THE BATTLE OF SENLAC.
Both armies remained within their lines, that Friday morning, and
both were busily preparing for battle. The commanders as well as the
warriors were making ready.
The instructions given by King Harold to his men were to act altogether
upon the defensive, and to content themselves with their strong
position along Senlac ridge.
If his orders had been rigidly obeyed by all, there would have been no
victory won by William of Normandy. The generalship of the king and the
valour of his warriors were made of no avail by the headlong folly of
the less disciplined part of the Saxon army.
During this day, ambassadors went back and forth, more than once,
as if the last possibility of peace had not already for ever passed
away. Harold could not consent to any terms which did not include the
immediate departure of the invaders, and William could not at this hour
abandon his great military enterprise without fighting a battle.
Both armies were in good spirits. The Normans might well feel
confidence in their greatly superior numbers and in the established
reputation of Duke William as a successful general. The Saxons, on the
other hand, appreciated the strength of their position, and they were
able to say to one another that Harold, the son of Godwin, had never
lost a battle. They believed him to be at least the equal of any living
army leader.
Ned, the son of Webb, and Father Brian were busy all along the lines,
from hour to hour, but there was nothing warlike for them to do. When,
however, they returned to their camp at evening, both of them appeared
to have become exceedingly English, or at least Saxon, in feeling.
"I believe I know what's coming," said Ned. "The Normans can't break
in! We can cut them all to pieces if they try it on."
"The fight will be long and hard," replied the missionary, very
seriously. "It will be well for thee and me to obtain places of
observation upon as high ground as we may."
"All right," said Ned. "I want to see it all. It will be something for
me to tell about when I get home. I shall never forget it as long as I
live!"
"Ah, my boy!" said the good man, "a great many thousands of these
Saxons and Normans will not live to remember it."
They slept again, and arose with the sun of Saturday, October 14, A. D.
1066, the day of the great change which came to England.
It was yet early in the forenoon when Harold the King rode slowly
along his lines and spoke good words to all his soldiers. Everywhere
they responded to him with loud, enthusiastic acclamations of love and
loyalty, and fearlessness.
Duke William of Normandy also, attended by a brilliant escort of
celebrated warriors and men of high rank, rode from one to another of
the serried masses of his mighty host. He addressed them with fiery
eloquence, assuring them of complete and speedy victory over the
inferior forces opposed to them.
They, as well as he, however, were able to see how strong were the
Senlac works, and how warlike and firm was the Saxon array behind the
barriers.
Ned, the son of Webb, and his companion found that, from their post on
the hill, they had a good view of both armies. They had been watching
all movements and indications with almost breathless interest. It was
not yet noon when Ned suddenly exclaimed:
"Oh, isn't this magnificent! I don't believe there was ever anything
more splendid in all the world!"
"It will be a great battle, my boy," said the missionary, "one of the
greatest in all history. There! Seest thou?"
"I see!" shouted Ned. "The Normans are advancing! William's whole army
is moving! Oh, how I wish our men were armed with breech-loaders! I
wish we had Maxim guns and cannon looking out through the palisades.
The Normans would never get near enough to do any chopping on them,
then."
"Chopping?" echoed the good man. "In a very little, I think thou wilt
see good chopping done by the Saxons. The best of our ax-men are at
the front. Mark thou the slingers behind them, and note King Harold's
bowmen. I would there were more of them. The archers and slingers of
Duke William come on in advance of his horsemen."
"They are beginning, too," said Ned. "A stone from a sling will break
a shield. They say the Norman arrows will go through armour."
"If they hit!" said the priest. "Mark, now! This is the advantage of
the king's position."
Ned could understand it in a moment. The duke's archers had a high
reputation, but in this beginning of the battle they laboured under a
serious disadvantage. All their skill and strength were of small value,
while they were shooting from low ground at enemies who were not only
above them, but were protected by walls of wood. It was evident that
until these defences were broken through stones and arrows would make
no important impression upon Harold's men.
"Ha, ha!" exclaimed Father Brian. "They sling well, but they are in
need of more stones to throw. A man may not carry a quarry in a quiver.
