Collected works of j s f.., p.55
Collected Works of J S Fletcher, page 55
“How came you here, then?”
Now, I knew by that time who the man was, for I recognized him as the great leader I had seen yesterday — Oliver Cromwell himself. And knowing this I did not like to tell him how it was that I had come to York on the previous day, fearing that if I did so I should reveal some State secret or other and injure the King.
“Why, sir,” I said, “I was brought in by the soldiers, a prisoner.”
“Yea, because you are an enemy and therefore to be taken care of. But how came you here, and fighting against us yesterday, if you are so anxious about those hayricks at home?”
“Sir,” I said, “I am a plain man and know naught of politics, only what I am told by my betters. I was fighting here yesterday because I chanced to be yonder in York and was pressed into service, whereby I got this cut on my left arm and lost some blood.”
“And slew certain of my troopers. Well, farmer, it would have been best for you to stay at home, and meddle not in these matters. And as to fighting for the King, why, man, you are fighting against your own liberties. Man, man, do you know what this England of ours will be when this is past? A fair land flowing with the milk and honey of peace, wherein every man shall have right and justice, and the poor shall no more be oppressed. And yet ye will set your faces against all that.”
He was walking up and down before me as he spoke, his face twitching as if under some strong emotion, and his hands restlessly clasping and unclasping themselves behind his back. His eyes were fixed on the ground, but there was such a far-away look in them, that I do not think he saw the daisies at his feet.
“Yes,” he went on, “but there will be much tribulation first. Englishmen slaying Englishmen when they should have smitten hands in friendship. How long, how long? And even for us that were ordained to this mission there is bitter grief and travail. Mine own lad, and now my brother’s son; why then, and not only ours, but many another man’s children. Naught but blood, blood, wherever one turns!”
He was now standing still, with his face turned towards the city and his back to me, and I felt quite sure that he had entirely forgotten my presence, and was communing with himself. Presently, however, he turned on me again, and spoke once more.
“You have been in York this morning, friend. How fare they there? I hear that Newcastle hath ridden away and left them, and that Rupert is on his way northward again. So do the rats leave the sinking ship.”
“Sir,” I said, “I do not know how they fare in York, and if I did I should not tell you. You would think poorly of me if I were to betray my own friends. Whether my side be wrong or right, I must cleave to it now.”
He looked at me for a moment, and then walked away, his head bending forward over his breast, as if he were debating some great matter within himself, and so passed out of sight amongst the tents. A young gentleman who had lingered near now approached me, and entered into conversation. He was attired in the uniform of a King’s officer, and seemed highly disconsolate at finding himself a prisoner in the Parliamentary camp.
“You have been talking to Cromwell,” said he. “’Tis a strange man, and one that I cannot understand. Do you think, friend, that he hath his senses in full possession? Have not these troubles somewhat turned his brain?”
“Why, sir,” I answered, “so far as I can judge of him his brain must be a deal sounder than most men’s are. I did not see him lose his head in the fight yesterday, and he talks sensibly enough, to my mind.”
“’Tis a great and wonderful man,” said the young gentleman. “A man, I begin to think, such as England hath not seen this long time. But see now, only last night, as I lay trying to sleep near yonder baggage-waggon, I saw him walking up and down, for his tent was near me, and he muttered and talked to himself like one possessed. Yea, and once I did hear him sigh sadly, like one in great sorrow, whereas he ought to have rejoiced over his victory. But what think you of these Roundheads?”
“They have only just laid hands upon me, sir,” I said, “and I therefore cannot say. They seem decent men, grave and sober, and rare soldiers.”
“I tell thee what it is, friend,” said the young officer, “these men will never be beaten. There is no rioting and drinking in the camp after a victory, as there would have been in ours. Indeed they think of naught else but pursuit of arms and sober talk about drill and tactics and such like. Yea, and you could see how they fought yesterday. Specially raised and trained and drilled they all are, and General Cromwell moves them all like one piece. The King hath no such soldiers as these. Is it true, friend, that Prince Rupert has gone northwards?”
