An impartial historian, or certainly not one who favours the Parliament, thus records the cruel episode:—“Tying them in pairs, they were marched to Oxford. The King, with many nobles and commanders and people of the city, went forth to witness their arrival. They formed a long line upon the road, escorted by two troops of cavalry. Among them were gentlemen and ministers, and a mixed multitude of soldiers, husbandmen, and townsmen. The ways were foul with the trampling of horses; the captives had gone sometimes knee deep in mire, beaten and driven along like jaded beasts, all of them weary, and many of them wounded. In this wretched train appeared a ghastly figure, naked, and, because he was unable to march with the rest, mounted upon the bare back of a horse. His form was manly and handsome; though exhausted, he sat upright with an undaunted air, and the remarkable fairness of his bodily complexion was heightened, where it was not concealed, by gore from many a gaping wound. As he drew near the King, a brawling woman cried aloud to him—‘Ah, you traitorous rogue! You are well enough served.’ He turned upon her a scornful look, retorted a term of base reproach, sunk from his seat, and expired.”
Such was the spectacle to which the ruffian Rupert treated his uncle after the taking of Cirencester at the expense of its unfortunate citizens. And the “kind-hearted King” looked upon it without showing a spark of pity, while his courtiers gloated over it in a very exuberance of joy, even insulting the wretched captives by ribald speech, while giving gleeful and fulsome congratulations to their inhuman captors.
The fall of Cirencester was the prelude to that of Tewkesbury, Malmesbury, and Devizes, all hitherto held by Parliamentary forces; while the strong castles of Sudley and Berkeley had also to be evacuated by them, changing garrisons and showing new flags above their donjons. So close pressed at this time were the partisans of the Parliament in the border shires that Massey was all but cooped up in Gloucester, while the new governor of Bristol was almost equally engaged within the Seaport of the Severn.
Not strange, then, Jerky and his sister having fear to encounter the “Cavalières,” as Jack called them. Though as humble cadgers, they would not be exempt from outrage at the hands of the Royalists; one of whom, Hastings, son of an aristocratic nobleman, had obtained such notoriety in this line as to be called “Rob-carrier.” The princely plunderer, Rupert, had set the fashion, and wherever he and his troopers had control, the routes were only passable for travellers at the risk of being stripped, as by highwaymen, and butchered in cold blood on the slightest show of resistance.
It was no market commodity, however, about which Jerky and his sister were apprehensive, nor aught else carried in Jinkum’s panniers—these being absolutely empty. What it was could not be learnt from anything seen upon the donkey or the persons of its owners; though Jack’s allusion to his wooden leg, with certain eventualities contingent on its being seen through, seemed to point to some mysterious matter. Whatever it might be, no more speech was heard concerning it then, Jerky with another “Yee-up!” adding,—
“Three mile more, Jinkum, and ye’ll be in the snug corner o’ an inn stable-yard, wi’ a measure of barley or beans at your nose. Think o’ that!”
Despite the evident hurry the cadger was in, no thwack of stick accompanied the words. Nor was any needed; the night was well-nigh on, the air piercingly cold, the road frost-bound, with nothing on either side that even an ass could eat, and Jinkum, hungry enough, seemed to know something of that snug stable-yard which promised barley or beans. So, setting ears as if determined to reach the city soon as possible, it again briskened its pace.
The firm frozen ground favoured speed, enabling Jinkum to go gingerly along. It was equally favourable to Jack, with his timber leg, or he would have had ado to keep up with the donkey. As it was, no time was left him for aught else than quick tramping, the rough and now darkened path calling for all the attention he could bestow on it to save him from a tumble. But he had no need to trouble himself with any look-out ahead. That was left to the big sister, who, stepping out some paces in advance, scanned the road at every turn and corner. She saw nothing, however, to be apprehended. If there were any “Cavalières” in the neighbourhood, either the hour—between day and night—or the pinching cold, kept them confined to their quarters. At all events, neither Cavaliers, nor wayfarers of any other speciality, were encountered by them, and for their last three miles of trudge towards Bristol they had the road all to themselves.