Small harm have they done, and the sharp arrows are wasted on the
palisades. I think Duke William must do better than this, or he will
get no nearer London."
"How lead would tell just now!" responded Ned. "The range is getting
short enough for heavy revolvers. Hurrah! Here come the Norman spearmen
and the mounted knights in full armour. What can lances do against
palisades? This is grand!"
The duke's archers and slingers had suffered heavy losses, and they
now fell back discomfited, leaving the Senlac slope littered thickly
with the victims of the shafts and stones of the Saxons. All was clear,
however, for the desperate assault which was to test the strength of
King Harold's lines. If it were successful, it would be proved that his
judgment as a general had been wrong, and that he ought not to have
faced the invaders at Senlac.
The attack was made in excellent order, and with desperate courage,
by masses which seemed to be overwhelming. As they pressed onward up
the slope, the arrows and javelins of the Saxons came among them in a
death-dealing storm, slaying or disabling both horses and men by the
hundred. They did not waver, however, and now their foremost ranks had
reached the palisades to be met by the long spears, the missiles, and
the terrible pole-axes.
"How they go down, the Normans!" gasped Ned. "They have not broken
through at any place. They are falling back! They are beaten! What will
the duke do, now?"
Up to this moment, the King of England and his two brothers had
remained on the hill, together, that they might better observe the
operations of both armies, and it must have seemed to them that their
plan of battle promised complete success. On the duke's left, indeed,
his host of Bretons, horse and foot, had suffered such severe losses
that they were retreating in much disorder. In their panic rout they
were confusing also his left centre, and at the same time his entire
right wing had staggered back down the slope in dismay.
Terrible was the disappointment and wild was the wrath of the Norman
leader as he witnessed this first result of the stubborn valour of
the Saxons. They had suffered small loss, comparatively, and their
confidence in themselves and in their king was stronger than ever. It
was only too strong, for it became a great danger.
Sometimes the power of a really great leader of men shows at its best
under adverse circumstances. Dark as seemed the prospect before him,
Duke William had lost neither heart nor hope. He was among his troops,
now, galloping from point to point, commanding, directing, encouraging,
even threatening. It was by his own personal exertions and address that
his beaten forces were rallying at the very moment when the Saxon right
wing, contrary to the strict orders of King Harold, broke forth from
the security of its defences to pursue the fleeing Bretons.
Ned, the son of Webb, heard, or thought he heard, a terrible
exclamation from the king, and then both of the earls, his brothers,
Gyrth and Leofwine, spurred away. They went to recall the mistaken
sally of their overconfident men, but they were too late.
The quick eyes of Duke William had instantly perceived his opportunity.
He was already reinforcing with fresh troops his rallying fugitives,
and at once, in the open field, their superior numbers became
available. In vain did their rash Saxon pursuers rally around the two
royal brothers. In vain did they cut down hundreds of their foemen
while they strove to fight their way back to the shelter of their
Senlac defences.
"Swarms!" groaned Ned. "Oh, what swarms of Normans are pouring around
those men! William himself is there! More of his men-at-arms are
charging in! His very best knights! What? There! He and Earl Gyrth are
fighting, hand to hand! William's horse is killed! He has fallen! He
is up again! Gyrth's horse, too, is killed! They are fighting again on
foot! Is it Gyrth? No, I can see William! Yes! Oh, dear! Gyrth is dead!"
It was terribly exciting to watch such a struggle as this had become.
Near him sat King Harold, himself, upon his horse, as motionless as a
bronze image.
"Father Brian," whispered Ned, hoarsely, "Leofwine, too, is down. King
Harold hath no brothers, now. He must fight the rest of this battle
alone. Oh, this is dreadful!"
Dark, indeed, had now become the prospect before the central body of
the Saxon army. Although the defences in front of it were unbroken,
those at its right as well as at its left were very soon passed by the
Normans. It was afterward said that Duke William had cunningly ordered
his troops on the Saxon right also to pretend flight, that their
enemies might be tempted to follow as those on the left had followed
the Bretons.
