CHAP. VI.
It’s a hard fate to be slain for what a man should never
willingly fight.
Raleigh.
The prediction of Juxon concerning the city of Coventry proved correct:—not only was the disposition of the inhabitants such as he described, but the Parliamentarians, whose vigilance and activity were very great, sent forward a small force to assist the citizens in defending the place,—and the King had the mortification of summoning it in vain. The gates were shut against him, and the burghers sent out a message of defiance. His Majesty came to Stoneleigh Abbey the same afternoon, much dejected; and being there joined by several of the most considerable gentlemen in the county, he decided on raising his standard at Nottingham, which was accordingly done on the 25th of August; but he found that place much emptier than he expected, and learned that the army of the Parliament, composed of horse, foot, and cannon, was at Northampton. His own few cannon and stores were, as yet, at quarters in York; and the levy gathered immediately under his own person was at this moment very inconsiderable. Among the cavaliers, who had brought their contingent of horsemen for the royal service, was Sir Charles Lambert, with young Arthur Heywood and a small troop of stout yeomanry. The age of boyhood is so impressible, that the mind readily admits an omen for good or for evil; and Arthur felt, and was angry with himself for feeling, uncomfortable, because the very first evening of its erection the royal standard was blown down by a violent storm of wind and rain.
A short time was now consumed in messages between the King and the two Houses; but on neither side were the negotiations conducted in a spirit which could issue otherwise than they did. The declaration of the two Houses to the kingdom was a trumpet note that gave no uncertain sound, and it was answered to by the King with a princely courage.
He now removed to Derby; and having clear information that Shrewsbury was at his devotion, continued his march to that town; and, collecting all his forces in that strong and pleasant situation, was enabled to organise them for taking the field in security, and to keep up his correspondence with Worcester,—a city zealously affected to the royal cause. Soon after the King left Nottingham, the Earl of Essex marched from Northampton with his whole army towards Worcester, and, as he traversed Warwickshire, placed garrisons of foot both in Warwick and Coventry. It so chanced that, by these dispositions, the regiment to which Cuthbert belonged was stationed for a time at Warwick.
Sir Oliver Heywood had been disappointed of his wishes by an attack of gout so very severe, that it quite disabled him; and although he had contrived to present himself before the King at Stoneleigh, the effort had thrown him back, and reduced him to the helplessness of a cripple. He was therefore compelled to forego his intention of repairing to Nottingham and joining the levy. Under these circumstances he was willing to remain shut up at Milverton House, and to abide all chances and all consequences which might follow on that course, when the army of the Parliament should enter the county. But Juxon warmly represented to him the great imprudence of this unnecessary risk, and advised him to seek a temporary residence in a more protected situation. With a wise forethought he recommended Oxford; observing that it was at present occupied for the King; and, if his Majesty could make head against his enemies, would undoubtedly become the royal quarters, in the event of his not being fortunate enough to recover the capital before winter. It was true that in the interval which must pass before the King could take the field, and advance in strength, the University of Oxford might be exposed to a visit of some division of the Parliamentary forces; but it was not probable that private families lodging there without show would be seriously molested:—whereas it was almost certain that the country mansion of any Royalist of like consideration with himself would be subjected to a visitation of a very insulting and rude nature. Sir Oliver yielded to this sensible advice; and as soon as the King quitted Nottingham he departed from Milverton. Jane and Sophia Lambert accompanied Katharine Heywood to Oxford; and Juxon having escorted the party on their first day’s journey, took leave of them with the best composure which he could, and, without betraying the depth and tenderness of his solicitude by one look or tone of dejection, returned with all speed to Old Beech.
It was near midnight when he approached the village; and by the obscure light of a moonless but clear sky he discerned in the lane before him two men moving about at a point where another road crossed it. As a gate on his right hand opened into a large field, he dismounted, and leading in his horse, fastened it to a hedge-stake, and stole forward softly on foot by a pathway, leading to the point where the roads crossed. Just as he reached the spot, a disturbed bird nestled in a bush. “Who goes there?” said a gruff voice. Juxon remained perfectly still, and saw two sentinels, one a pikeman, and the other a musketeer, who now ceased their pacing, and stood halted, fronting the lane end.
