Cromwell was holding his wing in check, while the oncoming Royalist left drew near. Simon watched them, across the valley and coming uphill at a canter, the sun bright on their naked blades, the tossing plumes, the streaming Standards over all. Nearer and nearer yet! Simon’s Standard hand was clenched so tightly on the lance that the knuckles shone white as bare bone. Would the order to charge never come? What is he waiting for?—Now! Now or it will be too late!
The enemy were half-way up the slope when at last Cromwell loosed Walley’s Regiment down against them. The squadrons swung forward at the trot, their ranks curving a little, then straightening again. Simon saw them check to fire their pistols at point-blank range, and then fall on with the sword. Langdale’s Horse met them valiantly, and instantly a desperate struggle was in progress, and Walley’s reserves were charging down to join it.
Away to the left, a confused roar was swelling and growing ragged with the raggedness that means a running fight. But for Simon there was only the conflict directly below him; and there, the enemy were giving ground! And suddenly, above the ragged musketry and the roar of battle, the trumpets of Fairfax’s Horse were yelping.
‘Charge!’
‘This is it! This is us!’ The kettle-drums began to roll; Simon touched his heel to Scarlet’s flank, and felt the horse gather and slip forward under him as the long ranks quickened into life. ‘Oh, God of Battles, strengthen now our arms!’ his heart lifted in wild excitement. This was the real thing, the charge that had been practised so often in the meadows at Windsor. He felt his knees touch against those of the men on either side of him, as they moved forward and down at the trot. The ranks curved and grew ragged, then closed again. The ground before the Right Wing was mostly rabbit warren, hummocky and patched with gorse. Gruelling ground to charge on; but Cromwell had known that when the battle line was formed, and trusted them to get through somehow.
Forward and down at the trot—look out for rabbit holes and try to keep station—can’t fail Old Noll.
So with rolling kettle-drums and wind-whipped Standards, the Right Wing charged home. ‘God our Strength!’ Simon heard his own voice above the tumult, shouting at the full force of his lungs, as, following Barnaby, he drove straight into the reeling mass of the Royalist Cavalry.
But Walley’s charge had done its work, and already the Royalist Wing was crumbling. Now came this new charge, and before it, despite a valiant resistance, they began to fall back. Soon there was no longer a solid battle line, only a chain of skirmishes. Simon found himself and his Standard Escort cleaving into them, with the Troop thundering at Scarlet’s heels. ‘God our Strength! Follow the Standard!’ All around him were battling figures, upreared horses’ heads, and a raving, roaring turmoil that seemed to engulf him like a sea. There was a thick mingled smell in his nostrils, of burned powder and blood and sweating horses. He ploughed on holding the Standard aloft, and found, with a vague surprise, that the press was thinning out. The Royalists were falling back faster now. Langdale’s Horse was just about finished. Simon ranged up beside Barnaby, who yelled to him, ‘Done it, by the Lord Harry!’ before they were thrust apart once more.
Then quite suddenly the first stage of the battle was over. Walley had been left to finish with Langdale’s Horse, and Cromwell was leading his remaining regiments against the King’s reserves. Simon was riding hard, close behind the Lieutenant-General himself. Corporal Relf, almost at his elbow, was shouting whole verses from Isaiah as a kind of battle hymn.
He saw the Royal Standard now. It swelled brilliant on his sight. But the shock of the charge-home never came. Something had happened to the King’s reserves; they were falling into confusion, streaming away northward. Simon could not know that when the King would have led his troops in a counter-charge, Lord Cornworth had seized his bridle, crying, ‘Will you go upon your death, sire?’ He could not know of the strange confusion of orders that had caused the reserves to turn tail, sweeping the King with them into headlong flight. He only knew that the Royal Standard was in retreat, the Royalist chivalry gone like a dissolving dream.
Cromwell swung his squadrons back to the main business of the day.