[Illustration: "NEAR HIM SAT KING HAROLD HIMSELF, UPON HIS HORSE, AS
MOTIONLESS AS A BRONZE IMAGE."]
However that may be, the sun was now sinking, and the centre of King
Harold's army was all that was left of it in good fighting order. Of
its assailants, the number which had fallen was believed to equal, man
for man, that of all the Saxons who had been present at Senlac that
morning. Nearly a fourth part of Duke William's army, therefore, lay
upon the field. The remainder of it, however, still outnumbered, five
to one, the remnant of King's Harold's heroes.
Firm as a rock stood these, and against them the furious tide of the
invaders, horsemen and footmen, broke in vain. Still they held their
strong position upon the hill of the standards, the Golden Dragon of
England and the Fighting Man that was Harold's own personal banner.
The king, himself, was now fighting on foot in the front rank of his
house-carles, and he had performed mighty deeds of valour.
In this hour, however, the subtle war cunning of the duke came to
his aid. The shields and the armour of the closely serried Saxons
behind these remaining works prevented the shafts of his bowmen from
injuring greatly the solid wedge of warriors into which the thingmen
and their comrades had formed themselves around and on the hill. The
battle could not be altogether lost so long as this living wall should
remain unbroken. All the Saxons were on foot, and the Normans, who were
mounted, gained little thereby, since their unarmoured horses were so
often killed by javelins as they pressed forward.
"Shoot up! Shoot up!" shouted the duke to his archers. "Let the shafts
fall upon them from above. They have no shields over their heads."
Thousands of strong-armed bowmen at once obeyed him. In a moment
more, it was as if a thick hail of sharp arrows was falling among
the Saxons behind, while those who were in front were still compelled
to hold their shields before them. The cunning device of the duke
might yet have been baffled, perhaps, but for one of its first fatal
consequences. Man after man was going down, and the king himself looked
up to see what this might be. Even as he raised his head, the battle
was lost, and the crown of England passed to William of Normandy, for
from the sky above, as it seemed, a hissing shaft came down and pierced
through his right eye to the brain.
"The king hath fallen!" screamed Ned, the son of Webb. "Harold is dead!
He is dead! We are beaten! England is conquered!"
"Come thou on with me, then," said Father Brian. "There are plenty
of horses. We must speed away from this place. The house-carles are
wearied with long fighting, but they will all die where they stand.
Thou and I have no need to die with them. Quickly, now, my boy!"
Fierce, frenzied, desperate, was the last stand of the Saxons around
the royal standards and the dying king. Terrible was the carnage which
they made among the Normans, but it was as Father Brian had said: the
warriors of Harold were worn out with long fighting, and they were now
continually assailed by arrivals of fresh troops, men who had hitherto
done little or nothing. Flesh and blood could endure no more, and the
work of destruction was slowly completed. One strong body of Saxons,
it was afterward related, was actually getting away when the darkness
came. It was closely followed by the duke himself and his men-at-arms.
Then the Saxons turned again upon their pursuers, and William not only
lost many horsemen, but came very near losing his own life also in the
hour of victory.
"Where shall we go now?" asked Ned, as he and his friend clambered
into the saddles of two horses which had been tethered in the rear of
the lost position on the hill.
"I will guide thee, my boy," replied the missionary. "Thou and I may
make good our escape, if we are prudent."
"How on earth can we get away from the Normans?" groaned Ned. "Some of
them are between us, already, and all the rest of England. I don't see
how we are to get through William's army."
"We must get out of the battle, first," said Father Brian. "Then we'll
ride away around into the Norman camps at the seashore. We would do
well to obtain speech with him in the morning. Now that he hath slain
King Harold and considereth himself the ruler of England, he will
gladly welcome any from among the Saxons who cometh to him with a
peaceful tongue. Be thou mindful of that, my boy. I am glad that thou
art able to speak French to him."
"So am I," said Ned, with some energy. "I'd really like to have a good
talk with William the Conqueror. But, oh, Father Brian! this hath been
an awful affair. They will not need so many surgeons or ambulances
or hospitals as civilised armies would. As soon as any man is down,
somebody killeth him. They do not seem to know what mercy is."
