of
war, being armed on back and breast, and carrying pistolets and a great
sword.
The lady was dressed in a style of fantastical richness which well
became her delicate and unusual appearance; she wore a riding habit and
it was of pale violet cloth, enriched with silver, and opening on a
petticoat of deep-hued amber satin braided with a border of purple and
scarlet; at her wrists and over her collar hung deep bands of lace; her
hair was dressed in a multitude of little blonde curls which was like a
net of gold silk wire about her face, and she wore a black hat crowned
with many short ostrich feathers.
Her features were sensitive, well-shaped, and showed both wit and
melancholy, her eyes were pale brown and languid-lidded, and her
lips were compressed in a decided line which indicated courage and
determination; yet the prevailing impression she made was of great
modesty and feminine tenderness.
At her breast, fastened with a knot of blue silk, was a long trail of
yellow jasmine and a white rose.
"If I had been the Queen," she said, "I would not have gone to France."
"She went to gain succour, Margaret," returned Sir Charles Lucas.
"Another could have gone," insisted the lady, resting her dreamy eyes
on her very lovely white hands which bore several curious pearl rings.
"If I had a lord and he was in the situation of His Blessed Majesty, I
would not have left him, no, not for two worlds packed with joys."
"The Queen went in April," replied the Cavalier, "and then matters did
not look to be past mending."
"Yet, methinks," said Margaret Lucas, "that any one might have
perceived such a temper in the Roundheads that they would not easily
see reason. And, dear Charles, the King had been defied at Hull--what
was that but a portent of this?
"However," she added at once, "it is not for me to speak so of my
sovereign lady. Oh, Charles, what a heaviness and melancholy doth
encumber my spirits! See how the sky is also stormy and doth presage
a tempest in the heavens, even as men's actions hasten a tempest on
earth."
"Thine is not the only heart filled with foreboding to-day. Many eyes
are already bitter with tears which shall be shed till their founts
are dry before these troubles end," replied the young man. "But it is
not for us to lament the tearing asunder of England, but to remember
for which purpose we came hither from Colchester to pay our duty to
the King, and renew our oaths of fealty before his banner which shall
to-day be raised."
Margaret Lucas came from the window; the brilliant light that streamed
through the cracks in the storm-clouds made a dazzling gold of her
hair, and slipped in lines of light down the rich silks and satins of
her garments.
Glorified by this strong light, she went up to her brother and laid her
hands lightly on his shoulders, turning him, with a gentle pressure, to
face her and look down on her lesser height.
"Dear," she said, "dear and best--what shall come is hid by God, and no
human eye may take a peep at it, yet we may make a guess that the times
will be rough and disheartening, and thou wilt be thick in the midst of
commotion. Yet whatever happen, remember thy loyal need, thy fair name;
heed no chatter, but serve the King, under God, and keep a thought for
all of us--and for Margaret, who hath no knight as thou hast yet no
lady, have a sweet remembrance. God bless thee according to His will,
Charles, and bring thee safely through these sad distresses."
The young Cavalier, much moved, drew her two hands from his shoulders
and kissed them, and she, gazing on him with much affection and
something of a mother's look, kissed his bent head where the light hair
waved apart.
Then, in a humour too solemn for speech, the two young loyalists (their
faith was simple and admitted of no argument--to them the King could do
no wrong) left the chamber and house, and mounting two well-kept horses
and followed by a neat groom, rode through the streets of Nottingham
towards the castle on the hill.
There were many people abroad, and several companies of shotmen,
musketeers, and of armed citizens marching in the direction of the
castle; but all were silent, and most, it seemed, sad, for an air of
general gloom overhung the town, and there was no one to break it with
rejoicing or shouting or any enthusiasm, and though those gathered
within the town might be tenacious in their loyalty, they were either
not confident enough or not exalted enough in their spirits to express
it by any demonstration.
There was, besides, a rapid storm blowing up; the sun glowed with
a fiery light, and black clouds tipped with burning gold rolled
threateningly across the heavens. Men's minds, keenly watching for
portents and omens, saw one in the wild weather promised in the sky,
and beheld, prefigured above them, the black waste and the red blood
that from this day on should be spread and spilled over the peaceful
richness of England.
Margaret Lucas and her brother rode into the courtyard of the castle,
where several companies of soldiers were gathered; some brass guns and
demi-culverins reflected the sun in blazes of light, and a band of
drummers and trumpeters stood ready.
Sir Charles Lucas perceived that Prince Rupert was already there at
the head of a company of finely-equipped gentlemen on horseback, and
rode up to pay his respects, having already met the Prince. Margaret
remained a little behind among the crowd of courtiers, ladies, and
citizens.
Rupert's spirits were ablaze with excitement and satisfaction, he
did not even seem to be aware of the general air of depression and
apprehension. The King had promised him the command of the cavalry, the
most important branch of the army, and to a Prince of his years and
temperament, the glory of this was sufficient to obscure everything
else.
"Good evening, Sir Charles!" he cried; then his quick eye roved past
the youth. "Is not that lady your sister? The likeness is great between
you."
"That is indeed Margaret Lucas," replied her brother, "who was visiting
near this town, and nothing would satisfy her but joining me to-day in
this ceremony."
"I must speak to this loyal lady," smiled the Prince.
He rode up to her and took off his hat, which was heavy with black
plumes.
"Would you not know me, Mrs. Lucas," he asked, "that you would stay
behind your brother?"
"I would not be uncivil to any, least to a Prince," replied the lady,
"but neither would I put my conversation on any man nor be so bold as
to look at one unbidden."
"This is a fair sweet loyalist," said Rupert. "Hast thou a cavalier
beside the King?"
She looked at him out of untroubled eyes; his bold, hawk-like face,
the black eyes, the white teeth flashing in a smile, the waving black
hair, the dark complexion above the white collar, and all his attire of
scarlet and buff and gold and trappings of war, his great horse, and
the background of cannon, halberdiers, and stormy heavens, made a noble
and splendid picture.
"I have no cavalier," said Margaret Lucas calmly, "nor have I yet seen
the man to whom I could give my troth."
"How many years hast thou?" asked Rupert.
"Highness--nineteen."
He was little older himself, but he smiled at her as he would have
smiled at a child.
"Give me your white rose," he said; "as thou art yet free, the gift
harms none."
Margaret turned to her brother.
"Charles, shall I?" and a faint smile touched her grave lips.
"With all heartiness," replied Sir Charles.
She took the rose and jasmine from above her true heart, and her small
hand laid them on the Prince's outstretched brown palm.
He raised that hand and kissed her glove, and her eyebrows lifted
half-humorously under her golden fringe of curls.
"You are in good spirits, my lord," she said. As Rupert, with clumsy
carefulness, was fastening the two frail flowers in his doublet, the
King rode into the courtyard, followed by the royal standard.
Charles rode a white horse and was wrapped in a dark blue mantle, an
unnatural pallor disfigured his cheek, and an unnatural fire sparkled
in his restless eyes; he seemed both melancholy and excited. He did not
fail of his usual dignity, however, and though shut within himself in
an inner gloom, he acknowledged readily the salutes that greeted him.
There was but a scanty crowd, both of citizens and soldiers, nor was
there much fervour save among the courtiers and personal friends of the
King.
Charles glanced up at the wide, darkening sky across which the mighty
clouds were marching, trailing fire in the west, then he turned to
Prince Maurice, who rode at his side. "When I was crowned," he said, in
a low voice, "they did preach a sermon on this text--'Be thou faithful
unto death and I will give thee a crown of life'--and unto death I
will be faithful to God, the Church of England, and my rightful royal
heritage."
He then rode forward, and amid the music of the drums and trumpets and
the shouts of the spectators, the royal standard of England was raised
and unfurled as sign and symbol that the King called on all loyal
subjects for their service and duty.
Many of the citizens threw up their caps and called out, "Long live
King Charles and hang up the Roundheads!" but their cries soon ceased,
and all gazed in a mournful silence at the great flag straining now at
poles and ropes and flaunting the sunset with bravery of leopards and
lilies and the rampant lion--crimson, gold, and blue.
It was the symbol of war--of civil war; when it broke on the evening,
then was all hope of peace for ever gone. All argument, appeals to law,
to reason, all legal dispute, all compromise, was over now; henceforth
the sword would decide.
The sensitive soul of Margaret Lucas was touched by a dreadful grief;
she bent on her saddle and wept. There was to her an almost unbearable
sadness in the silent appeal of the lonely flag.
The King glanced half-wildly round the little knot of faithful friends
gathered about him; a silence had fallen which none seemed ready to
break.
Suddenly Charles put out his hand; a drop of rain splashed on the bare
palm.
"The storm beginneth," he said, and turned his horse's head towards the
castle.
So they all went their several ways homeward in a wildness of wind and
rain.
The Royal Standard faced the gusty tempests for six days, then the pole
snapped and the storm hurled it in the dust.
PART II
THE MAN
"A larger soul, I think, hath seldom dwelt in a house of clay."--_A
Contemporary on Oliver Cromwell._
CHAPTER I
A LEADER OF MEN
John Pym was dead.
In June John Hampden had fallen in the fight at Chalgrove field, Lord
Falkland had hurled himself on death in the front of the royalist
ranks at Newbury, and now Pym, the bold and able leader, the dauntless
spirit, the uncorrupted heart, had resigned the weight of his troublous
years and rested in peace at London, where his body lay in state for
good patriots to gaze on and mourn over before it was carried to the
Abbey Church which held the nation's great dead.
To no man in the three rent kingdoms did the news of John Pym's death
come with such force and menace as to Oliver Cromwell, now Colonel, and
Governor of Ely.
When the Parliament had taken up arms in reply to the King's challenge
at Nottingham, patriotic and energetic members had been given commands
in the parliamentary army. Mr. Cromwell had raised a troop of his
own in Cambridgeshire, had contributed out of his private means to
the public service, had seized the magazine in Cambridge Castle, and
forcibly prevented the University from sending its gold and silver
plate to the King, and so, by boldness and expedition in all his
actions, had justified the opinion held of him by his colleagues. He
had been under fire at Winceby and Edgehill and in some other of the
random skirmishes which marked the beginning of the war, and he had
shown himself quiet and tenacious in battle. He was now the soul of the
Eastern Association, one of the foremost of the county leagues against
the royal tyranny, Colonel of his own troop (now nearing close on a
thousand men), and Governor of Ely, the town of his residence, where
his family had remained during his service in London.
So the first turmoil and confusion of this most unhappy calling to
arms had cast up Oliver Cromwell to a higher position than he could
ever have thought of occupying in times of peace, and he had already
had tumultuous experience of the bitternesses, difficulties, and
bewilderments of one in authority during such momentous times.
To this man, in this situation, came the news of the death of John Pym,
and he went privately to his chamber about the time they were lighting
the candles and considered within himself.
The two leaders of the older generation, Hampden and Pym, were now
gone, and who was there with sufficient courage and capacity, foresight
and strength to take their place?
The moment was a critical one for the Parliament. The first rush of
enthusiasm, the first outburst of fury against the King was over; a
general lukewarmness overspread the adherents of the popular party,
and the people, seeing that Parliament had now gotten the sword, were
waiting for a speedy deliverance out of trouble and, finding themselves
instead in the midst of a bloody civil war, were inclined to clamour
for a peace, however hasty and patched up, especially as the tide of
martial success had run in favour of the King, thanks largely to the
generalship of his nephew Rupert, and many faint-hearted men were
beginning to remember that they were incurring the risk of impeachment
for high treason if the King should prove the final victor.
Those in the forefront of the parliamentary party were moderate men
such as Essex, Warwick, Holles, Strode, Vane, and Manchester; the keen
and fervent eye of Oliver Cromwell could see no successor to Hampden or
Pym.
Again there came to him remembrances of the day at St. Ives when he
had received together absolute assurance that he was in Grace, and
that the Lord had some uses for him. Did it not seem as if the path, at
first so dim and obscured, was being opened out before him with greater
and increasing clearness?
He could see the dangers that threatened the liberties of England,
still struggling with, and not yet released from, their bonds, and he
marvelled if God had put the means of quenching these dangers into his
hands: _no other were there_ now Pym was gone, perhaps it might be that
he would be called.
