"There is a reaper, whose name is death."
LONGFELLOW.
Spring came at last, cold indeed but dry, and it brought calves, and
kids, and lambs, and little pigs, besides eggs and milk. The creatures
prospered for two reasons no doubt. One was that Stead and Patience
always prayed for a blessing on them, and the other was that they were
almost as tender and careful over the dumb things as they were over
little Ben, who could now run about and talk. All that year nothing
particular happened to the children. Patience's good butter and fresh
eggs had come to be known in Bristol, and besides, Stead and Rusha used
to find plovers' eggs on the common, for which the merchants' ladies
would pay them, or later for wild strawberries and for whortleberries.
Stead could also make rush baskets and mats, and they were very glad of
such earnings, some of which they spent on clothes, and on making their
hut more comfortable, while some was stored up in case of need in the
winter.
For another year things went on much in the same manner, Bristol was
still kept by the King's troops; but when Steadfast went into the place
there was less cheerfulness among the loyal folk, and the Puritans began
to talk of victories of their cause, while in the Cathedral the canon's
voice trembled and grew choked in the prayer for the King, and the
sermons were generally about being true and faithful to King and church
whatever might betide. The Prince of Wales had long since moved away,
indeed there were reports that the plague was in some of the low,
crowded streets near the water, and Patience begged her brother to take
care of himself.
There had been no Christmas feast at the Deanery, it was understood that
the Dean thought it better not to bring so many people together.
Then as harvest time was coming on more soldiers came into the place.
They looked much shabbier than the troops of a year ago, their coats
were worn and soiled, and their feathers almost stumps, but they made up
for their poverty by swagger and noise, and Steadfast was thankful
that it was unlikely that any of them should find the way to his little
valley with what they called requisitions for the King's service, but
which meant what he knew too well. Some of the villagers formed into
bands, and agreed to meet at the sound of a cowhorn, to drive anyone off
on either side, who came to plunder, and they even had a flag with the
motto--
"If you take our cattle
We will give you battle."
And they really did drive off some stragglers. Stead, however, accepted
the offer from Tom Gates of a young dog, considerably larger and
stronger than poor old Toby, yellow and somewhat brindled, and known as
Growler. He looked very terrible, but was very civil to those whom he
knew, and very soon became devoted to all the family, especially to
little Ben. However, most of the garrison and the poorer folk of the
town were taken up with mending the weak places in the walls, and
digging ditches with the earth of which they made steep banks, and there
were sentries at the gates, who were not always civil. Whatever the
country people brought into the town was eagerly bought up, and was paid
for, not often in the coin of the realm, but by tokens made of tin or
some such metal with odd stamps upon them, and though they could be used
as money they would not go nearly so far as the sums they were held to
represent--at least in anyone's hands but those of the officers.
There were reports that the Parliament army was about to besiege the
town, and Prince Rupert was coming to defend it. Steadfast was very
anxious, and would not let his sisters stir out of the valley, keeping
the cattle there as much as possible.
One day, when he had been sent for to help to gather in Lady Elmwood's
harvest, in the afternoon the reaping and binding were suddenly
interrupted by the distant rattle of musketry, such as had been heard
two years ago, in the time of the first siege but it was in quite
another direction from the town. Everyone left off work, and made what
speed they could to the top of the sloping field, whence they could see
what was going on.
"There they be!" shouted Tom Gates. "I saw 'em first! Hurrah! They be at
Luck's mill."
"Hush! you good-for-nothing," shrieked Bess Hart, throwing her apron
over her head. "When we shall all be killed and murdered."
"Not just yet, dame," said Master Brown. "They be a long way off, and
they have enow to do with one another. I wonder if Sir George be there.
He writ to my lady that he hoped to see her ere long."
"And my Roger," called out a woman. "He went with Sir George."
"And our Jack," was the cry of another; while Steadfast thought of
Jephthah, but knew he must be on the opposite side. From the top of the
field, they could see a wide sweep of country dipping down less than two
miles from them where there was a bridge over a small river, a mill, and
one or two houses near. On the nearer side of the river could be seen
the flash of steel caps, and a close, dark body of men, on the further
side was another force, mostly of horsemen, with what seemed like
waggons and baggage horses in the rear. They had what by its
colours seemed to be the English banner, the others had several
undistinguishable standards. Puffs of smoke broke from the windows of
the mill.
