by Oliver Ma
Chapter 6; Bishop’s War
By late May, father’s army was almost fully assembled. He had worked hard on this army, but with much less enthusiasm than he had before. His dream of a grand English army was shattered with Parliament’s refusal to grant him funds, and the royal English army planned for the invasion was much reduced. The army, though not as grand as it could have been, still generated much hope in the royal palace. Everywhere people talked of the army and of the war. Rumors were abounding, and nearly everyone wished to see the army in action against the Scots. On the first of June, the army left for the north, and again father asked me to come along. Although I was excited to depart on this journey, I couldn’t help but feel a little nervous. Less than a year ago I was presented with the same choice and had decided to go north to Scotland, but the trip resulted in more harm than good.
I hoped this second expedition would mend the wounds of the first, and result in a victory over the Scots. As we left St. James I noticed a small glimmer of hope. A few commoners lined up outside the gates of St. James. As our carriages and dragoons passed before them they cheered and tossed flowers in our path. It pleased me to see that the Scottish rebellions have made father at least a little bit more popular with the London general public.
The second trip was even more boring than the first. Thumbs had not wanted to go, still disillusioned from the death of his father, and the massacres in Ireland, but after much begging and joking he agreed to tag along. Mr. Scot told several more stories, but the gloom generated by Thumbs depression radiated throughout the entire carriage. Last time at least we were able to spot peculiarities in the countryside. This time there was nothing new, nothing strange we had not already seen, and thus both of us slept most of the journey. When we arrived at York, in northern England it was already Early August, 1640. I was 11, and Thumbs 12. The situation had rapidly deteriorated for father. Without the funds, father was unable to pay for ships or even to equip much of the new levies. There will be no sea borne invasions of east and west Scotland by ship, and no money to support the northern Scottish clans that declared themselves royalists. Indeed, most of the royalist Scots have been pacified by a lightning swoop commanded by Argyll. Father must face the full Covenanter army with no support from any other direction or faction. Even more direly, of the 20,000 soldiers father has levied at the northern border, only a thousand were trained, professional men. (These made up father’s cavalry force, the dragoons.) The rest were levied; peasants with little or no training, disorganized, and ill equipped. Armies fighting in the modern fashion would be composed of organized regiments of well drilled musketeers, pike men, and cavalry, with some artillery to provide support. However much of father’s army was in unorganized masses of men, some armed with primitive bows and arrows! Even more caustic to our cause, the Catholic and Protestant soldiers were often hostile against one another, causing an aura of fragileness to surround father’s camp.
Thumbs and I were given a little log cabin next to father’s main headquarters, which I quickly grew bored of. I spent much time roaming in the camp, staring at the soldiers and wishing I could put on their arms and armor. Thumbs, meanwhile, was becoming a menace. I would have felt sorry for him if he had continued to grieve for his father, but he wasn’t even doing that. He spends his days in our cabin, reading and praying instead of joining me in my adventures. It was hard even to start a conversation with him, and as a result, many of my adventures were with local lads instead of with my playmate Thumbs.
By roaming through the camps, I was able to find out much of what was going on in terms of the war. While all the infantry forces of father’s army festered in the camps, ill paid, ill fed and fighting amongst themselves, the cavalry force, the only professional or elite part of father’s army, was busy responding to Covenanter pressure, which consisted of ever larger raiding parties of Scottish cavalry men making ever bolder foray into England. Father’s cavalry thus screened enemy incursions and skirmishing when possible. Throughout this whole process father and his advisors were planning a successful way to invade and defeat the Scottish army. Finally, one day, this cycle of intrusions and counter intrusions ended rather abruptly. I was wrestling in a patch of grass near father’s cabin with several local boys when we witnessed a messenger ride up to father’s cabin, a letter in hand. We quickly ran up to spy, and we found out the messenger was dispatched by a certain Captain Monke, and he had brought a dire message; the Covenanter forces are crossing the border en mass!
Goring quickly put out an effective war plan. The road from the border to Newcastle has been fortified with crude earthworks and even has a few cannons set up. The professional element of father’s army quickly filled in those positions, as their muskets would be deadly in combination with the earthwork. The rest of my father’s army, the untrained portion, would mill around behind the fortifications, waiting while the Scots tired themselves on the earthworks and attacking and hopefully winning with sheer numbers when the Scots are significantly weakened.
