On the highest point of the Forest of Dean district--just one thousand
feet above ocean's level--is a singular mass of rock known as the
"Buckstone." An inverted pyramid, with base some fifteen feet in
diameter, poised upon its apex, which rests on another rock mass of
quadrangular shape as upon a plinth. Into this the down-turned apex
seems indented so far as to make the apparent surface of contact but a
few square feet. In reality the two masses are detached, the
superimposed one so loose as to have obtained the character of a
"rocking stone." Many the attempt to rock it; many the party of
tourists who had laid shoulders against it to stir it from its
equilibrium; not a few taking departure from the place fully convinced
they had felt, or seen it, move.
And many the legend belonging thereto, Druidical and demoniac; some
assigning it an artificial, others a supernatural, origin.
Alas for these romantic conjectures! the geologist gives them neither
credence nor mercy. Letting the light of science upon the Buckstone, he
shows how it comes to be there; by the most natural of causes--simply
through the disintegration of a soft band of the old red sandstone
interposed between strata of its harder conglomerate.
From beside this curious eccentricity of the weather-wearing forces is
obtained one of the finest views of all England, or rather a series of
them, forming a circular panorama. Turn what way one will the eye
encounters landscape as lovely as it is varied. To the east,
south-east, and south can be seen the far-spreading champaign country of
Gloucester, Somerset, and Devon, here and there diversified by bold,
isolated prominences, as the Cotswolds and Mendips, with a noble stream,
the Severn, winding snake-like along, and gradually growing wider, till
in funnel-shape it espouses the sea, taking to itself the title of
Channel.
From the shores of this, stretching away northward, but west from the
Buckstone, is a country altogether different. No plains in that
direction worth the name, but hills and undulating ridges, rolling up
higher and higher as they recede, at length ending in a mountain
background, blue black, with a horizontal line which shows many a
curious _col_ and summit.
The greater portion of this view is occupied by the shire of Monmouth,
its foreground being the valley of the Wye, where this river, after
running the gauntlet between English Bicknor and the Dowards, comes out
surging and foam-crested as a victorious warrior with his plumes still
unshorn. And as he in peaceful times might lay them aside, so the
fretted and writhing river, clot after clot, casts off its snowlike
froth, and, seemingly appeased, flows in tranquil current through the
narrow strip of meadow land on which stands the miniature city of
Monmouth.
Although below the Buckstone, at least nine hundred of the thousand feet
by which this surmounts the sea's level, the point blank distance
between them is inside the range of modern great guns. And so well
within that of a field-glass that from the overhanging Forest heights
men could be distinguished in the streets of the town, or moving along
the roads that lead out of it.
As already said, one of these is the Kymin, then the main route of
travel to Gloucester, by Coleford and Mitcheldean. Near where it
attains the Forest elevation, at the picturesque village of Staunton, a
lane branches off leading to the higher point on which stands the
Buckstone; a path running through woods, only trodden by the tourist and
others curious to examine the great balanced boulder.
On that same afternoon and hour when the cadgers were toiling up the
Kymin Hill, two personages of very different appearance and character--
both men--might have been seen entering into the narrower trackway, and
continuing on up towards the rock-crowned summit.
On reaching it one of them drew out a telescope, and commenced adjusting
the lens to his sight. If his object was but to view the scenery there
was no need for using glass. Enough could be taken in by the naked eye
to satisfy the most ardent lover of landscape, though in September the
woods still wore their summer livery; for on Wye side it is late ere the
foliage loses its greenery, and quite winter before it falls from the
trees. Here and there only a dash of yellow, or a mottling of maroon
red, foreshadowed the coming change; but no russet-grey as yet. The
afternoon was one of the loveliest; not a cloud in the azure sky save
some low-lying fleecy cumuli, snow-white but rose-tinted, towards which
the sun seemed hastening as to a couch of repose. A cool breeze had
succeeded the sultriness of the mid-day hours; and, aroused from its
torpor, all animated nature was once more active and joyous. Out of the
depths of the High Meadow woods came the whistling call of stag and the
bleat of roebuck; from the pastures around Staunton the lowing of kine,
mingled with the neighing of a mother mare, in response to the "whigher"
of unweaned foal, while in Forest glade might now and then be heard
shrill cries of distress, where fierce polecat or marten had sprung upon
the shoulders of some hapless hare, there to clutch and cling till the
victim dropped dying on the grass.
