Collected works of j s f.., p.64
Collected Works of J S Fletcher, page 64
“Only, my children,” said Philip, “do not wait for my coming, for if I am not here at the appointed day it will be because urgent business keepeth Jack and me elsewhere. I shall be with you in spirit if not in the flesh. For you know, Will, that His Majesty hath been very generous to me in the past, and I will not desert him now that he hath fallen low.”
And with that he gave us his blessing and kissed Rose many times and shook my hand, and later in the afternoon, he and Jack rode away, promising to return in six weeks’ time so that they might see us married.
“We are for Newark first,” said Jack, “but after that God knows where we shall go. However, lads, it shall go hard with us but we strive to ride northward when you are made Benedicts.”
And so they rode away and we settled down to our quiet farm life. With the fall of the Castle, military operations in our parts were almost over, and people were permitted to attend to their own matters in peace. Sir Thomas Fairfax had been appointed Governor of the Castle by the House of Commons, and for a while he busied himself in making strict inquiry as to those of our neighbourhood who had resisted the Parliament, and in dispersing such Royalists as gathered together in any numbers. Us, however, he was pleased to let alone, probably because he found that we were engaged in our own pursuits and had no mind for further fighting. This suited Ben and myself, for with August the harvest began and we were at work early and late. Nevertheless, we were watched pretty closely by the Parliamentary authorities, as were all men who had retired to their own homes after leaving the Royalist army.
As the harvest drew to an end the two girls were busily occupied in preparing much finery for the wedding. My mother, who had many old-fashioned ideas on this subject, had set apart a chamber for them, wherein they shaped and sewed and had the help of a woman who was skilled in fine sewing. Into this chamber Ben and I did often try to peep, but were jealously excluded, all the comfort we got being an assurance that we should see our brides very fine on the wedding-day. Presently it became time for us to put the banns up at church, and Ben was mightily tickled at hearing his own name read out in conjunction with Lucy’s. Indeed, as the time drew near there was no prouder man than Ben Tuckett in all the country.
Upon the third day before the wedding, Ben and I were coming from Wentbridge when we heard a horse climbing the hill behind us. It was drawing towards night, and there was a thick mist in the valley, so that we could not make out the face or figure of the horseman until he was close upon us. But when the horse and its rider came out of the mist a great sinking of heart stole over me, for I saw that it was Jack Drumbleforth, and he was alone. He recognized us at the same moment and spurred his tired horse forward. Then we saw that he himself was careworn and in evil plight, for one arm hung loosely at his side, and there was a wound across his cheek that had lately bled.
“Jack!” I cried, as we ran up to him. “Jack, you have evil news?”
“The worst, Will,” he answered, speaking with difficulty. “The worst. Philip Lisle is dead. He was killed last night near Newark, and so was Captain Trevor and many another.”
And with that a great darkness seemed to fall across us, and I could only think of what my dear Rose must suffer when she heard the sad news.
“I am hurt,” said Jack. “My arm is broke, I think. Let us go on, Will, for I am like to fall off my horse.”
We went homeward sadly enough, Ben leading Jack’s horse, while I walked at the side and let Jack lean on my shoulder. We were debating how we should break the news to Rose, when she and Lucy suddenly came out of one of the fields by the roadside and ran to meet us. Suddenly she caught sight of Jack’s face, and all the colour went out of her own. But she came forward and laid her hand on his, and looked at him with such pleading eyes that I saw the tears start into his own as he looked down at her.
“My father?” she said. “My father?”
“Dear Mistress Rose,” he answered. “I would rather have died myself than have brought you sad news. Your dear father was a brave man, and he died a brave man’s death.”
CHAPTER VIII.
OF OUR IMPRISONMENT IN PONTEFRACT CASTLE.