The plan was a good one, and would have likely have won the war. There was good progress on the fortifications, and the work getting done motivated father’s levies, who put aside their differences, stopped deserting, and joined in on the construction of the fortifications. After all it seemed like the war was won. We will sit in our defenses and wait for the Scots to attack and break like waves on the stones of our fortifications. However, while the plan sounds good on paper, it was easily cut apart by Montrose. During the night, on a full moon, I was in father’s cabin, reading on a table. Father and General Goring sat nearby; drawing maps on the ground with sticks while Verney on a nearby chair with his great sword in hand. All the other senior officers had gone to sleep. Suddenly, the doors to the cabin burst open, moonlight flooding in. A panting man rolled into the room. In a flash Verney was up, and with only one hand (the other hand was gripping his 100 pounds sword) pushed the man to the ground. In the next second Verney had his knee on the man’s chest and his sword resting on his neck. Suddenly the man spoke up in a raspy, frightened voice.
“May the lion dance eternally!” Immediately father ordered Verney off the man and beckoned a servant to light an oil lamp, for that was the secret password. The bright rays of light cut through the darkness and I gazed upon the face of the messenger. He was obviously scared, his hair was messy, and he does not have his hat. On his chest I recognized the insignia of a captain.
“Sire! I have grave news!” The man said.
“What is it?” father asked, horrified.
“My company of dragoons was patrolling the west bank of the Tyne River. We heard clinking of armor a bit north of us, and rode forward, where we met a unit of Covenanter pike men. My unit rushed upon them, swords out, but they leveled their pikes and beat us back. After we lost nearly a third of our men we retreated. Along the way we were met and had to go around two more blocks of enemy pike men, and also suffered from several volleys of enemy musketeers. Finally, as we were fording back across the river we were ambushed by a Covenanter cavalry force. We fought them off, but by the time they were defeated there were only sixteen men of my company left.”
The King nodded. From left of him Goring spoke up.
“Sire; this news commend little. Perhaps the men have patrolled too far north and ran into the picket lines of the Covenanter army.” He explained nervously. I couldn’t help but notice his small eyes darting back and forth nervously. The message was clear. The message the captain brought has unsettled even the trenchant General Goring.
“Sire, we saw at least 500 enemy soldiers during our midnight foray. This is no random Covenanter raid. They are redeploying to the west, they intend to march around the northern defenses and strike our armies from the west.”
Goring opened his mouth to speak, and then closed it again. He too was afraid of that. All of father’s regiments were dug into earthworks in the north. If the Covenanter outflanks us before the royalist army could redeploy, then the Kin
g’s army will be utterly destroyed in one overwhelming blow.
“This seems to me a logical course of action.” Father said, more disappointed than worried. “After all Leslie is no fool. He knows the futility of attacking such well-fortified positions. It makes sense for him to march around. Goring, how do you think this threat will play out? How long do you need to redeploy my men?” Charles asked, managing to keep his cool.
“It depends, Sire. If they cross the river at the earliest ford possible, they will be hear by noon on the morrow. If they cross at the largest ford they should arrive late in the afternoon. Either way they will strike by tomorrow. Even if I wake up the soldiers at six and force march them, the soldiers will not be able to get organized and dig in by the time the Covenanters show,” Goring said grimily.
“So are we doomed to die in this? To lose now and see the royal army chopped apart by a brilliant enemy maneuver?” father demanded angrily.
“I can try to deploy as many troops as possible…I don’t know if it will be enough…….I have 2 regiments of musketeers within 10 miles from the ford. If they are wakened now they can arrive at the ford and finish with basic fortifications before morning breaks out,” Goring said, his eyes eager for action, the sign of a brilliant general. Father nodded.
Goring pointed at the officer.
“What is the nearest crossable ford? The one your company crossed?” He asked.
“The one we crossed was the Green ford….but the nearest crossable ford would be the Newburn. All other nearby fords will freeze in the night and be too hazardous to cross.” The officer said after a pause.
“Good…Send word, tell Conway and Wilmot on the Newburn Bulge to march west and fortify Newburn ford as soon as possible. Tell them they may not receive reinforcements until the following day, and thus they must hold the ford for as long as possible!” Goring barked at the officer, who bowed and left the room.
