THE DAY AFTER THE FIGHT.
It was five o'clock when I awoke next morning. Though the hour was
so early, I heard a great trampling and running about the streets,
and, looking out of window, I saw a concourse of the townspeople
gathered together, listening to one who spoke to them. But in the
middle of his speech they broke away from him and ran to another
speaker, and so distractedly, and with such gestures, that they
were clearly much moved by some news, the nature of which I could
not guess. For in some faces there was visible the outward show of
triumph and joy, and on others there lay plainly visible the look
of amazement or stupefaction; and in the street I saw some women
weeping and crying. What had happened? Oh! what had happened? Then,
while I was still dressing, there burst into the room Susan Blake,
herself but half dressed, her hair flying all abroad, the comb in
her hand.
'Rejoice!' she cried. 'Oh! rejoice, and give thanks unto the Lord!
What did we hear last night? That the Duke had but to shut the
stable doors and seize the troopers in their beds. Look out of
window. See the people running and listening eagerly. Oh! 'tis the
crowning mercy that we have looked for: the Lord hath blown and His
enemies are scattered. Remember the strange words we heard last
night. What said the unknown man?--nay, he said it twice: "The Duke
had but to lock the stable doors." Nay, and yesterday I saw, and
last night I heard, the screech-owl thrice--which was meant for the
ruin of our enemies. Oh! Alice, Alice, this is a joyful day!'
'But look,' I said, 'they have a downcast look; they run about as if
distracted, and some are wringing their hands----'
''Tis with excess of joy,' she replied, looking out of the window
with me, though her hair was flying in the wind. 'They are so
surprised and so rejoiced that they cannot speak or move.'
'But there are women weeping and wailing; why do they weep?'
'It is for those who are killed. Needs must in every great victory
that some are killed--poor brave fellows!--and some are wounded.
Nay, my dear, thou hast three at least at the camp, who are dear to
thee; and God knows I have many. Let us pray that we do not have to
weep like those poor women.'
She was so earnest in her looks and words, and I myself so willing
to believe, that I doubted no longer.
'Listen! oh! listen!' she cried; 'never, never before have bells
rung a music so joyful to my heart.'
For now the bells of the great tower of St. Mary's began to ring.
Clash, clash, clash, all together, as if they were cracking their
throats with joy, and at the sound of the bells those men in the
street, who seemed to me stupefied as by a heavy blow, put up their
hands to their ears and fled as if they could not bear the noise,
and the women who wept wrung their hands, and shrieked aloud in
anguish, as if the joy of the chimes mocked the sorrow of their
hearts.
'Poor creatures!' said Susan. 'From my heart I pity them. But the
victory is ours, and now it only remains to offer up our humble
prayers and praises to the Throne of all mercy.'
So we knelt and thanked God.
'O Lord! we thank and bless Thee! O Lord! we thank and bless Thee!'
cried Susan, the tears of joy and gratitude running down her cheeks.
Outside, the noise of hurrying feet and voices increased, and more
women shrieked, and still the joy-bells clashed and clanged.
'O Lord! we thank Thee! O Lord! we bless Thee!' Susan repeated on
her knees, her voice broken with her joy and triumph. 'Twas all that
she could say.
I declare that at that moment I had no more doubt of the victory
than I had of the sunshine. There could be no doubt. The joy-bells
were ringing: how should we know that the Rev. Mr. Harte, the Vicar,
caused them to be rung, and not our friends? There could be no
manner of doubt. The people running to and fro in the street had
heard the news, and were rushing to tell each other and to hear
more--the women who wept were mothers or wives of the slain. Again,
we had encouraged each other with assurances of our success, so
that we were already fully prepared to believe that it had come.
Had we not seen a splendid army, seven thousand strong, march out
of Taunton town, led by the bravest man and most accomplished
soldier in the English nation? Was not the army on the Lord's side?
Were we not in a Protestant country? Were not the very regiments of
the King Protestants? Why go on? And yet--oh! sad to think!--even
while we knelt and prayed, the army was scattered like a cloud of
summer gnats by a shower and a breeze, and hundreds lay dead upon
the field, and a thousand men were prisoners; and many were already
hanging in gemmaces upon the gibbets, where they remained till King
William's coming suffered them to be taken down; and the rest were
flying in every direction hoping to escape.
'O Lord! we thank Thee! O Lord! we bless Thee!'
While thus we prayed we heard the door below burst open, and a
trampling of a man's boots; and Susan, hastily rolling up her hair,
ran downstairs, followed by mother and myself.
There stood Barnaby. Thank God! one of our lads was safe out of the
fight. His face and hands were black with powder; his red coat,
which had been so fine, was now smirched with mud and stained with
I know not what--marks of weather, of dust, and of gunpowder; the
right-hand side was torn away; he had no hat upon his head, and a
bloody clout was tied about his forehead.
'Barnaby!' I cried.