SO there was no more talk of our marriage at that time, and I went sadly enough to tell Parson Drumbleforth that it would not take place, and that his son Jack had got a grievous hurt. And thereupon arose a stout controversy between the vicars housekeeper and myself, for Mistress Deborah was for having Jack brought home at once so that she could nurse him, while I was all for keeping him at Dale’s Field, where I knew he would have better care taken of him than in the Vicarage. In this matter I carried the day, for the vicar agreed with me, albeit he had hard work to convince his housekeeper, of whom he stood in no little fear. So at Dales Field Jack remained, and Parson Drumbleforth used to walk out there to see him every day.
Now, at first my dear Rose would not trouble Jack to tell her the manner of her father’s death, because she knew that he himself was badly hurt, and she feared to do aught to increase the fever into which he had fallen. But when they had nursed him into something like his old self she took me by the hand one afternoon and led me into Jack’s chamber, where the vicar was sitting with his son, and there she asked him to tell us all that had happened.
“And do not fear, Master John,” said she, “to tell me everything, for you can say nothing that will hurt me more than what I already know’. Only I shall be better and happier to know how my dear father died.”
So she sat and listened to what Jack had to tell us of this sad matter, and she held my hand in her own all the while as if she got some comfort from knowing that I was near her.
It was not a long story that Jack had to tell. They had followed the garrison to Newark, and had there found many Royalists who had fled from the Parliamentarians after the fight at Naseby, and in this company they had remained some time, scarcely knowing what to do next. For some talked of one thing and some of another, but nobody seemed to know whether the King would again rally his forces or not. Here and there in the Midlands were houses still fortified against the Parliamentarians, and at various places were gatherings of Royalist troops, but there was no one to direct them, for the King’s army had been entirely disorganized at the battle of Naseby. The Parliamentarians were meanwhile continually engaged in surrounding and disarming the scattered Royalists, and in reducing to subjection such fortresses as the country gentlemen had retreated to, and it was in riding forth to relieve one of these houses that Philip Lisle and Captain Trevor had met their death. For the place was one that was well protected, being naturally strong and surrounded by a deep moat, but the Roundheads had wellnigh starved the garrison into subjection, when Captain Trevor organized a relieving party and set out to give help to his comrades. Between this expedition and the Parliamentarians a stout fight had resulted, but the enemy vastly outnumbering them, his own party, said Jack, had been beaten, and the garrison subsequently obliged to surrender.
“There were very few of us left to fight in the end,” said Jack, “and Master Lisle and Captain Trevor and myself were cut off from the rest, so that the enemy bade us surrender while there was hope of mercy. But we would have naught of that, and continued to engage them as best we could. And then Master Lisle’s horse was killed under him, so that he was brought to his feet, and Captain Trevor was shot through the heart immediately afterwards, leaving me and Master Lisle fighting back to back. Then I heard him shout behind me, “For God and the King!’ in a hearty voice, but presently I felt him reel against me and fall across his horse, and at the same moment my arm was shattered and the pain was so fearful that I fainted and knew no more. But when I came to myself after some time the fight was over, and Captain Trevor and Master Lisle lay near me, both dead, and with such a peaceful look on their faces that I knew they had felt no pain in their death. By that time the Roundheads had passed away to another part of the field, so I watched my opportunity and captured a horse that was grazing near, and because the enemy was thick between me and Newark I came north, knowing that I could do no more in those parts.”
So that was all that he had to tell us, and my dear love, though she shed many tears while he spoke, was comforted somewhat because she now knew all. However, she often sat near Jack after that, and would ask him to tell her of all that had befallen her father since she had last seen him; whereupon Jack would strive to remember all that Philip had said and done, recalling many incidents that he thought would be pleasing to her.
Now, although it was out of the question for us to be married at that time, both Rose and I felt that our sorrow ought not to stand in the way of Ben’s and Lucy’s happiness, and after a time we begged them to arrange with Parson Drumbleforth for their wedding. But while honest Ben was greatly pleased with us for thinking of him, he would not listen to our proposal.
“Nay, Will,” quoth he, when I told him what we wished, “indeed neither Lucy nor myself would consent to joys which you and Rose cannot share. Do we not feel for poor Rose as keenly as if it were our own trouble? Marry, and so we ought, for are we not all as one family? So let us wait until spring, when Rose’s first grief will have gained some comfort, and then we will all be married together.”
