University of Virginia Library

4. CHAPTER IV.

Scott's Rokeby.

The winter had already passed away, and with
it every hope of present reconciliation between the
monarch and his parliament. Early in March the
royal hosts were in the field, one in the western
counties, commanded by the king in person, and
the most dashing of his generals, impetuous Rupert—another
in the north, under the gallant Newcastle,
the noblest gentleman and most accomplished
soldier who fought beneath the banners of
his sovereign. During the first months of the year
the tide of fortune had flowed constantly in favour
of the cavaliers. In March, a desperate action,
fought upon Hopton Heath, near Stafford, had made

small compensation to the parliament, by the death
of brave Northampton, for the defeat of Gell and
Brereton. Rupert had taken Cirencester, treating
his captives with unmanly and relentless cruelty;
and, shortly afterward, in the same sort had captured
and half burnt the flourishing and wealthy
town of Birmingham. Nor had the occupation of
Reading by the Earl of Essex brought anything
except disaster and disease upon its captors. A
dangerous conspiracy had broken out among the
puritans, and, though suppressed and punished by
the deaths of the two Hothams, Challoner, and
Tompkins, had yet led many to believe that seeds
of discord were already sown among the democratic
party, which would ere long destroy their unanimity
for ever. A heavier and more fatal loss
befell—not his own party merely, but the whole
realm of England, in the untimely death of Hampden,
mortally wounded in a trivial skirmish upon
Chalgrove field in Buckingham; he died, as he
had lived, a patriot—a martyr to the cause of freedom—his
last breath, ere he rendered up his spirit
to his Maker, expended in a prayer for his oppressed
and bleeding country. Nor had the partisans
of liberty fared much more hopefully in the
North; Sir Thomas Fairfax, after a short but unsuccessful
stand against the Marquis of Newcastle
on Atherton Moor, was compelled to retreat before
his victors, who pressed on with much energy and
vigour to recover Gainsborough, which had been
stormed and garrisoned by the Lord Willoughby
upon the parliament's behalf. In this important
aim they scarcely could have failed, had not the
leader of the ironsides with his brave cavalry, augmented
in their numbers to full two thousand men
by Ardenne's junction—having already greatly signalized
himself by the defeat of a superior force of
royalists before the walls of Grantham, and by the
storm of Burleigh house and Stamford—gallantly
interposed between the town and Newcastle's advance.
The enemy, amounting to above three
times his number, under Lieutenant-general Cavendish,
the brother of the marquis, flushed with
their late success—composed of picked men for
the most, and officered by gentlemen of equal gallantry
and rank — and animated by the highest
spirit of loyal bravery — had occupied a station
so commanding that they could only be assailed
by passing through a gateway, and charging up a
steep acclivity. Yet not for this did Cromwell
hesitate an instant; but, personally leading on his
troopers, he resolutely rushed upon them, and, after
a brisk conflict, routed them utterly, forcing them
from their position into a deep morass, and killing
Cavendish, with most of their superior officers.
Burning for vengeance, the main body of the royalists,
neglecting Gainsborough, pushed on, and
with such overwhelming numbers that Cromwell
was compelled to fall back first on Lincoln, and
thence immediately on Boston, uniting there his
forces with the army of the Earl of Manchester,
whom he had been appointed with all speed to re-enforce,
as second in command to that stanch nobleman.
Upon this point Newcastle marched,
eager for battle, and desirous to engage, before the
host of Manchester should be increased by new accessions,
which, as he learned, were swelling day
by day his ranks; having detached Sir John Henderson,
an old and well-proved soldier, in advance, with
eighty-seven troops, horse and dragoons, to seek
out Cromwell, and bring him, ere the earl could
aid him with his infantry, to action at a disadvantage.

