"Sir," he said, "we demand certain of your Members—Mr. Pym, Mr. Strode, Mr. Haselrig, Mr. John Hampden, and Mr. Denzel Holles."
There was a second's pause, then the King added in a voice slightly varied and strained with anger—
"Where are these men?"
"Your Majesty," replied the Speaker, "I have neither ears nor eyes in this place save as the House may be pleased to direct."
A low, deep murmur followed these words, and the blood ran up from the King's fair beard to his fair curls, and remained there, a fixed red in his haughty face.
"It is no matter," he replied. "I think my eyes are as good as another's."
He turned and glanced round the House and scrutinized the packed benches in which were those five notable empty places; through the open doors his own followers peered in with a show of pike and pistol. Oliver Cromwell looked at them and smiled. When the King's swift glance for one instant rested on him, that grim smile was still on his lips; he turned and looked down full into the flushed face of the King.
Charles smiled also with a bitterness beyond words.
"I perceive that my birds are flown," he said; "but I shall take my own course to find them."
The Speaker neither moved nor spoke; a few deep cries of "Privilege!" rose from the benches, and the King seemed to suddenly lose that proud composure he had hitherto maintained. His painful colour deepened and his countenance was confused and troubled, as if he realized how many and powerful his enemies were and how completely he was now encompassed by them.
"Hold us excused that we thus disturb you," he stammered, and he took his hand from his heart, where he had hitherto kept it, and caught his nephew by the arm as if to assure himself of the presence of one friend in the midst of this hostile assembly.
"God save you, sire!" muttered the Elector Palatine. "Do not give these rogues the power of disconcerting you."
Charles replied something that was lost in the ever deepening and growing murmur from the benches, and, turning on his heel, passed with his usual dignity of carriage through the ranks of the angry and triumphant Commons, and joined his own followers in the lobby.
As the rose-coloured habit flashed out of sight, a great murmur arose, and the Members turned passionately one to the other. There was neither noise nor disorder; they were the very flower of English gentlemen, nearly all of famous names and ancient lineage, and they had not acted lightly nor for a trivial cause, but with full gravity and weight and for the sake of civic liberty.
"His Majesty," said Mr. Cromwell to his neighbour, "is as great a blunderer as any I have ever seen."
Further down the benches a member remarked—
"The die is cast. Now there is no turning back."
The next day the Parliament moved into the city for safety, and there went into committee on the state of affairs in the kingdom. Mr. Cromwell moved the consideration of means to put the kingdom in a state of armed defence.
The King left Whitehall and sent his Queen from Dover to gain help from France, and to pledge the Crown jewels in Holland.
So was the die cast indeed, as all men began to see as the stormy spring merged into the stormy summer.
"This is a day that will be remembered in the history of these times," said the lady at the window.
Her brother made no answer, but continued to lace up his long riding gloves.
They were in an upper chamber of a house of the better sort in the town of Nottingham; the dark panelled walls, the dark floor and ceiling, the heavy furniture, with the fringes to the chairs and the worked covers to the table, showed vividly to the least detail in the strong afternoon rays of the August sun, which was, however, now and then obscured by heavy clouds which veiled the whole town in dun shadow and filled with gloom the apartment.
Both the lady and her brother were very young; but on her countenance was a melancholy, and on his a resolution, ill-suited to their years. The Cavalier was fair-haired, slight, grave, and arrayed in the garb of war, being armed on back and breast, and carrying pistolets and a great sword.
The lady was dressed in a style of fantastical richness which well became her delicate and unusual appearance; she wore a riding habit and it was of pale violet cloth, enriched with silver, and opening on a petticoat of deep-hued amber satin braided with a border of purple and scarlet; at her wrists and over her collar hung deep bands of lace; her hair was dressed in a multitude of little blonde curls which was like a net of gold silk wire about her face, and she wore a black hat crowned with many short ostrich feathers.
Her features were sensitive, well-shaped, and showed both wit and melancholy, her eyes were pale brown and languid-lidded, and her lips were compressed in a decided line which indicated courage and determination; yet the prevailing impression she made was of great modesty and feminine tenderness.
At her breast, fastened with a knot of blue silk, was a long trail of yellow jasmine and a white rose.
"If I had been the Queen," she said, "I would not have gone to France."
"She went to gain succour, Margaret," returned Sir Charles Lucas.
"Another could have gone," insisted the lady, resting her dreamy eyes on her very lovely white hands which bore several curious pearl rings. "If I had a lord and he was in the situation of His Blessed Majesty, I would not have left him, no, not for two worlds packed with joys."
"The Queen went in April," replied the Cavalier, "and then matters did not look to be past mending."
"Yet, methinks," said Margaret Lucas, "that any one might have perceived such a temper in the Roundheads that they would not easily see reason. And, dear Charles, the King had been defied at Hull—what was that but a portent of this?
"However," she added at once, "it is not for me to speak so of my sovereign lady. Oh, Charles, what a heaviness and melancholy doth encumber my spirits! See how the sky is also stormy and doth presage a tempest in the heavens, even as men's actions hasten a tempest on earth."
"Thine is not the only heart filled with foreboding to-day. Many eyes are already bitter with tears which shall be shed till their founts are dry before these troubles end," replied the young man. "But it is not for us to lament the tearing asunder of England, but to remember for which purpose we came hither from Colchester to pay our duty to the King, and renew our oaths of fealty before his banner which shall to-day be raised."
Margaret Lucas came from the window; the brilliant light that streamed through the cracks in the storm-clouds made a dazzling gold of her hair, and slipped in lines of light down the rich silks and satins of her garments.
Glorified by this strong light, she went up to her brother and laid her hands lightly on his shoulders, turning him, with a gentle pressure, to face her and look down on her lesser height.
"Dear," she said, "dear and best—what shall come is hid by God, and no human eye may take a peep at it, yet we may make a guess that the times will be rough and disheartening, and thou wilt be thick in the midst of commotion. Yet whatever happen, remember thy loyal need, thy fair name; heed no chatter, but serve the King, under God, and keep a thought for all of us—and for Margaret, who hath no knight as thou hast yet no lady, have a sweet remembrance. God bless thee according to His will, Charles, and bring thee safely through these sad distresses."
The young Cavalier, much moved, drew her two hands from his shoulders and kissed them, and she, gazing on him with much affection and something of a mother's look, kissed his bent head where the light hair waved apart.
Then, in a humour too solemn for speech, the two young loyalists (their faith was simple and admitted of no argument—to them the King could do no wrong) left the chamber and house, and mounting two well-kept horses and followed by a neat groom, rode through the streets of Nottingham towards the castle on the hill.