And with that he wrung my hand and hastened away to his work; for he had become an ardent farmer, and was for ever busying himself amongst the sheep or the cattle.
So the time passed on until the spring of 1646, and until then we were allowed to live peaceably upon our land, minding our own business as we did before the war began. There was no fighting or next to none that winter, and we were in hopes that the King and the Commons might adjust their differences and rid the land of that hateful war. We heard little at that time of what was going on. Some said that the Scotch were coming to rescue the King; others, that the Presbyterians and the Independents were about to fight between themselves for supremacy. In the first week of May, 1646, we heard that His Majesty had entered the Scottish camp at Newark, and soon afterwards we learned that the Scotch army, carrying the King with them, had retreated to Newcastle. But we had little time to think of these matters, for there were fresh troubles gathering round ourselves.
When the second siege of Pontefract Castle was over, the Governor, Sir Thomas Fairfax, in pursuance of orders from the Commons, occupied himself in pursuing such of the Royalist forces as were still banded together, and in reducing the various manor-houses in that neighbourhood which were still fortified, and that he might not be hindered in this work he appointed one Colonel Cotterel to be his Vice-Governor, and gave him a force of a hundred men wherewith to occupy the Castle. For a while Colonel Cotterel left the Royalists of his neighbourhood pretty much to their own devices, doing no more than keeping his eye upon them so that they might not band themselves together again. But when the military power began to make itself felt — for at that time Cromwell and his army were the real rulers of England — he, taking his orders no doubt from his superiors, began to harass the Royalist gentlemen of his neighbourhood with exceeding severity. It was known which of us had helped to hold the Castle against the Parliament, and we presently found ourselves narrowly watched and treated in such a fashion as was hard for flesh and blood to bear. But ere long even sterner measures were employed against us.
It was, I think, one evening about the middle of May, 1646, that a party of troopers, headed by an officer, rode into our yard at Dale’s Field and called for me. I went out to speak to them, and found the officer to be one John Campion, a man that I had known many years for a stout Roundhead.
“Well, Master Dale,” said he, “we have come to request you to take a little ride with us this evening. Colonel Cotterel desires your presence at the Castle.”
Now, I could not at first understand why Colonel Cotterel should send for me, who wished not to have aught to do with him or his, but I reflected that I could not help obeying his summons, seeing that he had sent twenty armed men to fetch me, and I therefore saddled my horse and bade my friends farewell, telling them not to fear if I did not return that night. So we rode away, but came to a halt at Darrington, where Campion delivered a similar message to Jack Drumbleforth, who was then living with his father. What they wanted with us at the Castle neither Jack nor I could make out, but we agreed that we were being fetched thither for no good. And this turned out to be the case, for we were no sooner inside the Barbican than our horses were taken from us and we were shown into the Governors presence, who informed us that because of our resistance to the Parliament we were condemned to pay a fine, which in my case amounted to two hundred pounds, and Jack’s to half that sum. Moreover, continued Cotterel, he had received proof that we and others of our way of thinking were meditating a fresh rising in these parts, and we must therefore consider ourselves prisoners until such times as he saw fit to release us.
Now, we felt this to be very harsh and overbearing conduct, for it proved that the Roundheads were not willing to let us be at peace when we had no intention of being at aught else; and as for the fines, we felt it unjust to thus punish us for having done what we believed to be our duty. However, we were in their power and could not help ourselves, and we therefore took up our quarters in the Castle with what patience we could, only begging them to inform our friends of what had happened to us. This they speedily did, for they shortly sent to Dale’s Field, and seized upon my cattle and sheep in satisfaction of the fine they had imposed upon me, so that I had neither horse, ox, nor sheep left, and poor Jacob Trusty was wellnigh beside himself with grief and anger.