There was Sir Harry Vane, with his knowledge of foreign countries and
tongues, his pure heart and high courage, who had much of the mystic
piety which pleased Oliver Cromwell. Yet he doubted if this man had
the force and boldness to accomplish what must be accomplished now in
England.
He paced up and down the room a little, then went to the window and
looked out on the winter afternoon; the bare trees bent and shivered
beneath the steady sweeps of the wind in St. Mary's churchyard near
by, and the towers of the cathedral had a bleached and bonelike look
against a low, dark grey sky.
As he stood so, deep in his thoughts, he perceived, at first quite
dully, but soon with interest, the solitary figure of a gentleman
facing the wind in the chill street and coming towards his house.
Oliver Cromwell opened the leaded diamond pane and looked out; the
pedestrian raised his hand to hold his hat against the wind, the
beaver flapped back nevertheless, and the keen observer at the window
recognized the Earl of Manchester, formerly that Lord Kimbolton who had
been one of six members hurried from Westminster to the city, and now
President of the Eastern Association and one of the most popular and
influential men on the parliamentary side. Cromwell, however, had not
that affection for him which he had formerly held; he suspected not my
lord's loyalty, but his judgment, not his good intentions, but his
strength of mind and purpose, and he saw in him a typical exponent of
those evils and dangers his party had most to guard against.
With a sombre expression on his clouded features he descended the
modest stairway of his simple home: the two-storied house had come to
him, together with the office of tithe farmer, from his wife's uncle.
When he reached the hall he saw the slight figure of a girl lighting
the lamp above the door; she turned to him with the wax taper in the
silver holder still in her hand and the pure flame of it lighting a
face at once resolute and gentle.
The extreme plainness of her dark gown and white collar robbed her
of the usual pleasant festive carelessness of youth, but her air of
dignity and health and goodness was attractive enough, and she was not
without distinction and a certain handsomeness of form and feature.
At the sight of his eldest daughter Colonel Cromwell's face softened
wonderfully, and when he spoke his voice had a note of great tenderness
which entirely dispelled the usual harshness.
"I did perceive Lord Manchester coming, Bridget," he said. "I pray thee
set the candles in the little parlour. Is thy mother out?"
"She hath taken Frances and Elisabeth for an airing, sir," answered the
girl. "Mary remaineth with me. She will assay to help me with a tansy
pudding."
"The odour thereof is abroad already," said Colonel Cromwell. "Have we
not tansy pudding overoften, Bridget?"
A look of distress flushed the serene face of the young housekeeper.
"It is so difficult since the war began to vary the dishes," she
answered. "All commodities are so high in price and so scarce."
"I spoke lightly, dear," interrupted her father hastily. "Trouble not
thy mind with this matter."
A knock sounded. Bridget Cromwell opened the door and admitted Lord
Manchester, curtsied with great simplicity, then turned into the
parlour, bearing with her the frail light of the taper.
The two gentlemen followed her.
"You have heard that John Pym is dead?" asked my lord abruptly.
"But to-day, though it is a week ago. But the roads have been
impossible."
"It is," said Lord Manchester, "very rough marching in the fen country."
"We have a great loss in Mr. Pym," remarked Colonel Cromwell.
"Sir Harry Vane will take his place."
"Umph! Sir Harry Vane!" muttered the other. "A dreaming man."
"A moderate man," amended my lord.
"I begin," cried Oliver Cromwell, "to detest that word!"
Bridget had lit four plain candles which stood in copper sticks on
the mantelpiece, and, kneeling down, put her taper to the twigs under
the great logs on the hearth. The small room, which contained neither
picture nor ornament, but which was solidly and comfortably furnished,
was now fully revealed, as was the figure of the Earl in his buff
gallooned with gold, armed with sword and pistol, with his soldier's
cloak falling from his shoulders and his beaver in his hand.
Bridget blew out the taper, drew the red curtains over the window,
then went to a great sideboard which ran half the length of the room,
and was taking out a bell-mouthed glass and a silver tray when my lord
interrupted her.
"Not for me, my child," he said, with a smile. "I am lodging in Ely
for the night, and am merely here to have a few words with Colonel
Cromwell."
At this Bridget curtsied again and withdrew. As the door closed
behind her Oliver Cromwell turned suddenly on his guest with such an
expressive movement that my lord startled. But Cromwell said nothing.
"Sir," remarked my lord, "since last we met much hath changed. Things
show well for the King."
Colonel Cromwell did not speak.
"And I," continued the Earl, "am now very desirous to stop the war."
The other took this statement quietly.
"You were ever for a compromise," he said. "Well, well," he smiled. "So
you would stop the war? Not yet, my lord, not yet. When we lay down the
sword the King must be so defeated that he is glad to take our terms,
otherwise why did we ever unsheath the sword?"
"Success lies so far with His Majesty," was the reply. "Fairfax and
Essex can hardly hold their own, Rupert hath proved a very genius, the
Queen cometh from over seas with men and money--bethink you a little,
Colonel Cromwell, if the King should defeat us? Death for us all, aye,
to our poorest followers, as traitors, and his own terms imposed on a
bleeding nation!"
"He must not defeat us."
"The chances are against us," said my lord uneasily.
"God," returned Colonel Cromwell, with indescribable force, reverence,
and enthusiasm, "is with us. Do you think He will give the victory unto
the children of Belial?"
"Even if we gain the victory," persisted the Earl, "the King is always
the King."
"My lord, if that is your temper, why did you ever take up arms?"
"For that cause in which I would lay them down--the cause of liberty."
Oliver Cromwell went to the fire and stared down at the cracking logs,
through which the thin flames spurted.
"These arguments whistle like the wind in an empty drum," he said. "We
must not think of peace until we have gained that for which we made
war. Is the moment when the King is victorious the moment to ask his
terms?"
"What instrument have we to defeat the King?" demanded my lord.
"One can be forged," replied Oliver Cromwell. "I do believe, as I told
that very noble person, Mr. Hampden, that the King hath so far gained
the advantage because the blood and breeding is in his ranks--as I
said to my cousin, decayed serving men and tapsters will not fight
like gentlemen--therefore if we have not as yet gentle blood, let us
get the spirit of the Lord: faith will inspire as well as birth, my
lord. I have now myself a lovely troop, honest men, clean livers, eager
devourers of the Word, and had I ten times as many I would put them
with great confidence against Rupert's godless gentlemen."
"Your troop is mostly fanatic, Anabaptist, Independent--full of sermons
and groans," said my lord. "Extreme men, by your leave, Colonel
Cromwell, and full of religious disputations."
"Admit they be--they are all enthusiasts, they fight for God, not
pay--as Charles' gentlemen fight for loyalty, not pay--and, sir, I
prefer them who know what they fight for, and love that they know, to
any lukewarm hireling who will mutiny when his pence are in arrear."
"You yourself are an Independent," remarked the Earl dryly. "I had
forgot."
"Sir, I belong to no sect; within the limits of the true faith I would
let each man think as he would."
"So tolerant!" cried my lord. "Then wherefore have you pulled the
preacher from his pulpit in Ely Church?"
"Because the Anglican rites are a mockery of the Lord," returned
Cromwell, with fire. "And I would as soon have a Papist as a
Prelatist--toleration with the true faith, I said, my lord."
"Who is to define the true faith?" asked the Earl wearily. "I keep the
Presbyterian doctrine which seemeth best to me, but you, methinks,
would follow Roger Williams. Remember, sir, that you, as all of us," he
added, with some malice, "must take this Covenant the Scots have put
upon us as the price of their aid."
"That was John Pym's work," answered Colonel Cromwell, in a slightly
troubled manner. "His last work--'twas a galling condition, and at the
time I blamed him; but, sir, we had to have the Scottish army, and as
they would not give the army without we took the Covenant--well, Mr.
Pym was a wise man, and he judged it best--and we have the Scots (for
what they may be worth) marching to us instead of to the King."
"When you take up your appointment as my Lieutenant-General," insisted
the Earl, "you, too, must take the Covenant."
"Any man may take it now Sir Harry Vane, that lovely soul, hath added
his clause--_that religion be reformed in England according to the Word
of God_; that covereth everything, I think, sir, the _Word of God_, not
the dictates of the Scots!"
Lord Manchester looked at him in silence for an attentive moment, then
spoke briskly.
"You follow Sir Harry Vane in religion, do you follow him in politics?
Are you, too, a Republican?"
Oliver Cromwell looked at him quietly and frankly.
"I think a kingly government a good one," he said, "if the king be a
just, wise man. Nay, I never was a Republican."
"Remember we stand for _King_ and Parliament," remarked the Earl.
"I would not go too far--I would not overthrow the authority of His
Majesty."
"What care I what man holdeth authority in England as long as he is
powerless to do her wrong," replied Cromwell quietly. "Sir, all I say
is that the time hath not come for peace save it be offered by His
Majesty. Now is still the misty morning when all is doubtful to our
eyes; but presently the sun shall rise above the vapours, and we shall
behold very clearly the things we have to do. The Lord will strengthen
our hands and show us the way, and His enemies shall go down like a
tottering wall and a broken hedge."
The Earl moved about restlessly.
"You have great faith, Colonel Cromwell," he said, half sad, half vexed.
The fire had now sprung up strongly and threw a vivid light over the
figure of the Puritan soldier standing thoughtfully on his homely
hearth.
"Have I not need of faith?" he asked, in an exalted voice. "Aye, the
shield of faith and the breastplate of righteousness and the sword of
the spirit which is the Word of God! 'For we wrestle not against flesh
and blood, but against principalities, against powers, against the
rulers of the darkness of this world, against spiritual wickedness in
high places!'"
The Earl made no reply; he was moved by the sincerity and force with
which Colonel Cromwell spoke, but at the same time he was appalled by
the prospect which a continuance of the war seemed to open up. He, like
many others, was confused, bewildered, alarmed by the tremendous thing
the Parliament had dared to do, and he wished to stop a crisis which
was becoming immense and overwhelming; he wished to keep the King and
the Church in their ancient places, and he felt more or less vaguely
that men such as Oliver Cromwell were aiming at a new order of things
altogether.
Colonel Cromwell, on the other hand, was not confused by the thought of
any future issues; he saw one thing, and that plainly: in the present
struggle between the King and the Parliament, the Parliament must be
victorious; then the future government of England might be decided, not
before.
He felt that there was no longer much use for men like my Lord
Manchester, able and popular as he was: the stern fanatics among his
own arquebusiers who spent their time in minute disputes and arguments
on matters of religious discipline were more to the liking of Oliver
Cromwell.
The Earl rose to take his leave.
"I am at my ancient lodging," he said. "May I expect you to-morrow
morning? There are some military points I would discuss with you."
"Command me to your own convenience," replied Colonel Cromwell.
"To-morrow, then."
The two went into the hall, which was filled by the smell of the tansy
pudding.
My lord asked after the eldest son of his host.
"He is very well, I thank you. He is at Newport Pagnell with my Lord
St. John's troop of horse. Richard is still at Felsted, as is Henry;
but I mean soon to take them from their schooling and put them in the
army. Fairfax would take one in his lifeguards; Harrison, I think,
another."
"So soon!" exclaimed my lord. "Their years are very tender."
Colonel Cromwell smiled.
"But the times are very rough, and we must suit ourselves to the times."
He opened the door; Ely showed bare and dreary beneath the darkening
sky, from which a few flakes of snow were beginning to slowly fall. The
two gentlemen touched hands and parted. As Colonel Cromwell still stood
at the door of his house, gazing thoughtfully at the winter evening as
if he saw there some sign or character plain for his reading, his wife
descended the stairs and, seeing him there, came to his side. She had a
bunch of keys in her hand, and the light from the lamp above the door
gleamed on them. Her docile eyes lifted to his; her face had a look of
stillness: she seemed a creature made for quietness.
"What had my lord to say?" she asked.
"Peace! peace!" muttered her husband. "He wanted peace!"
"And you?" she ventured timidly.
"I!" he answered. "I live in Meshech and Kedar. I am in blackness and
in the waste places; but the Lord hath had exceeding mercy upon me--I
have seen light in His Light--therefore am I confident in the hope I
may serve Him. His will be done!"