There were many people abroad, and several companies of shotmen, musketeers, and of armed citizens marching in the direction of the castle; but all were silent, and most, it seemed, sad, for an air of general gloom overhung the town, and there was no one to break it with rejoicing or shouting or any enthusiasm, and though those gathered within the town might be tenacious in their loyalty, they were either not confident enough or not exalted enough in their spirits to express it by any demonstration.
There was, besides, a rapid storm blowing up; the sun glowed with a fiery light, and black clouds tipped with burning gold rolled threateningly across the heavens. Men's minds, keenly watching for portents and omens, saw one in the wild weather promised in the sky, and beheld, prefigured above them, the black waste and the red blood that from this day on should be spread and spilled over the peaceful richness of England.
Margaret Lucas and her brother rode into the courtyard of the castle, where several companies of soldiers were gathered; some brass guns and demi-culverins reflected the sun in blazes of light, and a band of drummers and trumpeters stood ready.
Sir Charles Lucas perceived that Prince Rupert was already there at the head of a company of finely-equipped gentlemen on horseback, and rode up to pay his respects, having already met the Prince. Margaret remained a little behind among the crowd of courtiers, ladies, and citizens.
Rupert's spirits were ablaze with excitement and satisfaction, he did not even seem to be aware of the general air of depression and apprehension. The King had promised him the command of the cavalry, the most important branch of the army, and to a Prince of his years and temperament, the glory of this was sufficient to obscure everything else.
"Good evening, Sir Charles!" he cried; then his quick eye roved past the youth. "Is not that lady your sister? The likeness is great between you."
"That is indeed Margaret Lucas," replied her brother, "who was visiting near this town, and nothing would satisfy her but joining me to-day in this ceremony."
"I must speak to this loyal lady," smiled the Prince.
He rode up to her and took off his hat, which was heavy with black plumes.
"Would you not know me, Mrs. Lucas," he asked, "that you would stay behind your brother?"
"I would not be uncivil to any, least to a Prince," replied the lady, "but neither would I put my conversation on any man nor be so bold as to look at one unbidden."
"This is a fair sweet loyalist," said Rupert. "Hast thou a cavalier beside the King?"
She looked at him out of untroubled eyes; his bold, hawk-like face, the black eyes, the white teeth flashing in a smile, the waving black hair, the dark complexion above the white collar, and all his attire of scarlet and buff and gold and trappings of war, his great horse, and the background of cannon, halberdiers, and stormy heavens, made a noble and splendid picture.
"I have no cavalier," said Margaret Lucas calmly, "nor have I yet seen the man to whom I could give my troth."
"How many years hast thou?" asked Rupert.
"Highness—nineteen."
He was little older himself, but he smiled at her as he would have smiled at a child.
"Give me your white rose," he said; "as thou art yet free, the gift harms none."
Margaret turned to her brother.
"Charles, shall I?" and a faint smile touched her grave lips.
"With all heartiness," replied Sir Charles.
She took the rose and jasmine from above her true heart, and her small hand laid them on the Prince's outstretched brown palm.
He raised that hand and kissed her glove, and her eyebrows lifted half-humorously under her golden fringe of curls.
"You are in good spirits, my lord," she said. As Rupert, with clumsy carefulness, was fastening the two frail flowers in his doublet, the King rode into the courtyard, followed by the royal standard.
Charles rode a white horse and was wrapped in a darkblue mantle, an unnatural pallor disfigured his cheek, and an unnatural fire sparkled in his restless eyes; he seemed both melancholy and excited. He did not fail of his usual dignity, however, and though shut within himself in an inner gloom, he acknowledged readily the salutes that greeted him. There was but a scanty crowd, both of citizens and soldiers, nor was there much fervour save among the courtiers and personal friends of the King.
Charles glanced up at the wide, darkening sky across which the mighty clouds were marching, trailing fire in the west, then he turned to Prince Maurice, who rode at his side. "When I was crowned," he said, in a low voice, "they did preach a sermon on this text—'Be thou faithful unto death and I will give thee a crown of life'—and unto death I will be faithful to God, the Church of England, and my rightful royal heritage."
He then rode forward, and amid the music of the drums and trumpets and the shouts of the spectators, the royal standard of England was raised and unfurled as sign and symbol that the King called on all loyal subjects for their service and duty.
Many of the citizens threw up their caps and called out, "Long live King Charles and hang up the Roundheads!" but their cries soon ceased, and all gazed in a mournful silence at the great flag straining now at poles and ropes and flaunting the sunset with bravery of leopards and lilies and the rampant lion—crimson, gold, and blue.
It was the symbol of war—of civil war; when it broke on the evening, then was all hope of peace for ever gone. All argument, appeals to law, to reason, all legal dispute, all compromise, was over now; henceforth the sword would decide.
The sensitive soul of Margaret Lucas was touched by a dreadful grief; she bent on her saddle and wept. There was to her an almost unbearable sadness in the silent appeal of the lonely flag.
The King glanced half-wildly round the little knot offaithful friends gathered about him; a silence had fallen which none seemed ready to break.
Suddenly Charles put out his hand; a drop of rain splashed on the bare palm.
"The storm beginneth," he said, and turned his horse's head towards the castle.
So they all went their several ways homeward in a wildness of wind and rain.
The Royal Standard faced the gusty tempests for six days, then the pole snapped and the storm hurled it in the dust.
"A larger soul, I think, hath seldom dwelt in a house of clay."—A Contemporary on Oliver Cromwell.
John Pym was dead.
In June John Hampden had fallen in the fight at Chalgrove field, Lord Falkland had hurled himself on death in the front of the royalist ranks at Newbury, and now Pym, the bold and able leader, the dauntless spirit, the uncorrupted heart, had resigned the weight of his troublous years and rested in peace at London, where his body lay in state for good patriots to gaze on and mourn over before it was carried to the Abbey Church which held the nation's great dead.
To no man in the three rent kingdoms did the news of John Pym's death come with such force and menace as to Oliver Cromwell, now Colonel, and Governor of Ely.
When the Parliament had taken up arms in reply to the King's challenge at Nottingham, patriotic and energetic members had been given commands in the parliamentary army. Mr. Cromwell had raised a troop of his own in Cambridgeshire, had contributed out of his private means to the public service, had seized the magazine in Cambridge Castle, and forcibly prevented the University from sending its gold and silver plate to the King, and so, by boldness and expedition in all his actions, had justified the opinion held of him by his colleagues. He had been under fire at Winceby and Edgehill and in some other of the random skirmishes which marked the beginning of the war, and he had shown himself quiet and tenacious in battle. He was now the soul of the Eastern Association, one of the foremost of the county leagues against the royal tyranny, Colonel of his own troop (now nearing close on a thousand men), and Governor of Ely, the town of his residence, where his family had remained during his service in London.