We soon found that we were not the only prisoners in the Castle, for Colonel Cotterel had sent out and apprehended many Royalists of these parts whom he supposed to be inventing plans for another rising on behalf of the King. As for fines, he now busily employed himself in levying them upon all who had formerly defended the Castle. Some he obliged to compound for their estates, others he sentenced to the payment of fines such as he had imposed upon me, so that there was not a Royalist gentleman or yeoman in all Osgoldcross that was not cruelly made to pay for his loyalty. Some indeed paid great amounts. Sir George Wentworth was fined three thousand pounds; Sir Nicholas Yarborough paid six hundred pounds; Francis Neville paid a thousand pounds; Sir George Dalston paid seven hundred pounds; Sir William Lowther, the late Governor, paid two hundred; while Sir John Woolstoneholme of Nostel, who had given his plate to the King, was fined the value thereof, namely, ten thousand pounds.
We remained prisoners in Pontefract Castle for more than two years, during which time we saw naught of our friends, and knew little as to their welfare. But during that time a movement began amongst the Royalists of our parts which ended in the Castle being surprised and wrested from the possession of our enemies. There was in the Castle at the time of our imprisonment a gentleman named Morrice, who had lived a somewhat adventurous life, and had fought on both sides during the war between King and Commons. In his youth he had been page to Thomas Wentworth, Earl of Strafford, and had subsequently entered the King’s service and fought as an officer. For some reason, which no one clearly knew, he quitted the Royalist forces and transferred his services to the Roundheads. In their cause he speedily distinguished himself and was advanced to the rank of colonel. His private character, however, was not pleasing to Cromwell, who would have none but sober and godly men in his army, so that when the New Model was formed in 1646, he was left unemployed, in consequence of which neglect he retired to his estate in Yorkshire and began to form plans for revenging himself upon the Parliamentary leaders by surprising Pontefract Castle. This he was all the more easily able to do because he was a very intimate friend of Cotterel, who was always inviting him to his table, and made much of his society. Morrice took advantage of this confidence to further his own designs. He contrived to entice certain of Cotterel’s men into his own service, and he made such arrangements for surprising the Castle as seemed most suitable.
The Royalists at that time were accustomed to meet at the house of Mr. Beaumont, the Vicar of South Kirkby, some four miles from the Castle, and to them Morrice communicated his designs as occasion arose. While he worked towards the end in view inside the Castle, they secretly made arrangements for bringing their men together at a convenient time. During these operations Cotterel had no notion that Morrice was actively working to betray him, and he continued to hold out to him many professions of friendship, to which Morrice suitably responded. Finally, after an abortive attempt, a successful recapture of the Castle was effected on the 6th of June, 1648, and Colonel Cotterel and such of his men as were not killed or wounded were strictly confined to the quarters where they had lately detained their Royalist prisoners.
The Castle was now once more in the hands of the King’s friends, and those of us who had been imprisoned therein were free, and had the choice of remaining to garrison it against the Parliamentarians. Several of my companions elected to follow this course, and went actively to work to provision the Castle, where there was now gathered a force of about six hundred men, who, on Morrice’s recommendation, chose Sir John Digby to be their Governor. But for my part I was filled with anxiety about my friends, of whom I had heard but little for over two years, and I accordingly left the Castle and betook myself straightway to Dale’s Field.
CHAPTER IX.
OF MY JOURNEY TO LONDON.
I DREW near to my house with many anxious feelings, not knowing what news might be in store for me. We had been so zealously watched during our confinement in the Castle that it had been almost an impossibility to gain any knowledge of what was going on in the outside world. Once during the first few months after my arrest I had received tidings from Dale’s Field, to the effect that all was well there, and that Ben was seeing to my affairs. But after that I had no more news, for Colonel Cotterel imposed many strict rules upon his captives, and would permit no letters to pass either in or out, fearing lest somewhat of a treasonable and dangerous nature should be communicated. Whether they were all well and alive at Dale’s Field, or some ailing and perchance dead, I did not know, which uncertainty often caused me many sad and weary thoughts.