Elisabeth Cromwell looked out at the dim white towers of the cathedral,
where her first husband and her first-born lay buried, and she thought
of that other child, Robert, who had died at school only three years
before. Life seemed to her suddenly unreal. She closed the door and
turned away.
Her husband followed her into the room on the right of the passage,
where a fair group of children, Mary, Frances, and Elisabeth, were
roasting chestnuts by the fire.
A maid was putting a white cloth on the table; the pleasant clink of
glasses and china mingled with the laughter and talk of Elisabeth, a
beautiful child of some thirteen years, whose grace and gaiety was a
sudden brightness in the Puritan household.
At her father's entrance she came to him at once and showed him a round
ball she had made of holly berries and hung by a red ribbon as an
ornament to her wrist.
"Vanity!" said Colonel Cromwell; but as he kissed her his whole face
was radiant with love.
CHAPTER II
THE QUEEN'S FAREWELL
It was in the July following the winter when he had first come to
discussion with my Lord Manchester that Oliver Cromwell, now the Earl's
Lieutenant-General, flamed suddenly into great brilliance over England.
By his valour and skill he had turned the tide at Marston, after
Manchester, Fairfax, and Leven had fled from the battle as lost; he
had beaten Rupert's victorious horse with his own light cavalry, and
he had led the Scotch infantry in an overwhelming charge against the
enemy. The north of England was now lost to the King, the prestige of
the parliamentary army had never stood higher, and Oliver Cromwell was
become the foremost soldier in their ranks, both for fame and success.
Such were the results of the battle at Marston Moor; but Manchester
appeared to be more frightened than encouraged at the victory. He
almost refused to fight; his indecision lost the battle of Newbury;
he allowed the King to relieve Donnington Castle; he would not go to
the help of Essex, who was losing ground in the south; he and his
Lieutenant-General had high altercations; the Scottish Presbyterian
party proposed terms to the King, which Charles haughtily refused.
After this failure they were somewhat quieter, though two of their
leaders, Essex and Holles, endeavoured to bring an action against
Cromwell as an incendiary; but Cromwell himself showed tact and
moderation sufficient to bring about a peace between the various
factions that constituted the parliamentary forces, and in the
autumn of that year was instrumental in the creation of the New Model
Army--the instrument which he had long been burning to handle; the
instrument by which the King, still haughty and defiant at Oxford, in
which loyal city he had his own Parliament, was to be finally brought
to accept and keep the people's terms.
Cromwell was excepted from the self-denying ordinance which ruled that
no Members of Parliament were to bear commands in the army, and was
created Lieutenant-General and Commander of the Horse, Fairfax being
General and Skippon Major-General.
Manchester and Essex retired with good sense and dignity.
Charles, moving from Oxford, stormed Leicester; Fairfax raised the
siege of Oxford to dash after him, and on 14th June 1645 found himself
face to face with the King's forces at Naseby, on the borders of
Northamptonshire. A battle was now inevitable, and by both sides it
was felt that it would be decisive: neither side could endure a great
defeat, and either side would become almost completely master of
England by a great victory at this juncture. Rupert was smarting to
revenge himself for Marston; the King despised the New Model Army, and
was eager to dash to pieces this new instrument of his enemies; Fairfax
was ardent to justify the trust reposed in him. Both armies were
impatient to bring matters to an issue, so on each side were motives
sufficient for fierce inspiration.
The night after the armies had faced each other the King lay at
Market Harborough, eight miles from the village of Naseby, where the
parliamentary forces were encamped. He had his Queen with him and the
infant Princess, recently born at Exeter, and was lodged in the modest
country house of a certain loyal gentleman, a cadet of the noble house
of Pawlet. Rupert rode up in the twilight from his quarters to see his
uncle, and came into a peaceful, old walled garden, where Charles paced
the daisied grass.
On a bench beneath a great cedar tree sat the pale Queen, the sun and
shade flecked all over her white dress, her baby on her knee, and by
her side her new lady, Margaret Lucas.
The garden was all abloom with white roses, the rich summer air full
of the hum of bees and the thousand scents of June; the light was
taking on a richer gold colour as it faded, and where the garden sloped
westward to the orchards the dazzle of the setting sun danced in the
leaves.
The scene seemed very far from war, from turmoil, from confusion, and
blood-stained strife; among the mossy gables of the house some white
pigeons strutted, and there was no other noise nor any indication of
the army quartered near.
Prince Rupert came slowly over the lawn; his fringed leather breeches
and Spanish boots were dusty, and his red cloak open on soiled buff and
a torn scarf. He had a gloomy, reckless look, and his brow was frowning
beneath the disordered black love-locks.
Charles stopped when he saw his nephew coming and asked abruptly--
"They will fight to-morrow?"
"I think they will," replied the Prince. He went up to the Queen and
kissed her hand.
There was the dimness of many tears in that proud woman's eyes, and
the delicacy of her beauty had turned to a haggard air of sickness;
she had, however, the swift, hawk-like look of one whose courage is
unbroken, and her pride was even more obviously shown now than in
the days of her greatest splendour, when it had been cloaked with
sweetness. Her worn, dark features, her careless dress and impatient
glances, words, and movements were in great contrast to the careful
splendour, the composed gravity, and the smooth youth of the blonde
Margaret Lucas.
"Have you come to take His Majesty away from me?" cried the Queen to
Rupert as his lips touched her thin, cold hand.
"He did promise to inspect the army to-night, Madame," returned
Rupert, with a certain touch of indifferency in his manner: Charles
was no soldier, and the Prince had little deference for his opinion on
military matters.
"And to-morrow there will be a battle," said the Queen. She rose
suddenly, clasping the sleeping child to her heart; her ruined eyes
regained, by the sparkle of tears, for one moment their lost brilliancy.
"Oh, Madame," cried Margaret Lucas passionately, "surely God will not
permit His Majesty to be defeated!"
Rupert's dark countenance flashed into a smile as he glanced at her
pale fervency.
"That cursed Cromwell is on his way to join Fairfax," he remarked.
"Pray, Mrs. Lucas, that he doth not arrive in time."
"Is he so terrible a man?" asked the Queen scornfully: she could not
endure to give even the compliment of fear to these rebels.
"A half-crazed fanatic or a very cunning hypocrite," returned the
Prince; "but an able fighter, on my soul, Madame!"
"His army consisteth of poor ignorant men," cried Henriette Marie.
"Surely, surely gentlemen can prevail against them."
"We will make the trial to-morrow, Madame," said Rupert, with a flush
in his swarthy face for the memory of Naseby. "At least, we do not lack
in loyalty--in endeavour--Your Majesty believeth that?"
"Yes, yes," said the Queen hurriedly. "Loyalty is common enough; but
where shall we get good counsels? Are we wise to fight the rebels
to-morrow? By all accounts they are double our number--and if this
Cromwell cometh up with reinforcements----"
The King, who had hitherto stood silent, fingering the dark foliage on
one of the lower sweeping branches of the cedar tree, now spoke with
authority.
"We fight to-morrow, Mary. I mean to surprise their outposts."
A pause of silence fell. The sunlight was slipping lower through the
trees, and lay like flat gold on the lawn; the last brilliance of the
day lay in the fair locks of Margaret Lucas, in the embroideries of her
gown, in the swords of King and Prince, and over the frail figure of
the undaunted Queen.
"I shall see Your Majesty at the camp after supper?" asked Rupert.
"Yes--sooner," replied Charles.
The Queen looked keenly at the young man on whom so much depended in
the issue of to-morrow, and seemed as if she was about to make some
appeal or exhortation; but she turned away with a mere quiet farewell.
The King followed her with a smile to his nephew.
Margaret Lucas remained under the great cedar tree and Rupert lingered.
"The white roses are again in bloom," he said.
"When they next flourish may the King be safe in London again!" cried
the lady.
"Amen," said Rupert. "Do you know the noble Marquess of Newcastle, Mrs.
Lucas?" he added, with a smile.
A bright colour mounted to her alert face.
"I met him in Oxford," she returned.
"I had your flowers in my Prayer Book in memory of that day we raised
the Standard," said the young Prince, "and when my lord saw them, we
being in chapel together, he did ask of them, and when he heard their
history begged them from me. Does this anger you?"
"It is not becoming that Your Highness should tell me of it," faltered
Margaret Lucas.
"You are too modest," smiled the Prince. "He is a gallant lord and
a valiant, loyal soldier. He asked me, if I saw you, to give you his
homages."
The lady stood silent, her eyes downcast, the quick blood coming and
going in her noble face. Rupert waited.
"Have you no answer to the princely Marquess?" he asked.
Margaret Lucas lifted her head.
"Tell him to--keep--the flowers," she stammered.
With that she turned away as if she was frightened of having said too
much; the young General laughed a little and went back towards the
house, whistling the air of a German song.
Margaret stood staring over her shoulder after him; all the misfortunes
of the State, of her own family, all the hideous sights and sad stories
which had weighed her heart with black bitterness, the danger of her
beloved brother, her own precarious situation--all these things were
forgotten in one great flash of happiness.
She clasped her hands tightly.
"How I do love thee, thou excellent gentleman," she murmured, "even
with an affection that is so beyond modesty and reason that if thou
wert here I could avow it to thy face! God protect thee, dear, loyal
lord!"
The sun had now sunk behind the trees and hedges of the orchard; the
last bee had flown; the roses gave forth their strength in a more
intense perfume; the sky changed to a sparkling violet, glimmering with
rosy gold in the west.
The Queen called Margaret Lucas, and, putting the little Princess in
her arms, bid her go and take the child to her women.
Margaret made her grave and humble obeisances and withdrew, holding the
King's youngest born over a joyful heart.
"Mary," said Charles, taking his wife's hand, "if I fail to-morrow you
will go to France. Promise me."
"You must not fail," she answered passionately. "But I give you this
promise if it makes you fight with a lighter conscience."
"A light conscience!" echoed the King. "Methinks I shall never own a
light conscience again."
"You are too discouraged," murmured the Queen, but with a kind of
lassitude.
They went together into the house, and he told her of the arrangements
he had made for her safe conduct to the coast in case of his defeat.
She listened and made no reply.
They entered the sitting-room that opened on the garden, and the King
closed the door, for he could hear some of his gentlemen without.
Henriette Marie seated herself on a worn leather couch and looked at
her husband.
His face was pallid, his eyes heavy and shadowed, his hair damp about
the brow; he continually put his hand above his eyes or above his heart.
"Last night I dreamt of Strafford," he said suddenly.
"It was a dream!" answered the Queen. "Is this a time to dwell on
things unfortunate?"
He made no reply; he moved about the darkening room, aimlessly touching
the furniture and the walls.
At last he stopped before the inert figure of his wife.
"Farewell, sweet," he said. "I have to join the Prince."
"Farewell," she murmured.
He moved towards the door and she sprang up.
"Oh," she exclaimed, in a tone of horror, "this may be our last
meeting!"
Charles turned, startled.
"Dear God forbid!" he cried.
"If--the worst cometh--if I go to France--ah, when shall I again behold
you?"
"Hast thou also evil premonitions?" asked the King, with a shudder.
She controlled herself.
"No," she replied through stiff lips. "No--no--but many thoughts press
on my heart, and I am weak of late."
Indeed, she felt all her limbs tremble, so that they would no longer
support her, and she sat down on the couch again, cold from head to
foot.
Charles stood beside her, gazing with the soul's deepest passion of
love and anguish at her bowed dark head.
"Kiss me and go," she said. "What can I say? You know my whole heart.
All hath been said between you and me. We have been surprised by
misfortune, and I am something unprepared. But never doubt that I love
thee wholly."
The King again made that gesture of his hand, pressed first to his
heart and then to his forehead, as if heart and head were equally
wounded, then he went to a corner of the room where an old clavichord
stood and lifted up the cover.
"Sing to me before I go, Mary," he whispered.
The Queen rose heavily. Her bold spirit was bent with gloom; ill-health
and the continual failure of the King's intrigues and the King's arms
had given her a kind of disgust of life. As she had been more despotic
than the King in prosperity, so she was more bitter and stern in
adversity. As she crossed the window, open on the soft dimness of the
garden, she thought, through her miserable languor, "If, indeed, I
never see him again, the scent of these roses will be with me all my
life."
