CHAP. IX.
He calls us rebels, traitors; and will scourge with haughty
arms this hateful name in us.
Henry IV.
On the cold foggy evening of October the 22d, 1642, the brigade of foot to which the regiment of Cuthbert Noble belonged took up its ground for the night in an open field to the north of the village of Keinton, in which the Earl of Essex fixed his head-quarters. The armies of the King and the Parliament had been several days on the march, both moving in the same direction, on lines of route some twenty miles asunder. Both the King and Essex were well resolved to fight a battle when the fit opportunity should offer; and it was the common talk of the soldiers on both sides that they should soon come to blows. Nevertheless, there was little thought in either camp that they were on the very eve of an engagement, or, indeed, that the main bodies lay so convenient to each other as to fight on the morrow. As soon as the guards were posted, the pikemen and musketeers of Maxwell’s regiment piled their arms in ranks, and were allowed to make such fires as they could. The country being open, and bare of wood, these fires were comfortless and short lived. By a flickering flame, fed with the small wood of the few bushes that grew near, Cuthbert Noble and Randal ate a slender supper of dry bread and salt herring, which they washed down with a weak draught of cold mixture, but faintly tinged with strong waters. “The Saxons,” said Randal, who was a very hardy man, “call this month the wine month, or Wyn Monath; certainly there must have been milder seasons in England formerly than we experience now; for it is impossible to fancy a vintage during such sharp frosts as these.”—“Yes,” said Cuthbert, “yes.” Randal smiled at a reply which bespoke inattention and discomposure, then added, “Master Cuthbert, I counted on seeing you a little proud of your first night in camp: we must all endure hardness as good soldiers.”
“True,” answered Cuthbert, recovering himself: “what is a little cold and a little hunger compared to what thousands of Christian men have in all ages endured, and do in all ages endure for the truth? It is a great cause—a holy cause. I was only thinking at the moment that it is a pity we had not taken a little better care of our bread and of that bottle of strong waters: there is a loaf missing, and the bottle is almost empty. But what petty trifles these are; how much below the dignity of our nature: you are right, Randal; I am, and I ought to be, happy; see how comfortable the Colonel has made himself;” so saying, he pointed to where Maxwell sat, near the only good fire on the ground, with a few officers round him. He was enveloped in a large cloak,—a fur cap was drawn over his ears,—he was leaning with his back against a pack-saddle; and as the smoke of his pipe issued in warm clouds from his mouth he looked as much at his ease as if seated in a chimney corner by the brightest fireside in the kingdom.
“Ay,” said Randal, “he is an old campaigner, and use is second nature; for myself, as long as I am warmly clad, for no other comfort do I care: I hate a pipe, and am not fond of a fire.” Now Randal was wrapped up in an outer coat of the thickest woollen; and Cuthbert himself, being also clothed in a large warm mantle, checked his disposition to complain, and, after a little conversation of a better kind, they both composed themselves to sleep. About two or three hours after he had lain down he was awakened by a sensation of extreme cold. He instantly discovered the cause: his mantle had been stripped off, and he was left without any other covering than the clothes in which he stood. Most of the camp fires were already extinguished, or only emitted a very faint light from the expiring embers. The stars in the deep blue sky above shone with the most vivid lustre: the fog had disappeared; and through the clear gloom of night he could see outlines of the piles of arms and of the groups of sleeping soldiers. Immediately near him lay Randal in a profound sleep: lifting a half-burned brand, he saw by the light which it gave as he waved it around that the mantle was nowhere near the spot. He went among the groups which were not far off to search for it; but the growl and the curse of a brawny pikeman, over whom he chanced to stumble, deterred him from his pursuit; and he had no other resource than to pace up and down in a vacant space of ground, that he might keep himself warm by exertion. In vain he tried to raise his mind to heavenly contemplations; in vain he sought to warm his zeal by picturing the sad and severe sublimities of battle and of victory; and the price of blood which he might soon be called upon, and which he was ready to pay, for the triumph of his cause. For great sacrifices he was eager; for petty troubles he was wholly unprepared; therefore the night wore away in coldness and discontent.
Just as the day was breaking, he observed a man, in the garb of a Puritan, riding leisurely along the lines, and apparently taking a very particular notice of the position and number of the troops. What it was in the manner of the man that awakened the suspicions of Cuthbert is uncertain, but he felt impelled to go closer, and examine him. Accordingly, he crossed towards the quarter-guard, where he observed him stop and enter into conversation with the sergeant. The man’s back was towards Cuthbert,—thus he was able to approach the quarter-guard without being perceived by the stranger. No sooner did Cuthbert catch the tone of his voice than he immediately recognised it to be that of the roguish hypocrite who had slept in the same chamber with him at the inn in Aylesbury, two years before, and had stolen his purse and the horse lent him by Sir Oliver Heywood. The knave, not recollecting Cuthbert in his new dress, continued to pursue his inquiries after he came up in the same canting phraseology, and even addressed some questions to Cuthbert himself; but the latter, suddenly seizing the bridle of his beast, directed the sergeant to pull him out of his saddle, which was instantly and adroitly done, and gave him in charge as a thief and a horse-stealer, and on suspicion of being a spy. The wretch was so panic-stricken that he made no effort to conceal or destroy any of the proofs which were found upon him, when they proceeded to search his person. These papers consisted of a letter to Prince Rupert—another, without a signature, saying that two squadrons of the Parliamentarian horse were prepared to desert as soon as the armies met—and a third, containing an accurate return of the strength of Essex’s main body, and an estimate of the numbers left behind in garrisons, and on other duties. He was taken before Colonel Maxwell; by him sent forthwith to the Earl of Essex, who, having gotten all the information which the confused hypocrite could give, directed him to be hanged in front of the lines, before the troops marched. The rogue died like a dog and a dastard, imploring mercy with loud and feverish howls, till, the noose being fastened tight about his neck, and made secure to a strong branch on the only tree near the camp, the forage cart, on which he had been dragged beneath it, was driven away, and he suddenly fell, and swung slowly to and fro before the silent and stern battalions which were assembled upon the ground in arms.