"That they do not," said Father Brian. "Thou wilt bear in mind,
however, that the killing of King Harold and all of his best men
giveth to William of Normandy all the good title he hath to the crown
of England. If Harold had escaped all alone from this battle-field he
would be king still."
"The English elected him fairly," replied Ned. "Not one voter among
them put in a ballot for the duke. I suppose they won't try to do any
more against him after this, though. Let him have it, then. All I can
say is that I hope there will never be another invasion of England by
anybody."
"No man may foretell concerning that matter," said the missionary.
"There hath been much fighting on this island. Even Ireland herself
hath been attacked many a time, and she might be again. It is my
opinion, though, my boy, that England will for ever continue to be
English, whoever is king, even as Ireland continueth Irish."
"Most likely thou art right," replied Ned. "The duke may bring in
droves on droves of Normans and all sorts. He won't think of killing
off the Angles, and Saxons, and Danes, and Welsh, and Scotch. We don't,
when they come to America. Every kind that lands among us becometh
American, and I shouldn't wonder if even the Normans became Englishmen."
"Better for them to become civilised," said the missionary,
thoughtfully. "The duke will kill none unless it may be a few earls
and other high men who may stand in his way, or such commoners as
resist him. I think he will speak all others fairly and make peace with
them. Were he not to do so, there are axes enough left in England to
make away with all that the Senlac battle hath left of his army."
"That's so!" exclaimed Ned. "I've seen some of them. Anyhow, I don't
want to be an English earl just now. It wouldn't be safe."
"Come!" said Father Brian. "Faster! The farther we get away from Senlac
the safer we will be from sword and spear. It is getting very dark. I
am glad of it."
After that he did not again draw his rein until they had almost reached
a line of tents a little distance inland from the town of Hastings.
"Now do I wish I knew," he declared, emphatically, "which of these may
happen to belong to some man who was killed in the battle. Oh, Ned,
the son of Webb, let us make trial of this large one that is nearest at
hand. Speak thou to yonder gaily apparelled youth in thy best French."
"Ho! whose tent is this?" Ned asked at once, as he rode nearer.
He shouted his question at a young man who appeared to be a sort of
esquire, stepping hastily forward from the canvas doorway to meet them.
"This is the marquee of the Sieur Raoul de Berri," replied its
custodian. "Whether he be now alive or dead we know not. What news, if
any, have ye from the battle?"
"Of thy master I know nothing," said Ned, "but of the battle I can tell
thee that the Saxon army is beaten and that Harold the King is dead.
Hard hath been the fighting, all day, and the slain are many."
There had been hurrying feet from all directions toward the spot where
the two newcomers had halted, and so there had been other hearers
besides the gay esquire of Sieur Raoul de Berri. Loud and prolonged
were the shouts with which the announcement made by Ned was received,
for before this there had arrived doubtful news from the hard contested
field.
"Dismount ye and come in," said the esquire. "Well may we feast the
bringers of joyful tidings. Whoever ye may be, ye are most welcome.
Even while ye are eating and drinking, moreover, we pray you to talk
on. We would gladly hear all that we may concerning the great battle.
How was it fought? Can ye tell us the names of any that were slain? How
fareth it with our liege lord the duke, that shall henceforth be King
of England?"
It was truly a good thing that Ned, the son of Webb, was so well
practised in his French, albeit the kind he spoke varied much from that
which was now being uttered so volubly around him. For once, indeed,
Father Brian was left to something which to him painfully resembled
silence.
Before long, however, there arrived a swarm of French and Norman
clergymen, all of whom could understand the kind of Latin taught in the
great school at Clontarf. Speedily, then, the good missionary went out
with them, and Ned was left alone to entertain his tent-full of eager
and excited listeners. All the while, moreover, the good news spread
rapidly through all that camp and was carried on to others.
"Sir," said Ned to the esquire, at last, "I am tired out! I think there
is nothing else that will use up a man so completely as a great battle."
"Ay!" exclaimed his new friend, hospitably. "Thy couch is prepared for
thee. Thou hast fought well this day. Well am I assured that our liege
lord, the Duke of the Normans, and the Sieur de Berri himself would
have us take all care of thee."