Goring looked at his crude map, drawn on the ground. His beady eyes rolled left and right. My eyes focused on his bald, scarred forehead, red under the dim lamp light. It was glistening with sweat. After whispering to himself and jabbing his finger at the ground several times, he sent a messenger off into the main camp, barking for him to “Send for all officers of regiments and up. Order them to come here immediately!” The messenger promptly left for the camp. Suddenly Goring must have remembered he forgot something, for he bowed to the King and ran out, following his dispatched messengers.
I looked at father. During the last week he was actually happy and confident again, leading his army, acting like his kind old self. Now I can envision him regressing back to the bitter, frightened King that he was after the triple shock of rebellion, the death of Villiers, and the conflict with Parliament. I cannot bear to see him disappointed and defeated yet again. He is a loving father, a kind man, and he deserves better! When father laid his head on his table, overwhelmed by disbelief and pressure, I quietly sneaked out of his cabin. I will go with one of the infantry companies, and make sure they do not route, and rally them if they do. Father cannot be disappointed again today.
The night was dark, and because I was wearing only my night shirt, I was very cold, but inside I still felt safe and warm. The camp was still alive with celebrating levies, believing the war will soon be won and they can avoid any major action. I was going to take Thumbs along, but analyzing his state of mind, I knew it was more likely for him to tell father what I’m doing than tag along. Thus I traveled toward the ford alone. Walking to the west, where I can hear the bubbling of the Tyne as it snaked through the silent forests, I stumbled upon a band of cavalrymen. Trying to look like a mere pilgrim I walked on, but was confronted by a tall man with his sword out. When he asked who I was, I countered and asked who he was. He must have recognized me by the sound of my voice, for he said
“I’m Colonel Wilmot, leader of the 12th musketeer’s regiment. My men are marching to defend the ford….Sire. I do not think your father would like you to come to the scene of the battle, for it would be far too dangerous.” Wilmot told me.
“But Wilmot, but I really want to see the battle!” I begged. Wilmot is only a decade older than me. His father was a noble of London and thus often visited St. James. As a result, Wilmot spent much time at the royal palace and naturally played with us, the royal children a lot. I remember numerous adventures Wilmot had lead us on, throughout St. James and even out on the London streets. Even though now he dons a mask of a young, polite and disciplined military officer, I know his true, innocent self, which is loyal, charming, polite and kind. After much pleading and persuasion I was able to get the better of him.
“Very well, you may come along. However you must not make yourself know, for I do not think your father the King would be happy to know that I exposed you to danger, and you must remain with my bodyguards the entire time.” He demanded. “And put this on…you look terrible in that night shirt.” He said, tossing a grey garb at me.
I promised eagerly, putting on the shirt and climbing onto Wilmot’s horse, where we rode west to the ford with the company of musketeers. As we rode, I realized how lucky I was to meet Wilmot. Not only do I have a unit of dragoons for protection, Wilmot, who received a military education, could explain much of the news of the war to me that I otherwise would not have been able to learn.
Lord Goring had ordered 2 companies of musketeers, (the nearest companies to the ford) to march towards the ford. The rest of the soldiers he would have to slowly redeploy, pulling them from the trenches in the north and organizing them again to face the enemies on the west. That will take the better part of the day, and possibly extending into the next day, thus we must hold the ford until Goring has redeployed the English army. Our little army of around eight hundred musketeers is led by Lord Conway, while Wilmot is second in command. An artillery corps was also ordered to march to the ford, but only the light cannons could be expected to be removed from their fortifications and rolled to the ford before the Covenanters arrived.
We arrived at the ford at noon, 2 hours before the first Scots arrived. The Covenanter force was expected to be anywhere from 5,000 to 10,000 strong, thus morale among our men was very low. I knew there was a high chance of defeat today, yet inside me, I hoped there was a chance that the series of unfortunate evils that befell the royal house would be brought to a stop today. After all, the men know they are fighting for the King, they know how crucial their actions today would be to the royal house and England in general. Surely they will not route, but instead fight to bitter end, and hopefully cripple the Scots so that they will eventually lose the war.