"I will light the candles," said Charles.
"No--no," she answered. She seated herself and her hands touched the
keys.
Her voice, once the pride of two courts and her greatest
accomplishment, rose in a little French song; but tears and suffering
had taken the clearness from her notes that once had rung so true.
At the end of the first verse she broke down and, putting her hands
before her face, wept.
"I do love thee," said the King, bending over her in a passion of
tenderness. "More than words can rehearse I do love thee, dear Mary,
and have loved thee all my days. Be not confounded--it cannot be God's
will to desert us utterly. Hold up your heart. Oh I do love thee, or
I had rather not have lived to see my present miseries--but thou hast
made life worth while to me. My dear wife--my dear, dear wife."
The Queen did not move, and her dry, difficult sobs did not cease.
"Oh, love that is so weak," cried the King, "that it cannot do more
than this ... to see thee thus ... what greater misery could I have
than to see thee thus."
Still she did not speak. She had done much for him--crossed the seas
and become a supplicant at her brother's court, sold her jewels,
persuaded, inspired, and led many to join his standard, raised an army
for his cause, been untiring and dauntless in her counsels, her energy,
her confidence; but now a fatigue that was like despair was over her.
She felt about him a fatality as if success was impossible for him, and
all her ruined pride and splendour, her lost hopes, her lost endeavours
crowded upon her till she could do nothing but weep.
Charles stooped and, with infinite gentleness, drew her hands from her
face.
"This is a bad augury for me to-morrow," he said.
She lifted her head then, the sobs still catching her throat. It was
too dark for him to see her face, distorted by tears; only the dim
white oval of it showed in the dusk.
"No bad auguries," she said. "No--to-morrow must see a turn in our
miserable fortunes."
He kissed her with a trembling reverence of devotion, and her tears
dried on his cold cheek.
"Have confidence," she murmured, her face pressed against his lace
collar. She was always heartening him, firing his hesitation, directing
his indecision, and the instinct of guiding and inspiring him came to
her now even in her moment of weakness. "Have no sad thoughts, no ill
thoughts--God will fight for his anointed King. If I seem confounded,
consider that I have been troubled with many things."
He drew her gently towards the window, and they stood together looking
out on to the garden. The white hawthorn and roses, the last lilac
still showed pallid through the gloaming; the stars were beginning to
sparkle in a sky from which the gold had faded, leaving it the colour
of dead violets; the pure air was rich and sweet as honey.
"Whatever betide," said the King, "remember this--I will never forsake
my children's heritage nor my faith."
He had always scrupulously kept his promise never to discuss religion
with his Papist Queen, and he did not emphasize his resolve to remain
for ever faithful to the Church of England. She knew this constancy of
his and admired it, but now she said nothing of these matters.
"Whatever befall," she replied, "you are always the King."
"I shall not forget it," he said, with a kind of passion.
Another moment of silence passed, during which their thoughts burnt
like fire in their hearts and brains, then he moved to go, stammering
farewells.
Thrice he turned back to embrace her again, thrice her hands clung to
him with a desperation almost beyond her control, while her lips tried
to form in words what no words could say.
Then at length he was gone, and she heard the door shut.
"I will not watch him ride away," she said to herself. "I will wait and
watch his return."
Suddenly she thought of Lady Strafford and of the last time she had
spoken with the Countess.
"O, God," she cried, "if I should never see Charles again!"
She turned to go after him, but controlled herself from this folly and
stood huddled in the window watching the night moths flutter, shadows
among shadows, and the chilly moon brighten from a wraith to gleaming
silver among the whispering orchard trees.
She stood so until she heard the bugles that announced the King's
departure, then she went to her prayers to supplicate the Madonna and
the saints with bitter tears and bitter forebodings.
CHAPTER III
THE GREAT FIGHT
That evening, while the King was reviewing his troops at Harborough and
giving them the word for to-morrow--"Mary"--while General Sir Thomas
Fairfax was holding a council at Naseby, Lieutenant-General Cromwell
was hastening over the borders of Northamptonshire with six hundred men
towards the headquarters of the parliamentary army, which he reached
about five in the morning under the light of a cloudless dawn.
At the entrance to the village he halted for an instant and surveyed
with a keen eye the undulating open space of ground which rolled
towards Guilsborough and Daventry: unfenced ground, full of rabbit
holes and covered with short, sweet grass and flowers, above which the
larks were singing.
The pure summer morning was full of gentle airs blowing from orchards
and gardens and the scents of all fresh green things opening with the
opening day.
Silent lay the hamlet of Naseby, the white thatched cottages, the two
straggling streets, the old church with a copper ball glittering on the
spire, all clearly outlined in the first fair unstained light of the
sun.
Beyond lay the parliamentary army: a sober force with their pennons,
flags, and colours already displayed among them, and the gold fire
gleaming along their brass cannon.
Cromwell and his six hundred, dusty from the night's ride, swept, a
flash of steel on leather, a tramp of hoofs, a cloud of dust, through
Naseby, where the villagers crowded at windows and doors, not knowing
whether to curse them or bless them, and so to the headquarters of
General Sir Thomas Fairfax.
As the new-comers passed through the army and were recognized for
Lieutenant-General Cromwell and his men, whom Rupert had, after Marston
Moor, nicknamed "Ironsides," the soldiers turned and shouted as with
one voice, for it had lately been very commonly observed that where
Cromwell went there was the blessing of God.
Sir Thomas Fairfax was already on horseback, and the two Generals met
and saluted without dismounting.
Oliver Cromwell looked pale, and when he lifted his beaver the grey
strands showed in his thick hair: the war had told on him. He had
lost his second son and a nephew. His natural melancholy had been
increased by this and by the bloody waste he had daily to witness, by
the continual bitterness and horror of the struggle; but the exaltation
of his stern faith still showed in his expression, and he sat erect in
his saddle, a massive figure solid as carved oak, in his buff and steel
corselet.
General Fairfax was a different type of man, patriotic and honourable
as his Lieutenant-General, but cultured, fond of letters, lukewarm in
religion, and not given to extremes. Cromwell, however, found him more
acceptable than Manchester or Essex.
"Sir," cried the General, "you are as welcome to me as water in a
drought. Sir, I give to you the command of all the horse, and may you
do the good service you did at Long Marston Moor."
"We are but a company of poor ignorant men, General Fairfax," replied
Oliver Cromwell, "and the malignants, I hear, make great scorn of us as
a rabble that are to be taught a lesson. Yet I do smile out to God in
praises, in assurance of victory, for He will, by things that are not,
bring to naught things that are!"
"We have to-day a great task," said Sir Thomas Fairfax, "for if the
King gaineth the victory he will press on to London--and once there he
may regain his old standing; whereas if he faileth, he will never more,
I think, be able to bring an army into the field."
"Make no pause and have no misgiving, sir," replied Cromwell. "God hath
put the sword into the hands of the Parliament for the punishment of
evil-doers and the confusion of His enemies, and He will not forsake
us. Sir, I will about the marshalling of the horse, for I do perceive
that we are as yet not all gotten in order."
The army indeed, though armed and mounted, was not yet arranged in any
order of battle, and at this moment there came a message from one of
the outposts that the King's forces, in good order, were marching from
Harborough.
Fairfax with his staff galloped to a little eminence beyond some apple
orchards that fenced in the broad graveyard of the church. By the aid
of perspective glasses they could very clearly see the army of the
King--the flower of the loyal gentlemen of England, the final effort
and hope of Majesty (for this force was Charles' utmost, and all men
knew it)--marching in good array and with a gallant show, foot and
horse, from Harborough. The Royal Standard was borne before, and, they
being not much over a mile away, Cromwell, through the glasses, could
discern a figure in a red montero, such as Fairfax wore, riding at the
head of the cavalry.
"'Tis Rupert, that son of Baal," he muttered sternly. "The false
Arminian fighteth well--yet what availeth his prowess, when his end
shall be that outer darkness where there is wailing and gnashing of
teeth?"
Near by, higher than the old copper ball of the church, a tiny lark
sang; the bees hovered in the thyme at their feet; the stainless blue
of the heavens deepened with the strengthening day. A sudden sense of
the peace and loveliness of the scene touched the sensitive heart of
Sir Thomas Fairfax.
"English against English, on English land!" he cried. "The pity of it!
God grant that we do right!"
Cromwell turned in his saddle, his heavy brows drawn together.
"Dost thou doubt it?" he demanded. "Art thou like the Laodicean,
neither hot nor cold?"
"I think of England," replied the General, "and of what we destroy
herein--fairness and tranquillity vanisheth from the land like breath
from off a glass!"
Cromwell pointed his rough gauntleted hand towards the approaching
royal forces.
"Dost thou believe," he asked, "that by leaving those in power we
secure tranquillity and repose? I tell thee, every drop of blood
shed to-day will be more potent to buy us peace than years of gentle
argument."
"Thou," said Sir Thomas Fairfax, "art a man of a determined nature--but
I am something slow-footed. To our work now, sir, and may this bloody
business come to a speedy issue!"
Cromwell rode with his own troop down the little hillside to take
up his position at the head of the cavalry on the right, the left
wing being under Ireton, the infantry in the centre being under the
command of Skippon, the Scotsman, the whole under the supervision of
Fairfax. This deposition of the army was hastily come to, for there
was not an instant to lose; indeed, the Parliamentarians had scarcely
gained the top of the low ridge which ran between the hedges, dividing
Naseby from Sulby and Clipston, when the King's army came into view
across Broadmoor, Rupert opposite Ireton, Langdale and his horse
facing Cromwell and the Ironsides, Lord Astley in the centre, with the
infantry and the King himself in armour riding in front.
Fairfax posted Okey's dragoons behind the bridges running to Sulby,
and flung forward his foot to meet the advancing line of the royalist
attack. The infantry discharged their pieces, and the first horrid
sound of firing and thick stench of gunpowder disturbed the serene
morning.
Then began the bloody and awful fight. Up and down the undulating
ground English struggled with English, the colours rocked and dipped
above the swaying lines of men, the demi-culverins and demi-sakers
roared and smoked, the horse charged and wheeled and wheeled and
charged again. The mounting sun shone on a confusion of steel and
scarlet, sword and musket, spurt of fire and splash of blood, on many
a grim face distorted with battle fury, on many a fair, youthful face
sinking on to the trampled earth to rise no more, on many fair locks
of loyal gentlemen, combed and dressed last night and now fallen in
the bloody mire never to be tended or caressed again, on many a stern
peasant or yeoman going fiercely out into eternity with his word of
"God with us!" on his stiffening lips.
Lord Astley swept back Skippon's first line on to the reserve. Rupert,
hurling his horse through the sharp fire of Okey's dragoons, broke up
Ireton's cavalry, and for all their stubborn fighting bore them back
towards Naseby village. Uplifted swords, maddened horses, slipping,
falling, staggering up again, the shouting, flushed Cavaliers, the
bitter, silent Roundheads struggled together towards the hamlet and
church. In the midst was always Rupert, hatless now, and notable for
his black hair flying and his red cloak and his sword red up to the
hilt.
Fairfax looked and saw his left wing shattered, his infantry
overpressed and in confusion, the ignorant recruits giving ground, the
officers in vain endeavouring to rally them, and his heart gave a sick
swerve; he dashed to the right, where Cromwell was fighting Langdale,
whose northern horsemen were scattered right and left before the
terrible onslaught of the Ironsides.
As Cromwell, completely victorious, thundered back from this charge, he
met his General. He did not need, however, Sir Thomas Fairfax to tell
him how matters went; his keen eye saw through the battle smoke the
colours of the infantry being beaten back into the reserve, and he rose
up in his stirrups and waved on his men.
"God with us!" broke from the lips of the Puritans as their commander
re-formed them.
"God with us!" shouted Cromwell.
One regiment he sent to pursue Langdale's flying host; the rest he
wheeled round to the support of the foot.
Rupert had left the field in pursuit of Ireton; there was no one to
withstand the charge of the Ironsides as they hurled themselves, sword
in hand, into the centre of the battle.