"I shall be glad to get to bed," said Ned.
"Sleep thou well," replied the esquire, "and on the morrow thou shalt
surely be brought into the presence of the duke, as thou desirest."
The appointments of that marquee and the comfort of its arrangements
for sleeping were more in accordance with Norman luxury than with Saxon
plainness. Ned, the son of Webb, took note of them, weary as he was.
Nevertheless, before his eyes closed he was thinking:
"If here isn't another of these frauds! I didn't do any real fighting,
for either side. I'm afraid it's as bad, almost, as the Stamford bridge
humbug, and what to do about it I don't know. Oh, how sorry I am that I
had no opportunity for telling King Harold that I did not kill Sikend
the Berserker. I shall always have the credit of it, without any fault
of mine. They may put it into books of history, just like other great
exploits."
His slumbers were long and heavy, and they were broken at last by a
friendly shaking at the hands of Father Brian.
"Up! Up!" he shouted. "O Ned, the son of Webb, hasten and eat thy
breakfast. The Duke of Normandy cometh. Not yet, I think, are we to
call him the King of England. That may not be until he hath been duly
crowned as king. My boy, I trust that now thou art shortly to have
speech with him."
Ned became very wide awake while he heard what the missionary had to
say, and his mind grew very busy.
"I thought likely," he said, "that the duke would come back to his
camp. He won't march for London till he knoweth what the other Saxons
are doing. His army was badly mauled, yesterday, anyhow, and he must
get it into shape again."
The army of Norman invaders had indeed been seriously damaged. If a
second English army could have attacked them on the day after Senlac,
it would have found them unfit for another such struggle. There was
no such army in existence, however, and William went on with his plans
without armed interruption. He went first to inspect his fleet, and he
sent the greater part of it back to Normandy and other places.
At about the middle of the forenoon of that day, the duke was at a camp
a little south of Hastings, attended by a number of his great men.
Among them were his brother Odo, Bishop of Bayeux, and Lanfranc, the
famous scholar.
Here it was that Ned, the son of Webb, and Father Brian were brought
before him, and they had already been named to the stern and haughty
Conquerors as the persons who had brought the first tidings of the
victory.
"They are guests of mine, my liege," said the Sieur Raoul de Berri,
as he saw them approaching. "The youth is a young thane from
Northumberland, and the priest is his tutor. They have prayed for an
audience."
"This day will I hear but few words from any," replied the duke, "but
if it will please thee, the boy may speak. Let the priest keep silence.
What wilt thou, O Ned, the son of Webb?"
Ned had recently become somewhat hardened to meetings with remarkable
men, but he was now gazing at the Conqueror with manifest admiration.
Harold, the son of Godwin, himself, had not appeared more royally
majestic or carried in his face such an expression of conscious power,
combined with indomitable strength of will. Ned kept his courage up,
however, and boldly responded:
"O Duke of Normandy and Conqueror of England, all I wanted to say to
thee is this: The best thing thou canst do for this country, now it
is thine, is to run in railroads and telegraph lines and newspapers
as fast as thou art able. Also, thou hadst better have Mr. Lanfranc
appointed Superintendent of Public Schools. He can set up primary and
grammar schools and academies and universities, all over the island. I
can tell him what books to get and where to get them. I will give him,
now, a complete list of all I went through at Grammar School Number
Sixty-eight. He couldn't beat it if he should try--"
"Halt thou then!" interrupted the duke. "Lanfranc, this youth's matter
appertaineth to thee. I know naught of such affairs. Let his tutor lead
him away now. He is but malapert to urge me at such a time as this.
Forward, all! Odo, my brother, we have much to do ere sunset. England
is yet but half won and we sheathe not our swords yet."
Father Brian's hand had been upon the bridle of Ned's horse, and he
hurried him away.
"O Ned, the son of Webb!" he exclaimed, "what is in thee? Thou art
overdaring. The duke was all but wroth with thee!"
"I guess that is so," said Ned. "His eyes flashed as if he had half
a mind to hit me, and I don't see why. I gave him the best kind of
advice. Didst thou not say that thou hast some of thy clergymen friends
to consult with?"
