“We shall scarcely find any battle in those ages where the shock was more
“terrible and more constant. Henry exposed his person in the thickest of
“the fight: his gallant son, whose military achievements were afterwards so
“renowned, and who here performed his novitiate in arms, signalised himself
“on his father’s footsteps; and even a wound, which he received in the face
“with an arrow, could not oblige him to quit the field. Percy supported that
“fame which he had acquired in many a bloody combat; and Douglas, his
“ancient enemy, and now his friend, still appeared his rival amongst the
“horror and confusion of the day. This nobleman performed feats of valour
“which are almost incredible: he seemed determined that the King of England
“should that day fall by his arm: he sought him all over the field of battle;
“and as Henry, either to elude the attacks of the enemy on his person, or to
“encourage his own men by the belief of his presence everywhere, had
“accoutred several captains in the royal garb, the sword of Douglas rendered
“this honour fatal to many: but while the armies were contending in this
“furious manner, the death of Percy, by an unknown hand, decided the victory,
“and the royalists prevailed. There are said to have fallen on that day, on
“both sides, near two thousand three hundred gentlemen; but the persons
“of greatest distinction were on the king’s: the Earl of Stafford, Sir Hugh
“Shirley, Sir Nicholas Ganoil, Sir Hugh Mortimer, Sir John Massey, Sir
“John Calonly. About six thousand private men perished, of whom two-
“thirds were of Percy’s army. The Earls of Worcester and Douglas were
“taken prisoners: the former was beheaded at Shrewsbury; the latter was
“treated with the courtesy due to his rank and merit.”
The above account is substantially correct. To the list of killed and
wounded it is necessary to add the names of Sir Walter Blunt amongst
the two thousand three hundred gentlemen, and amongst the six thousand
private men, one hundred and forty-seven hapless warriors whose
particular fate will be presently mentioned. Sir Walter Blunt was one
of the several captains whom the king had “accoutred in the royal garb,”
with the view “either to elude the attacks of the enemy on his person,
or to encourage his own men by the belief in his presence everywhere.”
The reader may accept which theory he pleases. I myself incline to the
former, having the greatest confidence in Henry Bolingbroke’s wisdom as
a general and sense of his own value as an individual.
Of the violence of the shock between the conflicting armies, one
circumstance alone is sufficient corroboration. Sir John Falstaff,
emulating his royal chieftain, also “exposed his person in the thickest
of the fight”--nay, may very reasonably be asserted to have been “the
thickest of the fight himself.” We will not pause to dwell upon the
magnitude of risk incurred by Sir John--much greater in proportion to
his bulk than that of the slender and dyspeptic monarch--in exposing
so vast a target to the arrows of the enemy. Our knight’s heroic
achievements are too numerous to need any stress to be laid on one
solitary instance. Suffice it, that Sir John, at an early stage of the
battle, conducted his troops to a position of the greatest danger, where
they perished almost to a man. In his own light-hearted words, uttered
amidst the most terrible carnage and peril, “he led his ragamuffins
where they were peppered!”
“There’s not three of my hundred and fifty left alive!” said Sir John,
wiping his brow, that was clotted with dust and blood, “and they are for
the town’s end, to beg during life.”
And with this historic fact staring them in the face, there are not
wanting people to pronounce Sir John Falstaff a coward! Well, well! Sir
John himself has told us what the world is given to!
The heroism of the Douglas and his gallant Scots has not been
exaggerated by their compatriot historian, in whom exaggeration on
the subject might well be pardoned. Those intrepid warriors--their
movements, for the most part, unencumbered with nether
garments--performed prodigies of valour and ubiquity. It was said of
the field of Shrewsbury in the fifteenth, as of the four quarters of the
globe in the nineteenth century, “You found Scotchmen everywhere!”