It was a glorious morning in the latter part of

June, and at an hour so early that the heavy dews
of summer were yet hanging unexhaled on wold
and woodland, although the sun had lifted his broad
disk above the horizon, when the two armies
came in view on Winsley field, near Horncastle.
It was a gallant and a graceful spectacle as ever
met the eye of man. The scene a broad and
waving tract of moorish meadow land, checkered
with many a patch of feathery coppice—birch, ash,
and alder—tufts of furze full of its golden bloom,
and waving fern—and here and there a bare gray
rock peering above the soil, or a clear pool of
water reflecting the white clouds that hung aloft
all motionless in the blue firmament—and over
this romantic champaign a magnificent array of
horse, four thousand at the least in numbers, contracting
or extending their bright squadrons, now
falling into column and now deploying into line,
as best they might among the obstacles of this
their battle-ground — their polished armour and
their many-coloured scarfs now flashing out superbly
as the sunshine kissed their masses with its
golden light, now sobered into mellower hues as
some great cloud would flit across the sky and
cast its sweeping shadow over them—their trumpets
ever and anon waking the echoes of the woodlands
that surrounded them on every side with
their exulting notes, and their gay standards fluttering
in the breeze—their gallant chargers, arching
their necks against the curb, bounding and curvetting
along as if they panted for the onset—while
toward the eastern limits of the plain, upon a gentle
elevation, flanked on the one side by the gully
of a deep and stony brook, and on the other by a
coppice, tangled with ancient thorns, and matted
with wild rose briers, which protected likewise the
whole rear of his position, Cromwell had formed
his line. Nor, though inferior far in numbers, and
lacking all that chivalrous and splendid decoration
which their floating plumes and gorgeous dresses
lent to the cavaliers, could his dark squadrons have
been looked upon without attention—ay, and admiration
also, by the most unromantic of observers.
The admirable discipline and perfect armature of
the stern zealots who composed the ranks—the
plain, but soldierly and bright accoutrements—the
horses, superior even to the chargers of the royalists
in blood, and bone, and beauty, and, above all,
in that precise and jealous grooming, without which
all the rest are little worth—the grim and stubborn
countenances of the riders—some animated with a
fiery zeal that would have smiled exultingly upon
the stake of martyrdom, some lowering with a dark
and sullen scowl, but all severe, and resolute, and
dauntless! A single glance sufficed to tell that
every battle-field to them must be a triumph or a
grave!

Silent they stood and motionless—their long array
drawn up, two deep, by squadrons at brief intervals—solemn
and voiceless, presenting a strange
contrast to the shifting movements and the intricate
manœuvres of their approaching enemy. Not a
man moved in his saddle, not a sound broke the
quiet of their discipline, save now and then the
stamp and neigh of an unruly charger, or the sharp
clatter of his steel caparison. And now the cavaliers,
within a short mile's distance, having already
cleared the broken ground, might be seen halting
on the farther verge of the smooth space which
swept away toward them in a gentle slope, unmarred
by bush, or brake, or obstacle of any kind
to the career of the most timid rider; when, with
some three or four of his most trusty captains,
Cromwell advanced before his lines. Of stout,

