A TALE OF NASEBY FIELD.
About four miles from Market-Harborough lies a little village, which we will call Bullenham. It is one of the most peaceful spots in all the peaceful Midlands. The houses are scattered here and there, divided from each other by orchards and farm-closes; one or two quiet shops supply the modest wants of the people; and several large farms provide the rude fathers of the village with labour. The old church, square-towered and gray, stands amidst the cottages. The curfew bell is still rung every night, and many another quaint custom survives the displacement of old-world life made all over England by modern manufactures and railways. The only disturbance to which the village is now liable is the invasion of its wide street and spacious green by foxhounds and scarlet-coated hunters, who, during the season, often meet there. But two centuries ago the village was invaded by the Cavalier army on its way from Harborough to Naseby, there to meet defeat at the hands of Fairfax and Cromwell and their undaunted Roundheads. The military events of that time, and the momentous national changes they effected, are familiar to every one; and as they form no part of our story, we shall not dwell on them; for on the edge of the splendid blazonry of history there are often homely incidents which the historian and philosopher reject, and it is such an event, full of domestic and human interest, that we propose to narrate.
A few days before the battle, a troop of Rupert’s horse was holding the village of Bullenham, and, with wild riot and plunder, terrifying the hearts of the farmers and their wives. The post was of some importance, for it lay just half-way between Harborough, where King Charles was staying, and that wide moorland on which the Parliamentary army was manœuvring. Nearly the whole of the Royalist soldiers passed through Bullenham, so that the villagers saw enough and to spare of the pomp and circumstance of war. The young officer who commanded the cavalry troop quartered in the village was named Henry Melford, and he had established himself in a small farmhouse. The household consisted of the farmer and his wife and one daughter, their only child. Captain Melford was not a rough soldier, but a refined man, accustomed to good society. At the same time, he had a delightfully frank manner, quick sympathies, and a homely naturalness and power of adaptation which went far to reconcile Dame Dimbell to the invasion of her household privacies and the subversion of all her established hours and methods. Her husband’s talk was of oxen, and he took little interest in the questions that were then riving society to its centre. A stolid, characterless man, he rose with the dawn to go through his placid routine of occupations, and smoked his pipe in the chimney in the evening. The outdoor work of his small farm he managed almost entirely himself, while his wife and neat-handed daughter reigned inside the threshold. Barbara was a bright, plump, merry creature, who sang old ballads from morning till night, save when a snatch of some favourite church anthem broke in graver notes from her lips. She had lived in unwonted excitement since the soldiers had entered the village, and what mischief might have come about had she been allowed to yield to her own coquettish impulses it is hard to say. But Captain Melford had none of the licentiousness which characterised many of the Royalist soldiers: he had indeed something of the chivalrous purity of an olden knight, and he had not only warned Barbara against possible danger, but had made it well understood that the maiden was not to be approached by the soldiers. Consequently, the pretty damsel was comparatively safe; and honest John Sprayby, who for a year or two had been hovering about her, was not likely to be discarded for some bolder and lighter wooer.
One evening, after Captain Melford had received the reports of his sergeant, and had given orders for the various watches to be kept during the night, he began to take his ease in the spacious farm kitchen. The table was spread for supper, and he sat down to do hearty justice to the homely old English fare.
‘Come, dame,’ he cried, ‘give me a draught of your home-brewed. ’Tis the best drink I have tasted since Prince Rupert gave me a stirrup-cup a week ago.—And what’s this? By all that’s good, a stuffed chine! Ah! this is better than all your court kickshaws, and will stay my stomach well if there should be any fighting to-morrow;’ and so saying, he laid at once a pound or so upon his plate and applied himself vigorously to its consumption. ‘And where is your pretty daughter, Mistress Dimbell?’ he asked after a time. ‘Is she with her sweetheart? Ah, if you’ll only wait until we’ve beaten these confounded Roundheads, I’ll see that they get married. There’s a certain fair lady breaking her heart over me now, and so I can feel for pretty Barbara in these wild times.’
‘I’m sure your honour’s very good,’ said the farmer’s dame; ‘and I wish you were safe out of all this fighting, for I should be sorry to see you come by any hurt.’
Just then a loud knock shook the door, and going to it, Mrs Dimbell saw a trooper leading his horse. Both man and beast were covered with dust and sweat from hard riding. ‘Is Captain Melford in?’ he asked in a loud tone. Melford could not avoid hearing the question, for the kitchen opened directly on the road, and so he jumped up and hurried to the door.
‘These for you, sir,’ said the trooper respectfully on seeing the captain, and handed him a large packet of papers. ‘There are stirring times at hand, and we’re going to have at Old Noll.’
‘Ah!’ said the captain, ‘is that so? Well, come in, Radbourne, and eat something while I read these letters. You can tie your horse up to yonder tree; there is a sentinel will have an eye on him.’
‘Thank your honour,’ said the soldier: ‘I shall be none the worse for a comfortable meal. We’ve been on the march since sunrise this morning, and I’ve tasted nothing but a pot of small beer since noonday.’ Having fastened his horse’s bridle to the tree, he soon seated himself at the table, where he made a mighty attack on the stuffed chine, and emptied almost at a draught the brown jug of ale.