A great cheer and shout arose from the almost overborne ranks of
Fairfax and Skippon when they saw the cavalry dashing to their rescue,
and a groan broke from Charles when he beheld his foot being cut down
before the charge of the Parliamentarians.
He rode up and down like a man demented, crying through the storm and
smoke--
"Where is Rupert? Is he not here to protect my loyal foot?"
But the Prince was plundering Fairfax's baggage at Naseby, and the
infantry were left alone to face the Ironsides.
They faced about for their death with incredible courage, being now
outnumbered one to two, forming again and again under the enemy's fire,
closing up their ranks with silent resolution, one falling, another
taking his place, mown down beneath the horses till their dead became
more than the living, yet never faltering in their stubborn resolution.
One after another these English gentlemen, pikemen, and shotmen went
down, slain by English hands, watering English earth with their blood,
gasping out their lives on the rabbit holes and torn grass, swords,
pikes, and muskets sinking from their hands, hideously wounded, defiled
with blood and dirt, distorted with agony, dying without complaint for
the truth as they saw truth and loyalty as they conceived loyalty.
One little phalanx resisted even the charge of the Ironsides, though
attacked front and flank; they did not break. As long as they had a
shot they fired; when their ammunition was finished they waited the
charge of Fairfax with clubbed muskets. Their leader was a youth in his
early summer with fair, uncovered head and a rich dress. He fell three
times; when he rose no more his troop continued their resistance until
the last man was slain. Then the Ironsides swept across their bodies
and charged the last remnant of the King's infantry.
Charles Stewart, watching with agony and dismay the loss of his foot
and guns, rode from point to point of the bitter battle, vainly
endeavouring to rally his broken forces.
Such as was left of Langdale's horse gathered round him, and at this
point up came Rupert, flushed and breathless, his men exhausted from
the pursuit and loaded with plunder.
"Thou art too late," said the King sternly, pointing to the awful
smoke-hung field. "Hadst thou come sooner some loyal blood might have
been saved."
It was the sole reproach he made: he was past anger as he was past hope.
"God damn and the devil roast them!" cried Rupert, in a fury. "But we
will withstand them yet!"
With swiftness and skill he seconded the King's courageous efforts to
rally the remnant of the horse, and these drew up for a final stand in
front of the baggage wagons and carriages, where the camp followers
shrieked and cowered.
For the third time Oliver Cromwell formed his cavalry, being now joined
by Ireton, who, though wounded, had rallied the survivors of Rupert's
pursuit, and now, in good order and accompanied by the shotmen and
dragoons, advanced towards the remnants of the royal horse.
The King seemed like one heedless of his fate: his face was colourless
and distorted, the drying tears stained his cheek. He looked over the
hillocks scattered with the dead and dying who had fallen for him, and
he muttered twice, through twitching lips--
"Broken, broken! Lost, lost!"
The parliamentary dragoons commencing fire, Rupert headed his line for
his usual reckless charge, and Charles, galloping to the front, was
about to press straight on the enemy's fire, when a group of Cavaliers
rode up to him, and one of them, Lord Carnwath, swore fiercely and
cried out--
"Will you go upon your death in an instant?"
The King turned his head and gave him a dazed look, whereon in a trice
the Scots lord seized the King's foam-flecked bridle, and turned about
his horse.
"This was a fight for all in all, and it is lost!" cried Charles.
Seeing the King turn from the battlefield, his cavalry turned about
too as one man, and galloped after him on the spur, without waiting
for the third charge of Cromwell's Ironsides, who chased them through
Harborough, from whence the Queen, on news of how the day was going,
had an hour before fled, and along the Leicester road.
The regiments that remained took possession of the King's baggage, his
guns and wagons, his standards and colours, his carriages, including
the royal coach, and made prisoner every man left alive on the field.
In the carriages were many ladies of quality, sickened and maddened,
shrieking and desperate, who were seized and hurried away in their
fine embroidered clothes and fallen hair--calling on the God who had
deserted them--carried across the field strewn with their slain kinsmen
to what rude place of safety might be devised.
Nor was any roughness exercised against them, for they were English and
defenceless.
The Irish camp followers were neither English nor defenceless, even the
most wretched tattered woman of them had a skean knife at her belt, and
used it with yelling violence.
What mercy for such as these, accursed of God and man--the same breed
as those who rose and murdered the English in Ulster?
"What of these vermin?" asked an officer of Cromwell, when he galloped
past in pursuit of the royalists.
"Is there not an ordinance against Papists?" was the answer, hurled
harsh and rough through the turmoil. "To the sword with the enemies of
God!"
It was done.
Midday had not yet been reached; the whole awful fight had hardly
occupied three hours, and now the King had fled with his broken troops,
and from among the baggage wagons, the stuffs, the clothes, the food,
the hasty tents, the Puritans drove into the open the wretched Irish
women, wild creatures, full of a shrieking defiance and foul cursing,
pitiful too in their rags and dirty finery, their impotence, their
despair.
Some were young enough and fair enough, but smooth cheeks and bright
eyes and white arms worked no enchantment here; sword and bullet made
short shrift of them and their knives and curses.
"In the name of Christ!" cried one, clinging half-naked to an Ironside
captain.
"In the name of Christ!" he repeated fiercely, and dispatched her with
his own hand.
Then that too was over; the last woman's voice shrieking to saint and
Madonna was quieted; the last huddled form had quivered into stillness
on the profaned earth, the carbines were shouldered, the swords
sheathed, and the Puritans turned back with their captured colours and
standards, such plunder as could be met with, and the King's secret
cabinet, recklessly left in his carriage, and full, as the first glance
showed, of secret and fatal papers.
The dial on the church front at Naseby hamlet did not yet point to
twelve; across the graves lay Ireton's men and Rupert's Cavaliers,
their blood mingling in the daisied grass; the copper ball which had
overlooked a day of another such sights beyond the sea, still gleamed
against a cloudless sky, and above it, in the purer, upper air, the
lark still poured forth his immutable song which the living were as
deaf to as the dead.
CHAPTER IV
THE DEAD CAVALIER
Lieutenant-general Cromwell pursued the King to within sight of
Leicester, nine miles beyond Harborough, to which hamlet he returned
with his troop towards the close of day.
The royalists, who had filled Harborough twenty-four hours before, were
now scattered like dust before the wind; the house where the King and
Queen had stayed the previous night was deserted, and this Cromwell and
some of his officers took possession of, as the most commodious in the
place.
The church, after being despoiled of painting, carving, coloured glass,
and altar, was used partly as a stable and partly as a prison for the
few captives the Parliamentarians had with them.
Cromwell watched this work completed, then rode across the fragments of
broken tombs and shattered glass, flung out of the church, to the house
where Charles Stewart had taken farewell of his wife the day before.
The furniture the Queen had used was still in its place; in the parlour
where Cromwell entered with Ireton stood the clavichord open, as
Henriette Marie had left it when she broke down over her French song;
a glove and a scarf belonging to Margaret Lucas lay on the couch, the
windows were wide on the beautiful garden which again sent up sweet
scents to the evening air.
Cromwell noticed none of these things; he was not a man of exquisite
senses; perfume and flowers, green trees and sunshine were as little to
him as they could be to any healthy man, and as for delights of man's
making, he abhorred them all as vanities, from pictures and music, fine
dwellings and costly gardens, to ruffles and fringed breeches.
Ireton was, if anything, a man even stiffer and more rigid in his
ideas. They both sat down to their supper in the delicate little room
which had been some one's home, without the least regard to their
surroundings, either the luxurious furniture or the fair garden giving
forth sweets to the evening air.
Neither had changed their dusty, blood-stained leather and steel;
Cromwell cast his beaver and gloves on to the satin couch, and Ireton
flung his on to the polished floor.
A soldier brought in bread, meat, cheese, and beer from the inn;
nothing more was to be had. Cromwell, who had not eaten since the night
before, did not complain, but finished his food with a good appetite.
Though he had been twenty-four hours in the saddle, he was too strong a
man to feel more than an ordinary weariness, and the exaltation of his
spirits made him forget the slight fatigue of his body.
The two soldiers said little while they were eating, save to now
and then make some remark on the number of the malignants slain or
captured, or some ejaculations as to the might and power of the Lord
who had now so signally demonstrated that His countenance was turned
towards them.
Henry Ireton was a man after Cromwell's own heart, one of the choicest
of that little band who had taken the place of the older patriots,
such as Pym and Hampden. Blake and Sidney were two others; Sir Harry
Vane, who was of my late Lord Falkland's temper, Cromwell considered
less well suited to the times; Fairfax he had some doubts of; and
Manchester, Essex, and their kind he regarded as little better than
Laodiceans.
When he had finished his meal he pushed back his chair and regarded
his companion fixedly. Ireton had taken off his corselet, bandoleer,
and sword, and his left arm was bandaged; his extreme pallor and the
drooping way he sat showed the severity of his wound, but it had not
had power to dismay his spirit or to soften his stern bearing.
He was a man of five-and-thirty, well born and well favoured, his
features showing resolution, enthusiasm, capacity, and courage.
"Hast thou no mind to take a wife?" asked Cromwell abruptly.
"It is not for me to be thinking of marriage when the land is in
mourning," replied Ireton. "Even a wilderness with the water-springs
dried up and a fruitful land become barren."
"Peace cometh soon," said Cromwell grimly.
"Yet the King hath escaped into Oxford by now, and many places hold out
against us," returned Ireton.
"Be not as the children of Ephraim, but remember what the Lord hath
done for us," said Cromwell. "I tell thee He shall this year make an
end of His enemies, Papist, Prelatist, and Arminian, and all such as
defy Him. Is not His hand truly visible amongst us? Surely it would be
a very atheist to doubt it. And for what I was about to say, Harry,
coming to a plainer matter, my daughter Bridget is marriageable
and full of piety and fear of the Lord--a thrifty maiden and one
well-exercised in household ways, and if thou hast a mind to this
alliance we may celebrate a marriage with the peace."
Ireton flushed with pleasure at this undoubted honour; for Oliver
Cromwell had become already a considerable man, and after the splendour
of to-day's achievements was like to become more considerable still;
beside, Ireton held him in sincere respect and affection.
"Sir," he replied, "I am very sensible of this kindness, and if I on my
part may satisfy what you shall demand of me, I will take a wife from
thy hearth with as much joy as Jacob took Rachel."
Oliver Cromwell's face softened into sudden tenderness.
"Thou _dost_ satisfy me, Henry!" he answered. "I have great and good
hopes of thee. I know not why this came into my mind at this season,
save that, seeing thee hurt and weary, methought a woman's care would
not come ill."
He rose abruptly, to cut short Ireton's further thanks, and, going to
the door, called for candles.
Colonel Whalley and some other officers now entered, and after some
further talk they left, Ireton with them, to see to the deposition of
the new troops who, bringing prisoners and plunder, were continuing to
pour into Harborough. Cromwell, left alone, called for ink and paper,
and, seating himself anew at the table where the candles now stood
among the tankards, plates, and knives, commenced his letter to the
Speaker of the House of Commons.
Little of the tumult filling the village reached this quiet room;
outside the roses, lilacs, and lilies folded their parcels of sweets
beneath the rising moon, and far off a nightingale was singing where
the orchards dipped to a coppice, and the coppice dipped to the west.
Oliver Cromwell wrote--"Harborough, 14th June 1645," paused a minute,
biting his quill and frowning at the candlelight, then briefly wrote
the news of the great victory:--
"SIR,--Being commanded by you to this service, I think myself bound to
acquaint you with the good hand of God towards you and us.
"We marched yesterday after the King, who went before us from Daventry
to Harborough; and quartered about six miles from him. This day we
marched towards him.
"He drew out to meet us; both armies engaged. We, after three hours'
fight very doubtful, at last routed his army; killed and took about
5000, very many officers, but of what quality we yet know not.
"We also took about 200 carriages--all he had; and all his guns, being
12 in number, whereof 2 were demi-cannon, 2 demi-culverins, and (I
think) the rest sakers.
"We pursued the enemy from three miles short of Harborough to nine
miles beyond, even to the sight of Leicester, whither the King fled."
Having said all he could think of with regard to the actual battle that
was of importance, Cromwell paused again and thoughtfully sharpened his
quill.
