 | CHAPTER IV. Cromwell |  |
4. CHAPTER IV.
That if, about this hour, he make this way,
Under the colour of his usual game,
He shall here find his friends, with horse and men,
To set him free from his captivity.”
King Henry VI.
Sadly and wearily the year wore onward; the
golden days of summer were already passed; the
leaves, which had so greenly flourished a few weeks
before, grew sere like human hopes, and were
whirled wildly from their hold by each succeeding
blast. Autumn had waned already into winter;
yet still the leaders of the army, after their seizure
of the fatal letter, which necessarily ruined the
king's cause, remained inactive, as it seemed, at
Windsor, but, in truth, hushed in grim repose, and
waiting the maturity of those events which they
foresaw distinctly, and expected with a stern and
vengeful pleasure. Meantime the privates became
every day more restless and ungovernable. Distrusting
their own officers while they held daily
Intercourse with the king's friends, now that they
they imagined not that the correspondence was
indeed at an end, but that some scheme had been
determined to the exclusion and betrayal of their
interests, and raved accordingly in their religious
and political assemblies with equal fury against the
carnal-minded parliament and the grandees, as they
now termed their own superior officers. The regiment
of Ardenne was perhaps the only one of the
whole army which had entirely resisted this contagion;
for having taken arms—many from personal
attachment to their young leader, whose neighbours
or whose tenants a great portion of the soldiers
were—many from a sense of political oppression,
but none from any feeling of fanaticism or religious
fury—the most part being of the Episcopal persuasion—they
looked on unconcerned, while their companions
were indulging in the loudest tumults, and
reposed all their trust in the high talents and integrity
of their commander. Often times since the
memorable evening of the intercepted letter Cromwell
and Ardenne had debated on the next step to
be taken, and on the future prospects of their country;
and both had often and again grieved at
their inability to shape out any course by which
they might hope confidently to eschew the breakers
which they could see directly in their track. Both
clearly saw that the king's union with the Presbyterians
could but be the beginning of a worse tyranny,
both in the church and state, than that which
they had overthrown; and both saw likewise that
with these, rather than with the army, he would
assuredly at last make common cause. Cromwell,
in this dilemma, hinted, rather than openly declared,
his own opinion, founded in part upon the evident
determination of the army, that the king should be
brought to trial, and, if found guilty, suffered to reap
yet, while maintaining both the policy and
justice of the measure, he was still at a loss to say
what plan should be adopted for the future government
of England, thus to be left without a head.
Avowing himself favourable to a mixed form, composed,
as heretofore, of three estates, with the executive
department vested in one officer of ample
powers though limited, he yet could point out none
on whom the choice could fall with safety and propriety.
Sir Edgar, on the other hand--acknowledging
the perfect justice, doubted the policy of the
king's execution — thinking that wilder anarchy
would follow at the first, and ultimately either the
Presbyterian influence, which they now chiefly
feared, prevail, or one strong-handed military tyrant
rise from the chaos of licentious freedom.
Ireton, in the mean time, the leader of a powerful
faction, declared at all times his desire for a republic,
founded upon a general franchise of the whole
people; and Harrison, who represented a yet more
fanatical and phrensied party, calling themselves
fifth-monarchists, looked forward to the near approach
of the millennium, and, arrogating to themselves
an absolute perfection, claimed an equality
of rights, of power, and of property for all men;
but all alike agreed on the expedience of awaiting
the recurrence of some overt action on the part of
Charles or of the Presbyterians. For this they
had not, indeed, long to tarry; for, on the morning
of the twelfth day of November, the gentlemen
whose office was to wait upon his chamber found
that the king was not there, and his bed had not
been used that night. Three letters in his own
handwriting lay upon the table; two to the parliament,
one to the speaker of each house, and a
third to the General Fairfax. After the first excitement
Berkeley, Legg, and Ashburnham were missing;
and the hoof marks of four horses were traced
readily in the moist ground close to the postern
of the garden, into which there was a private passage
from the chamber of the king. In none of
the three letters was it stated whither he had fled,
but simply that he had found it needful to withdraw
himself, in consequence, as he was well assured, of
plots existing for his assassination, and that he
should hold himself concealed until some settlement
was made for the well-governance and quiet
of the kingdom. The news of this escape produced
the greatest tribulation in the houses. It
was believed, and generally dreaded, that the king
was in hiding somewhere within the city; that
the Presbyterian party and the royalists had privily
united, and that a sudden rising would ensue,
and massacre of all opposed to it. An act passed
instantly, prohibiting, on pain of death and confiscation,
any from harbouring the king without conveying
notice to the parliament. Expresses were
sent off to every seaport town, laying a strict embargo
on all vessels; and every person who had
fought on the king's side in the late wars was banished
from the city, and any other place within a
circuit of ten miles round London. Meanwhile the
hapless monarch, having ridden day and night toward
the southwestern coast, frustrated, by the
mismanagement, or, as some say, the treachery of
Ashburnham, in his desire of taking ship from the
New Forest, sought refuge for a space at Titchfield
House in Hampshire; and, finally, with an incomprehonsible
degree of folly, surrendered himself to
Hammond, a strict friend of Cromwell, governor
of the Isle of Wight.