Things had gone ill with the Left Wing; indeed they had come almost to complete disaster. Ireton had been wounded and taken captive near the outset, and Prince Rupert and his wild riders had broken clear through and charged away over the skyline, driving the remnant before them.
Daddy Skippon also was wounded, and though refusing to leave the field, was out of action to all intents and purposes; and the Foot, lacking their leader, and with their left flank exposed by Ireton’s break, began to crumble too. The Left Centre gave ground and could not be rallied, and the Royalists broke through and flung themselves against the three veteran regiments of Pride, Hammond and Rainsborough, in the reserve. Only the superb steadiness of those three saved the day; that, and the flaming example of Fairfax himself, who had by that time lost his helmet and most of his staff, and was fighting like any berserk trooper at the head of a valiant company who had somehow gathered to his reeling Standard.
The fight was still raging when Cromwell brought his flying squadrons down against the exposed flank of the Royalist Foot. At the same time, Colonel Okey’s Dragoons came against their other flank; and the remnant of Ireton’s Wing, which had by now rallied, led by Ireton himself, who had escaped within half an hour of being captured, took them in the rear. The Royalists fought gallantly, dying where they stood. Prince Rupert, who had allowed his charge to carry him as far as the baggage lines at Naseby and been driven off by the musket-fire of the Escort, returned with his blown horses to find the battle hopelessly lost.
Having been away too long, he did the best thing he could, joining the King and forming a new Cavalry line, north of the old one. But the heart was gone from the Royalist troops; and when Fairfax, also re-forming, charged once more with terrible cavalry-wings outspread, Simon saw again that oddly pitiful sight of a battle line crumbling as a sand-wall crumbles before the incoming tide.
‘They run! God our Strength! They run!’ The triumphant shout spread through the victorious army; and the pursuit broke forward, and swept yelling after them.
In the forefront of the chase, Simon was riding hard. He felt the wind of his going whip back the Standard on its lance, and send Scarlet’s mane spraying over his bridle-hand, as the horse leapt forward, snorting, in answer to the spur and the urging voice; he heard the hooves of his Troop drumming at full gallop over the downland turf behind him. But suddenly the exultation was gone. Simon had always disliked hunting anything, and hard-pressed fox or beaten army, it made no difference. He hated it now.
Behind them, in the wide upland valley that had so lately been a battle-field, the prisoners were being rounded up, and the Royalist baggage-wagons brought in to serve the wounded, and the camp-followers were busy. It was not yet noon of a day that was still lovely, and the June sun shone warmly, gently, on the dead of two English armies, who lay tumbled uncouthly among the thyme and the little white honey-clover of the downland turf, here at the heart of England. High overhead, the buzzard still wheeled, mewing, on motionless wings; and on every side the coloured counties fell away in shallow vales and hazy woodland, and little fields where the hay harvest was in full swing.
VIII
‘Mine Own Familiar Friend’
AFTER FOURTEEN MILES of hard riding, Cromwell called off the pursuit. The Regiments turned aside and came, towards evening, down into a village in a hollow of the green Leicestershire hills: troopers who, now that the excitement of the chase was over, were utterly spent, on horses suddenly foundering. They descended upon the sleepy place like a swarm of bees on to an apple-branch, and dropped from their saddles in the fields all round it, too tired even to notice the presence of the gaping villagers.
Simon’s one desire, having dismounted in the corner of a hay-field under some ancient elms, was to lie down flat on his back and stare up into the green many-layered heights of the trees, and
never do anything again. But there were others in worse case than himself; Scarlet’s bright coat was sweat-darkened almost to black, his flanks heaved distressfully, and the white foam dropped from his muzzle. Simon drew a consoling hand down the moist neck, then went hurriedly to the aid of one of his own troopers, who, having ridden with the best of them, was now swaying where he stood, with an arm that dripped red.
‘Hi! Corporal Relf!’
The Corporal swung round from mustering his men. ‘Sir?’
‘Anyone found where the ’pothecary’s shop is yet? Clerk’s hit.’