“It is nobody,” replied the comrade of the soldier who had given the challenge:—“this is the second time thou hast been fooled to-night.”
“Thou art the fool, deaf dunderhead, and wouldst not hear a troop of horse till they were down on thee:—what dost thou know of the wars, bumpkin? I tell thee I heard a horse at the far end of yon lane as clear as I hear thy clapper; and there may be royal troopers closer than we think for. Dost mind? when I fire, take to thy scrapers, and join the post at the barn.”
“Well, call me bumpkin as you will, you may be right: I warn’t thinking about horses, nor listening, you see. Your ears are sharp enough for both;—a plague o’ the Parliament folk;—I was thinking about them pretty bodies that wear white caps and yellow kerchiefs. I was to ha’ been wed, man, at Michaelmas, but for all this to do about the litia: what’s the King done to me?”
“Why you talk like a fool: hold your tongue.—Who goes there?” again roared the old musketeer,—but Juxon kept a breathless silence.—“You talk like a fool. Pay is pay, and victuals victuals, and one side as good as t’ other; and ours will be the best for booty, man.”
“Booty! what’s that?”
“Why you must be a queer simpleton not to know: why money, and plate, and rich gear, and wines, and grub of all sorts; all’s fish that comes to net, man: that’s the best part of a soldier’s life.”
“Why what’s he got to do with them things, if they beynt his’n?”
“Beynt his’n!” said the old soldier with a tone of contempt: “why make ’em his’n.”
“Why that’s what I call plain picking and stealing; and it’s taught in the Catechiz that you musn’t do that.”
“Ay, that’s all very well for brats at a parson’s village school; but that wo’n’t do for them that know better. Besides, the Catechiz, as you call it, is no good now; it’s all wrong foundation.”
“Well, while I ha’ got hands to get my living I don’t want gold nor silver: I never heard one of your rich folk whistle in all my born days; and as for your madams, why my Madge has a laughing face that shames them. Dang it, I wish I were back with her, and you might soldier and the Roundheads might preach long enough afore I’d come among ye.”
“Why I don’t say any thing for those fellows that pray and preach; and sometimes I am afraid they’ll stand between a good soldier and his right, and wo’n’t let him have his fair share of plunder. There’s that grave, demure leeftenant they call Cuthbert drove me and two more out of the parson’s orchard this very afternoon before I mounted duty. He looks too sharp after other people’s business, that godly rogue; and if ever I catch him tripping in a thick smoke, I’ll give him a rap on the sconce shall make him sleep sound enough ever after.”
“Thou shalt never hurt a hair of his head while I am by,” said the rustic soldier: “he’s a kind, fair-spoken gentleman as ever stepped in shoe-leather.”
“Tut! you’re both of a kidney—both fools alike—I’ve been throwing away my breath on. Keep your own path, and keep moving,” said the musketeer, and resumed his own cross beat in a surly silence.
Warned by this adventure that Parliament soldiers were quartered for the night in Old Beech, and by the mention of Cuthbert’s name, and the anecdote connected with it, that he had a friend among the hostile party, who would, as far as possible, protect his interests, Juxon instantly resolved to pass round by another road, and put up at a detached farm-house a quarter of a mile to the north of the village, where he could gain more accurate information of their doings, and judge how to act in the morning. He was turning about quietly, to steal off and get back to his horse, when his attention was again arrested by the musketeer saying suddenly and bluntly to the pikeman, “You want to be off home, I’m sure.”
“You’re right enough there, and no conjurer:—I told you so.”
“I mean, you want to desert.”
“No, I doant.”
“Yes you do, and you’ll run off when the fighting comes.”
“No I wunt: there’s no man shall ever say that Bob Hazel gave back in a fair stand-up fight.”
“Well, then, you’ll change your side as soon as we come near the King’s troops, and fight on the other.”
“Why for the matter o’ that, I didn’t choose my side, to be sure, any more than if I had been called by him that won the toss at football; but now I’m in for it, I’ll fight it out with the best of them on my own side.”
