“Do not suppose that I doubt the truth of thy statement, but I cannot allow thee to return to Worcester till the affair is over.”
“The danger to me will be far greater, if I return not before daybreak,” pleaded Gives.
“Why shouldst thou return? But like a doting fool, thou canst not, I suppose, leave thy young wife.”
He then called out for Dighton, who instantly answered the summons, and said to him, “This man will remain here till I return, or until I send an order for his release. Sit down at the table, friend,” he added to Gives. “Eat and drink and make glad thine heart. Thou wilt see thy wife again ere long.”
While thus speaking he had donned his casque and gauntlets, and he then quitted the chamber, and proceeded to the stable-yard, where he found Colonel Lindsey, the commander of his life guards, and telling him he was about to proceed to Colonel Lilburn’s camp, bade him follow with three hundred men.
“The whole regiment must remain under arms throughout the night,” he added. “An attack may be expected.”
Without a word more he mounted his charger, which was ready for him, and attended by Dighton and a small party of musketeers, rode at a brisk pace through the woods to Colonel Lilburn’s camp.
* * *
CHAPTER XIX.
THE CAMISADE.
Good watch was kept — the sentinels were at their posts — but the quietude of the camp proved that no apprehensions of attack were entertained.
“Kerioth would have been surprised and taken had I not received this warning,” mentally ejaculated Cromwell, as he rode up to the commander’s tent.
Lilburn had thrown himself on a couch, but hearing Cromwell’s approach he sprang to his feet, and met him at the entrance of the tent.
After a brief consultation between the generals, it was decided that neither drums should be beaten nor trumpets blown, lest the sounds should be heard by the enemy, but that the slumbering soldiers should be quietly roused to arms; and this was done by Lilburn in person.
Meanwhile, Colonel Lindsey had arrived with the life guards from Spetchley, and putting himself at their head, Cromwell rode to the outpost nearest the city.
This outpost was about three hundred yards from the camp, on the slope of the hill, not far from the London-road, and was stationed in a field bordered on the north and north-east by high-banked hedges.
The night can scarcely be described as dark, though the sky was covered with lazily-moving clouds, but through these the moon burst occasionally. The old city, with its towers, steeples, and fortifications, could be distinguished through the gloom; but no lights were visible within it, and no sounds from it arose. So profound was the stillness, that it might have been supposed that the inhabitants and their defenders were alike buried in slumber, and that no attacking party could be waiting to sally forth.
As Cromwell, with the life guards, cautiously descended the hill, keeping under cover of the hedges, three-quarters past midnight was struck by the cathedral clock — proclaiming that the hour was close at hand.
The outpost reached by Cromwell was guarded by two hundred and fifty foot and two hundred horse, but three hundred of the best troopers in his army being now added, he deemed this force quite sufficient to repel the attack.
Little time was left, but luckily those on guard at the outpost were on the alert. Having placed his troops with the quickness and skill peculiar to him, the Lord General stationed himself on a small woody mound in the centre of the field, whence he commanded the approach to the Sidbury-gate, and awaited the sortie with some impatience, but without the slightest anxiety. Close behind him were Dighton and a couple of cuirassiers.
He had not to wait long. While the single stroke of the cathedral bell yet vibrated through the air, and was echoed by the clocks of the other churches, the gate yawned wide, and a troop of sheeted spectres — for such they seemed in the gloom — issued forth. The ghostly band formed three regiments — the first being commanded by General Middleton, the second by Sir William Keith, the third by Colonel Legge.
The troops came forth from the Sidbury-gate and formed in silence. If any orders were given they did not reach Cromwell’s ears, though he was listening intently; and the ghostly appearance of the horsemen was fully preserved until Middleton dashed off with the greatest rapidity, when the clatter of hoofs and the jingling of arms proved that the phantoms were substantial soldiers. The second regiment followed instantly, galloping along the London-road as swiftly as the first; but a momentary interval occurred before Colonel Legge started. The cause of this brief delay was perfectly intelligible to Cromwell, and he gave some orders to Dighton, who rode off at once to Colonel Lindsey.
Meanwhile, the two foremost regiments came on at full speed, and dashed past the field in which the outpost was stationed, making it evident that their point of attack was Lilburn’s camp on the brow of the hill, and showing that the outpost would be dealt with by the regiment that followed.
In obedience to Cromwell’s orders not a shot had been fired, and Colonel Legge came on uncertain as to how he would be received by the enemy. Easy access to the field could be obtained at several points known to the Royalists, and small parties of men entered at these places, but the main body, led by Colonel Legge, broke through the hedge skirting the London-road, and were received by ranks of pikemen three deep, the front rank kneeling, the centre stooping, and the rear standing upright, and forming an almost impassable barrier. On the flanks, right and left, were posted musketeers, who poured a terrible volley upon the enemy as they gained the field.
Several saddles were emptied. Nevertheless, Colonel Legge, shouting to his men to follow, charged the pikemen with the greatest intrepidity, but it was impossible to cut through their ranks. Many horses were killed in the charge, and others so desperately hurt that they bore back their riders in spite of all efforts to force them on. Colonel Legge’s charger, though badly hurt, had still strength enough left to sustain its rider, but would not again face the deadly pikes.