“Yes, sir,” I answered; “he marched away before noon, and Lord Newcastle hath gone to Scarborough with his friends, where he will take ship for the Continent.”
“Alas!” said he. “If only Rupert had taken Newcastle’s advice yesterday! The Prince is brave as a lion, but he hath no judgment. They say he received a despatch from the King early yesterday morning, bidding him engage the enemy, but he showed it to none of the commanders. I wonder what these Roundheads will do with us now. ’Tis poor work being taken prisoner. I had as lief be killed and done with.”
That, however, was not quite to my own liking, because a prisoner always has some chance of escape. As the night drew near I began to cast about me for some means of regaining my liberty, but saw none, for we were closely surrounded by guards, and I perceived no way of getting at my horse Captain, without whom I was not minded to stir a foot. So, as it grew to dusk, I made myself comfortable against a truss of hay, and fell asleep, my rest not even being disturbed by the noise of an occasional discharge of the ordnance, which now and then fired a shot into the city. I know not how long I had slumbered in this manner, when one of the troopers who had brought me in awoke me by shaking my arm, and bade me follow him. I went after him towards a tent, from the door of which a light shone, given out by a lamp placed on a table, at which sat General Cromwell and another officer, whom I did not know then, but afterwards came to know well enough as Sir Thomas Fairfax. The latter was engaged in sealing a packet, and did not look up as I entered.
“Master farmer,” said Cromwell, “you would like to get back to that hayrick you spoke of. Will you take a letter to Sir Richard Lowther at Pontefract Castle, and so get your liberty, and go home?”
“If it be not against the King, sir,” I answered.
“I dare say the King is not mentioned in it,” said he. “’Tis a private letter from Sir Thomas here.”
“Will you deliver it faithfully, friend?” asked the other officer, glancing hard at me. “You look trusty, I think.”
“I will ride straight to the Castle with it, sir, if you will give me my own horse again,” I said, and held out my hand for the packet.
“Give him his horse,” said Cromwell, “and see him out of the camp.”
He followed me to the curtain of the tent. “Go home, lad,” said he; “go home, and do not come a-fighting again. The only son of thy mother, and she a widow! Go home, go home; there are enow of us that have lost children already.”
He pushed me out into the darkness, and dropping the curtain, went inside the tent again, and left me wondering.
CHAPTER XII.
OF MY ADVENTURE AT THE WAYSIDE INN.
I WAS exceedingly well pleased to regain my liberty on such easy terms, and said so to the trooper who conducted me outside the camp, and who was the same grey-headed man that had brought me in earlier in the day. Also I was somewhat interested at the behaviour towards me of General Cromwell, whom I had previously imagined to be more likely to hang me from the nearest tree than to send me home again to my hayricks.
“You doubtless gained his favour, Master Dale,” said the old trooper, “by telling him that you had as much right to fight for the King as he had to fight against him. He liketh plain speaking, doth Master Oliver, whether it is in his own way or not. But it is not with such as you that our quarrel is. I dare say you do honestly fight for the King, knowing no better, and believing you do your duty thereby. Against that I have naught to say. But there are those about the King and in his army who do corrupt him with evil counsels, loving not the liberty and advantage of the nation, but rather thinking of their own selfish ends, and it is with these that our quarrel lies. Yea, and will lie until God hath swept them away from the face of the earth, and England is free again. And now, lad, you are outside the camp and can go without let or question, and so fare you well.”
