They left Charlie to get down how he could, and started at a sharp pace
to meet and intercept Pompey. Now, if Pompey had continued his course
behind the hedge all the way, he must have got to Caesar’s camp first;
as Caesar could not crush through the hedge. But when Pompey came to
the gate, from which the waggon track issued into the field, he saw that
he could make a short cut thence to the gap by Caesar’s camp, instead of
marching round the irregular curve of the hedge. Caesar, though running
fast to meet him, was at that moment passing a depression in the ground,
and was out of sight. Pompey seized so favourable an opportunity, came
through the gate, and ordering “Quick march!” ran towards the gap. When
Caesar came up out of the depression he saw Pompey’s whole army running
with their backs almost turned away from him towards the gap by the
camp. They seemed to flee, and Caesar’s legions beholding their
enemies’ backs, raised a shout. Pompey heard, and looking round, saw
Caesar charging towards his rear. He halted and faced about, and at the
same time saw that his own camp was in Caesar’s possession; for there
was an eagle at the gate there, and his baggage was being pitched over.
Nothing daunted, Pompey ordered his soldiers to advance, and pushed them
with his own hands into line, placing Crassus and Varro, one at either
end.
As he came running, Caesar saw that the whole of Pompey’s army was
before them, while he had but two-thirds of his, and regretted now that
he had so hastily detached Scipio’s cohort. But waving his sword, he
ran at the head of his men, keeping them in column. They were but a
hundred yards apart, when Pompey faced about, and so short a distance
was rapidly traversed.
Caesar’s sword was the first to descend with a crash upon an enemy’s
weapon, but Antony was hardly a second later, and before they could lift
to strike again, the legion behind, with a shout, pushed them by its
impetus right through Pompey’s line.
When Caesar Bevis stopped running, and looked round, there was a break
in the enemy’s army, which was divided into two parts. Bevis instantly
made at the part on his left (where Phil Varro commanded), thinking,
instinctively, to crush this half with all his soldiers. But as they
did not know what his object was, for he had no time even to give an
order, only four or five followed him. The rest paused and faced Val
Crassus; and these Ted Pompey and six or seven of his men at once
attacked.
Bevis met Phil Varro, and crossed swords with him. Clatter! crash!
snap! thump! bang! They slashed and warded: Bevis’s shoulder was stung
with a sharp blow. He struck back, and his sword sliding down Varro’s,
broke the cross-piece, and rapped his fingers smartly. Before Varro
could hit again, two others, fighting, stumbled across and interrupted
the combat.
“Keep together! Keep together!” shouted Phil Varro. “Ted--Pompey,
Pompey! Keep together!”
Slash! swish! crash! thump! “Hit him! Now then! He’s down! Hurrah!”
Crash! Crack--a sword split and flew in splinters.
“Follow Bevis!” shouted Mark, “Stick to Bevis! Fred! Bill! Quick!”
He had privately arranged with these two, Fred and Bill, who were the
biggest on their side, that all three should keep close to Bevis and
form a guard. Mark was very shrewd, and he guessed that Ted Pompey,
being so much stronger and well-supported with stout soldiers, would
make every effort to seize Caesar, who was slightly built, and bind him
prisoner. He did not tell Bevis that he had arranged this, for Bevis
was a stickler for his imperial authority, and if Mark had told him,
would be quite likely to countermand it.
Whirling his sword with terrible fury, Caesar Bevis had cut his way
through all between. Slight as he was, the intense energy within him
carried him through the ranks. He struck a sword from one; overthrew
another rushing against him; sent a third on his knees, and reaching
Phil, hit him on the arm so heavy a blow that, for a moment, he could
not use his weapon, but gave way and got behind his men.
“Hurrah!” shouted Mark. “Follow Bevis! Stick to Bevis!”
“Here I am,” said Bill, the young giant hitting at Varro.
“So am I,” said Fred, the other giant, and slashing Varro on the side.
Varro turned aside to defend himself, when Mark Antony rushed at and
overturned him thump on the sward.