It was the second day after the flight of Charles,
had led him peremptorily to refuse.
On the fifteenth of the same month, a statement
of the king's escape, his present secure situation,
and the propositions tendered to him by the parliament,
was sent down to the army, with a remonstrance
ably penned by Fairfax, refuting the strong
calumnies which had been cast against the principal
commanders, and setting forth the motives of
their conduct. Armed with this potent document,
Cromwell, as the most firm, and, at the same time,
best-beloved of all the officers, was selected to this
perilous but honourable duty; and, taking with
him Ardenne's well-disciplined and trusty regiment,
without delay or hesitation he repaired to
Ware—at that time the headquarters of some five
or six thousand soldiers at the least, who, stimulated
by their adjutators, and believing that the
flight of Charles was preconcerted and connived at
by the grandees of the host, were in state of turbulence
bordering closely upon actual mutiny. It
was about eleven of the clock on a bright frosty
morning that Cromwell, with his small lifeguard,
reached Ware. Causing his trumpets to sound
through the streets, he summoned all the regiments
to get themselves together orderly upon the green,
to hear a proclamation from the lord-general; and,
ere this summons had been well delivered, they
turned out, not, indeed, orderly or in good discipline,
but in loud and tumultuous disarray. They
were all under arms, although expressly contrary
to orders; two regiments especially of musketeers,
who had their caps adorned with ribands, inscribed,
as a motto of insubordination, with the words
“For the people's freedom and the soldiers' right!”
their arquebuses lighted. Among these, as Cromwell
advanced slowly toward them, accompanied
by Ardenne only, and followed at a little distance by
a dismounted captain's guard with drawn swords,
but no firearms—the remainder of the regiment
halting in line a little farther in the rear—a wild
disorganizing shout arose, “Equality of rights!
equality of rights! No king! no coalition! Down
with the false grandees!”
But when, with his long sturdy strides, and his
stern features perfectly calm, but resolute and hard
as if they had been cast in iron, he had closed with
them, the shouts ceased suddenly. Slowly he
walked along their front, looking each private full
and firmly in the eye; and few were there who
dared to meet with an unblenching brow his concentrated
glare of anger and defiance. Halting at
length directly opposite to the two regiments of
musketeers, he drew out the proclamation.
“I have a paper here,” he said, “to read to ye
from the lord-general. Not to mutineers, however,
but to soldiers was I sent! Extinguish instantly,”
he added, in a tone somewhat louder, yet so severe
and passionless that one battalion obeyed on
the moment, “those matches! How dare ye muster
thus? Out of your caps with those unsoldierly
and villain mottoes—out with them! Nay! but ye
shall trample them beneath your feet!” and, awed
by his immoveable determination, the same battalion
once again complied; while the great bulk of
that tumultuous assembly looked on in abashed
wonder, and, ordering as rapidly as possible their
unmilitary and ill-dressed front, assumed an air of
perfect discipline and a right soldierly demeanour.
Not so the second regiment; for, brandishing their
arms aloft, they raised a deep and scornful murmur,
defiance. Nay, some brought down their arquebuses
to the ready movement, and even cocked
them; but not one man removed the motto of rebellion.
It was a moment of anxiety, if not of real
peril; for, though the great mass of the men were
quiet, they yet wore an air of sullen and almost
savage discontent, which clearly showed their temper,
and made it but too probable than any overt
action, of one troop even, would kindle the whole
body into a sudden blaze of fury.
“Heard ye not,” Oliver proceeded, in a voice
pitched several notes below his usual key, but so
full of intense resolve, of quiet but indomitable
spirit, that it thrilled to the hearts of all who heard
it, even of those who still resisted, “or do ye dare
to disobey me? You, sir,” he continued, stepping
close up to the ranks, which now began to waver
somewhat, and confronting a gigantic lance-pesade,
“ground your arms!” and the man, overawed by his
demeanour, slowly and sulkily obeyed. “Shame!
shame!” cried several voices from the rear; “thou
braggart, that wouldst do so much, to shrink at the
first word!”
“Silence there in the ranks!” Oliver cried, fiercely,
and at his word again the murmurs ceased; but,
brief and trivial as they were, these murmurs had
yet roused anew a spirit of resistance in the bosom
of the half-terrified ringleader. Silent he stood indeed,
but his mouth worked convulsively, a red
flush overspread his countenance, and his hand
quivered as it grasped the barrel of his musket.