In this way I took leave of the enemy, and rode away through Askham Bryan towards Tadcaster, glad enough to be free to go after my own affairs. My head was very full of my late adventures as I rode along. It was only forty-eight hours since I had left home, and yet I had seen in that time more than ever I had seen in all the previous years of my life. I had carried a despatch from the King to Prince Rupert and had heard a council held between the Prince and his generals, I had gone into battle and slain more than one man and got wounded myself, and I had been taken prisoner and had held parley with General Cromwell. Here was enough to make one think deeply, and I wondered what the people at home would say to it. Somehow it seemed a long, long time since I saw the farmhouse lights and the faces of those I loved. A whole age seemed to have gone by since I had ridden away on that errand to York. I wondered if the wounded officer still lay at our house, and if all had gone well since I left. I had seen enough of war to make me satisfied, and I resolved as we sped homewards that in future I should stay where my duty required me to be rather than go forth to seek adventures. And yet I should have done the same thing again under similar circumstances. The villages along the roadside were busy enough even at that late hour of the evening. Fugitives of the Royalist army had fled or crept along the highway all day long, wounded and weary, and were filling the inns by which I passed. The road itself was thronged with carts and waggons filled with wounded men, going I know not whither. For the first few miles I was stopped more than once by Roundhead soldiers, who let me go on at once on seeing a passport I had received from General Cromwell. Of Royalist troops I saw none; they were apparently dispersed in other directions.
When I came to Aberford I determined to take the road which runs through Castleford, rather than follow the usual route to Brotherton and Ferrybridge. This I decided upon for two reasons: first, the road through Castleford would take me in an almost straight line to Pontefract; and, second, it would probably be not so thronged as the other highway. So I went on and made good progress for a while, but before I had come to Kippax, Captain suddenly went dead lame and hobbled so sorely that I was forced to dismount and lead him by the bridle. Poor beast, he had gone through some sorely trying work since leaving home, and in addition to it had received a slight wound in his left shoulder from a pike-thrust aimed at him by one of the Roundhead foot. It was a most unfortunate matter, however, that he should fail me at this juncture, for I was then but five miles from Pontefract and eight from home, and should have been at Dale’s Field in two hours if all had gone well.
There was nothing for it but to give Captain a rest, and I accordingly led him a little way further, to where the wayside inn stands at the four cross-roads beyond Kippax. That is a lonely house and hath no other cottage near it for some distance; indeed, the landlord there gets little custom, save from those who pass along that way, going from York to Castleford, or from Leeds to Selby, such being farmers and drovers with herds of sheep or cattle. The host at that time was one John Sanderson, a Pontefract man by birth, and a right good man for such a place, being brave and honest, as wayside landlords should be, for they have many dangers to confront, and more temptations to withstand than their fellows who live in towns or villages.
Honest John, when I went into the kitchen, was drinking his own health before the fire, which was not an unwelcome sight even in July, for the night was somewhat chilly. There was another man seated on the long settle whom I did not know, but who seemed from his appearance to be a cattle-drover that had put up there for the night.
“God save us, Master Dale!” said John Sanderson. “Is it really you, and what are you doing here at this time o’ night? Surely not from York market in these troublous times? Dear heart, the sight of wounded men that we have seen this day, and ’tis said that on the Sherburn road they be twice as thick.”
“Ten times as thick, John, and that is why I chose this road. But hark ye, John, my horse has gone dead lame and can go no further. ’Tis a great pity, for I would gladly have got home as quick as may be.”
“Let me see him,” said John, and followed me into the yard. “’Tis not the best of times to put a horse into our stables, Master Will,” he continued, when we were clear of the house, “for there are all sorts of folks about, and my wits are that moydered that I know not how to keep an eye on right and left. Ah, I see it is Captain, that you bought from the Wakefield cornmiller, and a good horse ’tis. So ho, my lad, stand over! Yes, lame indeed, but an hour or two’s rest, Master Will, an hour or two’s rest, you see — why, ‘twill put him to rights, I warrant.”
“But if your stables are not safe, John? And, hark you, I would not now lose Captain for a hundred pounds, for he hath been in battle and behaved himself like a hero. See, he hath gotten a thrust from a pikestaff in his right shoulder to show for his pains.”
“Lord, Master Will, and you have been fighting? Why, why; but now, William lad, do you bring Captain into our back kitchen, where we can keep an eye on him while he rests. There is enow straw on the floor to bed half a dozen horses, for there were four wounded men slept in it last night, that were fleeing to Pontefract Castle, only they could get no further along the road. These be sad times indeed, Master William. A pike-thrust, quotha?”