“Hurrah! Down they go!” Such a tremendous shout arose in another
direction, that Caesar Bevis, Mark, and the rest, turned fresh from
their own victory to see their companions thrashed.
“Over with them!”
Ted Pompey, Val Crassus, and the other half of the divided line had
attacked the remainder of the legion, which paused, and did not follow
Caesar. Separated from Bevis, they fought well, and struggled hard to
regain him; and, while they could keep their assailants at
sword’s-length, maintained the battle. But Varro’s shout, “Keep
together! Keep together! Pompey! Keep together!” reminded Ted of what
Phil Varro had taught him, and, signing to Crassus and his men to do the
same, he crossed his arms, held his head low, and, with Crassus and the
rest, charged, like bulls with eyes closed, disregarding the savage
chops and blows he received. The manoeuvre was perfectly successful;
their weight sent them right over Caesar’s men, who rolled on the ground
in all directions.
“There!” said Mark, “what did I tell you?”
“Come on!” shouted Caesar Bevis, and he ran to assist the fallen. He
fell on Crassus, who chanced to be nearest, with such violence that Val
gave way, when Bevis left him to attack Ted. Ted Pompey, nothing loth,
lifted his sword and stepped to meet him.
“Bill! Fred!” shouted Mark; and these three, hustling before Caesar
Bevis, charged under Pompey’s sword, for he could not hit three ways at
once; and, thump, he measured his length on the grass.
“Cords!--Ropes!” shouted Mark. “Bill--the rope. Hold him down, Fred!
O! You awful stupe! O!”
He stood stock-still, mouth agape; for Bevis, pushing Fred aside as he
was going to kneel on Ted as men kneel on a fallen horse’s head, seized
Ted by the arm and helped him up.
“Three to one’s not fair,” he said. “Ted, get your sword and fight
_Me_.”
Ted looked round for his sword, which had rolled a yard or two. At the
same moment Varro, having got on his feet again, rushed up and struck
Caesar a sharp blow on his left arm. He turned, Varro struck again, but
Fred guarded it off on his sword. Three soldiers, with Varro,
surrounded Fred and Bevis, and, for the moment, they could do nothing
but fence off the blows. Ted Pompey having found his sword, ran to aid
Varro, when Mark hit him: he turned to strike at Mark, but a body of
soldiers, with George and Tim at their head, rushed by, fighting with
others, and bore Mark and Ted before them bodily. In a second all was
confusion. On both sides the leaders were separated from their troops,
the battle spread out, covering forty yards or more, and twenty
individual combats raged at once. All the green declivity was covered
with scattered parties, and no one knew which had the better.
“Keep together! Keep together!” shouted Varro, as he struck and rushed
to and fro. “I tell you, keep together! Ted! Ted! Pompey! Keep
together!”
Swish! slash! clatter! thump!
“Hurrah!”
“He’s down!”
“Quick!”
“You’ve got it!”
“Take that!” Slash! But the slain arose again and renewed the fight.
Shrewd Mark Antony having knocked his man over, paused on the higher
part of the slope where he chanced to be, and looked down on the battle.
He noted Phil Varro go up to Pompey and urge something. Pompey seemed
to yield, and shouted, “A tail! a tail! Crassus! George! Tim! A
tail!”
Mark dashed down the slope to Bevis, who was fighting on the level
ground. He hastened to save the battle, for a “tail” is a terrible
thing. The leader, who must be the biggest, gets in front, the next
biggest behind him, a third behind him, and so on to the last, forming a
tail, which is in fact a column, and so long as it keeps formation will
bore a hole through a crowd. Before he could get to Caesar, for so many
struck at him in passing that it took him some time to pass fifty yards,
the tail was made--Pompey in front, next Val Crassus, then Varro, then
Ike (a big fellow, but who had as yet done nothing, and was no good
except for the weight of his body), then George, then Tim, and two more.
Eight of them in a mighty line, which began to descend the slope.
