Wild nearly with excitement, Fred Forrester kept his place in the ranks
of his father's regiment all through that busy day of advance, retreat,
and skirmish; but the Forresters were held in reserve during the final
charge which resulted in the scattering of the king's forces before the
warriors of the Parliament.
The day was won, and pursuit was going on in all directions; but the
main body of the Parliamentarians were camping for the night, and tents
were being set up, the wounded brought in, and strong parties engaged in
burying the dead, while, as troop after troop returned with batches of
prisoners, these were placed under guard, after being carefully
disarmed.
The Forresters had dismounted at the edge of a beautiful, grove-like
patch of timber at the foot of a hill. A stream of pure water babbled
among the rocks, and, as the soft summer evening came slowly on, the
grim, warlike aspect of the scene seemed to die out, and the smoke of
the camp-fires, the pennons fluttering in the evening breeze, and the
glinting of breastplate and morion formed a picture against the
background of green, which might from a distance have been taken for one
of peace.
Fred had dismounted, and, after taking off his heavy morion, which he
would never own was too big and uncomfortable to a degree, hung it from
the pommel of his saddle, while he patted and made much of his horse,
unbuckling the bit, and leading the handsome beast to where it could
make a meal from the soft, green grass.
"Poor old lad!" he said; "you must be nearly tired out."
The horse whinnied, and began feeding at once, while, after watching the
men making their preparations for the bivouac, Fred was about to throw
himself down, being too weary after his many hours in the saddle to care
for food, when his father rode up, followed by a couple of the officers.
"Ah, Fred, my boy," he cried; "that's right: take care of your horse.
There will be some supper ready in about half an hour. A glorious day,
my boy, a glorious day; and I'm proud of the way you behaved!"
"Are you, father," said Fred, sadly. "I don't think I have done much."
"You have done all I could wish to see you do. But, there, I must go
and see after our men. Come up to my quarters soon, and eat, and then
lie down and sleep. I may want you before long."
"To go on guard, sir?"
"No; for any little duty--to take charge of prisoners, perhaps. Where
is Samson?"
"Gone, father."
"What? Not killed?"
"I hope not, father; but after that gallop, when we last changed front,
I missed him, and, though we have searched, we can't find him. I'm
afraid the enemy carried him off."
"Poor lad! A brave fellow, Fred. There, I must go."
"Shall I come with you now, father?"
"No; lie down and rest till the meal is ready."
Colonel Forrester rode off with his followers, and his son walked
wearily to where his horse was feeding, and led it where it could have a
hearty drink of the pure water. Then, having turned it loose again, he
threw himself down, and lay gazing at the sunlit scene, wishing that the
war was over, and that he could go back to the dear old manor house, and
enjoy the pleasures of home and peace.
How beautiful it all looked, the golden sunshine glorifying the
oak-trees with their tender leaves, and turning the pine trunks
bronze-red! The films of wood smoke from the camp-fires spread in a
pale blue vapour, and the babbling stream flashed. But, restful as the
scene was, and pleasant as the reclining posture was to his aching
bones, Fred did not feel happy, for he knew that not far away men were
lying in fever and weariness, cut, stabbed, trampled by horse hoof, and
shattered by bullet, many of them waiting anxiously for death, the same
death that had come upon so many of their fellows, who were lying stark
on the field, or being hastily laid in rows in their shallow grave.
"When will it all be over?" he said to himself. "I wonder where Scar
is;" and then he thought how horrible it would be if ever he were to
meet his old friend in action.
"And him with a sword in his hand and me with a sword in mine," he
muttered. "Should we fight? I suppose so," he added, after a few
moments' thought. "We are enemies now."
He started up on his elbow, for just then there was a cheer, in
salutation of a man who was coming slowly up, leading his horse; and it
only needed a second glance to show that it was Samson.
Fred forgot his weariness, sprang up, and ran toward his follower, who
caught sight of him directly, and hastened to meet him.
"Oh!" ejaculated Fred, as he drew nearer and caught sight of the man's
face. "What a horrible wound! Samson, lad, we thought you a prisoner,
or dead."
"I arn't a prisoner, because I'm here," grumbled Samson; "and I arn't
dead yet, thank ye, Master Fred."
"But your wound. Come on to the surgeon at once."
"My wound, sir?"
"Yes. Your face looks terrible. How did you manage to get here?"
