“One to destroy is murder by the law,
And gibbets keep the lifted hand in awe;
To murder thousands takes a specious name,
War’s glorious art, and gives immortal fame.”
--Young.
Hilary found great pleasure throughout the next few months in her
friendship with Frances Hopton, and her sympathies gradually widened,
not only from constant intercourse with her uncle, but from her frequent
visits to Canon Frome Manor. The house was about two miles from Bosbury,
one of those fine old moated residences often found in the counties
bordering on Wales, strongly built and almost like small fortresses.
The Hoptons, like many another household in those days, were divided on
the subject of the war, Sir Richard himself sided with the Parliament,
but was too old to take any active part in the strife. He had suffered
severely, however, for the action he had taken in marching to Hereford
with the Earl of Stamford when the city had first been besieged in
the early days of the war, and the Royalists on returning to power had
plundered Canon Frome, and carried off or ruthlessly destroyed all the
furniture and valuables they could seize. Sir Richard had been cast into
prison, but later on, owing to the representations of his son Edward,
who had joined the King’s army, he was released and allowed to return
to his home, which was safe-guarded from further molestation by one of
those letters of protection which were granted both by the King and the
Parliament under certain circumstances.
So for a time all went well with them, and Hilary learnt to love Dame
Elizabeth, who, feeling sorry for the motherless girl, did what she
could for her and always gave her the warmest of welcomes at Canon
Frome.
One cold March day she had ridden over at noon with her uncle to dine
with the Hoptons, and, the meal being over, the ladies of the party were
sitting with their needlework in Dame Elizabeth’s withdrawing-room, when
Sir Richard and Dr. Coke rejoined them with grave faces.
“Hath any news come from the boys?” asked Dame Elizabeth anxiously, for
with one son fighting for the King and two fighting for the Parliament,
the poor lady knew little ease.
“No, but there is very grievous news of the capture of Mr. Wallop’s
place--Hopton Castle--by the Royalists,” said Sir Richard. “The entire
garrison hath been massacred.”
The ladies exclaimed in horror, and Dame Elizabeth asked the details.
“In truth they are too shocking to repeat,” said Dr. Coke, sighing. “It
seems that the place was held for the owner, who was absent, by Governor
More, brother to Mr. Richard More, Member of Parliament for Bishop’s
Castle. They held out gallantly when attacked by Colonel Woodhouse
and five hundred men, but were at length obliged to capitulate, being
utterly worn out and the castle well-nigh battered to pieces.
“But did not they sue for quarter?” asked Hilary.
“Yes, and were told that they should be referred to Colonel Woodhouse’s
mercy. Governor More and Major Phillips were taken before him to a house
at some little distance, and More wondered after a while why his men did
not follow, only then learning that they had been stripped, tied back
to back and put to death with circumstances of revolting barbarity. The
poor old steward of eighty, being weak and not able to stand, they put
him into a chair while they cut his throat.”
Hilary felt sick with horror.
“Who is this Colonel Woodhouse?” she asked.
“He is the Governor of Ludlow Castle, and it is only fair to say,”
remarked Sir Richard, “that when remonstrated with he alleged that he
had orders from Oxford.”
“His Majesty is surrounded by evil counsellors,” said the Vicar. “But if
that be indeed true, and sheer butchery was ordered, then it is all over
with the King’s cause. After that it will never prosper.”
This seemed to be the beginning of a much fiercer and more cruel epoch
of the struggle. At first both sides had acted with a certain dignity,
but the evil passions always kindled by war grew stronger and stronger,
and those who, like Hilary, had been inclined to enjoy the excitement of
the contest, and to dwell on the “glory” and “romance” of the campaign,
began to understand how cruel and devilish was the grim reality.
Hopton Castle was only just over the borders of Herefordshire, and but
four miles from Brampton Bryan, and when Hilary heard of the great
peril in which the Harleys found themselves her sympathies turned to the
orphaned children of Lady Brilliana, and to their friend and guardian,
Dr. Wright, who had been kind to her in her own trouble during Mrs.
Unett’s last illness.
Fresh from the diabolical cruelties perpetrated on the Hopton Castle
garrison, Colonel Woodhouse took his men to Brampton Bryan, and the
castle underwent a second siege, with no brave-hearted mistress to cheer
the unhappy garrison and the luckless children. The tragedy of Hopton
Castle would have been enacted once again, for a letter from Prince
Rupert was actually on its way to Colonel Woodhouse with such orders;
but, after a long and brave resistance, Dr. Wright, desperate at the
knowledge of the barbarities so lately committed by these very soldiers,
and fearing such a fate for his garrison, sent out to treat, and Colonel
Woodhouse, having granted them their lives, they surrendered just before
the arrival of the Prince’s letter, and were carried away prisoners to
Shrewsbury.
“Their lives are happily spared,” said Dr. Coke, when he was recounting
the story to his niece one evening, “but the splendid castle has
been burnt, down by Colonel Woodhouse, and with it one of the finest
libraries in the country. ’Tis pitiful to think of the loss, for there
were manuscripts there which can never be replaced. For generations the
Harleys have been noted for their love of literature.”
