Collected works of j s f.., p.63
Collected Works of J S Fletcher, page 63
To no one was this prospect more grateful than to Ben Tuckett, whom I perceived to have grown at least two inches less in girth since I had left him, notwithstanding the fact that there was now plenty of fresh meat in the Castle. The fact was poor Ben was beginning to feel the effect of the confinement, and he was also pining for a sight of his sweetheart. He was in a very dolorous mood when we found him, in spite of the good news from Derby.
“Thou hast been to Dale’s Field, Will?” said he, having heard all we had to tell him concerning our adventures.
“Indeed we have, Ben. We lay there last night, and passed the day there into the bargain.”
“Ah!” said he, sighing deeply; “it must have been exceeding pleasant. Did they speak of me at all, Will?”
“There was a time, Ben, when they spoke of naught else. I am charged with a thousand messages for thee, only the mischief is that I have forgotten them. I remember that Lucy sent thee her dearest love and duty, and my mother bade me tell thee to mind and not take a chill after thou hast gotten warm with fighting, but what else they said I cannot now think of. However, thou canst imagine it all.”
“’Tis very kind of them,” he answered, “very kind indeed to remember such an unfortunate mortal. Do not forget to tell them that I always thought of them, Will.”
“‘Od’s mercy, Jack!” said I, “what is he talking about? One might suppose he was going to die before ever he got out of the Castle.”
“And what have I to live for?” groaned Ben. “I am a ruined man. Alas! thou knowest not what terrible things have happened since you and Master Lisle there rode away.”
“Nay,” said Philip, “we have heard of naught particular.”
“’Twas but day before yesterday,” said Ben, “the Roundheads went up town and occupied my house in the Market-place.
You must know, gentlemen, that I have always kept an eye on my house, having gone up to the Round Tower three or four times a day to see if it still stood. Well, ’twas bad enough for these rogues to go and occupy my house, for between you and me I had hidden a pretty stock of goods in it before I fled to the Castle, hoping they would not be found until the siege was over, but what was my horror to find that our gunners were playing the cannon from the Swillington Tower full upon it! Yea, and continued to do so in spite of my prayers and admonitions, saying that they cared not whose house it was as long as they drove the Roundheads out of it. And now my house is a ruin, and as for the goods that I had hidden—”
“Never mind, Ben,” said I; “you will find another house easily enough.”
“And shall I find my stock and my furniture!” he groaned. “Alas! I am a ruined man. However, they have not destroyed my money, lads, because Lucy and I buried what I had, under the hearthstone at Dale’s Field.”
“I thought it would be a wonderful thing if they had burnt all thy ships, Ben,” said Jack Drumbleforth. “Why, you old miser, you ought to have given that money to the King’s cause.”
“Will the King set me up in business again?” asked Ben. “I trow not, lads. Every man for himself, say I. If His Majesty would but come and relieve us, I would not object to parting with some of my store, but he delays so long that I fear he will never come at all.”
On the 3rd of June, however, there came to us letters from Newark, conveying intelligence of a great victory achieved by the King at Leicester. His Majesty had made a vigorous assault upon that town, and had finally carried the siege, making the garrison prisoners to the number of fifteen hundred, and securing an immense booty, which was instantly divided amongst the Royalist soldiers. Upon learning this news we were all greatly pleased, and Ben Tuckett so far plucked up his fallen spirits as to offer to lead a sally against the Roundheads in their trenches.