"Face looks terrible--manage to get here! I'll tell you, sir. A big
fellow with a broad grey hat and feathers, and all long hair and ragged
lace, spurred at me, and, if I hadn't been tidy sharpish, he'd have rode
me down. Hit at me, too, he did, with his sword, and caught me on the
shoulder, but it didn't cut through the leather; and, 'fore he could get
another cut at me, I give him a wipe on the head as made him rise up in
his sterrups and hit at me with his fist."
"His fist, Samson?"
"Yes, sir. There was his sword in it, of course, and the pommel hit me
right on the nose; and before I could get over it, he was off along with
the rest, full gallop, and I was sitting on the ground, thinking about
my mother and what a mess I was in, and my horse looking as if he was
ashamed of me, as I was of myself. I wonder he didn't gallop off, too;
but I s'pose he thought he wouldn't get a better master."
"But your face, Samson? It looks horrid."
"Well, I can't help that, Master Fred, can I? Didn't make my own face.
Good enough to come and fight with."
"Come along with me to the surgeon."
"What, and leave my horse? Not I, sir."
"A man's wounds are of more consequence than a horse."
"Who says so? I think a mortal deal more o' my horse than I do o' my
wounds. 'Sides I arn't got no wounds."
"You have, and don't know it. You have quite a mask of blood on your
face. It is hideous."
"Yah! that's nothing. It's my nose. It always was a one to bleed.
Whenever that brother o' mine, who went to grief and soldiering, used to
make me smell his fist, my nose always bled, and his fist was quite as
hard as that hard-riding R'y'list chap's. Called me a Roundhead dog,
too, he did, as he hit me. If I'd caught him, I'd ha' rounded his head
for him."
"Yes, yes, of course, Samson; but come down to the stream, and bathe
your face. Your horse is grazing now."
"You're getting too vain and partic'lar, Master Fred," grumbled Samson.
"You're thinking of looking nice, like the R'y'lists, when you ought to
be proud of a little blood shed in the good cause."
"I am proud and ready too, Samson; but come and wash your face."
"I'll come," grumbled Samson; "and I never kears about washing myself
now. Never a drop o' hot water, no towels, no soap, and no well, and no
buckets. Once a week seems quite enough, specially as you has to wait
till you get dry."
By a little persuasion, Samson was led to the stream, where he knelt
down and bathed his face, looking up to his master from time to time to
ask if that was better, the final result being that, beyond a little
swelling on one side, Samson's nose was none the worse for the
encounter.
"There!" he cried at last; "I suppose that will do, sir."
"Yes, my lad, and I'm very, very glad you have escaped so well."
"Oh, I've 'scaped well enough, Master Fred; deal better than I deserved.
We're a wicked, bad, good-for-nothing family. Look at our Nat,
fighting against his own brother."
"It is very sad, Samson," said Fred; "but, remember, you are fighting
against him."
"That I arn't, sir. It's him fighting against me, and I only wish I may
run against him some day. I'd make him so sore that he'll lie down and
howl for his mother, poor soul, and she breaking her heart about him
turning out so badly; and, I say, Master Fred, if I don't have something
to eat, I shall be only fit to bury to-morrow."
"Come with me, Samson; I'm going up to my father's quarters. I'll see
that you have plenty to eat, if there is anything."
"Who'd be without a good master?" muttered Samson; and then aloud, "Here
he comes."
For Colonel Forrester came cantering up.
"Alive and well, Samson? Good lad! We couldn't spare you. Fred, my
boy, news has come in that a little party of the enemy has taken shelter
in the woodland yonder over the hill. Take a dozen men, surround them,
and bring them in. Don't let one of them escape. Turned back by one of
the regiments crossing their path as they were in retreat. Now, then,
to horse and away!"
Burning with excitement, Fred forgot all his weariness, buckled his
horse's bit, mounted, and turned to select his men, when he found Samson
already mounted, and at his elbow.
"Here, what do you want, sir?" he cried.
"What do I want, Master Fred? Why, to go with you."
"Nonsense! You are fagged out. Go and rest, and your horse too."
"Now, I do call that likely, Master Fred. Let you go without me. I
should just think not."
"But this is nonsense, Samson. I want fresh men."
"Just what I thought, sir. Nonsense for you to go without me, and you
don't want no fresh men. You want me, and I'm coming--there!"