While he was thus engaged, the captain was busy reading his despatches and writing a reply to one of them. When he was ready, he called the soldier, and said: ‘Here, Radbourne; you must hurry back with all speed. Give this letter to the Prince, and say that all shall be done as he orders. You had better take your horse to the stable and rub him down and feed him, for it won’t do to break down to-night. But don’t delay starting, and keep your pistols loose.’
‘All right, captain,’ said Radbourne, as he prepared to carry out these directions, at the same time casting a fond look at the empty ale-jug.
The captain saw his glance, and said laughingly: ‘Come, good Mistress Dimbell, get this thirsty soul another draught, and he shall drink it to your health when he’s ready to start.’
When the trooper was gone, Captain Melford went to the door and whistled loudly, whereupon the sergeant of his troop came from a neighbouring cottage, and to him the captain gave certain orders, and then turned back to his interrupted supper. On entering the kitchen again, he found pretty Barbara Dimbell there, and seated in a corner was a rustic youth, who evidently, even in those exciting times, found in Barbara’s smiles an attraction of the most potent kind. Melford greeted him with a friendly smile, for he had found considerable amusement in watching the unsophisticated courtship of these two blushing lovers.
Mrs Dimbell said to him: ‘Come, sir, it’s a shame you can’t have a meal in peace; now, do sit down and finish.’
He looked graver than usual as he resumed his place at the table, and after a while said, almost as if he were speaking to himself: ‘This may be my last meal; who knows? I and my men are to set off by cockcrow, and I fear we shan’t all come back. Perhaps it’s my turn this time.’
‘Well, sir,’ said the farmer’s wife, ‘every bullet has its billet, as the saying is; but don’t be cast down. I hope we shall see you come riding back all right. But, God help us! these are bad times, when a man can’t be sure of his own life, let alone the beasts as he has brought up and the crops he has reaped. There’s our corn-stack has been carried half away this very week as ever was; and if it hadn’t been for your honour speaking up, we should not have had a cow left; and as for Barbara and John coming together, why, it’s my opinion as they’ll have to wait years before we can turn ourselves again.’
The lovers looked up at this new view of things, and stared with undisguised dismay at each other.
But Captain Melford burst into a hearty laugh, and cried out: ‘Nay, things are not so bad as that.—Cheer up, my little apple-blossom, and see if you don’t get married before the year is out; and if I can’t come and dance at your wedding, I’ll send you something to remember me by.—But where is your husband, mistress, for I want to see him before I go to bed?’
The farmer, being called by his wife, made his appearance from one of the outhouses, where he had been attending to the wants of his cattle. He saluted the captain respectfully, and waited to hear what he had to say.
Beckoning them both into another room, the captain said: ‘Dimbell, I’ve got orders to march early in the morning, as a big fight is expected to-morrow. Now, I want you and your good wife to take care of this money for me. There’s nearly four hundred pounds in this bag, and it’s too much to carry about, especially when a man may get an ugly knock that will settle him entirely. So do you put it in some safe corner; and if I come out of the fight all right, you shall give it me again, and I’ll pay you well for what I’ve had here. But if I should be killed, you may keep the money for yourselves, and buy a bigger farm with it.’
‘Well, sir,’ said the farmer, ‘I’m sure I’ll do my best to keep it safe, and I hope as how you’ll come back to claim it; for your honour has been a civil gentleman to us, and has kept us from being eaten up by them soldiers, and I’m sure we all wish you might come back safe.’
‘Thanks, my good friends,’ was the reply. ‘And now I’ll go to bed and get a few hours’ sleep.’
The next morning he was up and away almost before the proverbial cockcrow. After his departure, Dimbell and his wife spent some time in searching for a secure hiding-place for the money intrusted to their care. That day, little work was done in the village, for the wild sounds of war came fitfully on the air as the incidents of the epoch-making battle of Naseby succeeded one another through the day. Some adventurous youths, who had followed the Royalist troops on their march, brought back fragmentary tidings of fierce strife and strange confusions, and of how they had seen the king’s carriage, and the king himself sitting in it. As the afternoon wore away, tumultuous bands of men came hurrying through the village and made with all speed for Market-Harborough. Their numbers increased, until it became evident that the Royalist army was in full retreat. At last, when the main bodies of both horse and foot had passed, and only wounded stragglers were to be seen, there came riding into the village a compact body of stern horsemen, who speedily occupied every point of vantage and took prisoners all the Royalist soldiers they found. The post was now in the hands of the Parliamentary army, and it was not long before trembling and terrified Mistress Dimbell was bidden to prepare accommodation for two officers in her house. The next day, fresh dispositions were made, and the village was left in comparative quiet, only a dozen soldiers remaining to prevent communications with the Royalist army.