"Aye!" said Goodman Blane. "I would not be in Miller Luck's shoes just
now. I wonder where he is, poor rogue. Which side have got his mill,
think you, Master Brown?"
"The round-headed rascals for certain," said Master Brown, "and the
bridge too, trying to hinder the King's men from crossing bag and
baggage to relieve the town."
"See, there's a party drawing together. Is it to force the bridge?"
"Aye, aye, and there's another troop galloping up stream. Be they
running off, the cowards?"
"Not they. Depend on it some of our folks have told them of Colham ford.
Heaven be with them, brave lads."
"Most like Sir George is there, I don't see 'em."
"No, of course not, stupid, they'll be taking Colham Lane. See, see,
there's a lot of 'em drawn up to force the bridge. Good luck be with
them."
More puffs of smoke from the mill, larger ones from the bank, and a
rattle and roll came up to the watchers. There was a moment's shock and
pause in the assault, then a rush forward, and the distant sound of a
cheer, which those on the hill could not help repeating. But from the
red coats on and behind the bridge, proceeded a perfect cloud of smoke,
which hid everything, and when it began to clear away on the wind, there
seemed to be a hand-to-hand struggle going on upon the bridge, smaller
puffs, as though pistols were being used, and forms falling over
the parapet, at which sight the men held their breath, and the women
shrieked and cried "God have mercy on their poor souls." And then the
dark-coated troops seemed to be driven back.
"That was a feint, only a feint," cried Master Brown. "See there!"
For the plumed troop of horsemen had indeed crossed, and came galloping
down the bank with such a jingling and clattering, and thundering of
hoofs as came up to the harvest men above, and Master Brown led the
cheer as they charged upon the compact mass of red coats behind the
bridge, and broke and rode them down by the vehemence of the shock.
"Hurrah!" cried Blane. "Surely they will turn now and take the fellows
on the bridge in the rear. No. Ha! they are hunting them down on to
their baggage! Well done, brave fellows, hip! hip!--"
But the hurrah died on his lips as a deep low hum--a Psalm tune sung by
hundreds of manly voices--ascended to his ears, to the accompaniment
of the heavy thud of horsehoofs, and from the London Road, between
the bridge and the Royalist horsemen, there emerged a compact body of
troopers, in steel caps and corslets. Forming in ranks of three abreast,
they charged over the bridge, and speedily cleared off the Royalists who
were struggling to obtain a footing there.
There was small speech on the hill side, as the encounter was watched,
and the Ironsides forming on the other side, charged the already broken
troops before they had time to rally, and there was nothing to be
seen but an utter dispersion and scattering of men, looking from that
distance like ants when their nest has been broken into.
It was only a skirmish, not to be heard of in history, but opening the
way for the besiegers to the walls of Bristol, and preventing any of
the supplies from reaching the garrison, or any of the intended
reinforcements, except some of the eager Cavaliers, who galloped on
thither, when they found it impossible to return and guard the bridge
for their companions.
The struggle was over around the bridge in less than two hours, but no
more of Lady Elmwood's harvest was gathered in that evening. The people
watched as if they could not tear themselves from the contemplation
of the successful bands gathering together in their solid masses, and
marching onwards in the direction of Bristol, leaving, however, a strong
guard at the bridge, over which piled waggons and beasts of burthen
continued to pass, captured no doubt and prevented from relieving the
city. It began to draw towards evening, and Master Brown was beginning
to observe that he must go and report to my lady, poor soul; and as to
the corn, well, they had lost a day gaping at the fight, and they must
come up again to-morrow, he only hoped they were not carting it for the
round-headed rogues; when at that moment there was a sudden cry, first
of terror, then of recognition, "Roger, Hodge Fitter! how didst come
here?"
For a weary, worn-out trooper, with stained buff coat, and heavy boots,
stood panting among them. "I thought 'twas our folks," he said. "Be
mother here?"
"Hodge! My Hodge! Be'st hurt, my lad?" cried the mother, bursting
through the midst and throwing herself on him, while his father
contented himself with a sort of grunt. "All right, Hodge. How com'st
here?"
"And where's my Jack?" exclaimed Goody Bent.
"And where's our Harry?" was another cry from Widow Lakin.
While Stead longed to ask, but could not be heard in the clamour,
whether his brother had been there.
Hodge could tell little--seen less than the lookers on above. He had
been among those who had charged through the enemy, and ridden towards
Bristol, but his horse had been struck by a stray shot, and killed under
him. He had avoided the pursuers by scrambling through a hedge, and then
had thought it best to make his way through the fields to his own home,
until, seeing the party on the hill, he had joined them, expecting to
find his parents among them.