The ford was very beautiful. The river, about 500 yards wide, flowed slowly and smoothly through the heavily wooded Northern England. A tiny strip of shallow water, the ford, about 5 yards wide, ran across the length of the river. The little, under Water Bridge of mud is knee deep, which we could just barely see under the glistening surface of the water. On our side of the river, where the ford rises to become the land, there were two small hills, each one conveniently looking over one flank of the ford. These hills, Wilmot explained, would form the bastions of our defense. 400 musketeers would be stationed on each hill, where they would dig in and attempt to erect breast works, or small piles of wood and mud. From these positions they would use their superior height and position to fire upon and hold up the Covenanters as long as possible. On the other side there was a relatively flat area where the river rises to become land, but further away from the river, about 500 yards to the west, a bluff rises up, dominating the entire ford.
Just as our musketeers finished piling up the breast works, a small company of Scottish horsemen arrived. The scouts of the Scottish army. They were all riding white horses, with fur caps and robes of blue. Their faces were masked with wild war paint, and each one of them held a long pike in hand. Real pikes, made of hard, cruel steel. Pikes that could take the life of a man, that could even kill me! My stomach growled at the thought of it. The Scots prowl
ed about several times on their side of the river, before riding off. There was no doubt now that blood will be shed today. This little unit of Scots is going to report our location to the main Scottish army, which will probably hasten in its march.
Morale throughout our army was fairly low. These soldiers were levied in southern England, and many had never held a musket before. They are now going to face an enormous Scottish Army, veteran from its campaigns against royalists just months earlier. Just as we thought we would receive no more reinforcements, and that we’d be on our own to fight off the Scottish hoards, my hopes were rekindled when the two light cannons were rolled up onto the two hills. They were light, and Wilmot had told me they were good for nothing, but I still couldn’t help but feel a bit of pride and security with these guns overlooking the ford. They made an already durable position impenetrable.
About half an hour later, near 2 after noon, I noticed dust on the other side of the river to my left. It was raised by the opposing army. My eyes picked off the glints of the soldiers armor and the blue banners of the Scots. I counted 4 companies, all musketeers.
“These will probably be hurled at our positions first, soaking up our fire before the closely packed pike men push through to the ford,” Wilmot told me. I noticed he was fairly nervous.
The enemy musketeers formed ranks on the other side of the ford, each individual soldier spaced out from the soldier next to him. Wilmot told me this is to minimize the damage of our cannon and the musket volley. Another hour later the main Covenanter army arrived. I counted unit after unit, company after company, regiment after regiment of Scottish soldiers, some armed with pike and some with muskets. Among their ranks I also saw several shiny black cannons, which seemed to scare the men greatly.
When all the Scots were deployed, and the dust from their moment settled down I found their army divided into three great lines of men. The first line was the four original companies of musketeers, in loose formation. The second line consists of alternating pike men and musketeers, and the last line was made purely of thickly bunched pike men. A small detachment of cavalry loitered in the back with the Covenanter cannons; Leslie and his retinue. It was now near 3 in the afternoon, only 2 hours before sun down. Victory was just out of our grasp. I felt increasingly apathetic, like one does when the score is tied and there is only a minute left in a game of rugby. Wilmot confirmed my fears.
“The Scots also know what you’re thinking. If they do not force the ford in the next 2 hours they will have to delay their attack till dawn on the morrow, when they will be facing 20 companies of musketeers instead of 2. Their attack this day will probably be extremely desperate and ferocious, for no matter how unlucky the odds are today if they delay till tomorrow the odds will be ten times worse.” He told me.
Below us, Conway rode his charger back and forth, from one hill to the other, shouting for men to close ranks, to hold their fire. They were not to fire until they saw the Banner of Conway raised.
As the Scottish musketeers advanced, their blue kilts dampened by the river, great plumes of smoke exploded from the Scottish positions, followed seconds later by great splashes of mud as the Scottish Cannon balls sank into the ford. Several musketeers on our side started laughing, for the Scots had completely missed their targets. I was somewhat happy but also a bit nervous. If the Scottish cannons failed at what they tried to accomplish, our Light Artillery pieces may be even more of a failure.