“That’s more than I’ll say,” muttered the musketeer: “I’m always for the uppermost cause and the best paymaster: after the first battle we shall see which has the good luck.”
They were again silent, and Juxon moved away, and regaining his horse led it round by paths and gaps well known to himself to the farm-house above mentioned. He found the farmer out and on the watch, and his family had not gone to bed. The information which he here obtained of the conduct of the Parliament troops in Old Beech was very satisfactory. They had been peaceable and orderly, and had done violence to no man. The commanding officer, it seems, had taken up his quarters at the rectory, and a safeguard was appointed to protect the church from injury. It was reported that they would march forwards the next morning, or in the course of the day. But although the Colonel had maintained a strict control over the soldiers during the day, the farmer was naturally afraid that in the course of the night some evil-disposed marauders might visit the farm, and therefore all his people kept watch. Juxon’s horse was instantly put up,—and before the large fire in the farmer’s kitchen a homely but welcome supper was cheerfully provided. Although fatigued, he was far too restless to sleep; and when he had refreshed himself with a little food and a cup of strong ale he went out again, and walked towards the village. In the clear gloom of night it presented the fine outline of a picturesque cluster of habitations, of which the principal feature was the small church, with its ancient tower, looking black and solemn. To the surprize, however, of Juxon, a light, the only one to be seen in all the dark mass of buildings, gleamed steadily from the window of his chancel. The sight attracted him; and under the impulse of curiosity, to see what the guard might be doing, he crossed the intervening fields, leaped over the wall of the churchyard, and gained the window without seeing or being noticed by any one. A lamp in the chancel had been lighted, and threw around an illumination, faint indeed, but sufficient to show very distinctly to the eyes of Juxon the reverend figure within. Directly opposite the window, with his face so slightly averted towards a monument on the same side, that not a feature nor an expression was lost, stood a tall grave person in a clerical habit. His features were noble and sad: his eyes were very bright, but severe withal; and his complexion was pale as marble. He wore a small skullcap of black velvet; and beneath it his hair fell, on either side, in a large wavy mass, and lay upon the broad white collar that turned over his narrow and close-buttoned cassock. His upper lip was shaded with a small quantity of the blackest hair; a tuft of the same filled the indenture beneath his under lip, and thus the pallor of his long thin cheeks, and of his high forehead, appeared more deadly. His pale hand, which held a closed volume, was pressed against his bosom; and he stood so very motionless, and so deeply absorbed in meditation, that a less healthy fancy than that of Juxon would have deemed him some ghostly visitant, permitted, during the witching hour of night, to haunt that holy place. The slow heavy tread of a man in arms, turning the distant corner of the church, warned Juxon to conceal himself; and passing quickly round under the altar window to the other side, he came to the small door of the chancel. It stood ajar; and pushing it gently, he entered, and again closing it, found himself in the presence of the venerable stranger, and alone with him. He turned at the sound of Juxon’s entrance without abruptness or discomposure; but as the light showed him an unknown face, and an athletic form in garments dusty with travel, he demanded of him in a tone of authority how he had come thither, and what was his business.
“But yesterday,” said Juxon, “I might have asked that question of thee: but a day has brought forth a sudden change; and the shepherd must enter his own fold by stealth, or with the permission of others.”
“I understand thee. Thou art the minister of this place: thou hast nothing to fear: I have watched in thy sanctuary, and no one has violated or defiled it. You may go home to your own chamber in peace: it was allotted as my quarter by the commander of this band, but I resolved to keep a vigil here, and would continue it alone. Go, and God speed thee. We shall march in the morning; and I pray that you may be kept safe in all future visitations.”
“March!—have I heard aright? Does such an one as you march in the ranks of rebels? Does a minister of the Gospel preach war, and that against the Lord’s anointed?”
“Against the person of the King we do not war: we fight against his false and dangerous friends. The sword of the Lord is with us, and it must go through the land; but we march as mourners to the field of blood. Witness these walls that have heard my groanings, yon tomb that has been watered by my tears. In that tomb lie the ashes of my grandfather, who was the first Protestant of his race. The Reformation, begun by the godly men of that day, has never yet been completed: that work remains for us.”