Amongst the Royalist gentlemen with whom the gallant Scotch leader had
the honour of crossing swords in the course of the day, but to whom the
reciprocal honour was not “fatal,” as Hume has told us it had been to so
many, we must class Sir John Falstaff. The fact that the hero of these
pages was sought out for single combat by the “hot, termagant Scot,”
is a proof of the high estimation in which our knight’s valour was held
even by his enemies. The Douglas could not have mistaken him for the
King, of whom he was in such active pursuit. Sir John’s costume and
personal appearance must have placed that out of the question. At
any rate, they met and fought. After a brief encounter--in which the
training of poor Wat Smith, the Maldyke cudgeller, was doubtless
not forgotten--the fortune of war decided against our hero. He fell
wounded,--not dangerously, or even severely, but wounded. The Douglas
seeing his formidable enemy hors de combat, and--let us assume--espying
one of the King’s counterfeits in the distance, retreated without
following up his advantage. I might revive national jealousies,
which had better be left at rest for ever, were I to hint that the
unquestionably brave Caledonian had _possibly had enough of it_, and had
found his stalwart English adversary rather more than he had bargained
for. I will content myself with the statement that the Earl of Douglas
quitted the scene of action abruptly, leaving Sir John Falstaff
alive,--not seriously injured, but for the moment incapable of doing
mischief.
And now I approach what I confess to be a most delicate question,
and one whereof the solution causes me much perplexity. The question
is--“Who killed Hotspur?”
Hume, as we have seen, asserts that the young Northumbrian fell by an
unknown hand; Shakspeare, as the world knows, represents him to have
been slain by the Prince of Wales, after a brief hand-to-hand combat.
Which is the truth? Is either the truth?
As I have professed to abide by the representations of Shakspeare on all
occasions, in preference to those of other historians, consistency bids
me to adopt his views on this momentous problem. But I hesitate. After
all, even Shakspeare was but a man. May not the wish to glorify a
popular favourite have lulled his conscience to sleep just for once,
and induced him to crown one hero with another’s laurels? He _has_ been
known to falsify history for the gratification of popular feeling--in
one instance most glaringly. Has he not loaded the shoulders of Richard
the Third with more hump and iniquity than that monarch is historically
licensed to carry? And why? Because he happened to be writing in the
time of Henry the Seventh’s granddaughter, and the name of the last
Plantagenet was still execrated in the land; just as was that of the now
respected Cromwell in the fine old English reign of the great and good
King Charles the Second.
Let us, however, calmly consider Shakspeare’s view of the case in point,
and sum up the probabilities before coming to any definite decision.
According to Shakspeare, at the moment when the Earl of Douglas _was
running away from Sir John Falstaff_--I repeat that I impute no
unworthy motives to that possibly intrepid act on the part of the noble
Earl--while the Earl of Douglas was running away, and Sir John Falstaff
lay panting and bleeding (the Prince of Wales saw him bleed) on the
field of battle, the two young Henrys, Percy and Plantagenet, had met,
at a short distance from the scene of the last recorded struggle, and
were exchanging formal civilities previous to the laudable operation
of cutting each other’s throat, after the chivalrous manner of our
prize-ring gladiators, derived traditionally from the practice of the
Dacian Pet and the Herculaneum Slasher, as chronicled in the writings
of Tintinabulus. * The Game Chicken, from the wilds of Northumberland,
complimented the Larky Boy--champion of the Westminster Light
Weights--with some irony rather implying a regret that the latter bantam
should be in a recently hatched and inadequately-fledged condition, and
scarcely entitled to the honours of immolation at the hands, or rather
the red-hot spurred heels of himself, the Northumberland Chicken, which
he declared the Larky One was nevertheless foredoomed to undergo; to
which Larky replied by advising his adversary not to crow prematurely,
nor too loudly, nor yet to waste arithmetical calculation upon chickens
whose incubation was at least problematical. He admitted that he was not
an old bird, but at the same time implied that he was not to be caught
by the peculiar species of conversational bait of which his opponent was
so over liberal. Briefly, they flapped their wings, and, without further
cackling, flew to the attack.
* Vita in Roma... De Pugnatoribus. Cap. I.
“The pen of Homer” has been worn by myself and others into a rather
stumpy condition for the recital of warlike encounters. Let me
borrow the pen of Jones, the latest London successor of the graphic
Tintinabulus, to describe the event in question, which Shakspeare
represents as having “come off” at Shrewsbury.