Caught as in a trap, it seemed as if the unfortunate Royalists must all be slaughtered, but turning from the pikemen, Colonel Legge charged the musketeers with a fury that proved irresistible. Having gained the open field with such of his men as had been able to follow him, he was joined by the others, who having entered at different points had hitherto taken no part in the conflict. But before they could form they were charged by Colonel Lindsey, at the head of the life guards, and so shattered, that they could not recover, but fled from the field in the greatest disorder, hurrying towards the Sidbury-gate faster than they had quitted it. Many were shot while jumping the hedges, or pressing through the gates. Colonel Legge was the last to retreat. His horse carried him out of reach of the foe, and then dropped.
Cromwell watched the conflict from the mound on which he had taken his stand, and did not quit his position during the short time occupied by the conflict.
“It is the Lord God that fighteth for us. He it is that hath enabled us to scatter them thus quickly,” he exclaimed, as the Royalists fled in disorder. “Pursue them not, but prepare to cut off the retreat of those pestilent malignants who have gone on to attack the camp above — lest, peradventure, they escape the snare laid for them.”
It happened as Cromwell had foreseen. Instead of finding Lilburn unprepared, when General Middleton and Sir William Keith reached the camp on the hill, they quickly discovered that their design had been betrayed. Duped by stratagems which they ought to have suspected, they entered the camp, but had scarcely done so, when they were completely surrounded by a force more than trebling their own.
Thus entrapped it would seem that nothing was left to Middleton but to surrender. But the brave general was undismayed by numbers, and when summoned to surrender, answered by a charge so fierce and impetuous that the ranks of the enemy opened, and, ere they could close again, he and his two regiments had passed safely through.
Down the hill they dashed at a headlong pace, and, though hotly pursued by
Lilburn, very few of them were captured. Luckily for the fugitives, Cromwell was not able to get his life guards out of the field in time to intercept them, or their utter destruction would have been inevitable. As it was, they escaped with very little loss, considering the terrible hazard they had encountered.
On reaching the nearest outpost of the royal army, Middleton found Colonel Legge, and learnt the disaster that had befallen him.
“I cannot carry this bad news to his majesty,” said Legge. “Tell him what has happened.”
“The king will not reproach you,” said Middleton. “You have done your best. We have been betrayed.”
“That is certain,” said Sir William Keith. “Lilburn was prepared for us.”
“And Cromwell himself was with the outpost when I attacked it,” said Colonel Legge. “I knew it not till too late.”
“Would I had known it!” cried Middleton, furiously. “He should not have lived to boast of this triumph. One of his spies has served him well on this occasion. I will not rest till I have discovered the traitor.”
“Lesley may help you to find him,” said Legge.
“No; Lesley knew nothing of this,” rejoined Middleton. “But come with me to the king, and get it over. A word will explain all. We have been betrayed.”
OLD HOSTELRY OF GREY FRIARS.
* * *
CHAPTER XX.
HOW URSO GIVES WAS ARRESTED.
About the same time that the interview took place in the stable at Spetchley between Cromwell and Urso Gives, Major Careless, who had been upon the eastern walls to satisfy himself that the fires in the suburbs were completely extinguished, descended from the ramparts at Friars’-gate. This was one of the smaller gates, and derived its appellation from a convent of Franciscan friars that stood hard by — the old religious house having been subsequently converted into a prison.
On quitting the ramparts, as just stated, Careless proceeded to the old hostelry of the Grey Friars, where he knew that several officers about to take part in the camisade would be assembled. The old inn — an ancient timber-built house, with quaint gables, and a projecting upper story — is still standing in Friars’-street.
In the principal room of the old hostel he found, as he expected, a party of Cavaliers smoking, singing, and quaffing sack and claret, as if they had no serious business in hand. They were thus making merry to the last, since among them were Major Knox and some others, who, two hours later, were killed in the attack on the outpost. They were all fully armed with steel caps, gorgets, cuirasses, pauldrons, and taches, but had divested themselves of their swords and pistols. Beside each sword lay a small roll of linen. This was the shirt which its owner meant to wear over his armour, and which, in some cases, proved a winding-sheet.
All the Cavaliers rose on Careless’s appearance, and gave him a hearty welcome. He could not help being struck by the enthusiasm they displayed. Not one of them but seemed proud of being included in the dangerous enterprise. Not one but was ready to lay down his life for the king. Careless never afterwards recalled that meeting without heaving a sigh for the brave men who perished in the camisade. However, at the moment, he thought little of the hazard of the attack, and would gladly have joined in it if the king would have allowed him. Sitting down, he emptied the flagon of claret filled for him by Major Knox. Shortly afterwards Colonel Legge entered the room, but left again almost immediately, saying, as he departed, to Major Knox:
“Half an hour hence you must all be at the place of rendezvous.”
Shortly afterwards Careless took leave of the company, and was proceeding along Friars’-street in the direction of the Sidbury-gate, when he heard his name pronounced in a familiar voice, that instantly awakened tender recollections, and turning, he perceived that he had been followed from the hostel by a young woman whose features were muffled in a hood.