Fred had neither time nor inclination to combat his follower's desire;
in fact, he was rather glad to have the sturdy, west-country man at his
elbow, so he rode up to the main portion of the regiment, selected
eleven out of a hundred who wanted to go with the young officer, and
rode off at a moderate trot across country, forded the stream, and then,
bearing away from the woodland, made as if to leave it on his right, so
as not to excite suspicion in case they were seen. But just as he was
well opposite, he gave an order, the men divided in two parties, and set
off at a gallop to surround the trees, the mounted men halting at about
a hundred yards apart, and waiting for the signal to advance.
The manoeuvre was soon executed, and the circle moved steadily toward
the centre of the park-like patch of ground, so open that as the ring
grew smaller there was not the slightest prospect of any of the enemy
breaking through unseen.
Fred, in his anxiety to carry out his father's commands successfully,
had remained at the foot of the wooded slope, Samson being on his right
and another trustworthy fellow on his left, for he felt sure that those
of whom they were in search would break out in his direction. In fact,
he sat there waiting for his men to drive the intended prisoners down
for him to take.
The task was not long, for the tramping of horses was heard, and the
rustling and crackling of the undergrowth; but the enemy did not break
cover.
At last, though, there was a rush and the clash of steel, and, with his
heart throbbing, the lad signed to his nearest men to close up, and they
advanced together, then set spur to their horses, and made a dash for a
clump of bushes, where three horsemen were striving to get out through
the tangle; and as they reached them Fred uttered an exclamation full of
anger.
"Look at that!" cried Samson. "Why, they're our own men."
Fred uttered an impatient cry.
"Couldn't you see them?" he said to the first man who struggled out of
the bushes.
"No, sir; nobody there."
"Then you must have missed them, and they are there now."
"We searched the place well," said another man; and one by one, as the
party closed up, they told the same tale.
"Father was deceived," thought Fred; and the more readily, that it was
not the first example by many of pieces of false news brought in by
spies.
"Here!" he cried aloud, "we'll all ride through again. Ah! look yonder.
Forward! Gallop!" he shouted; and, setting spurs to his horse, he
dashed off, followed by his men, for there, a quarter of a mile to the
left, was a little party of six horsemen stealing along a narrow coombe,
after evading their pursuers in some way.
They were well in view as Fred emerged from the wooded land, and were
evidently spurring hard to escape, and for the next quarter of an hour
the chances seemed even, for the distance was maintained, and each party
kept well together; but after that the pace began to tell, and horse and
man tailed off till both parties seemed to be straggling over the
ground, the better-mounted to the front, the worse hanging behind.
It was soon evident that the pursuers' horses were far fresher than
those of the Royalists; and after shouting to his men to come on, Fred
raced forward, with Samson close behind, and after a headlong gallop of
about ten minutes, the young leader had overtaken the hindmost horseman,
who was standing in his stirrups, his morion close down over his eyes,
his back up, and apparently blind to everything that was before him as
well as behind.
"Have him, Samson, lad," cried Fred, as he spurred on past this fugitive
to try and overtake the leader, a young-looking man in showy cavalier
hat and feathers, who kept on turning in his saddle and encouraging his
men to fresh exertions.
The next minute, as they thundered along, Samson rode straight at the
man with the morion over his eyes, but before he could reach him the
fugitive's horse made a poor attempt to clear a bush in his way,
stumbled, fell headlong, and shot his rider half a dozen yards in front.
"Prisoners; and don't hurt them," shouted Fred, waving his sword, and
his men gave an answering yell. So did the pursued, for no sooner did
the young leader discover that one of his men was down than he checked
his horse, held up his sword for the others to rally round him, and
turned at once on the party headed by Fred.
It was a gallant attempt, but useless. Their horses were spent, and as
they were checked before they could make any effective stand, Fred's
party literally sprung at them. There was a sharp shock; the exchange
of a few blows, and it was all over, the little party being literally
ridden down, their leader going over, horse and all, at Fred's charge.
The young Cavalier struggled free from his fallen horse, and tried to
drag a pistol from the holster at his saddle-bow, for his sword had
flown a dozen yards away among the bushes; but Fred had him by the neck
directly, his hand well inside the steel gorget he wore, and in one
breath he shouted, as he held his sword at his breast, "Surrender!" and
then, "Scar Markham! You!"
"Yes. Give up, my lads," cried the prisoner. "We've done all we could.
Let the crop-ears have a few prisoners for once in a way."