So the first turmoil and confusion of this most unhappy calling to arms had cast up Oliver Cromwell to a higher position than he could ever have thought of occupying in times of peace, and he had already had tumultuous experience of the bitternesses, difficulties, and bewilderments of one in authority during such momentous times.
To this man, in this situation, came the news of the death of John Pym, and he went privately to his chamber about the time they were lighting the candles and considered within himself.
The two leaders of the older generation, Hampden and Pym, were now gone, and who was there with sufficient courage and capacity, foresight and strength to take their place?
The moment was a critical one for the Parliament. The first rush of enthusiasm, the first outburst of fury against the King was over; a general lukewarmness overspread the adherents of the popular party, and the people, seeing that Parliament had now gotten the sword, were waiting for a speedy deliverance out of trouble and, finding themselves instead in the midst of a bloody civil war, were inclined to clamour for a peace, however hasty and patched up, especially as the tide of martial success had run in favour of the King, thanks largely to the generalship of his nephew Rupert, and many faint-hearted men were beginning to remember that they were incurring the risk of impeachment for high treason if the King should prove the final victor.
Those in the forefront of the parliamentary party were moderate men such as Essex, Warwick, Holles, Strode, Vane, and Manchester; the keen and fervent eye of Oliver Cromwell could see no successor to Hampden or Pym.
Again there came to him remembrances of the day at St. Ives when he had received together absolute assurancethat he was in Grace, and that the Lord had some uses for him. Did it not seem as if the path, at first so dim and obscured, was being opened out before him with greater and increasing clearness?
He could see the dangers that threatened the liberties of England, still struggling with, and not yet released from, their bonds, and he marvelled if God had put the means of quenching these dangers into his hands:no other were therenow Pym was gone, perhaps it might be that he would be called.
There was Sir Harry Vane, with his knowledge of foreign countries and tongues, his pure heart and high courage, who had much of the mystic piety which pleased Oliver Cromwell. Yet he doubted if this man had the force and boldness to accomplish what must be accomplished now in England.
He paced up and down the room a little, then went to the window and looked out on the winter afternoon; the bare trees bent and shivered beneath the steady sweeps of the wind in St. Mary's churchyard near by, and the towers of the cathedral had a bleached and bonelike look against a low, dark grey sky.
As he stood so, deep in his thoughts, he perceived, at first quite dully, but soon with interest, the solitary figure of a gentleman facing the wind in the chill street and coming towards his house.
Oliver Cromwell opened the leaded diamond pane and looked out; the pedestrian raised his hand to hold his hat against the wind, the beaver flapped back nevertheless, and the keen observer at the window recognized the Earl of Manchester, formerly that Lord Kimbolton who had been one of six members hurried from Westminster to the city, and now President of the Eastern Association and one of the most popular and influential men on the parliamentary side. Cromwell, however, had not that affection for him which he had formerly held; he suspected not my lord's loyalty, but his judgment, not his good intentions, but hisstrength of mind and purpose, and he saw in him a typical exponent of those evils and dangers his party had most to guard against.
With a sombre expression on his clouded features he descended the modest stairway of his simple home: the two-storied house had come to him, together with the office of tithe farmer, from his wife's uncle.
When he reached the hall he saw the slight figure of a girl lighting the lamp above the door; she turned to him with the wax taper in the silver holder still in her hand and the pure flame of it lighting a face at once resolute and gentle.
The extreme plainness of her dark gown and white collar robbed her of the usual pleasant festive carelessness of youth, but her air of dignity and health and goodness was attractive enough, and she was not without distinction and a certain handsomeness of form and feature.
At the sight of his eldest daughter Colonel Cromwell's face softened wonderfully, and when he spoke his voice had a note of great tenderness which entirely dispelled the usual harshness.
"I did perceive Lord Manchester coming, Bridget," he said. "I pray thee set the candles in the little parlour. Is thy mother out?"
"She hath taken Frances and Elisabeth for an airing, sir," answered the girl. "Mary remaineth with me. She will assay to help me with a tansy pudding."
"The odour thereof is abroad already," said Colonel Cromwell. "Have we not tansy pudding overoften, Bridget?"
A look of distress flushed the serene face of the young housekeeper.
"It is so difficult since the war began to vary the dishes," she answered. "All commodities are so high in price and so scarce."
"I spoke lightly, dear," interrupted her father hastily. "Trouble not thy mind with this matter."
A knock sounded. Bridget Cromwell opened the door and admitted Lord Manchester, curtsied with great simplicity, then turned into the parlour, bearing with her the frail light of the taper.
The two gentlemen followed her.
"You have heard that John Pym is dead?" asked my lord abruptly.
"But to-day, though it is a week ago. But the roads have been impossible."
"It is," said Lord Manchester, "very rough marching in the fen country."
"We have a great loss in Mr. Pym," remarked Colonel Cromwell.
"Sir Harry Vane will take his place."
"Umph! Sir Harry Vane!" muttered the other. "A dreaming man."
"A moderate man," amended my lord.
"I begin," cried Oliver Cromwell, "to detest that word!"
Bridget had lit four plain candles which stood in copper sticks on the mantelpiece, and, kneeling down, put her taper to the twigs under the great logs on the hearth. The small room, which contained neither picture nor ornament, but which was solidly and comfortably furnished, was now fully revealed, as was the figure of the Earl in his buff gallooned with gold, armed with sword and pistol, with his soldier's cloak falling from his shoulders and his beaver in his hand.
Bridget blew out the taper, drew the red curtains over the window, then went to a great sideboard which ran half the length of the room, and was taking out a bell-mouthed glass and a silver tray when my lord interrupted her.
"Not for me, my child," he said, with a smile. "I am lodging in Ely for the night, and am merely here to have a few words with Colonel Cromwell."
At this Bridget curtsied again and withdrew. Asthe door closed behind her Oliver Cromwell turned suddenly on his guest with such an expressive movement that my lord startled. But Cromwell said nothing.
"Sir," remarked my lord, "since last we met much hath changed. Things show well for the King."
Colonel Cromwell did not speak.
"And I," continued the Earl, "am now very desirous to stop the war."
The other took this statement quietly.