"That have I," replied Father Brian, "and I must go quickly to meet
them. Thou mayest amuse thyself by riding around for awhile. Then get
thee back to the tent of the good Sieur de Berri. There or elsewhere I
hope to meet thee again, for our companionship hath been exceedingly
pleasant and profitable. Fare thee well, for the hour. I must go."
"Good-bye, then, Father Brian," said Ned. "Come back to the tent,
if thou canst. I hope thou wilt soon have a mission school of thine
own. There will be scholars enough, but where thou wilt get books and
things, I can't guess."
Away rode the good missionary, and Ned, the son of Webb, was left to
himself. He did not feel like exploring the camps of the Normans, and
his horse galloped on with him until he was pulled in at the shore of
the sea. It was at a place where a narrow wooden pier jutted out from a
sandy beach between high rocks on either hand.
Here Ned dismounted and walked down to the water's edge, like a boy
in a dream. A small scow-built punt, with a mast and sail in it, lay
rocking on the waves by the pier.
"I will take off my armour before I get in," he remarked. "I'm glad I
kept on my outing shirt and my trousers under my mail, all the while.
This is a very curious business. I saved my hat, too. Oh, don't I feel
easier and lighter? I never want to be an ironclad again."
His helmet and mail and shield and weapons were pitched from him across
the sand in a hurry, and he stepped eagerly into the boat. A good wind
was blowing offshore and he put up the sail to catch it.
"I don't feel like rowing," he remarked, "after such a time as I have
had. This breeze ought to take me to the other side before sunset. It
is a good thing for me that this is Green Lake and not the Atlantic
Ocean or the North Sea. Oh, what a tremendous book that is. It's safe
in the cubby under the stern seat, too."
On he sailed, after that, swiftly and silently, over the sparkling
billows of the little lake. Almost before he was aware of it, the punt
ran ashore at the place where Nanny had so skilfully pitched him over
her head. He saw the two-wheeled barrow among the weeds a few yards
away and he went and brought it to the margin. Into it he carried, with
great care and an appearance of something like respect, the great folio
History of the Normans.
"I'll go home now," he thought, "but I wish I had Lars with me, and
Father Brian. I'd like to show father and mother and all of them my
armour."
He found it tiresome work to trundle the barrow, and he was both warm
and weary when he reached his grandfather's gate.
"There they are!" he exclaimed. "There's a whole crowd of them, waiting
for me."
"Hullo, Ned!" came loudly from within the gate. "Where have you been
all day?"
"Why, Uncle Jack--"
"My dear child!" interrupted Grandmother Webb. "I was almost beginning
to be worried about you. Why did you stay so?"
"Did you catch anything?" asked his grandfather. "Did you get any
bites?"
"Well!" responded Ned, hardly knowing exactly what to say. "I'll tell
you how it is. It was this book."
"My folio!" exclaimed Grandfather Webb. "I had no idea that you really
would take it along. I'd have said no!"
"I did," said Ned. "I've been invading England with Harold Hardrada
of Norway and the Vikings. Then I went all the way from York and the
battle of Stamford bridge to the battle of Senlac, with King Harold of
England and Duke William the Conqueror."
"Oh, that's it, is it?" exclaimed Uncle Jack. "I know how that is,
myself. A man can sit in his own room, nowadays, and travel all
around the world. All he needs is plenty of guide-books and maps and
histories. You've been doing it, have you? I think you had better keep
it up and learn something. Travel everywhere. See all there is to be
seen, and know all you can."
"That's what I think I'll do," replied Ned, "but it's hard work, if
there's as much fighting as I've been having."
He had the folio in his arms now, as if he were hugging it, but his
grandfather took it away as if he were pleased to get it back unwetted
by a bath in Green Lake, and carried it back to its place in the
library.
THE END.
TRANSCRIBER'S NOTE:
Obvious printer errors have been corrected. Otherwise, the author's
original spelling, punctuation and hyphenation have been left intact.
End of Project Gutenberg's Ned, the son of Webb, by William O. Stoddard