“Look!” said Mark Antony at last, touching Caesar Bevis, “look there!
It’s a tail!”
“It doesn’t matter,” said Bevis, looking up.
“Doesn’t matter! Why, they’ll _hunt_ us!”
And Pompey did hunt them, downright hunt them along. Before Fred and
Bill could come at Mark’s call, before they could shake themselves free
of their immediate opponents, Pompey came thundering down, and swept
everything before him.
“Out of the way!” cried Mark. “Bevis, out of the way! O! Now!” He
wrung his hands and stamped.
Bevis stood and received the charge which Pompey led straight at him.
Pompey, with his head down and arms crossed to defend it, ran with all
his might. Bevis, never stirring, lifted his sword. There was a part
of Pompey’s bare head which his arms did not cover. It was a
temptation, but he remembered the agreement, and he struck with all his
strength on Pompey’s left arm. So hard was the blow that the tough
sword snapped, and Pompey groaned with pain, but in the same instant
Caesar felt as if an oak or a mountain had fallen on him. He was hurled
to the ground with stunning force, and the column passed over him, one
stepping on his foot.
There he lay for half a minute, dazed, and they might easily have taken
him prisoner, but they could not stop their rush till they had gone
twenty or thirty yards. By that time, Mark, Fred, and Bill had dragged
Bevis up, and put a sword which they snatched from a soldier into his
hand. He limped, and looked pale and wild for a minute, but his blood
was up, and he wanted to renew the fight. They would not let him, they
pulled him along.
“It’s no use,” said Mark; “you can’t. We must get to the trees. Here,
lean on me. Run. Sycamores! Sycamores!” he shouted.
“Sycamores! trees!” shouted Fred and Bill to their scattered followers.
They urged Caesar to run, he limped, but kept pace with them somehow.
Pompey had turned by now, and went through a small body of Caesar’s men,
who had rushed towards him when they saw he was down, just as if they
had been straws. Still they checked the column a little, as floating
beams check heavy waves, and so gave Caesar time to get more ahead.
“Sycamores!” Mark continued to shout as he ran, and the broken legions
easily understood they were to rally there. At that moment the battle
was indeed lost. Pompey ranged triumphant. Leading his irresistible
and victorious column with shouting, he chased the flying Caesar.
Little Charlie, left in the ash-tree, could not get down, but saw the
whole of the encounter. The lowest bough was too high to drop from, the
trunk too large to clasp and slide down. He was imprisoned and
helpless, with the war in sight. He chafed and raged and shouted, till
the tears of vexation rolled down his cheeks. Full of fiery spirit it
was torture to him to see the battle in which he could not take part.
For awhile, watching the first shock, he forgot everything else in the
interest of the fight; but presently, when the combatants separated, and
were strewn as it were over the slope, he saw how easily at that
juncture any united body could have swept the field, and remembered
Scipio Cecil. Why did not Cecil come?
He looked that way, and from his elevation could see Cecil standing on
the gate by Pompey’s camp. Having sacked the camp, put the fire out,
and thrown all the coats over the gate into a heap in the field, Scipio
did not know what next he ought to do, and wondered that no orders
reached him from Caesar. He got up on the highest bar except one of the
gate, but could see no one, the undulations of the ground completely
concealing the site of the conflict. He did not know what to do; he
waited a while and looked again. Once he fancied he heard shouting, but
the gale was so strong he could not be certain.
Charlie in the ash-tree now seeing Pompey form the tail, or column,
worked himself into a state of frenzy. He yelled, he screamed to Scipio
to come, till he was hoarse, and gasped with the straining of his
throat; but the howling of the tremendous wind through the trees by the
gate, prevented Scipio from hearing a word. Had he known Charlie was in
the tree he might have guessed there was something wrong from his
frantic gestures, but he did not, and as there were so many scattered
trees in the field, there was nothing to make him look at that one in
particular. Charlie waved his hat, and at last flung it up into the
air, waved his handkerchief--all in vain.