"You were ever for a compromise," he said. "Well, well," he smiled. "So you would stop the war? Not yet, my lord, not yet. When we lay down the sword the King must be so defeated that he is glad to take our terms, otherwise why did we ever unsheath the sword?"
"Success lies so far with His Majesty," was the reply. "Fairfax and Essex can hardly hold their own, Rupert hath proved a very genius, the Queen cometh from over seas with men and money—bethink you a little, Colonel Cromwell, if the King should defeat us? Death for us all, aye, to our poorest followers, as traitors, and his own terms imposed on a bleeding nation!"
"He must not defeat us."
"The chances are against us," said my lord uneasily.
"God," returned Colonel Cromwell, with indescribable force, reverence, and enthusiasm, "is with us. Do you think He will give the victory unto the children of Belial?"
"Even if we gain the victory," persisted the Earl, "the King is always the King."
"My lord, if that is your temper, why did you ever take up arms?"
"For that cause in which I would lay them down—the cause of liberty."
Oliver Cromwell went to the fire and stared down at the cracking logs, through which the thin flames spurted.
"These arguments whistle like the wind in an empty drum," he said. "We must not think of peace until we have gained that for which we made war. Is the momentwhen the King is victorious the moment to ask his terms?"
"What instrument have we to defeat the King?" demanded my lord.
"One can be forged," replied Oliver Cromwell. "I do believe, as I told that very noble person, Mr. Hampden, that the King hath so far gained the advantage because the blood and breeding is in his ranks—as I said to my cousin, decayed serving men and tapsters will not fight like gentlemen—therefore if we have not as yet gentle blood, let us get the spirit of the Lord: faith will inspire as well as birth, my lord. I have now myself a lovely troop, honest men, clean livers, eager devourers of the Word, and had I ten times as many I would put them with great confidence against Rupert's godless gentlemen."
"Your troop is mostly fanatic, Anabaptist, Independent—full of sermons and groans," said my lord. "Extreme men, by your leave, Colonel Cromwell, and full of religious disputations."
"Admit they be—they are all enthusiasts, they fight for God, not pay—as Charles' gentlemen fight for loyalty, not pay—and, sir, I prefer them who know what they fight for, and love that they know, to any lukewarm hireling who will mutiny when his pence are in arrear."
"You yourself are an Independent," remarked the Earl dryly. "I had forgot."
"Sir, I belong to no sect; within the limits of the true faith I would let each man think as he would."
"So tolerant!" cried my lord. "Then wherefore have you pulled the preacher from his pulpit in Ely Church?"
"Because the Anglican rites are a mockery of the Lord," returned Cromwell, with fire. "And I would as soon have a Papist as a Prelatist—toleration with the true faith, I said, my lord."
"Who is to define the true faith?" asked the Earl wearily. "I keep the Presbyterian doctrine whichseemeth best to me, but you, methinks, would follow Roger Williams. Remember, sir, that you, as all of us," he added, with some malice, "must take this Covenant the Scots have put upon us as the price of their aid."
"That was John Pym's work," answered Colonel Cromwell, in a slightly troubled manner. "His last work—'twas a galling condition, and at the time I blamed him; but, sir, we had to have the Scottish army, and as they would not give the army without we took the Covenant—well, Mr. Pym was a wise man, and he judged it best—and we have the Scots (for what they may be worth) marching to us instead of to the King."
"When you take up your appointment as my Lieutenant-General," insisted the Earl, "you, too, must take the Covenant."
"Any man may take it now Sir Harry Vane, that lovely soul, hath added his clause—that religion be reformed in England according to the Word of God; that covereth everything, I think, sir, theWord of God, not the dictates of the Scots!"
Lord Manchester looked at him in silence for an attentive moment, then spoke briskly.
"You follow Sir Harry Vane in religion, do you follow him in politics? Are you, too, a Republican?"
Oliver Cromwell looked at him quietly and frankly.
"I think a kingly government a good one," he said, "if the king be a just, wise man. Nay, I never was a Republican."
"Remember we stand forKingand Parliament," remarked the Earl. "I would not go too far—I would not overthrow the authority of His Majesty."
"What care I what man holdeth authority in England as long as he is powerless to do her wrong," replied Cromwell quietly. "Sir, all I say is that the time hath not come for peace save it be offered by His Majesty. Now is still the misty morning when all is doubtful to our eyes; but presently the sun shall rise above the vapours, andwe shall behold very clearly the things we have to do. The Lord will strengthen our hands and show us the way, and His enemies shall go down like a tottering wall and a broken hedge."
The Earl moved about restlessly.
"You have great faith, Colonel Cromwell," he said, half sad, half vexed.
The fire had now sprung up strongly and threw a vivid light over the figure of the Puritan soldier standing thoughtfully on his homely hearth.
"Have I not need of faith?" he asked, in an exalted voice. "Aye, the shield of faith and the breastplate of righteousness and the sword of the spirit which is the Word of God! 'For we wrestle not against flesh and blood, but against principalities, against powers, against the rulers of the darkness of this world, against spiritual wickedness in high places!'"
The Earl made no reply; he was moved by the sincerity and force with which Colonel Cromwell spoke, but at the same time he was appalled by the prospect which a continuance of the war seemed to open up. He, like many others, was confused, bewildered, alarmed by the tremendous thing the Parliament had dared to do, and he wished to stop a crisis which was becoming immense and overwhelming; he wished to keep the King and the Church in their ancient places, and he felt more or less vaguely that men such as Oliver Cromwell were aiming at a new order of things altogether.
Colonel Cromwell, on the other hand, was not confused by the thought of any future issues; he saw one thing, and that plainly: in the present struggle between the King and the Parliament, the Parliament must be victorious; then the future government of England might be decided, not before.
He felt that there was no longer much use for men like my Lord Manchester, able and popular as he was: the stern fanatics among his own arquebusiers who spent theirtime in minute disputes and arguments on matters of religious discipline were more to the liking of Oliver Cromwell.
The Earl rose to take his leave.
"I am at my ancient lodging," he said. "May I expect you to-morrow morning? There are some military points I would discuss with you."
"Command me to your own convenience," replied Colonel Cromwell.
"To-morrow, then."
The two went into the hall, which was filled by the smell of the tansy pudding.
My lord asked after the eldest son of his host.
"He is very well, I thank you. He is at Newport Pagnell with my Lord St. John's troop of horse. Richard is still at Felsted, as is Henry; but I mean soon to take them from their schooling and put them in the army. Fairfax would take one in his lifeguards; Harrison, I think, another."