Sir George he knew to be on before him, and probably almost at Bristol
by this time. Poor Jack had been left weeks ago on the field of Naseby,
though there had been no opportunity of letting his family know. "Ill
news travels fast enough!" And as to Harry, he had been shot down by a
trooper near about the bridge, but mayhap might be alive for all that.
"And my brother, Jeph Kenton," Steadfast managed to say. "Was he there?"
"Jeph Kenton! Why, he's a canting Roundhead. The only Elmwood man as is!
More shame for him."
"But was he there?" demanded Stead.
"There! Well, Captain Venn's horse were there, and he was in them! I
have seen him more than once on outpost duty, prating away as if he had
a beard on his chin. I'd a good mind to put a bullet through him to stop
his impudence, for a disgrace to the place."
"Then he was in the fight?" reiterated Steadfast.
"Aye, was he. And got his deserts, I'll be bound, for we went smack
smooth through Venn's horse, like a knife through a mouldy cheese, and
left 'em lying to the right and left. If the other fellows had but stuck
by us as well, we'd have made a clean sweep of the canting dogs."
Hodge's eloquence was checked by the not unwelcome offer of a drink of
cider.
"Seems quiet enough down there," said Nanny Lakin, peering wistfully
over the valley where the shadows of evening were spreading. "Mayhap if
I went down I might find out how it is with my poor lad."
"Nay, I'll go, mother," said a big, loutish youth, hitherto silent;
"mayn't be so well for womenfolk down there."
"What's that to me, Joe, when my poor Harry may be lying a bleeding his
dear life out down there?"
"There's no fear," said Hodge. "To give them their due, the Roundheads
be always civil to country folk and women--leastways unless they take
'em for Irish--and thinking that, they did make bloody work with the
poor ladies at Naseby. But the dame there will be safe enough," he
added, as she was already on the move down hill. "Has no one a keg of
cider to give her? I know what 'tis to lie parching under a wound."
Someone produced one, and as her son shouted "Have with you, mother,"
Steadfast hastily asked Tom Oates to let Patience know that he was gone
to see after Jephthah, and joined Ned Lakin and his mother.
Jeph had indeed left his brothers and sisters in a strange, wild way,
almost cruel in its thoughtlessness; but to Stead it had never seemed
more than that elder brotherly masterfulness that he took as a matter of
course, and there was no resting in the thought of his lying wounded and
helpless on the field--nay, the assurance that Hodge shouted out that
the rebel dogs took care of their own fell on unhearing or unheeding
ears, as Steadfast and Ned Lakin dragged the widow through a gap in the
hedge over another field, and then made their way down a deep stony lane
between high hedges.
It was getting dark, in spite of the harvest moon, by the time they
came out on the open space below, and began to see that saddest of all
sights, a battlefield at night.
A soldier used to war would perhaps have scorned to call this a battle,
but it was dreadful enough to these three when they heard the sobbing
panting, and saw the struggling of a poor horse not quite dead, and his
rider a little way from him, a fine stout young man, cold and stiff, as
Nanny turned up his face to see if it was her Harry's.
A little farther on lay another figure on his back, but as Nanny stooped
over it, a lantern was flashed on her and a gruff voice called out,
"Villains, ungodly churls, be you robbing the dead?" and a tall man
stood darkly before them, pistol in hand.
"No, sir; no, sir," sobbed out Nanny. "I am only a poor widow woman,
come down to see whether my poor lad be dead or alive and wanting his
mother."
"What was his regiment?" demanded the soldier in a kinder voice.
"Oh, sir, your honour, don't be hard on him--he couldn't help it--he
went with Sir George Elmwood."
"That makes no odds, woman, when a man's down," said the soldier.
"Unless 'tis with the Fifth Monarchy sort, and I don't hold with them. I
have an uncle and a cousin or two among the malignants, as good fellows
as ever lived--no Amalekites and Canaanites--let Smite-them Derry say
what he will. Elmwood! let's see--that was the troop that forded higher
up, and came on Fisher's corps. This way, dame. If your son be down,
you'll find him here; that is, unless he be carried into the mill or one
of the houses. Most of the wounded lie there for the night, but the poor
lads that are killed must be buried to-morrow. Take care, dame," as poor
Nanny cried out in horror at having stumbled over a dead man's legs. He
held his lantern so that she could see the face while she groaned out,
"Poor soul." And thus they worked their sad way up to the buildings
about the water mill. There was a shed through the chinks of which light
could be seen, and at the door of which a soldier exclaimed--
"Have ye more wounded, Sam? There's no room for a dog in here. They lie
as thick as herrings in a barrel."