We now lived in daily hopes of seeing the arrival of a great force charged with the mission of relieving us, but we heard of nothing until the 6th of June, when a prisoner taken in the Castle mill informed us that the Kings troops were coming to our relief, and had already reached Tuxford. He further said that the Parliamentary forces were retreating northward before the King, and would probably assemble in our neighbourhood, where a great battle was therefore to be expected shortly. This information we believed to be true, for two days later there came a great body of Parliamentary horse from the southward which had been obliged to quit their quarters about Doncaster and Tickhill. The next day, too, we heard heavy firing in the direction of Sheffield, and from this circumstance argued that our friends were drawing near. Two days, however, passed away, and no relief force appeared, so that we knew not what to think. Nevertheless, we were so far from being cast down by the delay, that on the nth we made a great sally from the Castle in different directions, and prevailed so mightily against the enemy that we left forty of them dead upon the field, and brought eleven prisoners into the Castle, together with a great supply of muskets, pikes, and ammunition, which we found in their trenches and outworks. As for our own losses, they were but very slight, for none of our men were killed, and only two wounded.
We heard no more news until the 16th of June, when General Poyntz, commander of the Parliamentary forces at Pontefract, sent a drum to the Castle with a letter for Sir William Lowther, in which it was stated that a great battle had been fought at Naseby two days previously, whereat the King had been utterly routed, nearly two thousand Royalists having been left dead on the field, and five thousand taken prisoners, together with all the King’s artillery and baggage. The letter further summoned us to surrender at once, saying that it were best policy to do so while mercy was yet to be hoped for, for there was now a great Parliamentary force at hand, and we should shortly be obliged to submit whether we would or not.
Now, we did not believe this news, because we had but a little time previously received letters from Newark, dated June 14th, in which Colonel Washington informed us that His Majesty was at that time at Melton Mowbray, and was preparing to march forward to our assistance. We therefore regarded General Poyntz’s letter as a trick of the enemy, and Sir William Lowther immediately informed the officer who had brought it that he neither feared the forces that might come against us, nor valued the mercy which was offered, and bade him begone with that answer to his commander. We were subsequently strengthened in our belief that General Poyntz’s news was false by the reception of more letters from Newark, in which the King was still spoken of as advancing to succour us. But as the days passed on no help came, and we presently began to wonder whether our information was correct or not. Shortly, however, we received news from our own friends of the battle of Naseby, but their account differed vastly from that given us by General Poyntz; for whereas he had represented the affair as a Roundhead victory, our informants told us that the fight had been resumed after the defeat of the King, and that our forces rallying had put the Parliamentary troops to flight, routing them utterly and slaying thousands of them, including General Cromwell.
We continued in this fashion for many days after that, now hearing one thing and now another, and hardly knowing which rumour to believe. Meanwhile, our enemy often received reinforcements which came marching from north or south as the case might be, and formed fresh obstacles to our success. The siege went on in the same fashion, each side doing its best to cripple the other. But while we were able to slay many of the Roundheads, they did us little damage owing to our secure position.
Nevertheless, we had an enemy inside the Castle whose power we feared far more than even the terrible Cromwell himself. This was starvation, which now began to creep upon us slowly but very surely. By the 27th of June, we had no fresh provisions whatever, and there was no prospect of relief coming to us from any quarter. This scarcity of food bred discouragement and discontent amongst our men, several of whom deserted at this time.
We were now indeed in a sad plight. The help which had been so constantly promised to us, and the thought of which had lifted up our hearts in the struggle, came not, and we were therefore not only hungry but heartsick. Nevertheless we were resolved, or at any rate the majority of us were, to hold the Castle in the King’s name until the last moment. About the beginning of the second week in July, we had more letters from Newark, one of which named the day and hour when Sir Marmaduke Langdale would come to our aid, and this good news was presently confirmed by another letter from Sandal Castle, wherein we were told that the relieving force was at hand. But we had barely read these letters when definite tidings reached us of the complete defeat of the Royalist forces under Goring and Langdale, and of the approach of further reinforcements to the Parliamentary army already surrounding us.