"So soon!" exclaimed my lord. "Their years are very tender."
Colonel Cromwell smiled.
"But the times are very rough, and we must suit ourselves to the times."
He opened the door; Ely showed bare and dreary beneath the darkening sky, from which a few flakes of snow were beginning to slowly fall. The two gentlemen touched hands and parted. As Colonel Cromwell still stood at the door of his house, gazing thoughtfully at the winter evening as if he saw there some sign or character plain for his reading, his wife descended the stairs and, seeing him there, came to his side. She had a bunch of keys in her hand, and the light from the lamp above the door gleamed on them. Her docile eyes lifted to his; her face had a look of stillness: she seemed a creature made for quietness.
"What had my lord to say?" she asked.
"Peace! peace!" muttered her husband. "He wanted peace!"
"And you?" she ventured timidly.
"I!" he answered. "I live in Meshech and Kedar. I am in blackness and in the waste places; but the Lord hath had exceeding mercy upon me—I have seen light in His Light—therefore am I confident in the hope I may serve Him. His will be done!"
Elisabeth Cromwell looked out at the dim white towers of the cathedral, where her first husband and her first-born lay buried, and she thought of that other child, Robert, who had died at school only three years before. Life seemed to her suddenly unreal. She closed the door and turned away.
Her husband followed her into the room on the right of the passage, where a fair group of children, Mary, Frances, and Elisabeth, were roasting chestnuts by the fire.
A maid was putting a white cloth on the table; the pleasant clink of glasses and china mingled with the laughter and talk of Elisabeth, a beautiful child of some thirteen years, whose grace and gaiety was a sudden brightness in the Puritan household.
At her father's entrance she came to him at once and showed him a round ball she had made of holly berries and hung by a red ribbon as an ornament to her wrist.
"Vanity!" said Colonel Cromwell; but as he kissed her his whole face was radiant with love.
It was in the July following the winter when he had first come to discussion with my Lord Manchester that Oliver Cromwell, now the Earl's Lieutenant-General, flamed suddenly into great brilliance over England.
By his valour and skill he had turned the tide at Marston, after Manchester, Fairfax, and Leven had fled from the battle as lost; he had beaten Rupert's victorious horse with his own light cavalry, and he had led the Scotch infantry in an overwhelming charge against the enemy. The north of England was now lost to the King, the prestige of the parliamentary army had never stood higher, and Oliver Cromwell was become the foremost soldier in their ranks, both for fame and success.
Such were the results of the battle at Marston Moor; but Manchester appeared to be more frightened than encouraged at the victory. He almost refused to fight; his indecision lost the battle of Newbury; he allowed the King to relieve Donnington Castle; he would not go to the help of Essex, who was losing ground in the south; he and his Lieutenant-General had high altercations; the Scottish Presbyterian party proposed terms to the King, which Charles haughtily refused. After this failure they were somewhat quieter, though two of their leaders, Essex and Holles, endeavoured to bring an action against Cromwell as an incendiary; but Cromwell himself showed tact and moderation sufficient to bring about a peace between the various factions that constituted the parliamentaryforces, and in the autumn of that year was instrumental in the creation of the New Model Army—the instrument which he had long been burning to handle; the instrument by which the King, still haughty and defiant at Oxford, in which loyal city he had his own Parliament, was to be finally brought to accept and keep the people's terms.
Cromwell was excepted from the self-denying ordinance which ruled that no Members of Parliament were to bear commands in the army, and was created Lieutenant-General and Commander of the Horse, Fairfax being General and Skippon Major-General.
Manchester and Essex retired with good sense and dignity.
Charles, moving from Oxford, stormed Leicester; Fairfax raised the siege of Oxford to dash after him, and on 14th June 1645 found himself face to face with the King's forces at Naseby, on the borders of Northamptonshire. A battle was now inevitable, and by both sides it was felt that it would be decisive: neither side could endure a great defeat, and either side would become almost completely master of England by a great victory at this juncture. Rupert was smarting to revenge himself for Marston; the King despised the New Model Army, and was eager to dash to pieces this new instrument of his enemies; Fairfax was ardent to justify the trust reposed in him. Both armies were impatient to bring matters to an issue, so on each side were motives sufficient for fierce inspiration.
The night after the armies had faced each other the King lay at Market Harborough, eight miles from the village of Naseby, where the parliamentary forces were encamped. He had his Queen with him and the infant Princess, recently born at Exeter, and was lodged in the modest country house of a certain loyal gentleman, a cadet of the noble house of Pawlet. Rupert rode up in the twilight from his quarters to see his uncle, and came into a peaceful, old walled garden, where Charles paced the daisied grass.
On a bench beneath a great cedar tree sat the pale Queen, the sun and shade flecked all over her white dress, her baby on her knee, and by her side her new lady, Margaret Lucas.
The garden was all abloom with white roses, the rich summer air full of the hum of bees and the thousand scents of June; the light was taking on a richer gold colour as it faded, and where the garden sloped westward to the orchards the dazzle of the setting sun danced in the leaves.
The scene seemed very far from war, from turmoil, from confusion, and blood-stained strife; among the mossy gables of the house some white pigeons strutted, and there was no other noise nor any indication of the army quartered near.
Prince Rupert came slowly over the lawn; his fringed leather breeches and Spanish boots were dusty, and his red cloak open on soiled buff and a torn scarf. He had a gloomy, reckless look, and his brow was frowning beneath the disordered black love-locks.
Charles stopped when he saw his nephew coming and asked abruptly—
"They will fight to-morrow?"
"I think they will," replied the Prince. He went up to the Queen and kissed her hand.
There was the dimness of many tears in that proud woman's eyes, and the delicacy of her beauty had turned to a haggard air of sickness; she had, however, the swift, hawk-like look of one whose courage is unbroken, and her pride was even more obviously shown now than in the days of her greatest splendour, when it had been cloaked with sweetness. Her worn, dark features, her careless dress and impatient glances, words, and movements were in great contrast to the careful splendour, the composed gravity, and the smooth youth of the blonde Margaret Lucas.
"Have you come to take His Majesty away from me?"cried the Queen to Rupert as his lips touched her thin, cold hand.
"He did promise to inspect the army to-night, Madame," returned Rupert, with a certain touch of indifferency in his manner: Charles was no soldier, and the Prince had little deference for his opinion on military matters.
"And to-morrow there will be a battle," said the Queen. She rose suddenly, clasping the sleeping child to her heart; her ruined eyes regained, by the sparkle of tears, for one moment their lost brilliancy.