Both the mystical and practical side of him wished to improve the
opportunity. He had lately heard how the Presbyterian party at
Westminster was very hot against the Independents, especially such
as would not take the Covenant, calling them Anabaptists, Sectaries,
and Schismatics; and Cromwell, who was for liberty of conscience and
toleration within Puritan bounds, and who was, if he was anything, an
Independent himself and no lover of the Scots or their Covenant, wished
to impress the Parliament with the worth of these despised sects, at
the same time to magnify God for what He had done for them. He wished
also to give praise to Fairfax, who, under the Lord, he considered the
author of this victory.
After labouring a little further in thought, he added this to his
letter--
"Sir, this is none other but the hand of God; and to Him alone belongs
the glory wherein none are to share with Him.
"The General served you with all faithfulness and honour; and the best
commendation I can give him is, that I dare say he attributes it all
to God and would rather perish than assume to himself.
"Which is an honest and a thriving way, and yet as much for bravery
may be given to him in this action as to a man."
Having thus done justice to his General, the Puritan endeavoured
to do justice to his soldiers, and to give a timely warning to the
Presbyterians. He dipped his quill into the ink-dish and added, with a
firm hand and a bent brow, frowning--
"Honest men served you faithfully in this action. Sir, they are
trusty; I beseech you, in the name of God, not to discourage them.
"I wish this action may beget thankfulness and humility in all that
are concerned in it.
"He that ventures his life for the liberty of his country, I wish he
trust God for the liberty of his conscience, and you for the liberty
he fights for.
"In this he rests, who is your most humble servant,
"OLIVER CROMWELL"
As he dried and sealed up his letter, the soldier, whose ears, though
deaf to the nightingale and the lift of the wind in the trees without,
were keen enough for all practical sounds, heard a certain tumult or
commotion which seemed to be in the house and almost at his very door.
With the instinct that the last few years had bred in him, he put his
hand to his tuck sword and shifted it farther round his thigh, then,
taking up the standing candlestick, he hastily crossed to the door and
opened it. A little group of soldiers were gathered round the front
entrance to the house, which stood wide open, and Cromwell joined them,
casting the rays of his two candles over a scene that had hitherto been
illumined only by the pale trembling light of the rising moon.
A small, white, tired horse stood at the steps of the house, his head
hanging down to his feet; at his bridle was a woman, a dark scarf about
her shoulders, the slack reins in her hand, and on his back hung a man
who had fallen forward on his neck, almost, if not quite, unconscious.
The woman, with the moonlight on her face, was speaking to the soldiers
in a tone at once imperious and desperate, and from all parts of the
garden a mingled crowd was approaching to ascertain the cause of this
supplication at the gate of the General's house.
Cromwell stepped with authority to the front; the first flutter of the
candlelight over the scene revealed to him that the man was desperately
wounded and that the woman was wild with fear and anger, yet, by some
fierce effort, keeping her composure. The look on her face reminded him
of that he had seen on Lady Strafford's face when her coach was stopped
by the mob in Whitehall.
"What is this?" he asked.
"Sir," replied one of the troopers, "this is none other than one of
those calves of Bethel who did so levant and flourish to-day."
The lady now let go the reins and stepped forward, interrupting
the soldier, and addressing herself directly to Cromwell, whom she
perceived by his scarf and equipments to be an officer of some rank.
"Sir," she said, with a dignity greater than her sorrow, and a pride
stronger than her grief, "this is my husband's brother's house."
"Thy brother hath doubtless fled with the King," returned Cromwell,
"and his house is now the property of the Parliament."
"This is my husband," said the lady; "he was in the battalia
to-day--and I went down to the field and found him, and one helped me
set him on a horse and so we came here--to my brother's house."
Cromwell listened tenderly.
"Alas!" he said, "thou art over young for such scenes."
He gave the candlestick to one of the soldiers, and stepped into the
garden.
The Cavalier, who was, by a desperate effort, holding on to his senses,
now dragged himself upright and spoke--
"Since the rebels have the house, ask them not--for charity," he
muttered, and then, with the attempt at speech, fainted, and dropped
sideways out of the saddle into the arms of one of the Roundheads.
At this sight the lady lost all pride, and, glancing wildly round the
ring of steel-clad figures, she clasped her hands in a gesture of
appeal.
"May he not be taken into the house?" she stammered. "Oh, good sirs,
for pity!"
"A malignant," said the corporal who had caught the Cavalier, pointing
to his long locks and rich dress, "and one doubtless drunk with the
blood of the saints! Shall I take him to the church, that plague spot
of hierarchy, where the other children of Belial lie bound?"
"Nay," replied Cromwell, "take up the young man and bring him into the
house."
He looked to the lady and added--
"Madam, what is your name and quality?"
"Sir," she replied, "my lord is Sir William Pawlet, of the House of the
Marquis of Winchester, and I am Jane, his wife."
The look of pity died from the Puritan's expressive face.
"He who holdeth Basing House against us? That Winchester?" he cried
grimly. "Art thou, as he, Papists?"
"Your tongue doth call us that," she replied faintly.
"Ha!" cried Cromwell, "must I then succour the children of filth
and abomination, the brood of the Scarlet Women, whose bones I have
declared shall whiten the valley of Hinnom and whose dust I promised to
cast into the brook of Kedar?"
The lady pressed to her husband's side.
"God's will be done," she said in despair; "even in this pass I cannot
deny my God nor my King."
The two soldiers who had lifted the Cavalier paused with their burden,
expecting that the General would order both Papists to a common prison.
And such, indeed, was for a moment his intention, for no man was more
hated by him than Lord Winchester, who had, since the beginning of the
war, defied the Parliamentarians from Basing House.
But as he was about to speak he glanced down at the face of the
unconscious man, and a shudder shook him.
On the young Cavalier's fair face was a dreadful look of his own son
Oliver, who had died at Newport Pagnell, and of that nephew who had
died in his arms after Marston Moor; and with these two memories
came that of his first-born, Robert, dead in early youth, and the
intolerable pain of that loss smote him afresh.
"Bring the youth into the house," he said sombrely.
Lady Pawlet made no answer and gave no sign of gratitude; she followed
the soldiers who were carrying her husband, and helped them to support
his head.
"Surely the young man is dying," said Oliver Cromwell gloomily. "Bring
him into the parlour and fetch a surgeon if one may be found. And
look you, Gaveston," he added to the sergeant, "see this letter is
dispatched to Mr. Lenthall, in London."
The candles had now been replaced on the table, and the General took up
his letter to the Speaker, but while he was addressing the soldier and
handing him the dispatch, his frowning eyes were fixed on the Cavalier,
who was now extended on the couch with his cloak for a pillow.
Lady Pawlet, as if despairing of better accommodation, perhaps too
sunk in grief to notice anything, went on her knees by the side of her
husband, and knelt there as still as he, holding his hand to her breast.
The black scarf had fallen back over her tumbled grey dress and soiled
ruffles, and the red-gold of her disordered hair glittered round a face
disfigured with fatigue and sorrow--a face that had once been fair
enough and gay enough. They were both very young and scarcely past
their bridal days.
Oliver Cromwell stood with his back to the table, the light behind him,
watching them; she seemed forgetful of his presence.
Sir William was bleeding in the head and the arm; these at least were
his visible hurts, probably he had other wounds beneath his battle
bravery of silk and bullion fringe, Spanish leather, and brocaded scarf.
His wife, bending over him still and helpless, as if she, too, was
secretly wounded and dying of it, suddenly moved.
"A priest," she whispered, "is there not a priest? I think he
is--dying."
"Pray that the light may come to him in the little time left," said
the Puritan sternly. "And seek not to seal his eternal damnation by
idolatry and devilry."
The lady looked up as if she had not heard what he said and did not
know who he was.
"Oh, sir," she said, "will you come and look at my lord?"
Cromwell stepped up to the couch and gazed down at the Cavalier; his
features were pinched, the wound at the side of the head, from which
the blood had ceased to flow, was of a purplish colour.
The General touched him on the brow, moving back the clotted curls, and
gazed into his agonized features.
"His heart--I cannot feel his heart," cried Lady Pawlet.
"He is not here," said Cromwell. "Even as we speak, he standeth before
the Judgment Seat."
CHAPTER V
LIEUT.-GENERAL CROMWELL AND HIS GOD
"Well, well!" stammered Lady Pawlet. "There are some shall answer to
God for this. Well, well!"
"Get to thy friends if thou hast any," said the Puritan, "and let them
put thee beyond seas. There is an ordinance against Papists."
She stared at him; the body of the dead Cavalier was between them; the
red candlelight and the white moonlight mingled grotesquely over the
dead and the living.
"Ah yes," she said; her eyes wandered to her husband's face. "The King
will be sorry," she added.
"The King," replied Cromwell, "hath troubles of his own to mourn for.
Up, mistress, and be going. This is no place for mourner and Papists.
Tell me some friend's house and I will have thee conveyed thither."
Lady Pawlet made no reply, and remained kneeling by the couch which
held her husband.
Cromwell moved away abruptly; though professional insensibility and his
hatred of the Papist checked the pity that was natural to him at any
sight of distress, still his mystic, melancholy nature had been moved
by the sight of the young man brought in dead. He thought he beheld in
him a type of all the fair lives that had been ruined or lost since
this war began--wasted men! And how many of them, one, two, or three
thousand to-day, now being shovelled into the trenches at Broadmoor ...
all English like this one ... all with some woman somewhere to weep for
them....
He turned again to the immobile woman.
"Come, madam, come, come," he began, but his speech was broken by the
entry of a soldier with some dispatches from Fairfax, who remained at
Naseby, and with the statement that there was no surgeon conveniently
to be brought.
"As for that," returned Cromwell, "the malignant is now in the hands of
the Living God. But let that little white horse I saw be looked to."
He turned to Lady Pawlet. "He is mine by right of war, but I will give
thee a fair price for him if he be thine, since we are ever in need of
horses."
She made no reply; Cromwell glanced at her frowningly.
"Gaveston," he said, "is there nought but this burnt ale in the house?
Search for a glass of alicant for the malignant's wife, she hath
neither strength to speak or move."
"Methinks the King did take the fleshpots with him when he fled from
this Egypt," returned Gaveston. "There is scarce enough in the village
to refresh the outer men of the saints themselves--but I will see if I
can find a bottle of sack or alicant, General Cromwell."
Lady Pawlet, hitherto so immovable as to appear insensible, now
suddenly rose to her feet, and, turning so that she stood with her back
to her husband's body, stared at the General who remained at the table,
not two paces away from her.
"Art thou Oliver Cromwell?" she cried, with a force and energy that was
so in contrast to her former despairing apathy that the two men were
startled, and Cromwell turned as if to face an accuser.
"I am he," he answered.
"Rebel and heretic!" cried the unfortunate lady. "May the curse of
England rest on thee! May all the blood that has been spilt, and all
the tears shed for those thou hast slain, cry out to the throne of God
for a bolt to strike thee down!"
"Fond creature," replied Cromwell, "I am in covenant with the Lord, and
I do the Lord's work, and your blasphemies do but waste the air."
"No! I am heard!" answered Lady Pawlet, to whom horror and wrath had
given an exalted dignity and a desperate strength. "Man of blood and
disloyalty, a scourge upon this land, a bitterness and a terror to
these unhappy people!"
"Shall I take her away?" asked Gaveston, advancing.
"Nay," replied Cromwell, "let her speak. Words no more than swords
touch those who wear the armour of the Lord. As for thee, vain, unhappy
one, go and wrestle with the evil errors that hold thee, and pray that
light be given to thy eternal darkness."
Lady Pawlet moved aside and pointed to her husband.
"He is dead," she said. "Only I know how good he was, how excellent and
loyal--but he is dead in his early summer. And I, too, have lived my
life."
"'Man is a thing of nought, he passeth away like a shadow,'" returned
the Lieutenant-General sombrely. "We are but a little dust that the
wind bloweth as it will."
"A brazen face and an iron hand!" cried Lady Pawlet wildly. "A wicked
heart and a lying mouth! What has this unhappy England done that she
cannot be delivered of thee?"