“I have heard Gabriel Harford speak of the library,” said Hilary. “He
was a friend and schoolfellow of the eldest son, and will grieve over
this sad tale.”
“That reminds me,” said the Vicar, “that to-day, near Castle Frome, I
met Dr. Harford. He told me that they had just heard from his son,
who had rejoined Sir William Waller, and had fought in the battle of
Cheriton.”
Hilary’s heart began to throb uncomfortably. She turned away, and made a
pretence of rearranging the logs on the hearth.
“He escaped without hurt?” she asked, in a voice that might have
betrayed her had the Vicar in the least guessed her story.
“Ay, and hath been promoted to a captaincy. I gathered, however, that
he is only longing for the end of hostilities, being now determined to
become a physician, like his father, and desiring to heal men rather
than to slay.”
Hilary was silent, hardly knowing whether she approved this new
development or not. With a little shudder, she remembered the flash
of indignation in Gabriel’s eyes when she had gleefully recounted that
fifty of the rebels had been killed at Powick Bridge. Certainly in those
early days, before she had in the least realised the horrors of war,
it had been possible to speak in a careless fashion that would now have
been out of the question.
Indeed, by the end of April the grim shadow of war drew yet closer to
Bosbury, for the Parliamentarians under Massey, Governor of Gloucester,
began to make inroads and to do their utmost to clear out small
garrisons and to raise money for the troops. It was far from pleasant to
realise that Massey and his soldiers were quartered at Ledbury, barely
four miles off, and Hilary began to picture to herself what would happen
if their peaceful village should be invaded.
Musing on this one afternoon, she set off to visit old Farmer Kendrick’s
wife at the Hill Farm, and to carry her certain remedies for her
rheumatism which Mrs. Durdle had made.
“Tell her,” said the housekeeper, “that she’d never have had the
rheumatics had she taken my advice and carried a potato all winter in
her pocket. But folk will be thinking there’s no cure without eating or
drinking summat, and the worse the taste the better the medicine, they
believe. So, my dear, I’ve flavoured this with camomile, as nasty a
herb as grows, and do you tell her to drink it hot first thing in the
mornin’, she’ll have a most powerful belief in that.”
Hilary laughed and promised. Crossing the churchyard she encountered
Zachary, the parish clerk, who was also the gardener and general
factotum at the Vicarage; his ruddy face looked less cheerful than was
its wont, and, resting on his mattock, he said, earnestly:
“Don’t you be a’goin’ far from home, mistress; it be scarce safe for you
to be abroad in times like these.”
“Why, Zachary,” she replied, with a smile, “I do but go to the Hill
Farm, and who is like to molest me?”
“They say the Parliament soldiers never misuse women,” said Zachary.
“But I wish the whole plaguey lot of soldiers were out of Herefordshire,
whether they be Cavaliers or Roundheads. There’s sore news from Stoke
Edith, they tell me.”
“What is that?” said Hilary, anxiously. “Have Massey’s soldiers
molested Dr. Rogers?”
“Well, mistress, they set out for Ledbury with no good will to him, for,
as you know, he has ever been severe to the Puritans, and I reekon they
thought their turn had come. But, as ill-luek would have it, close by
the wall at Stoke Edith they came upon an old parson and, belike, took
him for Dr. Rogers.”
“Well?” said Hilary, anxiously, as the man hesitated. “Did they harm
him?”
“It was old Parson Pralph walking back from Hereford to his Vicarage at
Tarrington.”
“I remember him, an old man of more than four-score years,” said Hilary.
“He had white hair and a long white beard.”
“That’s the man,” said Zachary, gloomily. “He’d been Vicar of Tarrington
over forty year. Well, one of Massey’s soldiers stopped him, saying,
‘Who art thou for?’ On whieh he honestly answered, ‘For God and the
King,’ and the soldier without more ado raised his pistol and shot him
dead.”
Hilary turned pale, the same sick horror that she had felt at Canon
Frome on hearing of Colonel Woodhouse’s barbarous conduct at Hopton
Castle overpowered her again, and as she walked on slowly to the Hill
Farm her eyes were dim with tears.
The summer brought them the news of the King’s defeat at Marston Moor,
but the more distant hostilities really affected them less than the
smaller troubles in their own near neighbourhood.
In the autumn of 1644 there was once more grievous trouble at Canon
Frome, for, notwithstanding the protection of the King’s letter, the
Manor was attacked by a party of Royalists, who insisted on converting
the house into a garrison.
Sir Richard Hopton resisted this intolerable invasion of his rights, but
superior force triumphed, and the poor old knight was seized and cast
into prison, while the Manor was at once garrisoned by a force whieh
proved the scourge of the neighbourhood.
As the luckless farmers remarked, “God had sent them good harvests
of hay and corn, but what was the use when they had but the labour of
mowing and reaping?”
The crops had been safely gathered in, but the Canon Frome garrison
plundered the farms, and if any man was bold enough to demand
compensation, or to resist the seizure of his goods--well, he found that
silent acquiescence would have been more prudent.