When the Scots advanced half way across the ford, our light cannons opened up, their booms resounding from one side of the river back to the other. The entire earthwork, where the musketeers were stationed, was engulfed by smoke, and I felt like the battle would be won for sure, with victory springing from this gigantic show of firepower. To my utter bewilderment, however, when the smoke cleared the Scots with their muskets on their shoulders, seemed only to have advanced further from where we last saw them. Not a single shot has pierced the rank of the Covenanters, leaving their men scattered on the ford. Alas, the shots have missed completely. My confidence in the cannon was shattered. So much work and time it took to haul them to the location of the battle, and yet they completely failed to kill a single enemy soldier. I had much hope pinned to these black bastions of the King. Now that they failed our lines of musketeers looked awfully thin and fragile.
So deep was my feeling of despair, lamenting at such a loss of fortune, that I failed to notice the bright Banner of Conway as he staked it into the ground. The captains among the musketeers, seeing this, barked fire, their orders resounding all across the line. The musketeers around them obeyed eagerly, the bright flashes and the sharp cracks lifting me from my depression. Smoke again concealed the trench works, and when it cleared, to my absolute elation I saw many in the Covenanter rank stumble and fall, their blood staining and drifting down the river, mixing with the glistening water. The rest marched on, but their neat ranks were not uneven, and gaps had appeared in several places. A second volley torn away half of the first Scottish company, resulting in even more carnage than the first, as muskets gets more accurate and more deadly when shot at closer targets. The first isolated Scots were now almost across the ford, but their ranks have been heavily decimated and they are near breaking point. Bodies littered all behind them, felled by well-placed musket balls. Finally I saw Conway give the order to fire at will, and the well timed volleys became single, but rapid cracks. Here and there shots would go off, several every second. The Covenanters fell one by one, until finally one of the leading Scots, clean shaven and with an arm wound, turned back and ran, clutching his arm and screaming in pain. All around and behind him, at the sight of their companions running the other Scots turned tail and ran, until the entire wave of Scottish soldiers were routed from the field, the back of their blue kilts looking like fat, juicy targets for musket balls. The cannons were reloaded and fired again, this time one cannon ball striking the ford and resulting in a huge splash of water and mud, but by chance it did not strike down a single Scot.
The musketeers all cheered from their earthworks. The battle appeared to be over, and victory appeared to belong to us. I couldn’t wait till the celebrations at home, and the proud look on father’s face when he learned the Covenanters had been routed. I knew father would be angered that I went to the battle and risked my life, but hopefully the victory and the reverse of royal fortunes will more than make up for it. I looked over at Wilmot, expecting his face to be as jubilant and enthusiastic as mine. Unfortunately I found his face painted with worry.
“Wilmot! Are you not happy that the Covenanters have been routed? That the northern campaign is now over?”
“I wish that was true, but look more carefully and you will see that the battle is far from over.”
I squinted my eyes first at the ford. There I saw nothing but dead enemies and a few wounded men limping through the water. Looking further I happened to glanced over to the Covenanter side of the river. Hundreds, no, thousands more Scots wait, their pikes still up in tight formation and bright against the sun. The Scottish banner floats ever brighter in the wind. The Scottish army stretches as far as eye could see, and even now I see some Scots, apparently drunk, enthusiastically waving their bottoms at us.
“I know what you are seeing right now. Look even more carefully, look further back.”
I was about to retort that I have seen the Scottish army, when my eyes caught the black glint of a large iron tube; cannons. I spotted about ten cannons, and they were all being pushed by several Scots, pushed uphill, to find a dominating position to shell our positions.
Wilmot must have read my face. “Ay, you are right. They are hoisting their guns onto higher positions. If they are positioned correctly, such as those bluffs further back from the ford, they will be able to shell our positions and our cannons will be too light and ill positioned to return fire.” Wilmot sighed.
I eyed the enemy guns with fear. They were indeed being pushed toward the bluffs overlooking the ford. However the
re is still hope in me, for I remembered how ineffective the cannons were. Large, cumbersome, and three shots killed no enemy…why, they are useless.
Inside me, however, I could not help but feel a deep sense of fear, as the determined Scots pushed the cannons up the bluff, little by little, step by step. Their determination seemed to hint their confidence in their cannons.
