A very saturnalia of riot and rapine followed the capture of Bristol.
For the conditions of surrender were broken before the ink recording
them was dry, and the soldiers fell to sacking, unrestrained. There
were plenty of spiteful "malignants" to point out who should be the
victims, though little recked the royal hirelings what house they
entered, or whose goods appropriated. All was fish to their net; and so
the plundering went on, with scenes of outrage indescribable.
Fiennes has left testimony that Rupert did his best to stay his ruffian
followers, cuffing and striking them with the flat of his sword. Light
blows they must have been, administered more in jest than earnest, with
aim to throw dust in the eyes of the now ex-Governor and his staff
standing by. The men on whose shoulders they fell paid little heed to
them; for had they not been promised the sacking of Bristol? An
intercepted letter from Byron, of massacre memory, to Rupert himself,
puts this scandalous fact beyond the possibility of contradiction or
denial.
That promise was kept faithfully enough, and the licence allowed in
full. Every house of a Parliamentarian, noted or not, received a
domiciliary visit, and was stripped of its valuables--all that could not
be hidden away--while ladies of highest respectability were subjected to
insult. It was Bristol's first experience of victorious Cavalierism;
and even they who had conspired to introduce the sweet thing had their
surfeit of it ere long.
By the terms of capitulation the soldiers of the vanquished garrison
were to march out unmolested. But they must go at once, so as to vacate
quarters for the in-coming conquerors. To civilians three days were
allowed for decision as to staying or going, with the implied right of
removing their effects. This last clause may seem a sorry jest, since
there was not much left them for removal. Of course, all who knew
themselves compromised, and had the means, decided on going.
Among these, it need scarce be said, was the Master of Hollymead. Under
royal ban already, he knew Bristol would no longer be a safe place of
residence, either for himself or his daughters. Perhaps he feared more
for them under the aegis of such an aunt, and the companionship of such
a cousin. The Cavalier wolves would now be ravening about free from all
restraint--admitted to Montserrat House, and there made more welcome
than ever. Sad he had been at finding his sister so changed; irksome
the sojourn under her roof; and now that opportunity offered to take
departure he hastened to embrace it. So eager was he to get away from
the surrendered city, that he would not avail himself of the three days'
grace, but determined to set forth on the morning after the surrender.
Luckily he had but few effects to embarrass him, having left his plate
and other Penates in Gloucester, whither he intended repairing. It
remained but to provide transport in the way of saddle-horses, just then
a scarce and costly commodity in Bristol. But cost what they might,
Ambrose Powell has the means of obtaining them; and that night, ere
retiring to rest, he had everything ready, His daughters had been warned
and were prepared for the journey; both of them eager as himself to set
out upon it--neither caring ever to set eyes on Aunt Lalande or Cousin
Clarisse again.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Still another sunrise, and the people of Bristol were treated to a
spectacle different from any that had preceded, or they had ever
witnessed. They saw the late defenders of their city, now disarmed and
half-disbanded, marching away from it, out through its gates, and
between files of their foes, these last lining the causeway for some
distance outside.
In such cases, among the soldiers of civilised countries, it is a rule,
almost universal, that no demonstration be made by the conquerors to
insult or further humble the conquered. More often may be heard
expressions of sympathy even deeds of kindness done. But all was
different at this the first surrender of Bristol. As the defeated
soldiers marched out, many with yes downcast and mien dejected, no word
nor look of pity was bestowed on them. Instead, they were assayed with
taunts and derisive cries, some even getting kick or cuff as they ran
the gauntlet between the lines of their truculent enemies. And these
were "the gallants of England," ready to "strike home for their King,"
as one of their songs puts it; but as ready to be spit upon by King, or
Prince, if it so pleased him. Gallants indeed! As much desecration of
the term applied to the Cavalier of Charles's time as to the music-hall
cad of our Victorian era.
The chief exodus of the departing Parliamentarians was by the gate, and
along the road leading to Gloucester. There was nothing in the articles
of capitulation to hinder them again taking up arms. For reasons
already stated they were not prisoners, not bound by _parole d'honneur_,
but free to turn round and face the foe now exulting over them whenever
opportunity should offer. As a consequence, most took the route for
Gloucester, where the stanch Massey still held his ground, and would be
glad to avail himself of their services.