ungainly stature when dismounted, none showed
to more advantage on his warhorse, and in full caparison
of battle, than did the colonel of the ironsides.
It was not that his seat was graceful, or
that he ruled his charger with the ease of the man
êge, but that he swayed him with an absolute dominion,
which seemed to arise rather from his mere
volition than from the exercise of strength or skill.
His whole soul seemed engrossed by the approaching
conflict—careless of self, exalted, and enthusiastical.
His eyes flashed with a brightness almost
supernatural from the dark shadow of his
morion, and his whole visage wore an aspect so irradiate
with energy and mind, that Edgar wondered
how he ever could have deemed him ill-favoured
or ungraceful. His horse, a superb black, bore
him as if he too were conscious of Divine authority;
and such was the commanding greatness of
his whole appearance, that no human eye could
have descended to remark the plainness of his war-array!
Of the small group of officers who rode
beside the bridle of their leader, the most were ordinary
looking men, burghers of Huntingdon, or
small esquires of the surrounding country, selected
for the stations which they occupied, by the wise
politician who had levied them, on account of those
morose and gloomy tenets which, with an early
prescience, he discovered to be the only power that
might cope with the high spirit of the gentlemen
who formed the bulk of their antagonists—men
who affected, or imagined visions and transports—
who believed themselves predestined instruments,
and deemed that in the slaying of malignants they
were doing an especial service to the God whose
chosen servants they declared themselves, with a
faith in the truth of the assertion which rendered
them almost invincible. Among these plain and
heavy-looking soldiers, the form of Ardenne, highborn,
and full of the intuitive and untaught grace
of noble blood, gallantly armed and handsomely attired—for
he was not one of those who fancied that
the approbation of Heaven could be won by a rusty
corslet or an ill-blacked boot—mounted on a dark
chestnut, thoroughbred, yet powerful enough to bear
a man-at-arms fully accoutred through the longest
day, showed like a glorious falcon among a tribe of
buzzards; yet even he, handsome, and young, and
fairly clad, filled not the eye like the majestic person
of his colonel. At a quick trot they swept
along the lines, inspecting their array, with now a
word of commendation, and now a short reproof, to
the dark fanatics who had been chosen lance-pesades
or sergeants for their savage and enthusiastic
humour. Just as they finished their career, a long
and cheery shout, accompanied and blended with
the clang of kettle-drums and the shrill flourish of
their trumpets, burst from the columns of the cavaliers,
now wheeling into line and eager for the onset.
No shout or burst of instruments replied from the
parliamentarians; but their leader, at the sound,
checking his charger from his speed till he reared
bolt upright, threw forth his arm with a proud gesture
of defiance; “Brethren,” he called aloud, in
accents harsh but clearly audible, and thrilling to
the heart—“Brethren and fellow-soldiers in the
Lord, the men of Belial are before you—the persecutors
of the saints—the spillers of the innocent
blood—godless and desperate!—slayers of babes
and sucklings—ravishers of maids and matrons—
revilers of the prophets and the law—accursed of
the Lord Jehovah! Wherefore, faint not, nor be
of feeble heart, for surely on this day shall the
Lord yield them up into your hands, that ye may
work his vengeance on their heads, and execute his
judgments. For said he not of old, `Lo! I will
tread them in my anger, and trample them in my
fury; and their blood shall be sprinkled upon my
garments, and I will stain all my raiment. For the
day of vengeance is in my heart, and the year of
my redeemed is come!' So saith the Lord of
Hosts. Amen! amen! Selah!”

And, with a deep and sullen hum, the puritans
took up the words—“So saith the Lord of Hosts.
Amen! amen! Selah!”

“And are not we,” continued the fierce zealot,
with increasing energy—“and are not we—blinded
although we be, and ignorant and sinful—I ask ye,
brethren, are not we the chosen of the Lord, and
shall we not obey his bidding? Smite them, then
—smite the idolatrous, besotted followers of the
old Antichrist, even as just Elijah slew the priests
of Baal down at the brook of Kishon. Be strong,
and fear ye not! For lo! the Lord hath said, `Ye
shall not suffer one of them to live!' and who are
we that we should now gainsay the bidding of the
Lord, even the Lord of Hosts? Lift up your
voices, then, that yon malignants may perceive in
whom we put our trust.”

Again, and in a sterner and more heartfelt shout,
the approbation of the puritans greeted their
leader's ears; and as he ceased, with brandished
blades and inflamed features, and with voices that
drowned utterly the feebler music of the cavaliers,
already confident of victory and maddened with religious
zeal, they thundered forth their favourite
hymn.