Not doubting who it was, he exclaimed:
“Ah! is it you, Mary? I never expected to see you again.”
“And you would not see me now, I can assure you, if I had not something of importance to say,” she rejoined, partially removing her hood.
“Whatever has procured me the happiness of beholding you once more, sweet Mary, I feel grateful for it,” he rejoined.
“Speak not thus lightly,” she said. “’Tis a grave matter.”
“Before you mention it, then, let me ask now you came to throw yourself away upon that detestable Roundhead? You must be heartily sick of him already.”
“If you persist in talking thus you will frighten me away, and I shall leave unsaid what I have to tell you — and it is very important.”
“Nay, by all that is bewitching, I swear you shall not go,” he cried, catching her hand.
“Be serious, if you can, for a single instant, and listen to me.”
“Tell me you are resolved to abandon Urso, and I will be as serious as you please.”
“You put everything out of my head by your trifling talk. How very different you are from Urso, to be sure! He is always grave.”
“Yes, I warrant me you rarely catch a smile on his sour visage. But I hope there are few points of resemblance between him and me. Again I ask, how could you marry such a man?”
“’Twas all my grandam’s doing,” she sighed.
“And you have bitterly repented of the foolish step ever since, I’ll be sworn. Confess, and I’ll forgive you, though, I own, the effort will be difficult.”
“Then pray don’t make it. Unless you listen to my warning, you will fall into a snare that has been privily laid for you.”
“Privily laid for me by Urso, eh? The Roundhead rogue had better take care of himself, or you will speedily become a widow.”
“It is not of Urso I would warn you. Do not take part in the camisade to-night.”
“The camisade!” he exclaimed, in surprise. “How do you know there is to be a camisade? Who has told you of it? Answer me that.”
All his levity had vanished. As she did not answer, he repeated the question still more peremptorily.
“No matter who told me,” she rejoined. “If you value your life you will not go. I have warned you. Do as you please. Farewell!”
“Stay! we must not part thus. You spoke of a snare being privily laid for me. What was your meaning?”
“I will tell you nothing more,” she rejoined.
And breaking from him, she flew towards the inn.
Just as she reached the door the Cavaliers came forth in a body. Some of them tried to stop her, but she pushed them aside and got into the house.
Careless thought of following her and insisting on an explanation, but after a moment’s reflection he concluded that, since she was lodging at the inn, she must have overheard the loud and indiscreet talk of the Cavaliers, and so have ascertained the nature of the enterprise on which they were engaged. As to the “privily-laid snare” of which he had been warned, the expression savoured strongly of Urso, and probably meant nothing in particular.
Having arrived at this conclusion he marched off, with the fixed determination of paying another visit to the old hostel on the morrow.
But before the morrow came he was undeceived, and he then bitterly regretted that he had neglected the warning given him.
So well was the secret kept, that only the troops actually engaged in the camisade were aware of its object. Many heard of the enterprise and of its failure at the same time. When the attacking party was driven back, a call to arms was instantly made by the Duke of Hamilton and all the commanders stationed on the south and south-east, lest Cromwell should follow up his success by an immediate assault on the city. But it soon became apparent that he had no such design, and though the Royalists remained on the alert, they were not disturbed during the remainder of the night.
To Charles, who had made certain of success, the failure of the enterprise was a terrible disappointment. But he bore it manfully, as he bore all his reverses. He had remained at the Commandery in order that he might receive the earliest intelli
gence of the victory he so confidently anticipated, and was seated in the refectory, trying to while away the time in light chat with Careless, when General Middleton, followed by Sir William Keith and Colonel Legge entered the hall. Charles read what had happened in their downcast looks, and for a moment forbore to question them.
“Fortune has played me another sorry trick, I perceive,” he exclaimed, at length. “I thought the fickle goddess would this time have befriended me.”
“All would have gone well, sire, if our plan had not been betrayed,” replied Middleton. “The enemy was prepared. We found the whole of Colonel Lilburn’s force under arms, and were surrounded, but succeeded in cutting our way through them.”
“I have a further proof of treachery, sire,” said Colonel Legge. “Cromwell himself, with his body-guard of Ironsides, was with the outpost when I attacked it.”
Charles could not repress an exclamation of rage.
“That we have been bought and sold is certain,” he exclaimed. “But who can have betrayed us?”
“I think I can give a shrewd guess as to the villain who has thus traitorously discovered the design,” said Careless, “and if I am right he shall not escape chastisement.”
“Whoever the traitor may be,” observed the king, “he must have obtained early information, and have acted with the greatest promptitude, or the enemy could not have been prepared at all points for the attack. Cromwell must have clever and active spies in the city.”
“True, sire,” replied Middleton. “ And I now recollect that, during our conference in the adjoining chamber, a man in the garden approached somewhat near to the open window. At the time I did not suspect his motive, but I now believe he was a spy.”
“It may be so,” observed Charles.
“Whether General Middleton is right or wrong in his suspicion, I am certain I can discover the traitor, sire,” said Careless. “I have a clue to his hiding-place, and before many hours I engage to produce him.”
The Works of William Harrison Ainsworth Page 649