Such was the Sabbath morning of October the 23d,—far different in prospect and in promise from those of his youthful days at Cheddar. The distant sound of trumpets told that the divisions of horse were already in motion; the drums beat; many a shrill fife pierced the ear; and the columns of foot slowly followed. The army had scarcely advanced a mile before the troops were halted; and they could all distinctly see a fair body of horse on the top of a high level, called Edge Hill, not more than a good mile in front. At the same moment, the Earl of Essex rode past Maxwell’s regiment, and said, in the hearing of Cuthbert,—
“Maxwell, I shall give you plenty of work to-day, for I know I may reckon on your regiment safely.”
“My Lord, we’re all ready and willing,” was the Colonel’s brief reply.
The order now came for drawing up the army in order of battle. Near Keinton, on the right, were some hedges and enclosures: among these were placed the musketeers and pikemen; and one of the most important posts was assigned to the regiment in which Cuthbert served. There were not above two regiments of horse in this wing, where the ground was narrowest; but in the left wing was placed a thousand horse under Ramsey. The reserve of horse was commanded by the Earl of Bedford, assisted by Sir William Balfour: between the Parliamentarians and the royal position, on Edge Hill, it was a fair open country. Essex having thus chosen his ground, stood still in a defensive posture, and directed three cannon to be discharged as a defiance and a challenge to the royal army: they answered readily on their part with two shot from a battery of field guns on the brow of their position. However, many of their foot regiments were quartered seven or eight miles from the main body, and had that distance to march to the rendezvous. It was past one of the clock before the King’s forces marched down the hill, with the King’s standard waving in the centre of his regiment of guards. They made a very fine and gallant appearance, especially their horse. Their trumpets sounded out in the distance, very grand to hear, and those upon Essex’s left wing sounded also. It was a glorious sight to see the royal forces move steadily on, in two lines, with bodies of reserve. They numbered not less than eighteen thousand men, and the army of Essex was very little superior in strength; for two of his best regiments of foot, and one of his horse regiments, were a day’s march behind him. However, the Parliament soldiers were no less ready for the fray than their eager adversaries.
During the solemn pause before the battle, while the hosts were drawing up face to face, and the dispositions for the attack were completing, Cuthbert felt an unaccountable sadness on his spirits. He could well imagine, from all that he heard and saw, that the feelings of a true soldier, standing opposite an army of hostile invaders, and about to fight for the altars and the hearths of his native land, must be of a most exalted and enviable description,—but how different were his. The royal standard of England was floating in the adverse line, and English voices were marshalling it for the onset: his own pupil, young Arthur Heywood, was riding in those ranks.
“Remember, men,” said the commanding voice of Maxwell, “to be silent and steady: wait for the order: reserve your fire to the last moment, musketeers; and keep your ranks, pikemen, when it comes to the push. By God’s help, we’ll drive them up that hill in worse order than they are coming down.”
In another minute there broke a sudden flash from the enemy’s line: close followed the white smoke and the thundering echo; and, by the very side of Cuthbert, a sergeant was struck down dead.
“Pick up Sergeant Bond’s partisan,” said the sergeant-major of the regiment as he was passing by: “pick it up, you Tibbs,” he repeated, in a sharp cold tone, to a supernumerary sergeant attached to the same company, and who had only a sword.
“Is this the glorious battle death?” said Cuthbert to himself,—but he had no leisure for thought: the roar of shotted guns began on both sides, and the battle fiercely opened. The musketeers of the regiment were thrown out towards a hedge, a little in front of the ground occupied by the pikemen; and a canopy of smoke soon rose above them all, veiling the golden sun and the blue heavens, and giving to all the forms and faces of those around, whether friends or foes, a shadowy indistinctness.