The fierce strains ceased, and a loud acclamation
followed them, solemnly breathing a sublime, yet
savage spirit of defiance, and was responded to immediately
by the huzzahs of the advancing cavaliers,
and the rich symphonies of horn and kettledrum.
A small reserve of some five hundred men
was posted in the rear, and, in one mighty line, the
rest swept forward at a brisk trot, the front rank
with their carbines all unslung and matches lighted.
Cromwell gazed steadfastly upon them for an
instant—then his eye lightened and his lip curled
scornfully as he addressed his second in command.
“Lieutenant-colonel Ardenne,” he exclaimed, “dismount
two hundred of our best dragooners, and,
under Fight-the-good-fight Egerton, let them file
down that gulley to our left, and fire constantly on
the advance of these misproud malignants.” Without
a moment's pause the order was transmitted
and obeyed, and, ere five minutes had elapsed, the
party was detached and scrambling down the rocky
bed of the ravine, unnoted by the royalists, under
the guidance of as morose and bold a puritan as
ever levelled musket or misquoted holy writ. “Sir
Edmund Winthrop,” Oliver continued, “your stout
lieutenant, shall hold your regiment, as our reserve,

here on this ground of vantage—but shall not stir
from it unless at your command or mine. We will
not tarry for their charge, but meet them horse to
horse—in onset of alternate squadrons. I lead the
first division, you shall support me with the second.
When you shall hear my bugle sound a recall and
rally, then strike in, and the Lord strike with you.
`Truth' is our word and `Peace.' Amen! Selah!”

Even as he spoke, the royalists gave fire from
their first rank, but at too great a distance to do
execution, and halted to reload. “Steady, men!”
shouted Cromwell, whose sword was not yet drawn,
from the extreme left, as he perceived a demonstration
of anxiety to charge among his troopers—
“steady, men; let them come nigher, and when
they fire again, shoot also ye, upon their flash,
through your whole line; and instantly, alternate
squadrons from the left, charge on them ere they
may reload!”

Scarce had he ended ere the line again advanced
on a hard trot; a single shot rang from the gulley,
broken and fringed with thorns and alder-bushes—
another, and another—a rapid and continuous fire of
skirmishers, picking off half a score of officers, and
throwing the right wing of the royalists into some
slight confusion; on, however, they still came, their
banners rustling, and their gay plumes and baldrics
fluttering in the wind, while, trusting to make such
impression on the main host of the puritans as
should cause their ambuscade to be of no effect,
they hurried to the onset. On they came, resolute
and dauntless! Their bugle sounded, for the gallop
—for the charge! and, at the latter call, again the
levelled carbines rose to the riders' cheeks—a
bright flash ran along their line, and a dense veil
of smoke covered their orderly and brilliant front.
Before it cleared away, the shattering volley of the