Half an hour later, 2 hours until dusk, the first Scottish guns opened up. Since Wilmot did not know where the Scots will aim, he ordered me to get out of harm’s way, lying down on the reverse side of a slope to be shielded from the enemy shots. Luckily for me, and not so luckily for father’s army, the Scottish Guns were not aimed at me, but at the earthworks of musketeers instead. The first shot thudded into the dirt directly in front of the musketeer’s breast work, bounced up, and ripped through the pile of sticks and mud, decapitating 2 men and knocking down a handful others, of which only half had their wits about them and were able to get up again. The fire continued, incoming shots again and again raking the musketeer’s lines and kept going until there were several holes in the earthworks. Then, the carronade ceased.
I was afraid the enemy would charge us now, and overwhelm us with sheer numbers, but the Scottish army made no such move. Conway rode up and down the lines, shouting encouragements and pleading the men not to run, that they need only to hold the ground till nightfall, which would come in only 2 hour. I looked at the musketeers. Many of them shaken from the carronade. It takes a whole different kind of courage and determination to hold fast while cowering from an unseen, non-distinguishable enemy than to stand against another, weapon yielding men. It was only the charisma of Conway that kept the men in their ranks. As I surveyed the scene nervously, a large, cracking noise of shattering debris erupted from my right. I looked over, turning my head so fast that I strained my neck. The right corner of the line of earthworks, covering about 20 yards and about 40 men, was in disarray. Men were crawling around, screaming. The earthwork, if messy and hastily constructed before, was now a pile of debris, with mud and wood splintered all around.
I figured a cannon shot had struck the devastated area, but how was one cannon ball able to inflict so much damage? All the previous shots only damaged a single point, a meter wide chunk of the earthwork before. How did 10 meters of fortifications become so devastated by one shot? Unless…..the shot had come parallel to the earthworks, that the enemy had somehow maneuvered cannons to our flank and could now shoot horizontally into our ranks.
I felt fear down my spine, looked right with jutting fear. The bluff had ended to the right; there is no advantage position for the enemy to place their cannons….yet how did they shoot so accurately into our ranks with great devastation? Such fire could only come from a dominating position. I looked more closely to our right. There was a white church, with oaken doors and great painted windows, but it was not the church itself that drew my attention. One small tower to the front of the church was shrouded in smoke. No, I thought to myself. It must not be. We would be ruined if it was true. However my worst fears were true. The enemy has somehow hung a cannon on the bell tower of the church, creating a firing platform where there was none, and now has the entire army at their mercy. If they so pleased they could wreck the army in 10 shots.
I looked at the men. Most of them have figured out the same things I have. Many looked left and right nervously, and some looked like they were ready to drop their weapons and run. Conway rode desperately to the scene of the disaster, attempting to rally the wavering men. I looked at the general, moved by how brave he was, to ride into great danger for___. Suddenly, another shot, coming vertically from the bluff, slammed into the area, engulfing several men, including Conway, in a black mountain of uprooted dirt. My heart lurched. When the dirt fell and settled, Conway lay on the ground; his horse run clean through by a cannon ball. With the sight of their commander on his back, more likely dead than not, the soldiers broke. Several dropped their weapons and ran off, and fear spread among the ranks. From the Scottish sides there came a trumpet note, the signal for general advance. The entire Scottish army now massed into the ford, attempting to cross. The sight of the swarming Scottish hoard marching toward our unorganized ranks was too much for any soldier to bear, and their morale shattered. The English army had started to rout.
I felt faint. The sight of all these red dressed English troops, proud soldiers under the sacred banner of my father, routing from the field in shame and disgrace, while at the same time chased by the filthy and victorious Scots would leave a lasting impression for the rest of my life. Masses of Scots are now coming over the river, probably to chase down our running soldiers and to storm our artillery.
I looked around in desperation, tears forming in my eyes. I had expected Wilmot to share my grief and fear, but when I looked at Wilmot, mounted next to me, I found his face enclosed by a steel helmet and a sword gripped tight in his hands. I could only see his eyes, blue, determined. I looked at him, confused, my mind not comprehending what he was about to do, for I thought he was not so crazy as to do it.
“Form ranks!” He shouted to his bodyguards. They obeyed, silent, slowly and gloomily forming two lines. Even the horses were nervous.
No….I thought to myself. It’s not possible. He is not so stupid, so vain. He may be a soldier under sworn oath to the King, but this is certain death.