"Oh, Madame," cried Margaret Lucas passionately, "surely God will not permit His Majesty to be defeated!"
Rupert's dark countenance flashed into a smile as he glanced at her pale fervency.
"That cursed Cromwell is on his way to join Fairfax," he remarked. "Pray, Mrs. Lucas, that he doth not arrive in time."
"Is he so terrible a man?" asked the Queen scornfully: she could not endure to give even the compliment of fear to these rebels.
"A half-crazed fanatic or a very cunning hypocrite," returned the Prince; "but an able fighter, on my soul, Madame!"
"His army consisteth of poor ignorant men," cried Henriette Marie. "Surely, surely gentlemen can prevail against them."
"We will make the trial to-morrow, Madame," said Rupert, with a flush in his swarthy face for the memory of Naseby. "At least, we do not lack in loyalty—in endeavour—Your Majesty believeth that?"
"Yes, yes," said the Queen hurriedly. "Loyalty is common enough; but where shall we get good counsels? Are we wise to fight the rebels to-morrow? By all accounts they are double our number—and if this Cromwell cometh up with reinforcements——"
The King, who had hitherto stood silent, fingering thedark foliage on one of the lower sweeping branches of the cedar tree, now spoke with authority.
"We fight to-morrow, Mary. I mean to surprise their outposts."
A pause of silence fell. The sunlight was slipping lower through the trees, and lay like flat gold on the lawn; the last brilliance of the day lay in the fair locks of Margaret Lucas, in the embroideries of her gown, in the swords of King and Prince, and over the frail figure of the undaunted Queen.
"I shall see Your Majesty at the camp after supper?" asked Rupert.
"Yes—sooner," replied Charles.
The Queen looked keenly at the young man on whom so much depended in the issue of to-morrow, and seemed as if she was about to make some appeal or exhortation; but she turned away with a mere quiet farewell. The King followed her with a smile to his nephew.
Margaret Lucas remained under the great cedar tree and Rupert lingered.
"The white roses are again in bloom," he said.
"When they next flourish may the King be safe in London again!" cried the lady.
"Amen," said Rupert. "Do you know the noble Marquess of Newcastle, Mrs. Lucas?" he added, with a smile.
A bright colour mounted to her alert face.
"I met him in Oxford," she returned.
"I had your flowers in my Prayer Book in memory of that day we raised the Standard," said the young Prince, "and when my lord saw them, we being in chapel together, he did ask of them, and when he heard their history begged them from me. Does this anger you?"
"It is not becoming that Your Highness should tell me of it," faltered Margaret Lucas.
"You are too modest," smiled the Prince. "He is agallant lord and a valiant, loyal soldier. He asked me, if I saw you, to give you his homages."
The lady stood silent, her eyes downcast, the quick blood coming and going in her noble face. Rupert waited.
"Have you no answer to the princely Marquess?" he asked.
Margaret Lucas lifted her head.
"Tell him to—keep—the flowers," she stammered.
With that she turned away as if she was frightened of having said too much; the young General laughed a little and went back towards the house, whistling the air of a German song.
Margaret stood staring over her shoulder after him; all the misfortunes of the State, of her own family, all the hideous sights and sad stories which had weighed her heart with black bitterness, the danger of her beloved brother, her own precarious situation—all these things were forgotten in one great flash of happiness.
She clasped her hands tightly.
"How I do love thee, thou excellent gentleman," she murmured, "even with an affection that is so beyond modesty and reason that if thou wert here I could avow it to thy face! God protect thee, dear, loyal lord!"
The sun had now sunk behind the trees and hedges of the orchard; the last bee had flown; the roses gave forth their strength in a more intense perfume; the sky changed to a sparkling violet, glimmering with rosy gold in the west.
The Queen called Margaret Lucas, and, putting the little Princess in her arms, bid her go and take the child to her women.
Margaret made her grave and humble obeisances and withdrew, holding the King's youngest born over a joyful heart.
"Mary," said Charles, taking his wife's hand, "if I fail to-morrow you will go to France. Promise me."
"You must not fail," she answered passionately. "But I give you this promise if it makes you fight with a lighter conscience."
"A light conscience!" echoed the King. "Methinks I shall never own a light conscience again."
"You are too discouraged," murmured the Queen, but with a kind of lassitude.
They went together into the house, and he told her of the arrangements he had made for her safe conduct to the coast in case of his defeat. She listened and made no reply.
They entered the sitting-room that opened on the garden, and the King closed the door, for he could hear some of his gentlemen without.
Henriette Marie seated herself on a worn leather couch and looked at her husband.
His face was pallid, his eyes heavy and shadowed, his hair damp about the brow; he continually put his hand above his eyes or above his heart.
"Last night I dreamt of Strafford," he said suddenly.
"It was a dream!" answered the Queen. "Is this a time to dwell on things unfortunate?"
He made no reply; he moved about the darkening room, aimlessly touching the furniture and the walls.
At last he stopped before the inert figure of his wife.
"Farewell, sweet," he said. "I have to join the Prince."
"Farewell," she murmured.
He moved towards the door and she sprang up.
"Oh," she exclaimed, in a tone of horror, "this may be our last meeting!"
Charles turned, startled.
"Dear God forbid!" he cried.
"If—the worst cometh—if I go to France—ah, when shall I again behold you?"
"Hast thou also evil premonitions?" asked the King, with a shudder.
She controlled herself.
"No," she replied through stiff lips. "No—no—but many thoughts press on my heart, and I am weak of late."
Indeed, she felt all her limbs tremble, so that theywould no longer support her, and she sat down on the couch again, cold from head to foot.
Charles stood beside her, gazing with the soul's deepest passion of love and anguish at her bowed dark head.
"Kiss me and go," she said. "What can I say? You know my whole heart. All hath been said between you and me. We have been surprised by misfortune, and I am something unprepared. But never doubt that I love thee wholly."
The King again made that gesture of his hand, pressed first to his heart and then to his forehead, as if heart and head were equally wounded, then he went to a corner of the room where an old clavichord stood and lifted up the cover.
"Sing to me before I go, Mary," he whispered.
The Queen rose heavily. Her bold spirit was bent with gloom; ill-health and the continual failure of the King's intrigues and the King's arms had given her a kind of disgust of life. As she had been more despotic than the King in prosperity, so she was more bitter and stern in adversity. As she crossed the window, open on the soft dimness of the garden, she thought, through her miserable languor, "If, indeed, I never see him again, the scent of these roses will be with me all my life."
"I will light the candles," said Charles.
"No—no," she answered. She seated herself and her hands touched the keys.