puritans, poured in with a deliberate aim, made
fearful havoc in their ranks, and on the instant,
casting aside their matchlocks and whirling their
long rapiers from the scabbards, one half the squadrons
of the parliament hurled themselves furiously
upon the advancing foe. Eagerly, anxiously did
Edgar gaze upon the charge. On went the colonel
of the ironsides, six horses' lengths in front of
his division, and all as gallantly out dashed a leader
of the king's to meet him—they met, and it was but
an instant ere the charger of the royalist ran masterless,
and its unhappy owner rolled, weltering in
his blood, beneath the trampling hoofs of the fierce
puritans. There was no faltering—no doubt in
either line—forward they rushed, all straining to
the charge, their horses foaming and struggling
against the bit, and their swords flashing in the sunlight.
Edgar unsheathed his rapier, for now a
horse's length scarce intervened; yet neither host
had paused or turned aside. And now they were
encountering, when the rear rank of the cavaliers
threw in with desperate execution their reserved
volley, shaking the line of the parliamentarians like
an earthquake, emptying scores of saddles, and
hurling riders and horses headlong to the earth.
The smoky curtain once again swept over them;
it cleared away, and Ardenne saw his fellow-troopers,
unbroken and in close array, so orderly had
they closed in above the falling, now mingled hand
to hand, and fighting with the cavaliers, whose
front was bending like a bow—the points, on which
the troops of Oliver had charged, beat backward a
full pistol-shot, and the alternate squadrons which
had met no foe wavering and undecided what to
do. Sword cuts were glancing through the air on
helm and corslet—pistol-shots flashed among the
melèe; and the shouts, “God and the church”—
“God and the king,” blended with groans, and
yells, and curses, and the clash of blades, and the
wild blast of trumpets, pealed dissonantly to the
sky. Still Cromwell's bugle sounded not, nor
were his men drawn off; and Ardenne paused in
doubt. His eye fell suddenly upon the form of
Oliver fighting among the foremost; another volley
from a small knot of cavaliers, and he fell—horse
and man—and the strife closed more fiercely round
him; at the same instant the reserve of Henderson
moved up to re-enforce his battle. Then Edgar
paused no longer—“Forward!” he shouted, in a
voice of thunder—“forward—charge home!” and
dashing down the grassy slope, before a minute
passed burst like a thunderbolt upon the unengaged
divisions of the enemy, and, killing two men
with his own hand, drove them in terrible confusion,
by the fury of his onset, back on their own reserve.
Turning his eye, now he had gained a moment's
leisure, toward the spot where he had seen
his colonel fall, he caught a glimpse of him on foot,
fighting with desperate courage against some six or
seven horsemen, who were hewing at him all together
with their long broadswords, and hindering
each other by their own impetuosity. Three strokes
of his good sword, and the superb exertions of his
charger, placed him at Cromwell's side just as he
fell to the earth, stunned but unwounded by a heavy
blow. One of the cavaliers received the point of
Edgar's rapier in his throat before he checked his
horse; the others were engaged and beaten backward
by the foremost of his troopers. Hastily
springing to the ground as Oliver regained his feet,
“Mount,” he exclaimed, “mount, Colonel Cromwell,
on my horse, and finish what so well you have
begun!”

Without a word the zealot leaped to the saddle,

cast his eyes with a quick comprehensive glance
around him, and read the fortunes of the day upon
the instant.

“They are half beaten now,” he shouted, in exulting
tones; “one charge more, and we sweep
them like dust before the winds of heaven! Away,
sir—down with the reserve, and fall upon their left
flank. I will draw off my men, and, ere you be
in action, will be prepared to give it them again in
front. Ho! bugler,” he continued, as Ardenne,
mounting his brown mare, which his equerry had
led up, galloped off swiftly to the rear—“ho! bugler,
sound me a recall and rally!” The shrill
notes of the instrument rang aloud above the din
of battle; and with that strict obedience for which
they had already gained repute, the ironsides drew
off from the encounter orderly, and beautifully
formed again, before the shattered and disordered
masses of the cavaliers had fallen into any semblance
of array. In the mean time Ardenne had
reached his regiment, the men burning to emulate
the glory half achieved by their companions, the
horses pawing the turf, and snorting with impatience.
A loud shout greeted him as he addressed
them, in a few words terse and full of fire, formed
them by troops in open column, and advanced between
the coppice on his right and the extreme
left of the enemy, now near a quarter of a mile
pushed forward beyond their right and centre,
which had been most disordered by the fire of the
skirmishers and Cromwell's furious charge. So
great, indeed, was the confusion of the royalists,
their officers toiling along the ranks, labouring with
oaths, and menaces, and exhortations to rally and
reform the men, that they perceived not Ardenne's
movement till he was wheeling into line to the left
previous to charging them. Then, when it was

too late, they struggled to redeem their error nobly
but fruitlessly; for, ere they could show front
against him, the trumpets sounded—Oliver's in
front, and Edgar's on the flank—and simultaneously
they were charged, broken, and dispersed. The
action was already over—but the rout, the flight,
the havoc, the despair, the hideous, indiscriminating
massacre, urged to the utmost by religious
fury and political rancour, ceased not till noon;
when Cromwell's bugles, slowly and most reluctantly
obeyed, called back the men, their weapons
blunted and their arms aweary, but their hearts insatiate
of carnage, from the hard-pressed pursuit.