'Captain Barnaby!' cried Susan, clasping her hands.
'My son!' cried mother. 'Oh! thou art wounded! Quick, Alice,
child--a basin of water, quick!'
'Nay--'tis but a scratch,' he said; 'and there is no time for
nursing.'
'When--where--how?' we all cried together, 'was the victory won? Is
the enemy cut to pieces? Is the war finished?'
'Victory?' he repeated, in his slow way--'what victory? Give me a
drink of cider, and if there is a morsel of victual in the house----'
I hurried to bring him both cold meat and bread and a cup full of
cider. He began to eat and drink.
'Why,' he said, talking between his mouthfuls, 'if the worst comes
'tis better to face it with a----Your health, Madam': he finished
the cider. 'Another cup, Sister, if you love me: I have neither
eaten nor drunk since yesterday at seven o'clock, or thereabouts.'
He said no more until he had cleared the dish of the gammon and
left nothing but the bone. This he dropped into his pocket. 'When
the provisions are out,' he said wisely, 'there is good gnawing in
the shankbone of a ham.' Then he drank up the rest of the cider and
looked around. 'Victory? Did someone speak of victory?'
'Yes--where was it? Tell us quick!'
'Well, there was in some sort a victory. But the King had it.'
'What mean you, Barnaby? The King had it?--what King?'
'Not King Monmouth. That King is riding away to find some port and
get some ship, I take it, which will carry him back to Holland.'
'Barnaby, what is it? Oh! what is it? Tell us all.'
'All there is to tell, Sister, is that our army is clean cut to
pieces, and that those who are not killed or prisoners are making
off with what speed they may. As for me, I should have thrown away
my coat and picked up some old duds and got off to Bristol and so
aboard ship and away, but for Dad.'
'Barnaby,' cried my mother, 'what hath happened to him? Where is he?'
'I said, mother,' he replied very slowly, and looking in her face
strangely, 'that I would look after him, didn't I? Well, when we
marched out of Bridgwater at nightfall nothing would serve but he
must go too. I think he compared himself with Moses who stood afar
off and held up his arms. Never was there any man more eager to get
at the enemy than Dad. If he had not been a minister, what a soldier
he would have made!'
'Go on--quick, Barnaby.'
'I can go, Sister, no quicker than I can. That is quite sure.'
'Where is he, my son?' asked my mother.
Barnaby jerked his thumb over his left shoulder.
'He is over there, and he is safe enough for the present. Well,
after the battle was over, and it was no use going on any longer,
Monmouth and Lord Grey having already run away----'
'Run away? Run away?'
'Run away, Sister. Aboard ship the Captain stands by the crew to
the last, and, if they strike, he is prisoner with them. Ashore,
the General runs away and leaves his men to find out when they will
give over fighting. We fought until there was no more ammunition,
and then we ran with the rest. Now, I had not gone far before I saw
lying on the moor at my very feet the poor old Dad.'
'Oh!'
'He was quite pale, and I thought he was dead. So I was about to
leave him when he opened his eyes. "What cheer, Dad?" He said
nothing; so I felt his pulse and found him breathing. "But what
cheer, Dad?" I asked him again. "Get up if thou canst, and come with
me." He looked as if he understood me not, and he shut his eyes
again. Now, when you run away, the best thing is to run as fast and
to run as far as you can. Yet I could not run with Dad lying in the
road half dead. So while I tried to think what to do, because the
murdering Dragoons were cutting us down in all directions, there
came galloping past a pony harnessed to a kind of go-cart, where, I
suppose, there had been a barrel or two of cider for the soldiers.
The creature was mad with the noise of the guns, and I had much ado
to catch him and hold the reins while I lifted Dad into the cart.
When I had done that, I ran by the side of the horse and drove him
off the road across the moor, which was rough going, but for dear
life one must endure much, to North Marton, where I struck the road
to Taunton, and brought him safe, so far.'
'Take me to him, Barnaby,' said my mother. 'Take me to him.'
'Why, mother,' he said kindly, 'I know not if 'tis wise. For, look
you--if they catch us, me they will hang or shoot, though Dad they
may let go, for he is sped already--and for a tender heart like
thine 'twould be a piteous sight to see thy son hanging from a
branch with a tight rope round his neck and thy husband dead on a
hand-cart.'
'Barnaby, take me to him!--take me to him!'
'Oh! Is it true? Is it true? Oh! Captain Barnaby, is it really true?
Then, why are the bells a-ringing?'
Clash! Clash! Clash! The bells rang out louder and louder. One would
have thought the whole town was rejoicing. Yet there were a thousand
lads in the army belonging to Taunton town alone, and I know not how
many ever came home again.
'They are ringing,' said Barnaby, 'because King Monmouth's army
is scattered and the rebellion is all over. Well: we have had our
chance and we are undone. Now must we sing small again. Madam,' he
said earnestly, addressing Susan, 'if I remember right, they were
your hands that carried the naked sword and the Bible?'
