BOSWORTH FIELD.
It was the morning of Monday, the 22d of August, 1485, when the Yorkist
usurper and the Lancastrian adventurer mustered their forces on the
field of Bosworth, and prepared for that conflict which decided the
thirty years' War of the Roses.
On the eve of a struggle which subsequent events rendered so memorable,
Richard was not quite himself. For days his temper had been frequently
tried by news of desertion, and for nights his rest had been broken by
dreams of disaster. Nevertheless, he prepared for battle with energy.
The honor of leading the van, which was constituted of archers, flanked
with cuirassiers, fell to the Duke of Norfolk, and his son the Earl of
Surrey. The main battle, consisting of choice bill-men, empaled with
pikes, and formed into a dense square, with wings of cavalry on either
side, the king took under his own auspices. The rear-guard was under
the command of Northumberland. Besides, Richard's artillery was the
reverse of contemptible; and, altogether, he had little to fear save
from the treachery of his adherents.
Richmond, meantime, growing uneasy in the presence of a foe so
redoubted, sent to ask Lord Stanley to come and assist him in
marshaling his army. The answer of the Countess of Richmond's husband
was not quite satisfactory to his step-son. Indeed, Stanley gave the
messenger to understand that no aid need be expected from him till the
armies joined battle, and he only committed himself so far as to advise
that the onset should be made without delay.
Richmond was staggered at Stanley's answer. The Welsh earl's situation
was indeed painful and perplexing. He knew that his army was scarcely
half so numerous as the king's, and he could not but be conscious
of his immeasurable inferiority as a general. Retreat, however, was
impossible; and, after holding a council of war, Richmond resolved
on fighting forthwith. This resolution having been arrived at, the
Lancastrian army was set in order for battle. Oxford took the command
of the van, which consisted principally of archers. Richmond--whose
standard was borne by Sir William Brandon--undertook to command the
main body; and in his rear, with a body of horsemen and some bills
and pikes, was posted Jasper Tudor, whose age and experience, it was
probably hoped, would compensate in some measure for his nephew's lack
of military skill and prowess. Besides, Richmond's army had two wings.
Of these one was commanded by Sir Gilbert Talbot, the other by Sir John
Savage.
His preparations made, and his armor girded on except the helmet,
Richmond, to encourage his army, rode from rank to rank, and many of
the Lancastrian soldiers for the first time saw the man who represented
himself as the heir of John of Gaunt. The aspect of the adventurer
must have disappointed those who had pictured, in imagination, such
a chief as the conqueror of Towton and Tewkesbury. Nature had denied
Richmond kingly proportions; and his appearance, though not positively
mean, was far from majestic; while his countenance wore an expression
which indicated too clearly that tendency to knavery destined to be so
rapidly developed.
After riding along his lines, Richmond halted, and from an elevated
part of the field addressed to his army one of those battle-field
orations which were in fashion at the period. Dealing with such topics
as were most likely to inflame his partisans against the usurper,
he was listened to with sympathy; and perceiving, as he pronounced
the words, "Get this day, and be conquerors; lose the battle, and be
slaves," that an impression had been produced, he added, "In the name
of GOD, then, and of St. George, let every man advance his banner."
At these words Sir William Brandon raised the Tudor's standard; the
trumpets sounded an onset; and Richmond, keeping the morass to his
right, led the Lancastrians, with the sun on their backs, slowly up
the ascent toward Amyon Hill.
Ere this, Richard had mounted his tall steed--the White Surrey of
Shakspeare--ascended an eminence, since known as "Dickon's Mount,"
called his captains together, and addressed them as his "most faithful
and assured friends." The speech, not unworthy of one whom his enemies
confess to have been "a king jealous of the honor of England," elicited
some degree of enthusiasm; but Richard must have sighed as he recalled
to memory how enthusiastic, in comparison, had been the burst of
sympathy which rose from Edward's soldiers on the field of Barnet. The
bold usurper, however, appeared undismayed. "Let every one," he said
in conclusion, "strike but one sure blow, and certainly the day will
be ours. Wherefore, advance banners, sound trumpets; St. George be our
aid; and GOD grant us victory!"
As the king concluded, and placed his helmet, with a crown of ornament,
on his brow, the Yorkists raised a shout, sounded trumpets, and moved
down the hill; and, with banners flying and plumes waving, the hostile
armies came hand to hand.
The day opened not inauspiciously for Richard. His army would be little
inferior to that of his adversaries even should Stanley join Richmond;
and his position on Amyon Hill had been selected with judgment.
Moreover, to intimidate and outflank the foe, he had extended his van
to an unusual length, and this artifice proved so far successful, at
least, that Oxford was somewhat dismayed at the danger that threatened
his scanty ranks.