A village sage answered him. ‘Up the far end o’ the village. They’m taking the wounded up along there now. I see’d ’em when I come by. Terrible gory, some of ’em be, to be sure. You been fighting, I reckon?’
‘Yiss, we been fighting,’ Simon agreed. Then, to a trooper standing near, ‘Saundry, take Clerk up to have his arm seen to.’
‘Sir.’ Trooper Saundry got his shoulder under his comrade’s sound arm, saying encouragingly, ‘Hold up, Laddie.’ And the two of them began a wavering progress towards the tumbledown cottage that marked the beginning of the village street.
‘Sir.’ It was the troop trumpeter this time.
‘Yes?’
‘The Major wants you, sir.’
‘Right.’ Simon turned and, leading Scarlet with him, crossed to where Major Disbrow had that moment dismounted from his weary horse. ‘You sent for me, sir?’
‘I did. Have you done anything about quartering your section?’
‘Not yet, sir. I only arrived a few seconds ago.’
‘It’s your responsibility. Go and see to it now.’
Simon hesitated, and the little whipcord Major added testily, ‘Well, what’s the trouble?’
‘Anywhere, sir?’
‘Anywhere, my good boy, that is not bought up already, by officers quicker off the mark.’
‘Very good, sir.’ Simon saluted and stepped back, flushing.
Several of his troopers glanced at each other, for they had mostly suffered at different times from the Major’s barbed tongue, and knew that he was always somewhat short in the temper immediately after being in action. And they made a great show of efficiency on their young officer’s behalf, as they remounted and prepared to follow him.
The whole village was by this time thick with troops and their officers, all on the same quest; but after one or two fruitless efforts, Simon, or rather his Corporal, found vacant quarters in the shape of a small sturdy farm-house down a side lane behind the church.
The farmer, a square man with a truculent blue eye, proved difficult at first, when confronted by a young Parliament officer demanding shelter for himself and thirty-odd troopers. ‘On-christian, I calls it!’ he said bluntly. ‘Making war on your lawful King, and trapesing about over the standing hay, and a-sitting yourselves down on respectable folks, fritting the maids and firing the farm over our heads as like as not!’
‘Look here,’ Simon said, after he had heard him out, ‘we won’t frit your maids nor fire your farm, but I’m afraid you have no choice but to give us the shelter of your barns and outhouses for the night; we shall need food too, and fodder for the horses; all that will be paid for, of course.’ He grinned suddenly. ‘I’m sorry about the standing hay.’
‘What do the likes of you know about standing hay?’ demanded the farmer.
‘I know that I shouldn’t like horses trampling through mine,’ said Simon frankly.
‘Farmer yourself, maybe?’ said the farmer with deep suspicion.
‘Yes.’
‘Parliament’ll pay, ye said?’
‘Yes. Now will you come and show us our quarters—or send someone else to do it?’
Still grumbling, the man accompanied Simon out to the knot of weary horsemen waiting in charge of Corporal Relf, and led them round to the yard at the back.
In obedience to the age-old law of Cavalry, that the horse must be tended before the man seeks his own food and rest, the troopers set to work. The horses were unsaddled, rubbed down and walked to and fro until cool; then fed from the bins reluctantly opened to them by the farmer, watered at the mossy stone trough, and picketed in the home paddock.
Normally, Scarlet was the care of one of Simon’s troopers, but this evening was no time to be putting extra work on any man. Besides, Scarlet had carried his master valiantly today, and tonight his master wanted to do everything for him, by way of saying thank you. So, working beside his troopers, Simon unsaddled the weary sorrel and rubbed him down with straw, groomed, fed and watered him, pouring, all the while, soft proud endearments into his twitching ear.
He had just finished, and was standing to watch the picket lines pegged, when a hand came down on his shoulder, and he swung round to find his Lieutenant standing beside him.
‘Sir?’ said Simon.