So now our last hopes were fled, and there was naught for it but to make an honourable surrender. We had defended the Castle for a space of five months, and during that time we had slain over a thousand of our enemies with very little loss to ourselves. If we had been able to secure provisions we could have held out for the King for ever, for the place was so strong as to be wellnigh impregnable. Food, however, we could not get, and we could do the King no good by starving to death. At this point the besiegers made us honourable offers as to our surrender, which we presently accepted, marching away from the Castle at eight o’clock on the morning of July 21, 1645. The major portion of the garrison went forward to Newark, but I and my companions stayed at Dale’s Field, and were not sorry to see somewhat in the way of home comforts after our long and serious privations.
CHAPTER VII.
OF THE DEATH OF PHILIP LISLE.
IT was now drawing near harvest time, and I determined to see my crops gathered and garnered before I did aught else. To tell truth I had lost a good deal during the recent hostilities, for the Roundheads had levied contributions on my cattle many a time while the siege was in progress, so that when I came back to Dale’s Field I found myself poorer by some fourteen or fifteen head of cattle, to say naught of a score or so of sheep. However, I was thankful to find that they had not burnt my house or my buildings, which was what I had feared more than once.
I took Philip and Ben home with me to Dale’s Field when we left the Castle, while Jack Drumbleforth went to his father’s house, where the vicar was much delighted with the sight of his son. Now that we were all at home again the women made much of us, for they were all agreed that we looked like half-starved rats. Naught would suffice them upon the day of our coming home but that we must have a feast, and to this joyful event a messenger was despatched to bring Parson Drumbleforth and Jack. We were very merry that night, and Ben Tuckett, having found his spirits again, amused us with stories of his own prowess during the siege, which, to hear him talk, were exceeding great and wonderful. Cause for rejoicing, however, we had little beyond the fact that we were all safe and sound. Our party was defeated on all sides, and we knew not what would happen next.
“I shall to the wars again,” said Jack, when we began to discuss the future. “Beaten we are, no doubt; but I will go fight for the King until the last blow has been struck.”
“Well said, Jack,” said Philip Lisle; “I will go with you. We seem to be vanquished at this present time, but all is not lost yet.”
“Gentlemen,” said Ben Tuckett, who sat in the chimney corner near Lucy, “if you only knew how warmly I approve your sentiments, you would be delighted. I love to see brave men. However, my duty forbids me to further engage in warfare. I have looked after the King’s business so long that my own hath suffered. As for my house it is in ruins — and ’twas a Royalist cannon did it, too — and I suppose my stock which lay hidden there is lost.”
“Thou art not the only man that has lost something,” said Jack. “It will be worse for many than for thee, Ben. God send they do not fine all of us that have taken part with the King.”
“That is what I expect them to do,” said Philip Lisle.
“What!” cried Ben. “And will they fine me, too? After all I have lost? Then I had best do naught in the way of reopening my shop. They cannot fine me if I have naught, can they?”
“They can clap thee into gaol, lad,” said Jack. “Yea, and hold thee there until thou hast paid the piper.”
“Alas!” cried poor Ben, “was ever man so unfortunate! However, if only it be a small fine—”
And with that he began to look hard at the hearthstone under which he and Lucy had buried his money, and after that he said no more, but seemed to think deeply. But when my mother and the girls had gone to bed and Jack and Philip were talking their plans over, he drew me into a corner and began to talk confidentially.
“Will,” said he, “I have been thinking to-night that it is high time you and I were settled. We are neither of us as young as we were.”
“Speak for thyself, Ben. As for me, I am four and twenty.”
“Is it so little? Well, to be sure I am thy junior. Somehow I had thought myself two-score at least. It is, I suppose, because I have passed through so much tribulation. However, to the point. It is, I say, time we were settled.”
“Are we not settled already?”
“A man never is settled,” said Ben, wisely, “until he be married.”
“Oh, now I see what thou art driving at, Master Benjamin. I suppose you and Mistress Lucy are so smitten with each other’s good looks that you wish to hasten the wedding.”