Her voice, once the pride of two courts and her greatest accomplishment, rose in a little French song; but tears and suffering had taken the clearness from her notes that once had rung so true.
At the end of the first verse she broke down and, putting her hands before her face, wept.
"I do love thee," said the King, bending over her in a passion of tenderness. "More than words can rehearse I do love thee, dear Mary, and have loved thee all my days. Be not confounded—it cannot be God's will todesert us utterly. Hold up your heart. Oh I do love thee, or I had rather not have lived to see my present miseries—but thou hast made life worth while to me. My dear wife—my dear, dear wife."
The Queen did not move, and her dry, difficult sobs did not cease.
"Oh, love that is so weak," cried the King, "that it cannot do more than this ... to see thee thus ... what greater misery could I have than to see thee thus."
Still she did not speak. She had done much for him—crossed the seas and become a supplicant at her brother's court, sold her jewels, persuaded, inspired, and led many to join his standard, raised an army for his cause, been untiring and dauntless in her counsels, her energy, her confidence; but now a fatigue that was like despair was over her. She felt about him a fatality as if success was impossible for him, and all her ruined pride and splendour, her lost hopes, her lost endeavours crowded upon her till she could do nothing but weep.
Charles stooped and, with infinite gentleness, drew her hands from her face.
"This is a bad augury for me to-morrow," he said.
She lifted her head then, the sobs still catching her throat. It was too dark for him to see her face, distorted by tears; only the dim white oval of it showed in the dusk.
"No bad auguries," she said. "No—to-morrow must see a turn in our miserable fortunes."
He kissed her with a trembling reverence of devotion, and her tears dried on his cold cheek.
"Have confidence," she murmured, her face pressed against his lace collar. She was always heartening him, firing his hesitation, directing his indecision, and the instinct of guiding and inspiring him came to her now even in her moment of weakness. "Have no sad thoughts, no ill thoughts—God will fight for his anointed King. If I seem confounded, consider that I have been troubled with many things."
He drew her gently towards the window, and they stood together looking out on to the garden. The white hawthorn and roses, the last lilac still showed pallid through the gloaming; the stars were beginning to sparkle in a sky from which the gold had faded, leaving it the colour of dead violets; the pure air was rich and sweet as honey.
"Whatever betide," said the King, "remember this—I will never forsake my children's heritage nor my faith."
He had always scrupulously kept his promise never to discuss religion with his Papist Queen, and he did not emphasize his resolve to remain for ever faithful to the Church of England. She knew this constancy of his and admired it, but now she said nothing of these matters.
"Whatever befall," she replied, "you are always the King."
"I shall not forget it," he said, with a kind of passion.
Another moment of silence passed, during which their thoughts burnt like fire in their hearts and brains, then he moved to go, stammering farewells.
Thrice he turned back to embrace her again, thrice her hands clung to him with a desperation almost beyond her control, while her lips tried to form in words what no words could say.
Then at length he was gone, and she heard the door shut.
"I will not watch him ride away," she said to herself. "I will wait and watch his return."
Suddenly she thought of Lady Strafford and of the last time she had spoken with the Countess.
"O, God," she cried, "if I should never see Charles again!"
She turned to go after him, but controlled herself from this folly and stood huddled in the window watching the night moths flutter, shadows among shadows, and the chilly moon brighten from a wraith to gleaming silver among the whispering orchard trees.
She stood so until she heard the bugles that announced the King's departure, then she went to her prayers to supplicate the Madonna and the saints with bitter tears and bitter forebodings.
That evening, while the King was reviewing his troops at Harborough and giving them the word for to-morrow—"Mary"—while General Sir Thomas Fairfax was holding a council at Naseby, Lieutenant-General Cromwell was hastening over the borders of Northamptonshire with six hundred men towards the headquarters of the parliamentary army, which he reached about five in the morning under the light of a cloudless dawn.
At the entrance to the village he halted for an instant and surveyed with a keen eye the undulating open space of ground which rolled towards Guilsborough and Daventry: unfenced ground, full of rabbit holes and covered with short, sweet grass and flowers, above which the larks were singing.
The pure summer morning was full of gentle airs blowing from orchards and gardens and the scents of all fresh green things opening with the opening day.
Silent lay the hamlet of Naseby, the white thatched cottages, the two straggling streets, the old church with a copper ball glittering on the spire, all clearly outlined in the first fair unstained light of the sun.
Beyond lay the parliamentary army: a sober force with their pennons, flags, and colours already displayed among them, and the gold fire gleaming along their brass cannon.
Cromwell and his six hundred, dusty from the night's ride, swept, a flash of steel on leather, a tramp of hoofs, a cloud of dust, through Naseby, where the villagers crowdedat windows and doors, not knowing whether to curse them or bless them, and so to the headquarters of General Sir Thomas Fairfax.
As the new-comers passed through the army and were recognized for Lieutenant-General Cromwell and his men, whom Rupert had, after Marston Moor, nicknamed "Ironsides," the soldiers turned and shouted as with one voice, for it had lately been very commonly observed that where Cromwell went there was the blessing of God.
Sir Thomas Fairfax was already on horseback, and the two Generals met and saluted without dismounting.
Oliver Cromwell looked pale, and when he lifted his beaver the grey strands showed in his thick hair: the war had told on him. He had lost his second son and a nephew. His natural melancholy had been increased by this and by the bloody waste he had daily to witness, by the continual bitterness and horror of the struggle; but the exaltation of his stern faith still showed in his expression, and he sat erect in his saddle, a massive figure solid as carved oak, in his buff and steel corselet.
General Fairfax was a different type of man, patriotic and honourable as his Lieutenant-General, but cultured, fond of letters, lukewarm in religion, and not given to extremes. Cromwell, however, found him more acceptable than Manchester or Essex.
"Sir," cried the General, "you are as welcome to me as water in a drought. Sir, I give to you the command of all the horse, and may you do the good service you did at Long Marston Moor."
"We are but a company of poor ignorant men, General Fairfax," replied Oliver Cromwell, "and the malignants, I hear, make great scorn of us as a rabble that are to be taught a lesson. Yet I do smile out to God in praises, in assurance of victory, for He will, by things that are not, bring to naught things that are!"
"We have to-day a great task," said Sir Thomas Fairfax, "for if the King gaineth the victory he will press on toLondon—and once there he may regain his old standing; whereas if he faileth, he will never more, I think, be able to bring an army into the field."
