University of Virginia Library

2. CHAPTER II.

The morning was yet gray and gloomy after a
night of frost—felt the more bitterly by those who
bivouacked upon the field, since there was neither
tree, nor hedge, nor any other covert nigh to fence
them from the piercing wind—when Ardenne started
from the disturbed and unrefreshing slumbers
which had crept upon him, beneath the partial shelter
of an ammunition tumbrel overturned and broken,
uproused by the loud trumpets of the powerful
re-enforcement brought up before the promised
hour by Cromwell, consisting of two thousand foot,
Hampden's and Grantham's regiments, and his own
ironsides, whose presence might, on the preceding
day, have turned the doubtful scale, and ended, at
a single stroke, the war unfortunately destined to
no such speedy termination. It was a strange and

melancholy, though exciting scene, that met his
gaze as he arose; the dark skies scarcely dappled
in the east by the first paly streaks of dawn—the
faint stars waning one by one as the cold light increased—the
black brows of the neighbouring hills
cutting distinct and sharp against the wan horizon
—the white and ghostly mist creeping in wreaths
along their bases, and curtaining the plain with a
dense veil, through which the watchfires of the
royal host, at scantly a mile's distance, burnt with
a dull and lurid redness, like to the glimmering of
a witch's caldron—the foreground heaped with the
carriages of the artillery, horses picquetted in their
ranks, and companies of men outstretched on the
dank soil, sleeping upon no better couches than
their dripping cloaks, beneath no warmer canopy
than the o'ercast and gusty firmament. Nor were
the sounds that rose at intervals from the opposing
camps, and the deserted battle field between them,
less wild and mournful than the images which
crowded their nocturnal area—the measured tramp
of the unwearied sentinel, now mingled with the
clash of armour, and close beside the ear, now gradually
sinking into silence as he visited his farther
beat—the clang and clatter of the horse patrol,
sweeping at wider distances around the guarded
limits, and the deep, melancholy cadence of his occasional
“All's well”—the neigh and stamp of restless
chargers—the howling of forsaken dogs—and,
sadder and more terrible than all beside, the feeble
wailing, the half-heard, distant groan, or the long-drawn,
but unavailing cry for succour, of maimed
and miserable wretches, battling and wrestling with
their mortal pangs throughout the livelong night,
and cursing the unnatural strength that nerved their
fainting and reluctant flesh to strive with that inevitable
angel, whom their more willing spirit would
have welcomed as a rescuer and friend. While he
was yet, with a sick heart and tortured ear, listening
to these too numerous witnesses of human agony,
and pondering upon the dread responsibility
of him who, to indulge a lawless thirst after a little
brief authority, had let loose on a happy land that
most abhorred curse of nations, domestic war, an
orderly rode up in haste to crave his presence at
the quarters of the general. After a short and
rapid walk toward the rear, he reached the spot
where Essex, like the meanest of his men, had
passed the night, beneath no other roof than the inclement
sky. A dozen pikes, irregularly pitched
into the ground, and draped with horse-blankets
and watch-cloaks, offered a shelter rather nominal
than real against the night air on the north and east,
while a huge pile of logs sparkled and blazed in
front, casting a wavering glare of crimson upon a
group of tall and martial-looking officers, collected
round the person of their leader, and glittering
more obscurely on the arms and figures of a score
or two of troopers, who sat motionless on their tall
chargers at some short distance in the rear. The
council, as it seemed to Edgar on his first approach,
were absolutely silent; but, as he drew more near,
he found that Essex was addressing them, although
in tones so low and so subdued that they
scarce reached the ears of those for whom they
were intended. Nor, as he judged from the expression
painted on every countenance—for the lord
general ceased from speaking just as he joined the
circle—were his words calculated to inspire his listeners
with confidence or warlike spirit. A blank,
desponding gloom sat darkling on the brows of all,
and every eye save those of the new-comers, who
stood together and apart a little from the rest,
dwelt gloomily upon the ground. It seemed a
meeting rather of defeated and despairing fugitives,
than of the bold and dauntless spirits who had but
yestereven maintained a more than equal strife
against the flower of England's nobles—till, suddenly,
with his harsh features kindling into passionate
and fiery animation, and his eye glancing
wildfire, Cromwell, whom Edgar had not hitherto
observed, upstarted from a pile of housings and
horse-furniture on which he had been seated—“As
the Lord liveth,” he exclaimed—“as the Lord liveth,
we can smite them hip and thigh, if so be that
your excellency will give me but command to
charge upon them now, while they yet lie, with
faint hearts and with heavy eyes, about their
watch-fires. I ask but for my own stout troop of
ironsides and Master Ardenne's horse here, if he
list to join me—I ask but these, and, verily, I do
profess to you, they shall not bide the changing of
a buffet; nay, but we may destroy them utterly,
smiting them with the sword, as Joshua smote
them beside the waters, even the waters of Merom,
what time he did to them as the Lord bade him;
he houghed their horses and burnt their chariots
with fire!”