“Soh! thou art then a soldier,” continued Cromwell,
once more confronting the delinquent. “Now,
then, pull forth that rascal riband from thy cap!
Cast it, I say, into the dust, and set thy foot upon it!”
The man spoke not, but bit his lip till the blood
of his body, whether to execute or to resist his officer's
command.
“Do as I bid thee, dog!” and, with a flash of furious
and ungovernable ire lighting up every feature
of his face, Cromwell stamped his heel on the
turf as though he was in act of trampling down a
living foeman.
“No dog of thine, at least,” answered the fellow;
“though, if thou hadst the will, all Englishmen
would be as slaves and dogs beneath thee.”
“Ha! this to me!” and, seizing the gigantic
trooper by the throat, he shook him to and fro as
though he were an infant, and cast him, almost, as
it seemed, without an effort, to the earth behind
him. “Seize him, guards, ho! Ye answer for him
with your lives. He is a ringleader; and, as the
Lord of earth and heaven liveth, verily he shall die
the death!” and, as he spoke, his handful of assistants
dragged off the prisoner, struggling and shouting
for a rescue, and placed him in security among
their mounted comrades. But, quickly as they did
his bidding, yet quicker was the movement of the
captive's right-hand man to succour or avenge him,
who, at the very point of time when Cromwell
seized the lance-pesade, levelled his arquebuse
right at his head within six feet. Ardenne dashed
forward sword in hand followed by six or eight of
his most active men, while his lieutenant shouted
to the horsemen in the rear to charge! Yet, had
their aid been needed, the career of Oliver had
been concluded on that day in a poor paltry riot—
but it was needed not! for, in the very act of
capturing the one, that keen-eyed and quick-witted
leader observed the motion of the other mutineer!
Before the heavy din, with which the armour of
the first clanged as he fell, was ended, his broad
it came whistling through the air—down, like a
flash of lightning, and, with his scull cleft through
his headpiece to the chin, the second plunged head
foremost, a dead man ere he touched the earth, his
arquebuse discharged, though harmlessly, by the
convulsed and quivering fingers after the life had
left the body. He paused not for a second's space
to suffer them to rafly or recover from the consternation
which had fallen on them with all the chilling
influence of a panic terror, but, “Charge!” he
shouted, in a voice of thunder, “charge the rebellious
dogs. Kill! kill! spare none who dare resist!”
and, with the word, Ardenne rushed in, and
faithfully his gallant men requited the trust placed
in their allegiance. Firmly, as though they had
outnumbered their opponents, that little handful
dashed into the breach which Cromwell's energy
had made already in the rebellious ranks; and at
a full trot, with their rapiers levelled to the charge,
up swept the horsemen. But the fall of their ringleaders,
and the undaunted bearing of their officers,
were too much for their nerves; and, ere the
guard was on them, their musket-buts rang heavily
as they were grounded simultaneously, and the obnoxious
badges, torn with quick hands from every
headpiece, fluttered on all sides in the air, or
strewed the turf before their feet. “Halt! ho!
halt, Colonel Ardenne!” shouted Oliver, perceiving
instantly and profiting by his advantage; but
scarcely was his second cry in time; for, though
they curbed their chargers as the word reached
their ears, the cavalry stopped not until their horses
chests were close upon the wavering ranks, and
their long rapiers waving over their heads. “Draw
off your horse, Lieutcnant Winthrop,” he continued;
“advance six files dismounted—arrest each
sent from the fair face of the bright laughing earth,
unhouselled and unshriven, into the presence of his
Maker, with scarce a moment even to prepare the spirit
for endurance of the fearful shock which should
disjoin it from the body! The lottery of death
was ended! The soldier, whose hard fate had been
thus chance-decided, was a small, delicate, pale-looking
man; of a weak frame, and a countenance
effeminate and betokening any thing save energy
of mind or resolution. Yet was this frail and
nerveless being perfectly cool and self-collected;
while his companion — taken in the very fact—
limbed like a Hercules, with high bold features
and a brilliant eye—a man who would have ridden
fearlessly, although alone, upon a stand of levelled
pikes, or rushed upon a cannon's mouth just as the
linstock was applied—shook like an aspen leaf
through all his powerful frame; his brow, his
cheek, his lip, grew white as ashes—his eye was
dim and senseless—he sobbed, he wept aloud,
struggling violently with the troopers who conducted
him to his last stand on earth, and yelling phrensiedly
for mercy. With an air perfectly composed
and fearless, the other threw aside his cassock
and his vest, unbound the kerchief from his
neck, giving it as a token to a favourite fellow-soldier,
and having, in a clear, unfaltering voice,
confessed the justice of his sentence, and exhorted
his companions to take warning from his fate, he
bowed respectfully to those who had condemned
him, and stepped as lightly to the place of execution
as though it were his choice to die. There
they stood, side by side—full of strong health, and
intellect, and life, and passion, in one short moment
to be mere clods of soulless and unconscious
clay—and there, with their death-weapons levelled,