Oxford, however, was a leader of extraordinary calibre. He had not,
indeed, seen many fields, but to him Barnet had been worth thirty years
of experience to men not gifted with the military genius which rendered
the Anglo-Norman barons such formidable war-chiefs. Over the events of
that disastrous day the earl may be supposed to have mused for twelve
years in his prison at Hammes, and to have learned, in sadness and
solitude, wholesome lessons for his guidance in the event of being
again called to encounter the warriors of the White Rose. The day had
now arrived, and John De Vere was resolved not to be outwitted either
by "Jocky of Norfolk" or "Dickon his master."
No sooner did Oxford's men come to close encounter with those under
Norfolk, than the earl saw that he was exposed to danger. Without
loss of time, he issued orders that no soldier should move ten yards
from his colors. Their leader's motive not being understood, the men
hurriedly closed their ranks and ceased from fighting; and the enemy,
suspicious of some stratagem, likewise drew back from the conflict.
Oxford quickly availed himself of this pause in the battle, and,
placing his men in the form of a wedge, he made a furious attack on
the foe. At the same time, Lord Stanley, who, when the armies moved,
had placed himself on Richmond's right hand to oppose the front of the
royal van, charged with ardor; and Norfolk would have been exposed to
a danger similar to that from which Oxford had just been freed, if,
while Oxford was forming the Lancastrian van into a wedge, Richard had
not arrayed anew that of the Yorkists--placing thin lines in front, and
supporting them by dense masses.
Both armies having thus been re-formed, proceeded with the battle. But
it soon appeared that, however equal the antagonistic forces might be
in number, the zeal was all on the side of the Red Rose. Moreover,
Northumberland, who commanded the rear--one third of Richard's
army--refrained from taking any part whatever in the conflict; and
futile proved the king's expectation of aid from the potent northern
earl.
The battle had not been long joined ere the field wore an aspect most
unfavorable to Richard. Norfolk, indeed, fought resolutely in the
van; but, outnumbered and hard-pressed by Oxford and Stanley, he was
slowly but surely giving way; and the men composing the king's division
exerted themselves faintly, and exhibited little of such enthusiasm as
might have carried them on to victory against superior numbers.
Amid the smoke of artillery and the roar of battle, Sir Robert
Brackenbury and Sir Walter Hungerford met face to face.
"Traitor," exclaimed Brackenbury, "what caused you to desert me?"
"I will not answer you with words," said Hungerford, taking aim at the
head of his ancient comrade.
The blow would have been fatal; but Brackenbury received its force
on his shield, which was shivered in protecting its owner's head;
and Hungerford, perceiving his antagonist's defenseless plight,
chivalrously declared that they should fight on equal terms, and
handed his own shield to a squire. The combat was then renewed, and
both knights exerted their utmost strength. At length Brackenbury's
helmet was battered to pieces, and his adversary's weapon inflicted
a severe wound. "Spare his life, brave Hungerford," cried Sir Thomas
Bourchier, coming up; "he was our friend, and he may be so again." But
it was already too late to save the wounded knight. As Bourchier spoke,
Brackenbury fell lifeless to the ground.
In another part of the field met Sir John Byron and Sir Gervase
Clifton. The two knights were neighbors in the county of Nottingham,
and, before embracing opposite sides, had made a singular contract.
Byron, who donned the Red Rose, agreed, in the event of Richmond being
victor, to intercede for the heirs of Clifton; and Clifton, who assumed
the White Rose, promised, in case of Richard's success, to exercise his
utmost influence on behalf of Byron's family. Byron, seeing Clifton
fall, instantly pressed forward to save him; and, sustaining his
wounded friend on a shield, entreated him to surrender. Clifton opened
his eyes, recognized his neighbor, and recalled their agreement to
memory. "All is over with me," he said, faintly; "but remember your
promise." Byron pressed the hand of Clifton as the Yorkist warrior
expired, and he kept the promise so faithfully that Clifton's estates
remained in possession of his children.
About this time Richard rode out of the battle, and dismounted to
quench his thirst at a spring of water on Amyon Hill, now covered
with a pyramid of rough stones, indicated by Dr. Parr's inscription
in Roman letters, and pointed out to strangers as "King Richard's
Well;" and Catesby and other of the usurper's friends, believing defeat
inevitable, brought one of those fleet steeds which, on such occasions,
seldom failed their riders.
"The field is lost, but the king can yet be saved," they said as the
war-cries, reaching their ears through the roar of bombards and the din
of battle, intimated that Oxford and Stanley were overmatching the
Howards, and that, ere long, the shout would be "Richmond and victory."
"Mount, my lord," said Catesby; "I hold it time for you to fly.