“Put it as you please,” said he. “For my part, I do not see why Parson Drumbleforth should not marry us as soon as harvest is over. I tell thee what I think, Will. Lucy and I have gotten two hundred guineas in gold hidden under yonder hearthstone, which is a sum that no man may despise. I want not to lose it in fines and penalties. Now, if I open my shop again, these Roundhead rogues, seeing me a man of substance, will levy a heavy fine upon me, and I shall lose all. So let me lie quietly here, working in thy harvest field until matters have blown over somewhat. Then we will all be married and my money will be safe. What do you think?”
“I think, Ben, that thou art a second Solomon. However, these are not overpleasant times for marrying. You would not like Lucy to be a widow within a month of her wedding.”
“Heaven forbid!” said he, turning pale at the thought. “Why should she?”
“Because thou hast been such a bold assailer of the Roundheads that they may desire to cut off thy head. Wait a while, Ben, till the country be settled.”
But when I came to consider what Ben had said, I began to think there might be some reason in his notions. Come what might, it was my intention to go no more to the wars: let the King and the Commons do what they would, I meant to stay at home and mind my own business. And since I had made up my mind to that, why should I not hasten my wedding and so have a better right than ever to protect my dear love? The more I thought of the matter the more I liked the idea, so that before I slept that night I resolved to see what Rose thought of it. The next morning I rose early and went out to look round my farm, and finding Rose already risen, I asked her to go with me, as had been her custom in the days before I went a-fighting. So we went hand in hand through the fields, which were already ripening unto harvest.
“How strange it seems,” said Rose, as we walked slowly along, “not to hear the sound of the cannon. All day we used to listen to it, and at every shot we prayed God that none of ours should suffer. Not a day passed that we did not think of you, and wonder what you were doing, and whether you were ill or well, and many a time did old Jacob take his staff and walk across the fields to the hill-top, so that he might come back and tell us that the King’s standard still floated over the Castle. And now here you are safe and sound once more.”
“Yes,” I answered, “and I shall never go away again, Rose, of my own free will. Let those fight that will: if I had stayed at home and minded my own business, that villain had not vexed you.”
“Hush, hush!” she said. “Let that be; I am none the worse for such vexation as that.”
“Nevertheless,” I said, “here I am and here I stay. These times of trouble are not over yet, and I shall do better to protect my own than to go a-fighting for the King. You had rather I stayed at home than that I went to the wars, Rose?”
“Why,” said she, laughing, “is not that a strange question to ask of me, considering that I do not care to trust you out of my sight, Master Will?”
And she smiled so archly in my face and looked at me with such eyes of love that I took her into my arms and told her of all that was in my mind, namely, that I wanted her to marry me as soon as harvest was in, so that in future I could watch over her even more closely than before. To which she answered honestly and fondly that she was mine and mine only, and would do whatever I pleased. So that matter was settled, and we went homewards across the fields to acquaint Philip Lisle of our desires; and if there were any people in all God’s world who were happier than we were at that moment it is a marvel to me, for our happiness was much too great for words.
We found Philip and Jack busied in cleaning their harness, while Ben sat by and lectured them on the folly of war in general and of this war in particular. Whether they attended to his remarks I know not, but at the moment of our arrival they were conversing together in undertones, so that I think Master Bens discourse flew above their heads.
“War,” quoth Ben, as we came up, “was first of all invented by the evil one, and therefore no wise man ought to engage in it. As for me I only went into the Castle to defend myself, because, gentlemen, every honest citizen hath a right to take up arms when his own good estate is threatened. But as to fighting for a—”
“Good Ben,” said I, “you ought to have been a parson, for your tongue is ever ready;” and I came close to him and asked him if he had sounded Lucy as to his plans of the previous night. To which he answered that he had not, but he knew Lucy’s mind on that matter as well as he knew his own. So with that I bade him find Lucy and take her to my mother, and to them I brought Philip and Rose, and we there and then arranged matters for a double wedding, which was to take place as soon as we had got harvest over, if nothing contrary happened in the mean time.