“Wilmot! You won’t really charge the Scots will you? There are thousands of them!” I begged him.
Wilmot grumbled a bit.
“I am a captain to your father’s armies, and it is my duty as the second in command of the battle to rally its soldiers when the first in command falls.”
“But Wilmot! To charge now is to charge into death! They have pike men!” I warned him.
Wilmot didn’t reply. He raised his sword and cried “To the King!”
From the left of the small group of horsemen came a short, trumpet note. The horses began to trot.
“But Wilmot! Think of your old father, think of your future! You are only in your 20s, you have your entire life in front of you.” I called after him. Wilmot seemed so stubborn, so different. When we were young, playing throughout the maze like structures of St. James, everything was so carefree, so simple. We could do whatever we wanted. Wilmot also had a great future planned for him. He wanted to become a scholar, a man of literature, joining the great writers of the Renaissances, writing finely crafted works of the word. Now he seemed determined to kill his own future and die on a battle field, I thought, as I looked after his shrinking figure. Then, as his words resounded in my mind, I suddenly realized the true meaning of his futile charge.
He did not want to die on some deserted battlefield, but he had to. Wilmot is an adult now, no longer a playful youth, enjoying the perfect life in St. James. He is a soldier now, and he has responsibilities. His duty demands he fight for his King, and he is willing to sacrifice his life to fulfill his oath.
As the small red group of horsemen charged into the crescent formed by the Scottish troops, like a small sliver of meat being thrown into the gaping mouth of a blue dragon, my heart shuddered in awe and fear for Wilmot. His sense of duty, his code of honor is so completely different from my self-centered, selfish ways. My eyes focused on his tiny figure with admiration.
The dragon breathed fire, the smoke of powder obscuring its cruel lips. The horsemen charged on. The mouth opened wide, the long teeth of steel braced against the ground. The horsemen fell, one by one.
Part 1 Epilogue
If the Rebellion of the Scots, the death of Buckingham, and the Parliament’s refusal to grant funds seemed bad before, they are nothing compared to what would ensue. The route at the ford was not complete. The Scots, admiring Wilmot’s courageous charge, did not pursue the routing English, for they did not want to anger the King more than they needed to. In fact, an English Lieutenant named Monke was even able to secure our useless artillery, rounding up the routed army and leading them back to Newc
astle in good order. However, though they had allowed the English to flee, the Covenanters were quick to press their advantage. By the next morning they were upon the throat of father’s army. At that time, only a small fraction of the Royal army and none of the guns were facing the correct position when the Covenanters arrived. To make matters worse none of the companies that were actually in position were entrenched, making them vulnerable to encirclement and destruction by the Scots.
Father was forced to submit to the Covenanter’s demands. I did not learn what the exact terms of the peace treaty was, but I could tell they were severe, for although Scotland is officially a part of Britain again, father was gloomy and unmotivated the entire trip back to London. When we arrived back at St. James, he locked himself up in his bedchamber, not allowing anyone to enter.
Although things were far from calm, for a while it seemed like they have returned to normal. Everything was almost the same as the way it was before. I was back in St. James, father was still King, and Scotland was still (at least nominally) a part of my father’s domain. Buckingham was dead, and Thumbs had changed from being fun loving to being bland and realistic, much like the change I observed in Wilmot….and of course, I myself had changed immensely. I had realized that the world was completely different from what I had been taught, or what I had imagined. The trips connected me with some reality, and I realized that my life should not to be taken for granted, that my safe home in St. James would not always remain the same. For the first time it occurred to me that perhaps I would have to work hard, and improve my overall competence to avoid disasters like the ones the royal house had recently encountered.
On another note, mother has given birth to a little boy while we were gone. They have named him Henry. I felt sad for him, knowing he comes at a time of bad fortune, and he will probably never be king of the Isles, (as both James and I will have to die for him to succeed) thus I was resolved to treat him responsibly, and act like the grown up figure that Buckingham, or Wilmot, was to me. Little did I know, however that loose ends from the past would continue to haunt us in the future. The Earl had promised a war. The Bishop’s War was a war, but it was not what the Earl had promised in scale. The treaty had seemed settled and a thing of the past, but its legacy would cause a behemoth of destruction in England that would make the war in Scotland seem like a tiny Skirmish.