those on whom they were to do the work of blood,
the firing party, chosen from the ranks of the same
regiment—composed, perhaps, of messmates, of
familiar friends, of proved associates in many a
scene of peril and of glery—perhaps of comrades,
plotters, instigators to the very crime which they
were destined to avenge, their friends to expiate—
their partners, without doubt, in this last fatal deed
of guilt, and now their executioners! The regiments
were drawn up forming three sides of a
great hollow square, the criminals upon the fourth,
the executioners already facing them at scarce ten
paces distant. There was not a voice—a sigh—a
movement in that mighty concourse; not a weapon
clashed, not a foot rustled on the earth. But the
sun shone in glorious beauty upon the burnished
pike-heads and the waving standards; and the
whole earth looked gay and smiling—more gay,
more smiling, as it seemed to the poor criminals,
than ever it had been before. A short extemporaneous
prayer was uttered by the captain of their
own battalion; a sad and doleful hymn was chanted
by the now penitent and terrified assemblage, with a
sound inexpressibly and strangely mournful. The
fatal sign was given!—a bright flash, and a sharp
report as of a single piece!—and, when the smoke
cleared off, there lay the bodies on the sod, lifeless
and motionless, their sins and sorrows thus simultaneously
and suddenly concluded. There was no
need of more severity—and the quick eye of Cromwell
saw it. With the yet warm and palpitating
bodies in full view, he read aloud the general's
message, the soldiery listening to every word with
a respectful and sincere attention, that denoted all
the force of the example they had witnessed. As
he concluded, every regiment presented, and then
from the crestfallen ranks, and with a deferential
air expressed their complete satisfaction at the lord-general's
exposition, their sense of their own past
misconduct, and their gratitude to Cromwell for
the mercy he had shown them, in taking but
two lives where all so righteously were forfeit.
After a few more words of reprimand, blended
with commendations of their former services, and
exhortations never to offend in the like sort hereafter,
Oliver, whose point was amply gained, dismissed
the soldiers; and the bands striking up in
the impressive notes of a dead march, with colours
trailed and arms reversed, they filed off to their
several quarters, well convinced now that, howsoever
their commanders might connive at disobedience
to the parliament, they would in no sort tolerate
or wink at the most trivial mutiny against
their own authority. In fact, by his undaunted
resolution in suppressing, and his inflexible severity
in punishing the present disaffection, joined to
the partial lenity he had extended to his prisoners,
Cromwell had more than regained all that he had
temporarily lost in the opinions of the army. Never,
perhaps, at any previous time had he stood
higher in power, or possessed more fully the respect
and admiration, not unmixed with wholesome
fear, of those whom he commanded, than at the
present moment.
The next night, in the most magnificent of England's
palaces, in the great hall of Windsor Castle,
the officers of that victorious army, which had not
merely conquered but annihilated the high faction
of the cavaliers, defeated the intrigues of the Scotch
Presbyterians, seen through and cut asunder—if
they had not disentangled—the gordian knot of parliamentary
chicane, assembled in most solemn but
spirit, and speaking, as it were, all with one common
voice—which they asserted, and perhaps believed,
such is the force of the heart's self-deception,
to be a direct proof that HE, whom they had
sought so long in prayer, earnestly dealing with
him that he should let that cup pass from them,
had put the counsel by immediate inspiration into
their hearts—those stern religionists determined
that, as a traitor, murderer, and tyrant, Charles Stuart
should be arraigned, and brought to answer for
his deeds before the high court of the nation in
parliament assembled.
It was remarked even then, and deeply pondered
on in after days, as something singular and
strange, by Ardenne, who was not present at the
council, having remained in London on his return
from Ware, but who was instantly apprized of the
proceedings—that, neither before that assemblage,
nor publicly at any other time, did Oliver urge on
or advocate, with his accustomed fervour, the measure
which, as Sir Edgar knew full well, he had
long since determined on within his secret heart.
It seemed as though he did not choose himself to
stir at all in that which had been mooted by the
common soldiery in the first instance, and advanced
by insubordination verging on open mutiny; or,
perhaps, seeing that, without his personal co-operation
in the matter, all things were tending to the
result which he believed the best, he was content
to lend them the mere negative support afforded by
his presence at deliberations, which he did not oppose
or hinder, wisely reserving his great energies
for the accomplishment of those great ends which
could not be wrought to maturity without them;
and holding himself, like the gods of the Grecian
drama, aloof from matters which afforded no due
which could as well be disentangled and wound
smoothly cut by those who had, perhaps, imbibed
his own opinions, and were unconsciously—while
fancying themselves free and untrammelied agents
—the mere tools and instruments of his superior
intellect.
| CHAPTER IV. Cromwell | |