Stanley's dints are so sore that against them can no man stand. Fly!
Another day we may worship again."
"Fly!" exclaimed Richard. "By St. Paul, not one foot. I will either
make an end of all battles this day, or finish my life on this field. I
will die King of England."
His determination thus expressed, Richard mounted his charger, hastily
closed his visor, and again faced the field. By this time it appeared
that the day would be decided by the vans. Richard, not altogether
willing to stake his crown on the generalship of the Howards, spurred
from his right centre to see how the conflict went; and, at the same
moment, Richmond, surrounded by his guard, left his main body, and
rode forward to encourage the men under Oxford and Stanley. Thus it
happened that the king and the Welsh earl came in sight of each other;
and no sooner was Richard aware of Richmond being within reach, than
the temptation to single out the hostile leader became too strong to be
resisted.
And never during the battles of the Roses--neither in the mist at
Barnet, nor in the sunshine at Tewkesbury--had Richard made himself
so formidable as in that hour. With his lance in rest, and followed by
choice warriors, he dashed toward the spot where the banner borne by
Sir William Brandon indicated Richmond's presence. The white war-steed,
the gorgeous armor, the crown of ornament, rendered Richard conspicuous
as he spurred forward, and fierce was the onset as he charged among
the knights who clustered around the Lancastrian chief. Vain were all
efforts to bar his progress. Richmond's standard was trampled in the
dust; Sir William Brandon, pierced with a mortal wound, fell never more
to rise; Sir John Cheyney, throwing his bulky form in Richard's path,
was hurled from his horse; and the Welsh earl, all unused to the game
of carnage, was in the utmost peril. His destruction, indeed, appeared
inevitable. The Lancastrian warriors, however, spurred to the rescue,
and shielded the adventurer's head from the usurper's hand.
But most doubtful now was the issue of the conflict. The desperate
charge of Richard had created a panic among his foes, and there was
some prospect of Richmond having to choose between dying bravely and
flying cravenly, when a circumstance, not unexpected, changed the
aspect of the field.
Sir William Stanley had hitherto remained a spectator of the fight.
Having ever been a devoted Yorkist, perhaps the gallant knight,
hating Richard as he did, was not eager to draw the sword for
Lancaster against a Yorkist, even though a usurper. When, however,
Richard's triumph was likely to result from his inaction, Stanley came
with a shout to Richmond's aid; and this accession of force to the
Lancastrians so completely turned the scale, that no chance of victory
remained for Richard, unless, indeed, the chief of the Percies should
lead the tall Danes of the north to the rescue.
But Stanley charged on, and the conflict became a rout; and the
Yorkist warriors, attacked with energy, gave way in a body; and,
still, Northumberland maintained his position, and, having ordered his
soldiers to throw down their weapons, stood motionless while fliers and
pursuers swept by.
Lord Lovel and other Yorkists of name made their escape. But, as
at Barnet and Tewkesbury, so also at Bosworth, men of high spirit
disdained to fly or yield. John Howard, Duke of Norfolk, fighting
in the van, redeemed a mean life by a not inglorious death; Walter,
Lord Ferrers, died with courage, as he had lived with honor; and Sir
Richard Ratcliffe partially wiped away his disgrace by falling bravely
for the sovereign whom he had too faithfully served. Lord Surrey and
Sir William Catesby were taken on the field. Northumberland quietly
surrendered.
Richard now felt that he was face to face with his destiny; and, in
the hour of defeat and despair, he did not shrink from the fate he
had defied. Indeed, the valor he displayed in his last moments excited
admiration even in adversaries. Rising in his stirrups as he saw
his standard-bearer cut down, and shouting loudly that he had been
betrayed, the usurper spurred into the midst of his foes, and made his
sword ring on helmet and shield. Not till unhorsed did he cease to
fight desperately. Even then, his shield broken, his armor bruised,
and the crown of ornament hewn from his helmet, Richard continued to
struggle. At length, exhausted with fatigue, and pierced with many
wounds, he died disdainfully, with the word "Treason" on his tongue.
Ere the warriors of the Red Rose had time to moralize over the fall of
the last Plantagenet king, Richmond, unwounded in the dreadful scene
with which the conflict closed, and feeling like a man saved from
imminent peril of drowning, threw himself on his knees, and returned
thanks to GOD for victory. Then he rose, and expressed gratitude to
those who had aided him in his enterprise; and Reginald Bray, bringing
Richard's crown from a bush, on which that ornament had been hung,
handed it to Lord Stanley, and Stanley placed it on the victor's head;
and the soldiers cried, "Long live Henry the Seventh;" and the monarchy
of the Plantagenets ceased to exist.
[Illustration: THE LAST PLANTAGENET KING.]