All the birds were abroad, some upon the trees, singing their evensong,
or making their evening meal; others soaring above, with design to make
a meal of them. Of these a host; for nowhere are the predatory species
more numerously represented than along the lower Wye. More numerous
then than now; though still may be seen there the fish-eating osprey;
oftener the kite, with tail forked as that of salmon; not unfrequently
the peregrine falcon in flight swift as an arrow, and squeal loud as the
neigh of a colt; and at all times the graceful kestrel, sweeping the air
with active stroke of wing, or poised on quivering pinions, as upon a
perch.
In those days, eagles were common enough on the Wye; and just as the two
men had taken stand by the Buckstone, a brace of these grand birds came
over; the owners of an eyrie in the Coldwell rocks, or the Windcliff.
After a few majestic gyrations around the head of Staunton-hill, with a
scream, they darted across the river to Great Doward, and thence on to
quarter Coppet Wood.
But he using the telescope, as his companion, took no more notice of
them than if they had been but skylarks. Nor looked they on that lovely
landscape with any eye to its beauties. They were neither tourists nor
naturalists, but soldiers; and just then, man, with his ways alone, had
interest for them.
Both were in uniform; the elder--though there was no great difference in
their ages--wearing that of a Colonel in the Parliamentary army; a rank
which, in these modern days, when military titles are so lavishly
bestowed, would seem as nothing. But in those times of a truer
Conservatism, even though the social fabric was being shaken to its
foundation, a colonel held as high command as a major-general now. So
with him who had the telescope to his eye; for it was Colonel Edward
Massey, the military Governor of Gloucester.
And the other was a colonel, too, on the Parliamentary side; though in
uniform of a somewhat irregular kind. Dressed as a Cavalier, but with
certain insignia, telling of hostility to the Cavalier's creed; one
especially proclaiming it, with bold openness--this, a bit of gold
embroidery on the velvet band of his hat, representing a crown, thrust
through and through by a rapier. Fair fingers had done that deft
needlework, those of Sabrina Powell. For he who displayed the defiant
symbol was Sir Richard Walwyn.
Why the two colonels were together, and there, needs explanation. Many
a stirring event had transpired, many a bloody battle been fought, since
the surrender of Bristol to Rupert; and among them that most disastrous
to him as to the King's cause--Marston Moor. It had changed everything;
as elsewhere, freeing the Forest of Dean from the Royalist marauders,
who had been so long its masters. Massey had himself dealt them a
deadly blow at Beachley; routing Sir John Wintour's force, caught there
in the act of fortifying the passage a crass the Severn.
That occurred but three days before, and the active Governor of
Gloucester having hastened on to Staunton, was now contemplating a
descent upon Monmouth.
There was one who had pressed him to this haste, having also counselled
him to attempt the capture of the town. This, the man by his side. But
a woman, too, had used influence to the same end. Before sallying forth
from Gloucester, for Beachley, a girl--a beautiful girl--had all but
knelt at his feet, entreating him to take Monmouth. Nor did she make
any secret of why she wished this. For it was Vaga Powell, believing
that in Monmouth Castle there was a man confined, whose freedom was dear
to her as her own. But she feared also for his life, for it had come to
that now. The _lex talionis_ was in full, fierce activity, and
prisoners of war might be butchered in cold blood, or sent abroad, and
sold into slavery--as many were!
Luckily for the young lady, her intercession with Massey was made at the
right time, he himself eagerly wishing the very thing she wanted. Ever
since becoming Governor of Gloucester, Monmouth had been a sharp thorn
in his side, compared with which Lydney was but a thistle. And now,
having laid the latter low--as it were, plucked it up by the roots--he
meant dealing in like manner with the former. To capture the saucy
little city of the Wye would be a _coup_, worth a whole year's
campaigning. With it under his control, soon would cease to be heard
that cry hitherto resonant throughout South Wales, "For the King!" To
still the hated shibboleth--alike hated by both--he and Sir Richard
Walwyn were now by the Buckstone, with eyes bent upon Monmouth.