Very different was the defence on the southern side, and of different stuff the defenders. There Sir Richard Walwyn with his Foresters, and Birch with his Bridgemen, held the ramparts against Hertford and Maurice, not only foiling the attack, but beating them off. In that quarter had been blows enough, with blood flowing in rivers. The Cornish men were cut down by scores, among them some of their best leaders, as Slanning and Trevannion. Alas! all in vain. Alike to no purpose proved the gallantry of the soldier knight and the stanch courage of the merchant-soldier! Unavailable their deeds of valour; for while they were fighting the foe in their front—in the act of putting him to rout—behind they heard a trumpet sounding signals for parley! And turning, beheld a white flag, waving from a staff, within the city’s walls! Saw and heard all this with amazement. On their side the assailants were repulsed, and Bristol still safe. Why then this show of surrender? Could it be treason?
Birch believed it was, though not on the part of Fiennes. He was but vacillating and frightened, Langrish playing the traitor, as the events proved, ending in capitulation. But while Sir Richard and his troopers were still in doubt about the purport of the signals, they saw an aide-de-camp galloping towards them—the same who brought the despatch to Montserrat House at the breaking up of the ball. A verbal message he carried now—command for them to cease fighting.
“And why?” demanded the astonished knight, other voices asking the same, as much in anger as astonishment. “For what reason should we cease fighting? We’re on the eve of victory!”
“I know not the reason, Colonel Walwyn,” responded the aide-de-camp, evidently ashamed of the part he was constrained to play; “only that they’ve beaten us on the Gloucester side, and got into the works. The Governor asked for an armistice, which Prince Rupert has granted.”
“Oh! you have Rupert round there, have you? I thought as much. This is Langrish’s doing. Gentlemen,” he observed to the officers now gathering around him, “we may guess how ’twill end—in a base, traitorous surrender. Possibly to be delivered over to the tender mercies of this princely freebooter. Are you ready to risk it with me, and cut our way out?”
“Ready—yes!” responded Eustace Trevor, and the men of the Forester troop, loudest of all their sergeant.
“We, too!” cried the Bridgemen, Birch giving them the cue; while others here and there echoed the daring resolve.
But the majority were silent, and shrank back. It was too hopeless, too desperate, running the gauntlet against countless odds. With the whole garrison agreeing to it, there might have been a chance. But they knew this would be divided, in view of the treason hinted at.
While they were still in debate as to what should be done, another mounted messenger came galloping up with news which quickened their deliberation, bringing it almost instantly to a close. The enemy had offered honourable terms, and Fiennes had accepted them. It was no longer a question of surrender, but a fait accompli.
“What are the conditions?” every one eagerly asked.