He could see the crisis, but could not convey a knowledge of it to the
idle cohort. He looked again at the battle. Caesar was down and
trampled under foot. He threw up his arms, and almost lost his balance
in his excitement. The next minute Caesar was up, and he and his
lieutenant were flying from Pompey. The column chased them, and the
whole scene--the flight and the pursuit--passed within a short distance,
half a stone’s throw of the ash-tree.
Quite wild, and lost to everything but his anger, Charlie the next
second was out on a bough, clinging to it like a cat. He crawled out
some way, till the bough bent a little with his weight. His design was
to get out till it bowed towards the ground, and so lowered him--a
perilous feat! He got half a yard further, and then swung under it, out
and out, till the branch gave a good way. He tried again, and looked
down; the ground was still far below. He heard a shout, it stimulated
him. He worked out farther, till the branch cracked loudly; it would
break, but would not bend much farther. His feet hung down now; he only
held by his hands. Crack! Another shout! He looked down wildly, and
in that instant saw a little white knob--a button mushroom in the grass.
He left hold, and dropped. The little mushroom saved him, for it
guided him, steadied his drop; his feet struck it and smashed it, and
his knees giving under him, down he came.
But he was not hurt, his feet, as he hung from the bowed branch, were
much nearer the earth than it had looked to him from his original perch,
and he alighted naturally. The shock dazed him at first, just as Bevis
had been confused, a few minutes previously. In a minute he was all
right, and running with all his speed towards Scipio.
As Caesar ran, with the shout of victorious Pompey close behind, he
said, “If we could charge the column sideways we could break it--”
“If,” snorted Mark, with the contempt of desperation; “if--of course!”
Caesar was right, but he had not got the means just then. Next minute
they reached the first sycamore, not ten yards in front of Pompey. As
they turned to face the enemy, with their backs to the great tree,
Pompey lowered his head, crossed his arms, and the column charged.
Nothing could stop that onslaught, which must have crushed them, but
Bevis, quick as thought, pushed Mark and Fred one way and Bill the
other, stepping after the latter. Ted Pompey, with his eyes shut, and
all the force of his men thrusting behind, crashed against the tree.
Down he went recoiling, and two or three more behind him.
Thwack! thwack! The four defenders hammered their enemies before they
could recover the shock.
“Quick!” cried Mark; “tie him--prisoner--quick,” pulling a cord from his
pocket, and putting his foot on Ted, who was lying in a heap.
Before any one could help Mark the heap heaved itself up, and Val
Crassus and Phil Varro hauled their half-stunned leader back out of
reach.
Crash! clatter! bang! thwack!
“Backs to trees! Stand with backs to trees!” shouted Bevis, hitting out
furiously. “We shall win! Here, Bill!”
They planted themselves, these four, Bevis, Mark, Fred, and Bill, with
their backs to the great trunk of the sycamore, standing a foot or two
in front of it for room to swing their swords, and a little way apart
for the same reason. The sycamore formed a bulwark so that none could
attack them in rear.
The column, as it recoiled, widened out, and came on again in a
semicircle, surrounding them.
“Give in!” shouted Val. “We’re ten to one!” (that was not numerically
correct.) “Give in! You’ll all be prisoners in a minute!”
“That we shan’t,” said Bill, fetching him a side way slash.
“If we could only get Scipio up,” said Mark. “Where is he? Can’t we
get him?”
“I forgot him,” said Bevis. “There, take that,” as he warded a cut and
returned it. “I forgot him. Look out, Fred, that’s it. Hurrah!
Mark,” as Mark made a successful cut. “How stupid.” In the heat and
constant changes of the combat they had totally forgotten Cecil and his
cohort.
“Why, we’ve been fighting two to three,” said Bill, “and they haven’t
done us yet.”
“But we mean to,” said Tim, and Bill shrank involuntarily under an
unexpected knock.
“Some more of you--there,” shouted Ted Pompey, as he came to himself,
and saw a number of his soldiers in the rear watching the combat.