But not all making away were soldiers. In the stream of moving humanity
were citizens, men and women, even whole families who had forsaken their
homes, dreading ill-treatment at the hands of the Royalist soldiery;
fleeing from Bristol as Lot from the doomed cities of the plain. Among
these fugitives many a spectacle of wretchedness was presented, at which
the unfeeling brutes who were witnesses but laughed.
Outside, and not far from the gate through which the motley procession
was passing, Rupert sat in his saddle, the central figure of a group of
splendidly uniformed officers. They were his personal staff, with the
_elite_ of his army, gathered there to gloat over the humiliation of
adversaries who had oft humiliated them. _Gentlemen_ as they deemed
themselves, some could not resist gratifying their vengeful spleen, but
gave exhibition of it, in speech coarse and ribald as any coming from
the lips of their rank-and-file followers. In all of which they were
encouraged by the approving laughter of their Prince and his high-toned
_entourage_.
Never merrier than on that morn were these jovial gentry; believing as
they did that the fall of Bristol was the prelude to their triumph over
all England, and henceforth they would have it their own way.
While at the height of their exultation a troop came filing along the
causeway, the sight of which brought a sudden change over the
countenances of the jesters. It was composed of men in cavalry uniform,
but afoot and without arms; only some half-dozen--the officers--on
horseback. Its standard, too, taken from it, and, perhaps, well it had
been. Flouted before the eyes of that Cavalier crew, alike regardless
of oath and honour, the banner, showing Crown impaled by Sword, would
have been torn to shreds; they bearing it set upon and cut to pieces.
But it needed no ensign, nor other insignia, to tell who the dismounted
and dismantled troopers were. Many around Rupert had met, fought with,
and fled from them; while all had heard of Sir Richard Walwyn's Horse,
and his big sergeant.
These they were, but in woefully diminished numbers--worse than their
sorry plight. They had borne the brunt of battle on the southern side;
and although they had slain hundreds of the Cornish men, it was with a
terrible thinning of their own ranks.
But their gallant leader was still at their head and by his side Eustace
Trevor, with his veteran trumpeter Hubert; while, though marching afoot,
almost as conspicuous as the mounted ones, there too was the colossal
sergeant erst deer-stealer, Rob Wilde. All proudly bearing themselves,
notwithstanding what had transpired. No thought of having been
conquered had they; instead, the consciousness of being conquerors. And
less angry at the men with whom they had been fighting than at him for
whom they had fought. Nathaniel Fiennes had either betrayed them and
their cause, or proved incapable of sustaining it. It was on that
account they looked scowling and sullen, as they filed past Rupert and
his surrounding.
But if their black looks were given back by the Royalist officers, these
forbore the taunting speech they had hitherto poured upon others.
Something of shame, if not self-respect, restrained them. They knew it
would but recoil on themselves, as with curs barking at lions.
As Sir Richard and his troop captain came opposite, two officers
alongside Rupert exchanged looks with them of peculiar significance.
Colonel Tom Lunsford and Captain Reginald Trevor these were. Both
released from their imprisonment--the latter but the day before--they
were now not only free, but in full feather and favour, appointed to the
Prince's staff.
The interchange of glances between the _quartette_ was each to each; the
ex-lieutenant of the Tower alone regarding the soldier knight, and with
a sneer of malicious triumph. He would have added words, but dreaded
getting words back that might rake up old scores, as when they last met
at Hollymead, exposing his poltroonery. So he contented himself with a
sardonic grin, to get in return for it a look of contempt, too scornful
and lordly to care for expression in speech.
The play of eyes between the cousins was alike full of meaning, and
equally unintelligible to lookers on who knew not the antecedents. But
they passed words as well; only a remark with rejoinder, the former even
unfinished. Reginald, still smarting from the incidents of that night
at Montserrat House, could not restrain his tongue; and, as the other
came close, he said, with his old affectation of superiority,--
"If I'd only had the chance to meet you on the ramparts yesterday
morning, I would--"
"_You_ would be there now, without me," was the interrupting retort.
"Down among the Cornish dead men. That's what you intended telling me,
isn't it?"
Thus again getting the better in the encounter of words, with a light
laugh Eustace rode on, leaving his cousin angrier than ever, more than
ever desirous of crossing swords with him to the cry of "No Quarter!"