‘Just a social call. We’re quartered up yonder, and I bethought me I’d best come and see how you was getting on. Any wounded?’
‘Clerk shot through the arm. He’s up at the ’pothecary’s now. Three others wounded—or killed—back there.’ He jerked his head in the direction of Naseby.
Barnaby nodded; and for a moment they stood looking over the quiet countryside. ‘Well, you’ve had your baptism of fire,’ he said.
‘Yes, Scarlet too.’ Simon drew his hand again and again down Scarlet’s arched neck, while the horse slobbered lovingly against his breast. ‘And we’ve put a spoke in Charles’ wheel as sure as unicorns,’ he added absently.
‘As sure as what?’
Simon flushed. ‘Unicorns. Short for “As sure as unicorns lay eggs”. It’s just a catch-phrase that a friend and I used when we were little lads. I’d almost forgotten it—and then it slipped out.’
Barnaby nodded. ‘Friend out for Parliament too?’
‘Out for the King,’ Simon said briefly.
Barnaby glanced at him. ‘Not all beer and skittles, this war, is it?’ he said.
‘No.’
There was a silence. Then, ‘Leaves blowing back for rain,’ said Barnaby. ‘You all right? Managed enough fodder for the horses? I’ll be getting back to my own lads, then.’ He swung away between the elm trees, and Simon watched him go, thinking how different Barnaby in time of action was from Barnaby of the preposterous boots.
Long after the soft June gloaming had smudged away the outlines of barn and rick and hedgerow, the village continued to hum like a disturbed bee-skep. Cromwell and his staff had taken possession of the Happy Return Inn, and every farm and cottage in the village and for miles around was full of troopers, every paddock full of picketed horses. Men came and went, on guard duty or the business of the Lieutenant-General; officers making the rounds of their men and horse-lines. Small blind-weary clumps of stragglers kept coming in too. The apothecary and his shock-headed prentice were still at work. But the villagers for the most part kept their own firesides, grimly determined to see that at least the plague of troopers which had descended on them did not fire their houses, nor unearth their life’s savings from up the chimney or under the mattress.
In the smoke-blackened kitchen of the farm behind the church, Simon and his section had eaten the supper of beans and cold bacon hastily prepared for them by the farm-wife and her maids. They were in complete possession, for the square and truculent farmer had shown his disapproval of Parliament and all its works by sending the maids to bed and the farm-hands to their quarters over the stables, and withdrawing himself, his wife and his wall-eyed sheep-dog to the seldom-used parlour. Those of the men who were not now on guard duty lounged on benches and butter-casks, or sat on the floor, with their backs propped against their comrades’ knees, many of them three parts asleep.
Simon was sitting on a settle beside the fire, his sword-belt loosened and his steel cap on the polished seat beside him. The low flames curled like fantastic flower-petals among the red-hollowed logs; blue fringed with saffron, saffron with a heart of emerald green, emerald tipped with Royal scarlet. Simon
watched them until, finding himself nodding forward, he woke up with a start and looked round at his men. There had been a great coming and going throughout evening, but for the moment all was quiet. Somebody had produced a greasy pack of cards (‘The Devil’s Picture Book’ was strictly forbidden by the authorities, but there were a good many packs cherished, none the less, in the ranks of the New Model), and four of the men were playing Post and Pair, their heads bent together round a dribbling candle in a brass pricket. Trooper Wagstaff, who always liked to have his hands occupied, was carving his name on the broad windowsill, and Simon supposed he ought to stop him, but somehow could not bestir himself to do so. Trooper Clerk, his arm having been dressed, was sleeping peacefully with his head in a corner and his mouth open. Several more were talking and dozing in alternate snatches. Corporal Zeal-for-the-Lord Relf sat in the corner of the opposite settle, his worn Bible open in his hand, his lips moving as he read, leaning forward to catch the firelight on the page. From time to time he raised his head, as though knowing the words by heart, and stared straight before him with those burning fanatic’s eyes of his, his lips still moving.
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