“It is too late, sir!” returned Essex, coldly—
“it is too late! The morning will have broken ere
you can get your men to horse!”

“Nay, but not so, lord general,” anxiously interrupted
Cromwell; “my troopers be not yet dismounted;
and, of a truth, I do assure you that their
spirits are athirst, ay, and their souls an hungered,
to do this battle for the Lord!”

“We will not have it so, sir,” replied the earl,
shortly, and scarcely courteously—“we will not
have it so. It might endanger our whole host. I
pray you, Colonel Cromwell, draw out your horse
upon our farthest left, facing thereby Prince Rupert

on the king's right wing. And you, fair gentlemen”—turning
to Hampden and to Grantham—
“move up your gallant foot to re-enforce our centre.
Had ye been here but yesterday, I had not
feared to gain a complete victory; but now I hold
it rash to offer or commence, though, by God's
help, we will not shun encounter. Sirs, to your
posts. The council is at end. The day is breaking—lo,
there sounds the reveillèe!”

“Cold council!” muttered Cromwell in the ear
of Ardenne, as he left the presence; “cold council,
if not traitorous! and, at the best, false argument!—for
an he could half beat Charles Stuart
without us yesterday, sure, with three thousands
of fresh men, and those the best of his array, he
might now trample him beneath his feet! Besides,
with Verney slain outright, and Lindsey captive,
and half their officers cut down or grievously en
treated, stands it not certain that they must need
be faint of heart? Verily! verily! I say to you,
there shall be no good thing befall the righteous
cause while such a leader marshalls us.”

As he concluded he turned off abruptly, mounted
his horse, and rode away toward his troopers,
who awaited their stout colonel in the rear; and,
ere ten minutes had elapsed, Edgar might hear
them chanting, in subdued and sullen tones, the
melancholy psalm, “Save me, O God, for the
waters are come in unto my soul,” as they marched
gloomily away to occupy the post to which
they were assigned. At the same time the regiments,
which, for the last half hour, had been getting
under arms, fell in, and faced the army of the
king, now clearly to be seen, as the mists gradually
rolled away before the growing daylight, resuming
the position it had held before the action
of the previous day. The instruments of music

sounded, indeed, and cheerily, and the bright colours
fluttered gayly in the freshening breeze; but
other sign of spirit or alacrity along the serried
ranks Edgar saw none before he reached his own
brave troopers, already mounted and in accurate
array, under Sir Edmund Winthrop, his lieutenant,
and eager—as the heart-stirring shout with which
they greeted their commander spoke them—for
the onset, of which they deemed his presence the
immediate harbinger.