“You,”--in a rage,--“you go round behind and worry them there; and some
of you get up in the tree and hit down.”
“O! botheration!” said Mark, as he heard the last order.
“We _must_ get Cecil somehow,” said Bevis.
“Now then,” yelled Ted Pompey, stamping in terrible fury, “do as I tell
you; go round the tree, and ‘bunt’ somebody up into it!”
He passed his hand across his bruised forehead, wiping off a fragment of
bark which adhered indented in the skin, and rushed into the fight. Ted
fought that day like a hero; twice severely punished, he returned to the
war with increased determination. He was nervous at lightning, but he
feared no mortal being. He was as brave as brave could be. These heavy
knocks seemed only to touch him on the quick and arouse a stronger will.
When he came in the combat became tremendous.
Like knights with their backs to the tree, the four received them. The
swords crossed and rattled, and for two or three minutes nothing else
was heard; they were too busy to shout. The eight of the column would
have succeeded better had not so many of the others pressed in to get a
safe knock at Bevis, hitting from behind the bigger ones so as to be
themselves in safety. These impeded Val and Phil and the first line.
One and all struck at Bevis. The dust flew from his coat, his shoulders
smarted, his arms were sore, his left arm, which he used as a guard like
a shield, almost numb with knocks.
His face grew pale with anger. He frowned and set his lips tight
together, his eyes gleamed. The hail of blows descended on him, and
though his wrist began to weary, he could not repay one-tenth of that
they gave him.
“Give in! Give in!” shouted Val, who was in front of him, and he put
his left hand on Bevis’s shoulder. With a twist of his wrist Bevis hit
his right hand so sharp a knock that the sword flew out of it, and for a
second Val was daunted.
“Give in! give in!” shouted Phil, pushing to Val’s assistance. “You’re
done! It’s no good. You can’t help it. Hurrah!”
Two soldiers appeared in the fork of the tree above. Though so huge the
trunk was short, and they began to strike down on Mark, who was forced
to stand out so far from the tree that he was in great danger of being
seized, and would have been, had they not been so bent on Bevis.
Bevis breathed hard and panted. So thick came the hail that he could do
nothing. If he lifted his sword it was beaten down, if he struck, ten
knocks came for one. He received his punishment in silence. Tim had
the cord to bind him ready: they made a noose to throw, over his head.
“Stick to Bevis,” shouted Mark. “Bevis--Bevis--stick to Bevis--Fred--
ah!”--a smart knock made him grind his teeth, and four or five
assailants rushing in separated him from Caesar.
Bevis was beaten on his knee. He crouched, his left side against the
tree with his left hand against it, hitting wild and savage, and still
keeping a short clear space with his sword.
“Stop!” cried Val, himself desisting. “That’s enough. Stop! stop!
Don’t hit him! He’s done. We’ve got him! Now, Phil.”
Phil and Tim rushed in with the noose: Bevis sprang up, drove his head
into Phil and sent him whirling with Tim under. Bevis made good use of
the moment’s breathing time he thus obtained, punishing three of his
hardest thrashers.
“Keep together,” shouted Phil as he got up on his knees. “If Ted would
only do as I said. Hurrah!”
They had hammered Bevis by sheer dint of knocks down on his knees again.
Fred and Bill in vain tried to get to him; they were attacked front and
rear: Mark quite beside himself with rage, pushed, wrestled, and struck,
but they encompassed him like bees. Bevis could hit no more; he warded
as well as he could, he could not return.
“Shame! shame!” cried Val, pulling two back, one with each hand. “Don’t
hit him! He’s down!”
“Why doesn’t he give in, then?” said Phil, black as thunder.
Ted Pompey, who had watched this scene for a moment without moving,
smiled grimly as he saw Bevis could not hit.
“Now,” said he, “Phil, Tim, George--Val’s too soft. Come on--keep
close--in we go and have him. Hurrah! Hang it! I say!”
“Whoop!”
------------------------------------------------------------------------
End of Volume One.
Volume Two, Chapter I.