“Miserable delusion!” cried Juxon aloud; “miserable delusion! Is it by kindling and diffusing the false fire of fanaticism? is it in arms? is it by a path of blood that you move? Then is your work a work of evil, and your light darkness.”
“So called they the work and the light of our forefathers, when they led them forth, and burned them at the stake. You have a zeal for the church, but not according to knowledge. I have heard of you from your friend Cuthbert Noble.”
“Call him not friend of mine: give to all things their right names. He that stands in arms against his king is a traitor; and if he had lain in my heart’s core, I would pluck him out, and cast him from me.”
At this moment, a man in arms entered the small door of the chancel, and taking off his steel cap, advanced towards Juxon, and put forth his hand:—it was Cuthbert Noble. He was much altered in his appearance: his countenance was severe and sad, but resolute withal; and his corslet, with the broad buff girdle beneath, had produced a change in his aspect and bearing incredible to the mind of Juxon, if he had not witnessed it with his eyes.
“Do you refuse my hand? do you turn away from me, Juxon? I have not deserved this at your hands,” said Cuthbert, still stretching forth his hand. Juxon turned his face and looked steadfastly upon him.
“Cuthbert,” said he with a slow, grave utterance, “I and your revered father are upon the same side, and we fill the same sacred office. Even now, perhaps, his fold is broken into by some furious zealots, who will not show the same lingering compunction which is now, for a moment, sparing mine. No, Cuthbert, the hand that grasps a sword, and wields it against my king, shall never more be clasped with friendliness by me.”
Cuthbert’s hand fell down, and his knees shook, and his whole frame trembled with the strength of his emotion.
“Dare to repent,” added Juxon, observing the internal struggle,—“dare to repent. Here in the house of God, and before the altar of God, lay down the arms of rebellion, and go home to comfort, and, if possible, to protect, your father and mother.”
What effect this appeal might have had upon Cuthbert had he been alone with Juxon, and subjected to all the strength with which it would have been urged home upon him, we cannot say; for it was no sooner spoken, than the Puritan chaplain fell upon his knees, and poured forth a prayer for the cause of the Parliament, which, by its solemn tone and intense fervency, commanded the silent and breathless attention of both. It was evident that this petitioner, with an enthusiasm that has been felt perhaps in common by some of every creed and party under the cope of heaven, identified the particular cause which he himself had espoused with that of truth and of God. Before he had uttered the first brief sentence of adoration, Cuthbert had fallen down in a lowly posture of worship,—and his spirit was soon carried by his leader in prayer whithersoever he would.
Juxon leaned his head against the wall where he stood, and kept his eyes fixed on them. He had before him one of those rarely endowed beings on whom gifts without measure had been poured:—for a quarter of an hour he listened, with a painful and solemn interest, to a flow of real eloquence. The petitions touched in succession every point at issue. They justified, as by divine command, the appeal to arms, and proclaimed the end thereof to be reformation and peace. They recognised the sacredness of the King’s anointed head; and they ended in a prophetic anticipation of the days of millennial glory, and the universal reign of a manifested God.
In the course of the prayer he had not forgotten to pray for all mankind, and especially for all those enemies who now stood opposed to them in the present contest, and again in a yet more especial manner for the near and dear relations, whose wishes and entreaties they were now called on to resist, and whose hearts they might now afflict. Painting this resistance most truly, as the highest order of self-denial, he urged it as a sacred duty, and a sacrifice well pleasing to the Lord.
Juxon saw by the expression of Cuthbert’s mouth the new and stronger resolutions he was making;—nor did it surprise him to see that, when they rose together at the conclusion of this fervent prayer, the chaplain took Cuthbert by the hand, that was passively yielded, and led him forth from the church without either of them addressing one word to himself. They looked at him, indeed, with seriousness, if not with compassion, and they moved their lips, but the whispered ejaculations of their hearts had no voice; and their departing footsteps were the only sounds that broke the silence of the place and of the hour.