The Roundheads lost no time in preparing to receive the threatened attack. The dragoons dismounted, one man in every three being told off to hold the reins of their comrades' horses. We were sent to the rear under guard, while the soldiers vigorously plied their swords, cutting down brushwood and small branches of trees which they placed across the road to render more difficult the charge of their opponents.
In a few moments we saw the cavalry appear, and, drawing up against the sky-line, they halted, while their leaders trotted slowly forward, as if to reconnoitre the Roundheads' position.
Apparently, however, the Cornish Royal troops thought the numbers of their enemies too great to attempt an onslaught, for, greatly to my disappointment, the horsemen wheeled and retired, amidst the ironical laughter and gibes of our captors.
But the Roundheads had reckoned too lightly with their enemies, for shortly afterwards the Royalists appeared in our rear, opening a steady fire at long range.
Chaloner was manifestly ill at ease, and, as usual, his craven spirit showed itself in its true colours. With the opening of the rearguard action he took his place at the head of the troop, exhorting them to increase their pace till their progress was little better than a flight.
On our part, Colonel Firestone and I were subjected to the awkward predicament of being under the fire of our own party, the bullets whistling unpleasantly above our heads. Although several of the dragoons essayed to make a stand, their pursuers drove them back with the loss of three killed and five wounded, till at length the chase ended at Lostwithiel Bridge, by the timely arrival of a strong body of musketeers from the Roundhead stronghold.
Here Chaloner handed us over to a captain of pikemen, who conducted us to the church, where, still bound, we were placed in a corner of the sacred edifice under a strong guard.
The floor of the nave was strewn with straw, some twenty or more horses being stabled here, while gathered in small groups were the rough soldiery, polishing their arms.[1]
Presently there entered an officer, whom I recognised in a moment. It was Captain Dawe, the man we had befriended when attacked by robbers near Whitchurch, and the recognition was mutual, though the Roundhead captain placed his finger meaningly on his mouth.
"Why are these men trussed up in this fashion?" he demanded.