To the surprise of Sergeant Gaveston, Cromwell neither left the
room nor ordered the removal of the frantic lady, but answered her
earnestly, even passionately--
"Was it the Parliament first set up the standard of war? Nay, it
was the King. Was it the Parliament that ever refused to come to an
accommodation? Again the King. Was it the Parliament that roused the
Highlands of Scotland to war? Nay, Montrose, the King's man. Was it the
Parliament did command these horrid outrages in Ireland? Nay, Phelim
O'Neil, the King's man. Therefore accuse us not of bloodshed, for we do
but make a defence against violence and tyranny. We fight for God's
people that they may have repose and blessing, and for this land that
it may have liberty."
"Thou to talk of God's people, heretic of heretic, who hast rejected
even thine own deluded Church!"
"Ay, and the blue and brown of the Presbyter as well as the lawn
sleeves of the Bishop," cried Cromwell, pacing up and down in that
agitation that often came on him when he was excited by any attack on
his religious sincerity. "If the prayer-book is but a mess of pottage,
what is the preaching of the Covenanters but dry chips offered to the
soul starving for spiritual manna? Men of all sects fight side by
side in my ranks--would they could do so at Westminster." He suddenly
checked himself as he perceived that he was saying more than his
place and dignity required, controlled the agitation that had hurried
him into speech, and turned to Lady Pawlet, not without pity and
tenderness--
"Gaveston, conduct this lady to Naseby where are the other gentlewomen
taken to-day, and give her name and quality to Sir Thomas Fairfax. Take
out the malignant and place him with his fellows in the trenches."
At this the unhappy wife gave a shriek and hurled herself across the
dead Cavalier, desperately clinging to his limp arms and pressing her
bright head against his bloodied coat.
"My dear, they want to put you in the ground! I went to find you--you
were alive; what has happened now? I found you; what has happened? They
shall not take you away. Leave me," as Gaveston tried to move her from
the body; "he is not dead." She looked up and the tears were falling
down her cheeks. "I have nothing of him--no child. Would you take him
away?"
"Leave them here," said Cromwell. Since he had beheld his wife mourning
her two eldest sons he could not bear to see a woman weep, and the
young Cavalier had still that dreadful look of young Oliver. "Send
some woman from the village to her, and in the morning, when she is
removed, you might bury him. Take my things upstairs--wait"----He broke
open the packages and, holding them near the candlelight, looked over
the contents.
"Nothing I need answer to-night," he said, and glanced again at the
slim figure of the young woman as she clung to her dead in her agony,
the bright unbounded hair all that was left of beauty that had been so
fresh and lovely.
"So is it with the ungodly," he muttered sombrely. "How suddenly do
they perish, consume, and come to a fearful end! Even like a dream when
one awaketh!"
So saying, he turned abruptly into the garden and walked away from the
house.
All the June flowers showed silver pale against the dark lines of
the hedges and the box trees clipped into the forms of dragons and
peacocks--monstrous, clumsy shapes now against a sky filled with the
pale purity of the moonlight. Somewhere a fountain tinkled a thin jet
of water into a shallow basin; a seat, a sundial, a statue showed here
and there as the pleasance led to the fishpond, where the wet leaves
of water-lilies gleamed, and, past that, a bowling-green, shaded with
noble limes, then to the orchards of apple trees bending above the
tall grass scattered with daisies, where the grounds ended in a wooden
paling which fenced a little copse full of hidden birds and flowers.
The Puritan soldier passed through the garden without noticing the
sleeping loveliness or reflecting on the desolation it soon would be:
his mind was solely on his work, on what he had done, on what he must
do--occupied with all the doubts and terrors of the struggle between
the uplifted spirit and the still passionate human nature.
Outwardly he never faltered or hesitated, but inwardly all was
often black and awful: a thousand perplexities assailed his strong
understanding, a thousand different emotions warred in his warm and
ardent heart.
Usually his spiritual enthusiasm went hand in hand with his physical
courage and capacity, with his earthly feelings and hopes; but
sometimes these jarred with each other, and then the old melancholy
rolled over his soul.
When he had walked unheeding as far as the paling and was stopped
there, by lack of a gate, he folded his arms on the fence and gazed
ahead of him into the sweet night.
He was fatigued, yet far from the thought of sleep; the excitement
of the battle and the pursuit, the thrill of victory were still with
him....
And yet ... and yet ... the dead face of Sir William Pawlet and the
no less terrible countenance of his wife came before the soldier's
vision.... And how many thousands of these were there not now in
England, how many homes deserted like this one, how many fugitives
flying beyond seas, how many comely corpses being tumbled into the
trenches dug among the rabbit burrows on Broad Moor? So many that the
rolling hillocks would be all great graves, and for long years no
man would be able to turn the earth there with a plough but he would
disturb the mouldering dead.
What if he had to answer for this blood? Was not he the man who had
always urged war--been the soul and inspiration of the conflict, so
that the malignants turned and cursed him, even as Lady Pawlet had this
very evening, believing him to be the foremost of their enemies?
"Lord God," he cried out, grasping the fence with his strong hands, "I
do not fight for gain or power, for pride or hot blood, but for Thy
service, as Thou knowest! What am I but a worm in Thy sight, yet Thou
hast given me success through Thy lovely mercy and made me a fear unto
them who defy Thee! Hast Thou not declared that Thine enemies shall be
scattered like the dust, and they who dwell in the wilderness kneel
before Thee? Bring us that time, O Lord, bring Thy promised peace and
scatter those who delight in war! For Thou hast said, 'I will bring My
people again as I did from Basan, Mine own will I bring again, as I did
sometime from the deep of the sea!'"
These words, which he spoke out loudly and in a strong voice, were
wafted strangely over the sleeping copse, where even the nightingale
was silent now; the sound of them seemed to be blown back again and to
echo in his soul strongly even after his lips were silent.
He suddenly remembered when last he had rested against a fence; it was
that November day outside St. Ives, when God had come to him as he
walked his humble fields in obscurity and given him promise of grace.
His whole being shook with joy at the recollection; he put his hand to
the cross of his sword, and as he touched the cold metal he again felt
God stoop towards him, and saw the future and the labour of the future
clear and blessed.
CHAPTER VI
THE KING DREAMS
The Parliamentarians followed up the victory at Naseby with victories
at Langport, Bridgewater, Sherborne, and Bath. The King was desolate at
Newark, relying on Rupert, who held Bristol, that famous city, and had
promised to stand siege for four months and more, and on the Marquess
of Montrose, who had roused the gallant Highlanders to fight for
their ancient line of kings, who had already been triumphant in many
engagements, and was now marching to meet General Leslie, Cromwell's
comrade-in-arms at Marston Moor, who had crossed the Tweed to crush the
Scotch royalists.
It might seem that the reckless bravery of Rupert and the reckless
loyalty of Montrose were poor props with which to support a crown;
but the King, unpractical in everything, dreamt that these two might
save him yet, though his cause, since first he set his standard up at
Nottingham, had never looked so desperate.
His private cabinet of papers which had been taken at Naseby had done
him more harm than the defeat, for there were many documents, letters,
and memoranda which proved to the victors the insincerity of his
dealing with the Parliament, the sophistries of his arguments, the
hollowness of his professions, and the unreliability of his word.
They proved also, if the Parliamentarians had cared to make the
deduction, that Charles, however frivolous he might be, however
unstable and changing, however much he had temporized and given way,
was on some points adamant, and these points were his devotion to the
Church of England, to his Crown and all its prerogatives, his unshaken
belief in his own divine right, and the sacred justice of his cause.
Charles, indeed, had never meant to come to an honest understanding
with Parliament, which he regarded as rebellious and traitorous. He
might have played with it, cajoled it, lured it, deceived it; but he
had never intended to do more. Promises had been forced from him,
but he had always found some sophistry with which he consoled his
conscience for breaking them; concessions might have been forced from
him, but he always meant, at the first opportunity, to withdraw.
He would, if he had had the power, have replaced the Star Chamber
to-morrow and treated the Puritans as they had been treated after the
Hampton Conference in his father's time.
And he scarcely made a secret of the way he intended to treat the
rebels if they were ever at his mercy. They embodied all that was
hateful to him, and he had Strafford, Laud, and deep personal
humiliations to avenge. He might sometimes talk of toleration, but
there was none in his heart: his graceful exterior concealed a
fanaticism as stern, as convinced, as unyielding as any that burnt
beneath the rough leather of Cromwell's Independents.
In the autumn of the year of Naseby, so disastrous to his cause, he was
in the besieged city of Newark, one of the few holding out for him; he
had, indeed, now only a few cities, such as Oxford, Bristol, Exeter,
and Winchester, besides that in which he lay.
The Marquess of Newcastle, that faithful soldier and loyal subject, and
many faithful Cavaliers and a small loyalist garrison were with him;
they were not under any immediate fear of an attack, because Fairfax
and Cromwell were harrying Goring and Hopton in the south, and the
Parliamentary force in the north was occupied with Montrose.
The Prince of Wales had followed his mother to the Hague and then to
Paris; the other sons, the Dukes of York and Gloucester, remained in
St. James's Palace, together with the younger children. This safety of
his wife and his heir gave the King a certain comfort and ease in his
mind, and the long, idle autumn days did not pass unpleasantly in the
beleaguered city for one whose delight was in dreams and repose and a
retired leisure.
His soul was indeed sunk in melancholy, but it was a gentle sadness;
and the quiet of the moment, the sunny days in the old castle and
garden did not fail to touch with peace a soul so sensitive to
surroundings.
He told Lord Digby, my Lord of Bristol's son (that nobleman having fled
to Paris), that if he could not live like a king he could always die
like a gentleman; no one, not the most insulting, crop-eared ruffian
of them all, could take that privilege from him. So, too, he wrote to
the Queen in reply to her letters, which always advised uncompromising
courses and exhorted him not to give way on any single point in
reality, though she said it might be well to yield in appearance.
Charles needed no such advice; he was calmly and patiently resolved
to go to ruin on the question of episcopacy and his divine right
rather than yield a tittle, and this was not any the less true that
few believed it of him. Almost the entire country, including the
Parliamentary leaders, thought that now the King was cornered he would
make terms: their only concern was to find guarantees to make him keep
these terms when made.
To some, in whom he put perfect trust, the King revealed his mind. Thus
he had written to Rupert at Bristol: "Speaking as a mere soldier or
statesman, I must say that there is no probability but of my ruin.
"But, speaking as a Christian, I must tell you that God will not suffer
rebels and traitors to prosper or this cause to be overthrown. And
whatever personal punishment it shall please Him to inflict on me must
not make me repine, much less give over this quarrel.
"Indeed, I cannot flatter myself with expectations of good success more
than this, to end my days with honour and a good conscience, which
obliges me to continue my endeavours, as not despairing that God may in
due time avenge His own cause.
"Though I must avow to all my friends--that he who will stay with me
at this time must expect and resolve either to die for a good cause or
(which is worse) to live as miserable in maintaining it as the violence
of insulting rebels can make it."
As for the King's future plans, they were vague, uncertain, and waited
on events. Every General in arms for him--Rupert, Goring, Hapton,
Montrose--fought on their own, with no other guidance than what their
talents and circumstances might give them, and Charles might either
join the one of them who was most successful or return to Oxford,
which had been for nearly three years his headquarters. He was not
without hopes that the energies of the Queen might land another army in
England, either Frenchmen supplied by her brother or Dutchmen sent by
his son-in-law, the Prince of Orange.
He had some encouragement, too, to believe that the Scots, who disliked
Independency almost as much as Prelacy, might yet be detached from
their alliance with the Parliament. It was known that they did not
love Cromwell nor he them, and the more that he gained in importance
the more their ardour for the cause he represented cooled. It was said
that they had even viewed the defeat of the malignants at Naseby with
a cold and dubious eye, as they considered the discomfiture of the
royalists quite balanced by the triumph of the Sectarists, Schismists,
and Anabaptists who composed Cromwell's Ironsides.
Charles, therefore, nourished some fantastic hope that by deluding
the Scots into thinking he would take the Covenant that was their
shibboleth, he might altogether detach them from his enemies. It was a
subtle and difficult piece of policy, and could only be accomplished
by those intrigues which had so often damaged the King before; but
Charles dallied with the idea, while he waited for the news of a
victory from Montrose which would put Scotland in a more submissive
attitude.