The sun rose broad and bright, kindling the
whole expanse of heaven with his fair lustre; the
mist-wreaths floated upward, and dispersed themselves
into the delicate and scale-like clouds, flecking
the azure skies, which promise glorious days;
the morning gradually passed away, and noon drew
nigh, and still each army held its ground, facing
the other in the stern array of warfare, both, as it
seemed, prepared and resolute to meet, but neither
willing to commence, the onset. At times, the
trumpets on one side would breathe forth a wild
flourish of defiance, and a shout or psalm would go
up to the peaceful heaven from the other, intended,
it might be, to challenge or to irritate the foe into
some movement that should lay him open to attack;
but the sun now rode high in heaven, and hour by
hour the chances of a general action became less
imminent. Suddenly—at a moment when all those
leaders of the parliament, who deemed it no less
for their interest than honour to give battle, almost
despaired of any opportunity for sealing their adherence
to the cause—there was a movement on
the right wing of the royal host. Directly in the
centre of the field, midway between the lines of
either army, four light field-pieces, sakers and culverins,
had been abandoned, on the previous day,
by the king's infantry, when shattered and disordered,

though still fighting with their faces to the
foe, by the repeated charge of Balfour's horse. So
rapidly had night set in upon the wearied hosts,
and perhaps so fearful were both parties of then
doing aught which might provoke renewal of the
conflict, that these, the proof and prizes of the victory,
had been permitted to remain unmoved, either
by rescuer or captor, through the long hours of
darkness; and, until midday was at hand, no disposition
was exhibited to bring them off, whether
by cavalier or puritan. But now—either disposed
to fight, if needful, with courage gathered from the
weak policy of Essex, or convinced by their inactivity
that he should meet with no resistance from
the despised and hated roundheads—Rupert dashed
forth in person from the right, with a detachment
of the king's horseguard, that gallant troop of
nobles whose impetuous and headlong daring,
though at the first it had passed, like a torrent,
sheer through the reeling ranks and weaker cavalry
of its opponents, had yet done more against
the final gaining of the day than had the fiercest
struggles of the adversary. Forward they came,
mounted on horses that might each have borne a
king to battle, rending the air with their repeated
cheers, and with the joyous clangour of their defying
trumpets, a flood of waving plumes and fluttering
scarfs—the bravest and the best-born of the
land. Midway between the hosts they galloped
on, exposing, as it would seem, in very wantonness
of bold bravade, the flank of their advance to the
stern ironsides of Cromwell, who showed like a
dark storm-cloud ready to burst upon their heads
with all the crash and ruin of a tempest. Already
were those gloomy martialists exchanging their
dull scowls of rigid and abstracted sanctity for the
fierce flashings of enthusiastic joy, with which they
never failed to clothe their features when rushing
down like eagles to the banquet of the sword!
Already were they brandishing their heavy blades
aloft in savage exultation. Already were they lifting
up their voices in the triumphant psalm which
should preface their thundering charge, and, rising
high above the din of battle, strike terror and confusion
to the hearts of those whom, as they sung,
“The Lord—even the Lord of Hosts—shall hunt,
to overthrow them!” But, ere the word was given
by their colonel, whose sword was in his hand
outstretched toward the flaunting cavaliers, on
whose destruction he securely counted, an officer
came, at the full speed of his spur-galled and foaming
charger, bearing the mandates of the general.

“Ha! Major Winton,” Cromwell exclaimed,
with a raised voice and joyous intonation, “you
bring us right glad tidings—tidings which my soul
comprehendeth ere mine ear hath caught their import.
Tarry thou but a little space, and call me
coward then, an thou see them not performed unto
the letter—ay! and those gay malignants yonder
scattered like chaff before the wind of heaven!
Sound trumpets, and—”

“Hold! Colonel Cromwell; in the Lord's name,
hold!” the other interrupted him, with a half frightened
energy of zeal; “you do misapprehend!
'Tis the lord general's command that you stir not
a foot! He would avoid an action.”

“Tush, man, it cannot be!” Oliver fiercely cried;
“nay, stay me not!—forego thy grasp upon my
rein! Let me not now, I say, or truly I will—”

“Nay, sir,” returned the officer, cutting again
into his speech, as much chagrined by the impetuous
gesture and half uttered threat, “you shall do
as you list for me; but I do warn you, 'tis against
express commandment of my Lord of Essex if you

shall charge these horse. See how they muster
yonder to the front of the main host, dragoons and
cavalry, for the support of this detachment. One
charge must need bring on a general action.”