The beautiful county, a very Garden of Eden for fertility and
loveliness, became a hell upon earth, and the pathetic loyalty of the
people to a wholly unworthy monarch was speedily changed to active
and determined resistance. The Herefordshire folk cared little for the
dispute between King and Parliament, but under the intolerable wrongs
they suffered they now began to band themselves together into a neutral
party, armed only for the protection of their homes.
Hilary’s chief personal loss at this time was the companionship of
Frances Hopton, from whom she had not even the poor consolation of a
parting visit. A letter received from her soon after the conversion of
the Manor into a garrison explained what had passed. It ran as follows:
“My dear Hilary,--You have ere this, I know, heard the ill news of my
father’s arrest. He lies once more in gaol, and indeed I can well-nigh
rejoice in his absence, for he would be heartbroken could he see the
havoc the Royalist soldiers are making here. Many of the outhouses are
burnt down, and they ruthlessly destroy and waste the property in a
fashion that it is piteous to behold. I am bound to say, however, that
the Governor is a most pleasant and courteous gentleman, with so genial
a manner that one might think all this mischief carried out by his
orders was but a pastime amid toys, and not the wicked destruction of
an Englishman’s house, which we were wont to think his own and free from
all assaults by outsiders. The Governor has most considerately urged my
mother to retain the rooms in the right wing for our private use, and
since she is ailing and unfit to travel she remains here with one of
my brothers and three of the servants. But she thinks I am best away,
therefore I am to be sent with my sister to Garnons to stay with Mr. and
Mrs. Geers, you remember that Mr. Geers wedded recently Mistress Eliza
Acton, goddaughter to your Hereford friend, Mrs. Joyce Jefferies. Here
came a long pause in my letter, for who should come into the ante-room
where I am writing but the Governor. He made many pretty speeches on
hearing that I was to leave home. Maybe this is the reason my brother
doth not like him so well as we womenfolk do; I often notice that my
father and the boys particularly detest these evil, pleasant-spoken
gentlemen who know how to turn a neat compliment. I forgot to tell you
that the Governor--his name is Colonel Norton--is a remarkably handsome
man, very tall, and with bright laughing eyes and auburn love-locks.
Pray tell the vicar that I will question Mr. Geers as to the antiquities
in the neighbourhood of Garnons, and when these troubles be ended
seek to bring him some treasures for his collection.--I rest, your
affectionate friend,
“Frances Hopton.”
“My youngest brother is now with Governor Massey, and since he is kept
so actively at work against various regiments of the Royalists now
scattered over the country to seek winter quarters, you may belike
see him. Governor Massey doth seem much to affect the neighbourhood of
Ledbury, and since his great victory near by at Redmarley last August,
he will doubtless hold it in yet more loving remembrance. They tell me
that Colonel Edward Harley did there get wounded, and that though he
hath now recovered the bullet is yet in him.”
Hilary folded the letter sadly.
Everything seemed to be passing away from her, and she began faintly
to understand how terrible a condition England was in. Moreover, the
closing in of the short autumn days, and the near approach of the hard
winter, depressed her. She wondered how she should ever endure the long
nights with their dreadful sense of insecurity; she shuddered at the
remembrance of the horrible tales she had heard from the village folk
of the wickedness and violence of Prince Maurice’s troops, and she
remembered with horror the fate of the Vicar of Tarrington. If one of
Massey’s men had shown such brutality to him, what guarantee had she
that the Viear of Bosbury would fare any better?
Sitting by the hearth in the fast-gathering twilight, an unusual stir in
the village street suddenly attracted her attention; there was a steady,
ominous tramp of many feet, which could not be mistaken, then the hoarse
shout of an officer, “Plait!”
She sprang up and ran to the study, where the Vicar sat at a table
strewn with fossils, deeply absorbed in the contemplation of an
ammonite.
“Sir!” she said, “do you not hear that there are soldiers in the
village?”
“Look what a fine specimen Mr. Bartley hath to-day brought me for the
collection,” said Dr. Coke, looking up at her with a happy light in his
eyes. “’Tis the finest I have ever seen.”
“Yes, yes,” said Hilary, trying to be patient; “but, uncle, there are
soldiers halting in the village.”
She had at last brought him back from pre-historic times to the
seventeenth century. He pushed back his chair and, putting on his
college cap, rose to his feet.
“Now I think of it,” he said, “I met a couple of scouts when I was
out--Massey’s men, judging by their ribbons.”
“Oh! don’t go then; you must not go, sir, if they are Massey’s men,” she
said in terror.
“Why, yes, child, of course I must go,” he said, patting her shoulder
caressingly. “’Tis my duty to try and keep the peace betwixt the
soldiers and the village folk; I only trust they do not mean to stay
here long. Let supper be made ready, for whether they be friends or foes
we are bound by holy writ to feed them if they hunger. I’ll warrant,
though, that you’d like to pepper the broth till it choked them!”
And with a laugh he went out, his eyes twinkling with humour at the
thought of pretty Hilary with her vehement hatred of Parliamentarians
getting ready the best evening meal that the house could provide.