The third day after, as John Sprayby was returning home from some rustic occupation in the dusk of the evening, he saw a strange figure crawling along under the shadow of the hedge. At first, it seemed like some beast; but as he drew nearer, he heard human groans proceeding from it. Evidently some wounded soldier was dragging himself painfully along, and John went towards him to see if he could render any help. He then saw that the poor man was crawling on his hands and one foot, the other foot being broken and crushed. Approaching still closer, he felt a shock of surprise and grief as he recognised Captain Melford.
‘Why, Master Melford,’ said he, ‘is that you, sir? Oh! what a pity! Here, lean on me, sir;’ and the good-hearted John blubbered lustily as he knelt down and strove to ease the poor man’s pain.
The captain was so exhausted that he could hardly speak, but he held John’s hand tightly as he said feebly: ‘How far is it to Mistress Dimbell’s? Are there any soldiers in the village?’
‘Well, sir,’ replied John, ‘there’s a few of ’em left; but there’s none at Dimbell’s now; so, if you would stop here a bit, I’ll go and fetch somebody, and we’ll make shift to get you there. Perhaps, if we take you the back way over the fields, none o’ the soldiers’ll see us.’
‘Do, John,’ said the wounded man; ‘and I’ll lie down here and stop quiet. But, for God’s sake, don’t be long, for I’m almost done.’
Upon this away went John, and soon returned with help enough to carry the wounded man to his old quarters in the farmhouse. The good dame and her daughter, who had prepared a bed immediately upon John’s report, hastened to wash and roughly dress the wound, and to feed the famished and half-dead man. All night they watched and tended him, but in the morning he was evidently worse, and seemed sinking down to death. There was no surgical aid near, and they dare not let his presence be known, for fear of the soldiery. All day he lay in a kind of stupor, hardly noticing the presence of any one; but in the evening he revived a little, and could speak. He called the farmer to him, and said brokenly to him and his wife: ‘My good friends, you’ve been very kind to me. I know I’m dying; you must be my heirs. Keep that money—the money I left with you. Let pretty Barbara get married. Tell John I thank him for bringing me here. I hope you’ll prosper. I shall be gone soon. May God have mercy on my king, and on my country! I die willingly for them.’
After this, he conversed no more, but lay breathing heavily, with his eyes fixed, and acknowledging only by a touch the kind offices that were done him. About ten o’clock at night, the farmhouse door was flung rudely open, and a loud voice called for the master of the house. Hurrying forward, Dimbell found himself confronted by a Parliamentary officer, and saw that the house was surrounded by soldiers. The officer said: ‘Whom have you got up-stairs? I shall require you to answer for harbouring traitors. Come, show me the way.’
The farmer, with a sinking heart, showed the officer the room, and he entered noisily, crying: ‘Come, come, who are you?’
The dying man, somewhat aroused, turned his glazing eyes towards the sound, but took no further notice.
‘O sir,’ said the farmer’s wife, weeping and wringing her hands, ‘I’m afeared as he’s dying. Look at him, and you’ll see as he can’t be moved. O dear, O dear! Good gentleman, don’t you touch him.’
The officer, like most men of his class, though stern and uncompromising in duty, was far from unkindly, and was a deeply religious man. In the presence of death, all differences were dwarfed, and common humanity asserted itself. He turned to the dying man with a subdued manner and grave inquiries. ‘Ah! brother,’ said he, ‘this is an hour to prove the vanity of earthly things. I would fain ask if you have made your peace on high, and laid down your weapons of rebellion against the Divine Majesty? Bethink you that He is a God pardoning iniquity, transgression, and sin, and showing mercy unto all truly penitent souls. Look to the risen and glorified Mediator; for I am not one of those who would bid men fix their thoughts on Calvary, as if what was done there were still in course of being accomplished. But rest ye on a completed Atonement whereby thy peace is purchased for ever. Then thou shalt have no fear even in the gloomy valley.’
The dying man had recognised the officer as an opponent, and at first there had been a faint thrill of resistance to his words. But the tone was so sincerely kind, and there was such evident human interest and religious earnestness, that he accepted with a grateful look the exhortation addressed to him. No word passed his lips, but his eyes glanced upwards as if in silent prayer. The officer knelt down, and poured out with Puritan quaintness and fervour strong intercessions for the sufferer, praying that he might not fail of eternal glory. The awed farmer and his wife listened as to a strange tongue, and when the voice ceased Captain Melford was heard to say ‘Amen.’ They then saw one convulsive shudder pass through his frame, and all was over—Death had claimed his own.
What remains can be narrated briefly. The officer gave orders that the funeral should be conducted reverently; and on learning the name and rank of Captain Melford, undertook to communicate with his friends. After a time, the soldiers withdrew from the village, and its quiet life once more flowed into its former channels. John Sprayby and Barbara Dimbell were then married; and the old folks cautiously brought forward Captain Melford’s legacy, and set up the young ones on a farm. It was the beginning of assured prosperity to them; and to this day their descendants, still bearing the name of Sprayby, are found on the same farm. The little village of Bullenham bears no trace of the rough edge of war which once descended upon it, nor do many even of the neighbours know how from the red soil of battle sprang the large and peaceful prosperity of the Sprayby family.