"Make no pause and have no misgiving, sir," replied Cromwell. "God hath put the sword into the hands of the Parliament for the punishment of evil-doers and the confusion of His enemies, and He will not forsake us. Sir, I will about the marshalling of the horse, for I do perceive that we are as yet not all gotten in order."
The army indeed, though armed and mounted, was not yet arranged in any order of battle, and at this moment there came a message from one of the outposts that the King's forces, in good order, were marching from Harborough.
Fairfax with his staff galloped to a little eminence beyond some apple orchards that fenced in the broad graveyard of the church. By the aid of perspective glasses they could very clearly see the army of the King—the flower of the loyal gentlemen of England, the final effort and hope of Majesty (for this force was Charles' utmost, and all men knew it)—marching in good array and with a gallant show, foot and horse, from Harborough. The Royal Standard was borne before, and, they being not much over a mile away, Cromwell, through the glasses, could discern a figure in a red montero, such as Fairfax wore, riding at the head of the cavalry.
"'Tis Rupert, that son of Baal," he muttered sternly. "The false Arminian fighteth well—yet what availeth his prowess, when his end shall be that outer darkness where there is wailing and gnashing of teeth?"
Near by, higher than the old copper ball of the church, a tiny lark sang; the bees hovered in the thyme at their feet; the stainless blue of the heavens deepened with the strengthening day. A sudden sense of the peace and loveliness of the scene touched the sensitive heart of Sir Thomas Fairfax.
"English against English, on English land!" he cried. "The pity of it! God grant that we do right!"
Cromwell turned in his saddle, his heavy brows drawn together.
"Dost thou doubt it?" he demanded. "Art thou like the Laodicean, neither hot nor cold?"
"I think of England," replied the General, "and of what we destroy herein—fairness and tranquillity vanisheth from the land like breath from off a glass!"
Cromwell pointed his rough gauntleted hand towards the approaching royal forces.
"Dost thou believe," he asked, "that by leaving those in power we secure tranquillity and repose? I tell thee, every drop of blood shed to-day will be more potent to buy us peace than years of gentle argument."
"Thou," said Sir Thomas Fairfax, "art a man of a determined nature—but I am something slow-footed. To our work now, sir, and may this bloody business come to a speedy issue!"
Cromwell rode with his own troop down the little hillside to take up his position at the head of the cavalry on the right, the left wing being under Ireton, the infantry in the centre being under the command of Skippon, the Scotsman, the whole under the supervision of Fairfax. This deposition of the army was hastily come to, for there was not an instant to lose; indeed, the Parliamentarians had scarcely gained the top of the low ridge which ran between the hedges, dividing Naseby from Sulby and Clipston, when the King's army came into view across Broadmoor, Rupert opposite Ireton, Langdale and his horse facing Cromwell and the Ironsides, Lord Astley in the centre, with the infantry and the King himself in armour riding in front.
Fairfax posted Okey's dragoons behind the bridges running to Sulby, and flung forward his foot to meet the advancing line of the royalist attack. The infantry discharged their pieces, and the first horrid sound of firing and thick stench of gunpowder disturbed the serene morning.
Then began the bloody and awful fight. Up and downthe undulating ground English struggled with English, the colours rocked and dipped above the swaying lines of men, the demi-culverins and demi-sakers roared and smoked, the horse charged and wheeled and wheeled and charged again. The mounting sun shone on a confusion of steel and scarlet, sword and musket, spurt of fire and splash of blood, on many a grim face distorted with battle fury, on many a fair, youthful face sinking on to the trampled earth to rise no more, on many fair locks of loyal gentlemen, combed and dressed last night and now fallen in the bloody mire never to be tended or caressed again, on many a stern peasant or yeoman going fiercely out into eternity with his word of "God with us!" on his stiffening lips.
Lord Astley swept back Skippon's first line on to the reserve. Rupert, hurling his horse through the sharp fire of Okey's dragoons, broke up Ireton's cavalry, and for all their stubborn fighting bore them back towards Naseby village. Uplifted swords, maddened horses, slipping, falling, staggering up again, the shouting, flushed Cavaliers, the bitter, silent Roundheads struggled together towards the hamlet and church. In the midst was always Rupert, hatless now, and notable for his black hair flying and his red cloak and his sword red up to the hilt.
Fairfax looked and saw his left wing shattered, his infantry overpressed and in confusion, the ignorant recruits giving ground, the officers in vain endeavouring to rally them, and his heart gave a sick swerve; he dashed to the right, where Cromwell was fighting Langdale, whose northern horsemen were scattered right and left before the terrible onslaught of the Ironsides.
As Cromwell, completely victorious, thundered back from this charge, he met his General. He did not need, however, Sir Thomas Fairfax to tell him how matters went; his keen eye saw through the battle smoke the colours of the infantry being beaten back into the reserve, and he rose up in his stirrups and waved on his men.
"God with us!" broke from the lips of the Puritans as their commander re-formed them.
"God with us!" shouted Cromwell.
One regiment he sent to pursue Langdale's flying host; the rest he wheeled round to the support of the foot.
Rupert had left the field in pursuit of Ireton; there was no one to withstand the charge of the Ironsides as they hurled themselves, sword in hand, into the centre of the battle.
A great cheer and shout arose from the almost overborne ranks of Fairfax and Skippon when they saw the cavalry dashing to their rescue, and a groan broke from Charles when he beheld his foot being cut down before the charge of the Parliamentarians.
He rode up and down like a man demented, crying through the storm and smoke—
"Where is Rupert? Is he not here to protect my loyal foot?"
But the Prince was plundering Fairfax's baggage at Naseby, and the infantry were left alone to face the Ironsides.
They faced about for their death with incredible courage, being now outnumbered one to two, forming again and again under the enemy's fire, closing up their ranks with silent resolution, one falling, another taking his place, mown down beneath the horses till their dead became more than the living, yet never faltering in their stubborn resolution.
One after another these English gentlemen, pikemen, and shotmen went down, slain by English hands, watering English earth with their blood, gasping out their lives on the rabbit holes and torn grass, swords, pikes, and muskets sinking from their hands, hideously wounded, defiled with blood and dirt, distorted with agony, dying without complaint for the truth as they saw truth and loyalty as they conceived loyalty. One little phalanx resisted even the charge of the Ironsides, though attacked front and flank; they did not break. As long as they had a shot they fired; when their ammunition was finishedthey waited the charge of Fairfax with clubbed muskets. Their leader was a youth in his early summer with fair, uncovered head and a rich dress. He fell three times; when he rose no more his troop continued their resistance until the last man was slain. Then the Ironsides swept across their bodies and charged the last remnant of the King's infantry.