The middle of September came, and there was no message from the
Marquess. Charles soothed himself with memories of the Graeme's
victories at Aberdeen, Perth, Inverlochy, and Kilsyth, and whiled away
the time with reading, meditation, and the elegant companionship of the
cultured and poetical Newcastle and the fantastical and brilliant Digby.
These two were with the King in the garden of the house, or castle,
where he lodged in the afternoon of one lovely day when the sun sent a
bloom of gold over the majestic scenery and glittered in the stately
windings of the Trent.
The talk fell on the Marquess of Winchester, who had so long held
Basing against the Parliament that the Cavaliers had come to call it
Loyalty House and the Puritans to curse it as a cesspool of Satan or
outpost of hell.
"I would that my noble lord was here," said Charles, with feeling.
"He doth better service to Your Majesty," returned Lord George Digby,
"in defying the rebels from Basing House."
"But how long can he defy them?" asked the King. "Can a mere mansion
withstand the onslaughts of an army? Nay," he added, in a melancholy
tone, stooping to pat the white boarhound which walked beside him, "my
Lord Winchester will be ruined like all my friends, and Loyalty House
will be but burnt walls blackened beneath the skies, even as so many
others which have been besieged and beleaguered by the rebels."
"Speak words of good omen, sir," said Newcastle, who had himself staked
(and lost, it seemed) the whole of a princely fortune on the royal
cause. "Methought that to-day you did have a more cheerful spirit and a
more uplifted heart."
"Alas!" replied Charles. "I hope on this, on that, I trust in God, I
believe that my own fate is in my own hands, and that I can make it
dignified or mean as I will; but when I consider those who are ruined
for me, then, I do confess, I have no strength but to weep and no
desire but to mourn."
"Sir," said the Marquess, much moved, "Your Majesty's misfortunes but
endear you the more to us; and as for any inconveniences or losses we
may have suffered, what are they compared to the joy of being of even a
little service to your sacred cause? Sir, the rebels may wax strong and
successful, but believe me there are still thousands of gentlemen in
England who would gladly lay down their lives for you."
"I do believe it, Newcastle," answered the King affectionately, "and
therefore I am sad that I must see those suffer whom I would protect
and reward."
They had now, in their leisurely walking, reached a portion of the
garden laid out on some of the old disused fortifications of the
castle, and looking towards the town.
The ancient earthworks and moat had been planted with grass and trees,
and sloped to a shady park full of deer which stretched to the walls of
the city.
The castle being upon gently rising ground, Charles and his companions,
on leaving that part of the garden which was walled in, came upon a
scene that was perfect in English fairness.
It had been a wet summer, and grass and trees were not yet dried or
faded; an exquisite sweep of verdure filled the moat, and beyond the
emerald lawns of the deer park rested, half in the shadow of majestic
elms and oaks and half in the soft light of the sun striking open
glades. Beyond was the strongly fortified town; towers, gables, roofs,
and spires, interspersed with trees, shimmered in the ineffable glow of
autumn, and between them rolled the golden length of the Trent.
The castle, which stood as an outpost to the town, was grimly fortified
at the base, and the walls of Newark held cannon and soldiery; but none
of this was visible to the three on the old ramparts. The scene was one
of perfect peace, of that peculiar rich and tender beauty which seems
only possible to England, and which not even civil war had here been
able to destroy.
The King seated himself on a bench which stood against one of the
buttresses of the castle, the white dog gravely placed himself at his
feet, while the two Cavaliers remained standing. The three figures,
aristocratic, finely dressed, at once graceful and careless, well
fitted the scene.
The King, though worn and haggard, was still a person eminently
pleasing to the eye; the Marquess, a little past the meridian of life,
was yet notable for his splendid presence; and Lord Digby, at once a
philosopher and a courtier, set out a handsome appearance with rich
clothes, both gorgeous and tasteful.
Charles, after being sunk for some minutes in contemplation of the
prospect below him, turned to Newcastle with a smile both tender and
whimsical.
"The Queen writes me, my lord," he said, "that there is a certain
gentlewoman with her in Paris who often discourseth of your
excellencies. Have you any knowledge of whom this lady can be?"
The Marquess flushed at this unexpected allusion, and his right hand
played nervously at his embroidered sword band.
"I only know one lady in Her Majesty's service," he smiled, "and she is
scarce like to flatter me or any man, being most cold, most shy. Sir,
it is Margaret Lucas, and I met her when she was attending the Queen at
Oxford."
"It is Margaret Lucas that I speak of," replied Charles. "Dear
Marquess, I think her a very noble lady. Will you not write to her in
Paris and console her exile?"
The Marquess answered with a firm sadness--
"If Mrs. Lucas would accept of me I would take her for my wife. But
these are not the times to think of such toys as courtships."
"Ah, my lord," said Charles earnestly, "a true and loyal love shall
console thee in any times. What adversity is there a faithful woman
cannot soften? Whatever be before thee, take, whilst thou may, this
gentlewoman's love--thy sacrifices would not so vex my soul if I could
see thee with a gentle wife."
He sighed as he finished, his thoughts perhaps turning to the one deep
passion of his own life--the Queen--now so far away and so divided from
him by dangers and difficulties. When would he again behold her in her
rich chamber singing at her spinet, with roses at her bosom and her
dark eyes flashing with love and joy? When again would he behold her
among her court at Whitehall, honoured and obeyed? When again take her
hand and look into her dear, dear face?... Were these days indeed over
for ever, to be numbered now with dead things?...
He rose with a sharp exclamation under his breath: these reflections
were indeed intolerable.
"Ah," he said impatiently, "this dearth of news is bitter to the
spirit. I sometimes think it would be well to gather my faithful
remnant round me and make a sortie into Scotland to join my Lord
Montrose."
This was quite to the taste of the two noblemen, who were also tired
of Newark, and Lord Digby, for whom no scheme was too fantastic, began
to discourse on the advantages of the King's sudden appearance in the
Highlands.
But the mood of Charles quickly changed; his resignation and melancholy
returned.
"Nay," he said, "I must better the Scots by wits, not force. What
would it avail to fall into the hands of the cunning Argyll and his
Covenanters, and give the squinting Campbell the pleasure of making us
prisoner?"
The Cavaliers were silent, and the three began to slowly continue their
walk round the old ramparts.
"Methinks this might be the garden of the Hesperides," said Newcastle
presently. "See how bright the gilded light falleth, how gently move
the dappled deer, and how softly all the little leaves quiver. And all
the young clouds that come abroad are soft as a lady's veil."
"It were good to die in such a place, at such an hour, if God gave us
any choice," said Charles. "For one could think, in such a moment, that
it was well to leave all sordid things and let the soul leap into the
sunset sky as gladly as the body leapeth in cool water on a dusty day.
But we must live and endure bloody times--and may the angels give us
constancy!"
As he spoke he idly turned and saw, coming towards him, one of the
gentlemen of his bedchamber.
He stood still.
"This is some news," he said. "Go forward, my lord,"--touching Lord
Digby on the arm--"and ask."
He had become notably pale, and he looked down at the roses on his
shoes and put his hand to his side as the two gentlemen came up to him.
Momentous news had arrived at last: one of Rupert's troopers had
brought a dispatch from that Prince, and within a few minutes of him
had come a Captain of some Irish who had been with Montrose.
He brought no dispatch; he had made his way with danger, difficulty,
and great delay from Scotland. His news was put in a few words, but
they were words which Lord Digby could scarcely stammer to the pale
King.
"There is news come, sir--that David Leslie----"
"A battle," asked Charles, swiftly looking up. "There hath been a
battle?"
"Alas! Your Majesty must speak with this Captain of Irish yourself,"
said the gentleman, in dismay. "He saith Leslie fell on the noble
Marquess near Selkirk, and did utterly defeat and overwhelm him; it was
at Philiphaugh, sir--and all the Scottish clans were broken and the
Marquess is fled."
Newcastle gave an exclamation of bitter grief and rage. Charles stood
silent a full minute, then said in a low voice--
"The Marquess is not taken?"
"Not that this Captain knoweth----"
"Then we have some mercy," said the King, with a proud tenderness
infinitely winning. "My dear lord, what bitterness is thine to-day!
Alas! Alas!"
Digby, with tears in his eyes, took the dispatch and gave it to
the King, hoping that it might contain news that would soften the
bitterness of Montrose's overthrow.
But for a while the King, struggling with his stinging disappointment
and mortification, could not read, and when he did break the seals it
was with a distracted air.
The very heading of the paper brought the hot blood to his pallid
cheeks: it was not "Bristol," but "Oxford."
The Prince wrote laconically to say he had surrendered Bristol to
Fairfax and Cromwell, and had gone under parliamentary convoy to Oxford.
When the King had read the letter he stared round upon his gentlemen.
"Is this my sister's son," he cried, with quivering lips, "or a
hireling Captain? Was this my own blood did this thing? Rupert whom I
trusted?"
None of them dare speak. Charles was so white that they feared that he
would fall in a fit or swoon.
"My city, my loyal city!" he muttered; then he cast the Prince's letter
on to the grass, as if it soiled his fingers, and turned slowly away.
He had the look of a broken man.
CHAPTER VII
LOYALTY HOUSE
Soon after Bristol surrendered, Winchester, that other loyal city,
fell. Leicester, so lately taken from the Parliament, was by them
recaptured soon after Naseby. Nearly twenty fortified houses had been
taken this year. Goring's troopers were dispersed. Rupert and his
brother had, in spite of all denials, followed the King to Newark:
Rupert in high disgrace, deprived of his commissions, and ordered
abroad, yet staying and endeavouring to justify himself to his outraged
kinsman, succeeding somewhat, yet still in the unhappy King's deep
displeasure, and hardly any longer to be considered as His Majesty's
Commander of Horse, whether or no he held a commission, since His
Majesty had no longer an army for any one to general.
In Scotland Montrose had fled to the Orkneys. Argyll and the
Conventiclers were triumphant and biding their chance to make a
bargain either with King or Independents, according as circumstances
might shape themselves, or as either party might be ready to take the
Covenant.
What, indeed, could the King hope for now but for some division
among his enemies, or that the shadowy army of Dutch, Lorrainers, or
Frenchmen should at last materialize and descend upon the coasts of
Britain.
Ireland, in a welter of bloody confusion, was a broken reed to lean on.
Ormonde, working loyally there, had too many odds against him, and was
no more to be relied on than Montrose, who had paid a bitter price for
his loyalty and his gallant daring.
It was in the October of this year which had meant such bitter ruin
to the King's party that the Lieutenant-General of the parliamentary
army, returning from the capture of Winchester, set his face towards
Hampshire, where, at Basingstoke, stood Basing House, the mansion
of the King's friend, the Marquess of Winchester, which had stood
siege for four years, and was a standing defiance and menace to the
Parliamentarians and a great hindrance to the trade of London with the
West, for the Cavaliers would make sorties on all who came or went and
capture all provisions which were taken past.
Cromwell had at first intended to storm Dennington Castle at Newbury,
another fortified residence which had long annoyed the Puritans; but
Fairfax decided otherwise, believing that nothing could so hearten and
encourage the Parliament as the capture of that redoubtable stronghold,
Basing House.
Accordingly, Cromwell, gathering together all the available artillery,
turned in good earnest towards Basing, from whence so many had fallen
back discomfited.
"But now the Lord is with us," said General Cromwell. "We have smitten
the Amalekite at Bristol and Winchester, and shall he continue to
defy us at Basing? Rather shall they and theirs be offered up as a
sweet-smelling sacrifice to the Lord."
It was in the middle of the night of 13th October that the
Parliamentarians surrounded Basing House.
Then, while the batteries were being placed and Dalbier, the Dutchman
from whom Cromwell had first learnt the rudiments of the art of war,
Colonel Pickering, Sir Hardress Waller, and Colonel Montague were
taking up their positions, the Lieutenant-General, who had already been
in prayer for much of the night, gave out to his brigade that he rested
on the 115th Psalm, considering that those they were about to fight
were of the Old Serpent brood, to be fallen upon and slain even as
Cosbi and Timri were slain by Phineas--to be put to the sword even as
Samuel put Agag to the sword.