For three years had the trumpet of war been braying loudly over the land: and England’s best blood, marshalled into the field, was arrayed on both sides of the fraternal strife. The combatants had become known as royalist and republican: for the latter phrase—first breathed by Holtspur in the secret conference at Stone Dean—was no longer a title to be concealed. On the contrary, it had become openly avowed—proclaimed as a thing to be proud of—as it ever will and must among enlightened and noble men.
There were heard also the words “Cavalier” and “Roundhead;” but these were only terms of boasting and reproach—proceeding principally from the lips of ribald royalists, humiliated by defeat, and giving way to the ferocious instincts that have distinguished “Toryism” in all times; alas! still rife at the present day, both in the tax-paying shires of England, and the slave-holding territories outré the Atlantic.
The “Cavalier” of Charles’s time—so specifically styled—was a true sham; in every respect shabby as his modern representative, the swell—distinguished only by his vanity and his vices; with scarce a virtue: for, even in the ordinary endowment of courage, he was not equal to his “Roundhead” antagonist. His title of “cavalier,” and his “chivalry,” like that of the Southern slave-driver, were simply pseudonyms—a ludicrous misapplication of terms, self-appropriated by a prurient conceit.
It had come to the meeting on Marston Moor—that field ever to be remembered with pride by the lovers of liberty. The rash swaggerer Rupert, disregarding the counsels of a wiser head, had sallied forth from York, at the head of one of the largest armies ever mustered on the side of the king. He had already raised the siege, so gallantly protracted by the Marquis of Newcastle; and, flushed with success, he was in haste to crush the ci-devant besiegers; who, it must be confessed, with some dispirit were retiring—though slowly, and with the sulky reluctance of wounded lions.
Rupert overtook them upon Marston Moor; where, to his misfortune, they had determined on making stand.
It is not our purpose to describe that famous fight—which for a time settled the question between Throne and Tribune. Of the many thrilling episodes witnessed on Marston Moor, one only can be of interest in this narrative; and it alone is given.
Among the followers of the impetuous prince was one Richard Scarthe—late promoted to be a colonel, and commanding a “colour” of cuirassier horse. On the opposite side, among the following of Fairfax, was an officer of like rank—a colonel of cavalry—by name Henry Holtspur.
Was it destiny, or mutual design, that brought these two men together, face to face, in the middle of the fight? It may have been chance—a simple coincidence—but whether or no, of a certain they so met upon Marston Moor.
Scarthe rode at the head of his glittering troop. Holtspur astride his sable charger, gallantly conducted into the field the brave yeomen of Bucks clad in cloth doublets of forest green,—each bestriding a horse he had led from his own stable, to figure in this glorious fight for freedom.
While still a hundred yards separated the opposing parties, their leaders recognised one another. There was also a mutual recognition among their men: for many of those commanded by Scarthe were the cuirassiers who had been billeted at Bulstrode mansion; while many of the “green coats” in the following of the black horseman had figured conspicuously in that crowd who had jeered the soldiers on their departure from its park.