So we had Captain into the outer kitchen, and gave him a feed of corn to comfort him, after which I went and sat against the fire in the front kitchen until such times as he should be sufficiently rested to go on his journey again. And, indeed, I myself was not sorry to rest me a while, for, eager as I was to get home again, the fatigue and excitement of the past two days and nights was beginning to tell upon me and make me sleepy. So there I sat on the long settle, the drover having gone to his bed during our absence, and talked to John Sanderson about the great fight of the previous day, news of which had come to him in fragments all day long.
“Yes, indeed, Master Will,” said John, “we have had our ears warmed by this news, I warrant you. For some said that Prince Rupert and his army were cut to pieces, and that York was in flames, and Marston Moor sodden with blood. Ay, sad times indeed these be, William, of a surety.”
“You would have thought so, John, if you had been where I was yesterday,” I said, my mind dwelling on the faces of the dead men I had seen.
“Why,” said he, “I dare say it was terrible work, and old Mother Robey that lives at Church Garforth yonder, she foretold that something would come to pass ere long. For she had dreams, she said, of blood, and of horses flying through the air, which meant, she said, ill tidings and great disaster, and she saw the King’s crown fall from a pillar, all of which is sad things, Master Will, and disquieting to a sober man. Indeed, I know not what the world is coming to nowadays.”
So he went on talking, for he was glib of tongue, until his head began to nod, and presently he fell fast asleep in his chair, and left me sitting there alone in the inn kitchen. Sleep, too, was weighing down my own eyelids very heavily, and I could have stretched myself along the settle and fallen into slumber at once if it had not been for my anxiety about getting forward on my journey. However, that presently gave way under my great need of rest, and I was very soon as fast asleep as John Sanderson himself.
How long I slept I do not know, but when I awoke the fire had burnt very low, and there was a faint streak of grey light stealing in through the shutters. John Sanderson still snored heavily in his chair. I was rather cold and shivery, and was going to rise and draw the fire together, when I heard steps outside, followed by the pit-pat of a horse’s feet. A hand tapped at the door, and John not showing any sign of awaking, I went across the kitchen and undid the bolts. The morning light shone in fresh and strong as I threw the door open, and showed me the figure of a man standing outside the threshold, holding his horse by the bridle. He was turned away from me when the door opened, examining his beast’s knees, which were cut as if by a fall, but at the sound he faced round and looked full at me.
Now, I had never seen the man in my life before, and did not know him from Adam, and I was therefore something more than surprised when he started away from me as if I had been a ghost. He held up one hand to shield himself, as though I had motioned to strike him, and there came over his face such a look of terrible fear as I never saw on any other human countenance.
“God save me!” said he. “’Tis himself!”
“What is the matter, friend?” I cried. “It would appear that my presence causes you some uneasiness. Do I look so very dreadful, then?”
Now, a great look of relief came over the man’s face when I spoke, and he drew himself up from his frightened posture and stood staring at me curiously. He was a tall, broad-shouldered man of more than middle age, clad in clothes much stained with travelling, and wearing a large horseman’s cloak over his shoulders. His hair was grey, and his face much scarred and seamed, as if he had seen all sorts of weather and taken not a few blows.
“Sir, sir,” said he, stammering some words forth in his confusion, “I beg your pardon, sir — you looked — in fact, your honour gave me a great fright. You look so much like — some one I once knew.”
He still stood and stared at me, examining my height and breadth, and glancing at my face as if he could not believe that I was other than a spirit. John Sanderson meanwhile had awoke and was standing behind me, looking at the stranger.
“Yes,” said the man once more, “so much like some one I once knew.”
“Marry,” said John Sanderson, “then you knew his father, friend, for this is the very spit of him as he was. But ’tis cold work standing here, so come in, master, if you want good accommodation for man or beast.”