In the midst of all this apparent confusion, governing commands were given by beat of drum, or by the swift and intelligent service of chosen aides, or by the personal presence and loud voice, at the particular point were they were needed, of Essex himself, who commanded and fought with his foot throughout the day. Captain Ruddiman, who commanded the company of pikemen to which Cuthbert belonged, did not appear to relish the cannon balls; feeling very naturally, that however ready and able to encounter the Royalists at close quarters, there was no mode of guarding against a round iron shot; nor was he much better pleased with the spitting and whistling of musket-balls. However, being a very brave man, he stood them all as steady as a signpost, and rebuked Lieutenant Sippets for bobbing up and down in a very unsoldier-like fashion. Meanwhile Cuthbert was expressly called by Maxwell to go to the front, and take charge of a company of musketeers, the officers of which were all killed or wounded. He ran eagerly forward and was soon hotly engaged; but the royal dragoons coming up to the support of their foot, and both forcing their way on with ardour, the musketeers were withdrawn by Maxwell behind the reserve of pikemen; and these moving up in good and compact order soon came to a gallant push of pike, and drove back the enemy with severe loss; at the same time the musketeers stoutly supported the push of pike with their clubbed muskets, and made a bloody carnage in the royal ranks. In this mêlée Cuthbert owed his life to that expertness at the sword exercise for which he was indebted to the lessons of George Juxon; for by a dexterous parry he beat off the assault of a stout Royalist officer, who ran at him as he was grasping at a colour, the bearer of which had stumbled, and, killing him by a home thrust through the body, succeeded in taking the colour.
In the pause which followed on the repulse of this attack Cuthbert received the high praise of Maxwell, and the honest congratulations of Captain Ruddiman, who, at close quarters, had himself done good service among the Royalists, making not a few bite the dust beneath the blows of a heavy poll-axe which he had found upon the field. Both parties now for awhile took wind and breath; but soon again the horse of Essex’s right wing was led by Sir William Balfour against the point of the King’s left. Their squadrons passed the flank of Maxwell’s regiment, as they advanced at a walk to take their ground before they formed up for the charge; and Francis Heywood, already distinguished by his brilliant conduct at the unfortunate affair of Pershore, passed so close to Cuthbert that they shook hands. It scarcely seemed a minute from this friendly greeting ere their trumpets sounded the charge, and with a desperate fury they galloped towards the enemy. The first line broke before them: the second was staggered; but two regiments of the royal dragoons, in reserve, came swiftly to their aid, and by the fire of their long carbines struck down a great many of the Parliament horse, and following this up by a charge, compelled them to wheel about. The royal foot now advanced again, and made a furious attack upon the right of Essex, and pushed up to the very mouths of his cannon, and drove away the gunners and spiked several of the guns; but this artillery was valiantly won back by the Parliamentarians: and the brigade of foot in which Maxwell’s regiment fought actually charged the royal dragoons with their pikes, and drove them back in disorder, with the loss of a great many men and horses. It so happened, in this last movement, that when the two parties were close together, Cuthbert caught a momentary but a very distinct view of the fine countenance of young Arthur Heywood, and heard him cry aloud, “Strike home, lads, for God and the King!” The smoke of battle soon hid the vision, and the royal dragoons were compelled to retire.
Prince Rupert had beaten the left wing of Essex, and was in full pursuit; but as night drew on the horsemen of the Prince were seen returning to the field of battle; and as the right wing had maintained its ground stubbornly, the battle ended by the King retiring to the hills, and leaving Essex in possession of the field, where he kept his troops together throughout the night. Both sides laid claim to the victory, and both gained some advantages in the fight, but their losses were very heavy and nearly equal. However, Essex slept upon the field of battle, and was joined in the night by most of the fugitives from his left wing, and was further reinforced by the arrival of two good regiments of foot and one of horse.
The sun had no sooner set on the evening of the battle than it began to freeze hard; and it being Cuthbert’s turn for outline guard, he was posted at the end of a considerable enclosure, near some large gaps, which had been made by the enemy in their attacks to admit of their bringing up their cannon and their cavalry. The slaughter near this spot had been considerable, and Cuthbert had to plant his sentinels among mangled and naked corpses; but in the gloom and obscurity of night the only appearance they presented was that of pallid and stony objects without a shape. He was surprised to find himself insensible to any feeling but the low animal sensations of hunger, cold, and weariness. He sat round the watch fire with the men composing the guard, and ate ravenously of such coarse provisions as were issued. His share of the plunder had been a large warm horseman’s cloak, which his corporal had found among the slain of the King’s guards, and which he now folded about him as he lay down to rest with a very thankful but somewhat a selfish sense of comfort. He gave orders that he should be waked at every relief of the sentinels, and then sunk into a deep slumber, from which he was aroused, within two hours, to go his rounds. When he returned from them all disposition for sleep had departed. He trimmed the watch fire, and was soon the only one awake near the spot except the sentinel. A little book, with silver corners and clasps, lay on the ground, where it had apparently been thrown by one of the soldiers: it attracted the eye of Cuthbert by the gleaming of its silver clasps,—he took it up; the covers were smeared with dirt: he opened it,—it was a Book of Common Prayer: a leaf was folded down at the collect for the day; and in the inside of the cover was written the following quotation from George Herbert:—
“Sundays observe:—think, when the bells do chime,
’Tis angels’ music.”
He knew the handwriting; it was that of Katharine: he knew the book; he remembered the Sabbath morning when she first presented it to her cousin Arthur. He thought upon that glimpse which he had caught of his pupil’s countenance in the battle, and he shuddered with apprehensions.