“The better!” answered Cromwell, with a
gloomy frown; “the better—an we had aught of
faith in the good cause, or spirit in our carnal calling.
But on his own head be it! Surely the
Lord hath deadened his understanding, causing his
heart to fail with terror and with fainting! On his
own head be it!” and, as he spoke, he sheathed his
rapier, driving it home so furiously that the hilt
rang against the iron scabbard with a sharp, angry
clatter; “on his own head be the shame, the ruin,
and confusion!” and, turning his charger's rein, he
rode away toward the rear, in a dark, sullen revery,
determined not to look upon the capture of
the guns since he could not prevent it. Nor did
he check in anywise, or reprimand the deep and
bitter murmurs of reviling which the fierce zealots
he commanded launched against the cold and cautious
policy that thus forbid them “to arise, and
slay the enemy at Karkar, even as Gideon arose
when he slew Zebah and Zalmunnah!”

And, in the sight of the whole host, the chivalry
of Rupert dashed along, with brandished weapons
and bright banners, unharmed at least, if not unheeded.
They pounced upon the cannon, and not
a sword was drawn or a shot fired. Six powerful
horses, led for the purpose, and already harnessed,
were, on the instant, linked to every gun; and
away they went, bounding and clattering over the
frozen soil at a hard gallop, while the fearless cavaliers
formed front toward the host of Essex to
cover their retreat, patiently waiting till they reached
the royal lines. Then, with three regular cheers
of triumph and derision, they filed off at a foot's

pace, as if unwilling to return without exchanging
shot of carbine or stroke of sword, even although
victorious. Another hour elapsed, and yet another,
and still the armies held their stations steadily, face
to face, neither advancing to attack, neither disposed
to quit the field in presence of the other.
Noon was already past, when a fresh movement
was observed among the royalists near to the
centre of the army. But this time, as it seemed,
no hostile measures were intended; for a white
flag was suddenly advanced beyond the outposts of
the army, and then, preceded by his trumpet, and
followed by a glittering train of pursuivants, attired
in their quartered tabards, Clarencieux, king-at-arms,
refulgent in the blazoned pomp of heraldry,
caracoled forth upon a snow-white palfrey, whose
embroidered housings literally swept the ground.
When it had almost reached the advanced guards
of the parliament, the gay procession halted, while
its trumpets stirred the echoes of the slumbering
hills with a long-flourished blast, calling the leaders
of the host to a pacific parle. But, be their errand
what it might, their summons called forth no emotion
from the stern puritans. No officer rode down
to meet them—no peaceful symbol corresponding
to their own was raised to greet them—no trumpet
answered theirs, though thrice it brayed aloud, with
notes of evident impatience. Wearied, at length,
by the contemptuous silence which alone answered
to his overtures, leaving his train where it had
halted, the king-at-arms rode slowly, with a dubious
air, as if but ill assured of safety, toward the nearest
guard of horsemen, one pursuivant alone attending,
and demanded to be led forthwith to the lord
general; after brief ceremonial, the subaltern, detaching
half a dozen men, escorted him along the
line, requiring him emphatically, and with a glance
toward the carbines of the guard, which rested
upon their thighs, in readiness for instant service, to
speak no word an he would reach the general in
life. Nor was his greeting much more cordial
when, after hurrying him, with small respect, along
the serried ranks, the subaltern resigned him to an
officer of Essex's lifeguard, who, with the same
stern discipline, conducted him toward the quarters
of the brave though over-cautious nobleman
who held the chief command. The general was
mounted on his charger, with his leading-staff in
hand, attired in a suit of beautiful half armour, with
a broad scarf of orange crossing his cuirass, and a
feather of the like colour drooping from his morion.
The Earl of Bedford and Sir William Balfour were
beside him, likewise on horseback; and some half
dozen of his staff, with Colonels Hazlerig and
Hampden, stood around, dismounted. Essex, with
whom he had no personal acquaintance, looked full
upon him without a word or sign of salutation; but
Balfour, whom he knew, bowed slightly.