'Sir, they were my hands. I am proud of that day.'
'And they were your scholars who worked the flags and gave them to
the Duke that day when you walked in a procession?'
'They were my scholars,' she said proudly.
'Then, Madam, seeing that we have, if all reports be true, a damned
unforgiving kind of King, my advice to you is to follow my example
and run. Hoist all sail, Madam, and fly to some port--any port.
Fly false colours. When hanging, flogging, branding, and the like
amusements set in, I think they will remember the Maids of Taunton.
That is my advice, Madam.'
'Sir,' said Susan bravely, though her cheek grew pale when he spoke
of floggings and brandings, 'I thank you. Whither should I fly?
Needs must I stay here and bear whatever affliction the Lord may lay
upon me. And, since our Protestant hero is defeated, methinks it
matters little what becomes of any of us.'
'Why,' Barnaby shook his head, 'King Monmouth is defeated, that is
most true; but we who survive have got ourselves to look after.
Sister, get a basket and put into it provisions.'
'What will you have, Barnaby?'
'Everything that you can find. Cold bacon for choice, and bread, and
a bottle of drink if you have any, and--all you can lay hands upon.
With your good leave, Madam.'
'Oh! Sir, take all--take all. I would to God that everything I have
in the world could be used for the succour of these my friends!' And
with that she began to weep and to cry.
I filled a great basket with all that there was in the house, and he
took it upon his arm. And then we went away with many tears and fond
farewells from this kind soul who had done so much for the Cause,
and was now about to pay so heavy a penalty for her zeal.
Outside in the street the people recognised Barnaby for one of
Monmouth's Captains, and pressed round him and asked him a thousand
questions, but he answered shortly.
'We were drubbed, I tell you. King Monmouth hath run away. We have
all run away. How should I know how many are killed? Every man who
doth not wish to be hanged had best run away and hide. The game is
up--friend, we are sped. What more can I say? How do I know, in the
Devil's name, whose fault it was? How can I tell, Madam, if your son
is safe? If he is safe, make him creep into a hiding-place'--and so
on to a hundred who crowded after him and questioned him as to the
nature and meaning of the defeat. Seeing that no more news could be
got from him, the people left off following us, and we got out of
the town on the east side, where the road leads to Ilminster; but it
is a bad road and little frequented.
Here Barnaby looked about him carefully to make sure that no one was
observing us, and then, finding that no one was within sight, he
turned to the right down a grassy lane between hedges.
''Tis this way that I brought him,' he said. 'Poor old Dad! he can
now move neither hand nor foot; and his legs will no more be any use
to him. Yet he seemed in no pain, though the jolting of the cart
must have shaken him more than a bit.'
The lane led into a field, and that field into another and a smaller
one, with a plantation of larches on two sides and a brook shaded
with alders on a third side. In one corner was a linney, with a
thatched roof supported on wooden pillars in front and closed in at
back and sides. It was such a meadow as is used for the pasture of
cattle and the keeping of a bull.
At the entrance of this meadow Barnaby stopped and looked about him
with approbation.
'Here,' he said slowly, 'is a hiding-place fit for King Monmouth
himself. A road unfrequented; the rustics all gone off to the
wars--though now, I doubt not, having had their bellyfull of
fighting. I suppose there were once cattle in the meadow, but they
are either driven away by the clubmen for safety, or they have been
stolen by the gipsies. No troopers will this day come prying along
this road, or if they do search the wood, which is unlikely, they
will not look in the linney; here can we be snug until we make up
our minds what course is best.'
'Barnaby,' I said, 'take us to my father without more speech.'
'I have laid him,' he went on, 'upon the bare ground in the linney;
but it is soft and dry lying, and the air is warm, though last night
it rained and was cold. He looks happy, mother, and I doubt if he
hath any feeling left in his limbs. Once I saw a man shot in the
backbone and never move afterwards, but he lived for a bit. Here he
is.'
Alas! lying motionless on his back, his head bare, his white hair
lying over his face, his eyes closed, his cheek white, and no sign
of life in him except that his breast gently heaved, was my father.
Then certain words which he had uttered came back to my memory.
'What matters the end,' were the words he said, 'if I have freedom
of speech for a single day?'
He had enjoyed that freedom for three weeks.
My mother threw herself on her knees beside him and raised his head.
'Ah! my heart,' she cried, 'my dear heart, my husband, have they
killed thee? Speak, my dear--speak if thou canst! Art thou in pain?
Can we do aught to relieve thee? Oh! is this the end of all?'
But my father made no reply. He opened his eyes, but they did not
move: he looked straight before him, but he saw nothing.
And this, until the end, was the burden of all. He spoke no word to
show that he knew anyone, or that he was in pain, or that he desired
anything. He neither ate nor drank, yet for many weeks longer he
continued to live.