"Nay, 'tis a poor country woman come to look for her son. What's his
name? Is there a malignant here of the name of Harry Lakin?"
The question was repeated, and a cry of gladness, "Mother! mother!"
ended in a shriek of pain in the distance within.
"Aye, get you in, mother, get you in. A woman here will be all the
better, be she who she may."
The permission was not listened to. Nanny had already sprung into the
midst of the mass of suffering towards the bloody straw where her son
was lying.
Steadfast, who had of course looked most anxiously at each of the still
forms on the way, now ventured to say:--
"So please you, sir, would you ask after one Jephthah Kenton? On your
own side, sir, in Captain Venn's troop? I am his brother."
"Oh, ho! you are of the right sort, eh?" said the soldier. "Jephthah
Kenton. D'ye know aught of him, Joe?"
"I heard him answer to the roll call before Venn's troop went off to
quarters," replied the other man. "He is safe and sound, my lad, and
Venn's own orderly."
Steadfast's heart bounded up. He longed still to know whether poor Harry
Lakin was in very bad case, but it was impossible to get in to discover,
and he was pushed out of the way by a party carrying in another wounded
man, whose moans and cries were fearful to listen to. He thought it
would be wisest to make the best of his way home to Patience, and set
her likewise at rest, for who could tell what she might not have heard.
The moon was shining brightly enough to make his way plain, but the
scene around was all the sadder and more ghastly in that pallid light,
which showed out the dark forms of man and horse, and what was worse the
white faces turned up, and those dark pools in which once or twice he
had slipped as he saw or fancied he saw movements that made him shudder,
while a poor dog on the other side of the stream howled piteously from
time to time.
Presently, as he came near a hawthorn bush which cast a strangely shaped
shadow, he heard a sobbing--not like the panting moan of a wounded man,
but the worn out crying of a tired child. He thought some village little
one must have wandered there, and been hemmed in by the fight, and he
called out--
"Is anyone there?"
The sobbing ceased for a moment and he called again, "Who is it? I won't
hurt you," for something white seemed to be squeezing closer into the
bush.
"Who are you for?" piped out a weak little voice.
"I'm no soldier," said Steadfast. "Come out, I'll take you home
by-and-by."
"I have no home!" was the answer. "I want father."
Steadfast was now under the tree, and could see that it was a little
girl who was sheltering there of about the same size as Rusha. He tried
to take her hand, but she backed against the tree, and he repeated "Come
along, I wouldn't hurt you for the world. Who is your father? Where
shall we find him?"
"My father is Serjeant Gaythorn of Sir Harry Blythedale's troopers,"
said the child, somewhat proudly, then starting again, "You are not a
rebel, are you?"
"No, I am a country lad," said Steadfast; "I want to help you. Come, you
can't stay here."
For the little hand she had yielded to him was cold and damp with the
September dews. His touch seemed to give her confidence, and when he
asked, "Can't I take you to your mother?" she answered--
"Mother's dead! The rascal Roundheads shot her over at Naseby."
"Poor child! poor child!" said Steadfast. "And you came on with your
father."
"Yes, he took me on his horse over the water, and told me to wait by the
bush till he came or sent for me, but he has not come, and the firing is
over and it is dark, and I'm so hungry."
Steadfast thought the child had better come home with him, but she
declared that father would come back for her. He felt convinced that
her father, if alive, must be in Bristol, and that he could hardly come
through the enemy's outposts, and he explained to her this view. To
his surprise she understood in a moment, having evidently much more
experience of military matters than he had, and when he further told
her that Hodge was at Elmwood, and would no doubt rejoin his regiment
at Bristol the next day, she seemed satisfied, and with the prospect of
supper before her, trotted along, holding Steadfast's hand and munching
a crust which he had found in his pouch, the remains of the interrupted
meal, but though at first it seemed to revive her a good deal, the poor
little thing was evidently tired out, and she soon began to drag, and
fret, and moan. The three miles was a long way for her, and tired as he
was, Steadfast had to take her on his back, and when at last he reached
home, and would have set her down before his astonished sisters, she was
fast asleep with her head on his shoulder.