“I bear, so please you, my good Lord of Essex,”
the king-at-arms began, in nowise daunted by his
cold reception, “I bear a gracious proclamation of
his majesty, Charles, by the grace of God—”

“Hold, sir,” cried Essex, in a sharp and angry
tone, “hold, sir—to whom bear you this message?
Speak out, sir—and fall back, you loitering knaves!
back with you all! back out of earshot!” as he
perceived the troopers of his body-guard crowding
a little forward, as if to mark what passed.

“Charles, by the grace of God—” continued the
bold speaker, resuming, even where he had been
before cut short, the thread of his discourse.

“To whom—to whom, I say, bear you this
message?” exclaimed Essex, in tones of fierce excitement,
the blood rushing in crimson to his brow.
“To whom, save me, dare you bear any word?”

“To all,” he answered, calmly—“to all men
present here bear I his majesty's most merciful—”

“Silence, audacious!” thundered the general;
“silence, if thou beest not aweary of thy life!
Knowest thou not, William le Neve, knowest thou
not that for this breach of every law of war and
nations I might cause thee hang?—hang like a
dog upon the nearest tree, for all thy painted mummery!
Away with him, sir,” he continued, after
a short pause, as if ashamed of his display of violence,
addressing the officer who had escorted him,
“away with him!—see him a hundred yards beyond
our outposts; and if he do but breathe too
loudly, shoot him upon the instant. I do profess,”
he added, turning again to the abashed and silent
messenger, “I do profess to you, you have incurred
a very fearful risk; but, that you may not lack
an answer, say to your master that we have drawn
our swords at bidding of the parliament, and in behalf
of those ancestral liberties, which we will either
transmit free and unfettered to our children,
or lose together with our lives!—thou hast thine
answer.”

And with even more precaution than he had
been admitted was he led back to join his followers
by a stout squadron of the general's lifeguard,
who, halting at some twenty yards from the confused
and trembling pursuivants, deliberately blew
their matches and levelled their short arquebuses!
Startled at this manœuvre, it needed little, when
the officer informed them, “That, an they were
not a full flight-shot on their route before three
minutes, he should fire a volley on them,” to send
them at a furious gallop scattering towards the
king's array.

This was the last attempt; and, ere an hour
had elapsed, the guns and carriages of the king's

host were drawn off by the road to Edgecot, his
late quarters; and Essex, on beholding their retreat,
was no less willing to lead away toward
Warwick his wearied and disheartened army,
abandoning thereby to Charles the access to the
capital—which he had marched, and even risked a
battle, to defend—whenever he should choose to
profit by the errors of his enemy. Scarce had the
orders for this movement been delivered before a
trooper galloped up to Ardenne's post, gave him a
packet, and, without waiting a reply, dashed spurs
into his horse, and was already out of sight ere
Edgar had discerned its purport. It was a mandate
from the general in council, directing him to
join his force to that of Colonel Cromwell, and
place himself at once at his disposal; and he had
hardly read it through when Oliver himself rode
up. “You have received,” he said—“you have
received already, as I see, those tidings which,
trusting that they may not be displeasing, and that
so you be not rendered an unwilling instrument in
this great cause, I have come hither to communicate.
I am detached forthwith to march with mine
own ironsides and with your gallant horse for
Cambridge—thence to protect the safety of the
eastern counties—and verily I do rejoice, for my
soul sickeneth at coward councils; and, so long as
we tarry here, we be not like, I trow, to meet with
brave ones! Come with me, Edgar Ardenne, and
I tell thee that we can achieve great things for the
deliverance of this groaning land—yea! and work
more for its regeneration, with our poor hundreds
and the Lord's hand, which of a very deed shall
smite on our side—frail vessels though we be and
faithless—more to advance the liberties of England,
than Essex with his tens of thousands!”