University of Virginia Library

6. VI.
CHALGROVE.

My memory is a gallery of pictures, dark or brilliant,
gay or sombre. Here is one of them, which I
look at through the mists of many years.

It was a night of June, flooded with moonlight;
and under the boughs of a great oak, not far from the
village of Chinnor, Prince Rupert stood leaning one
gauntleted hand upon the pommel of his saddle, and

bending his head as though he were listening. Within
five paces of him stood Lord Falkland,—a calm, sad
figure in the bright moonlight. From the wood came
the stamping of cavalry horses, beside which stood or
lay their riders, bridle in hand, and ready to mount.

Prince Rupert had sallied out of Oxford, attacked
an outpost of the parliamentary army, and driven the
enemy; had then pushed on to Chinnor, where he
attacked and routed a second force; and now he was
waiting for a brief space that his men and horses might
rest before resuming their march back to Oxford.

Lord Falkland had ridden with the prince, more, it
would appear, from a desire to divert his mind from its
eternal brooding, than from any wish to take part in
the fighting of the expedition. Indeed, every one had
recently noted in my lord viscount a weary unrest. He
was sad unto death, and seemed unable to remain in
one place. His dress was almost slovenly; his fine
person was utterly neglected. The roar of guns alone
seemed to arouse in him a temporary sort of excitement;
and now in every encounter the men saw his
tall form in the midst of the smoke, an idle spectator
as 'twere, giving no orders, unarmed wholly, and inspired,
'twould seem, by nothing more than a languid
curiosity.

Those who knew this great man best, and talked with
him at that time, explained this indifference to me afterwards,
and I no longer wondered. Falkland was constitutionally
fearless, and despaired of his country. If
he did not seek death, he cared naught for it.

As the prince bent his head, listening, the far sound
of hoofs came from his right. He turned in that direction,

and a flood of moonlight, passing through the
dense June foliage overhead, lit up his proud face and
figure. He wore his full-dress uniform, and the golden
decorations were dazzling. Around his waist was
knotted a red silk sash, rich, heavy, and with superb
tassels. His sword-hilt sparkled in the moonbeams.
On the heels of his fine cavalry boots glittered golden
spurs. Such was this young and headlong soldier.
From spurred heel to plumed beaver, in eye and lip
and attitude, he was all cavalier.

“They are moving, yonder,” he said to Lord Falkland,
“and I think your lordship will see some more
fighting.”

“I am sorry, highness,” was Falkland's sad reply.

“Well, we think differently, my lord. I am glad!”
was Rupert's impulsive reply.

His eyes sparkled as he spoke, and he turned to
summon an attendant. The gigantic Hans, his huge
black beard grasped by his huge hand, stood like a
Scandinavian statue near.

“Hans!”

“Yes, highness.”

“I am general—!”

“Yes, sheneral.”

“Order the men to mount; and send me a staff-officer.”

Hans disappeared in the darkness, and in five minutes
the wood resounded with the noise of spurs,
stirrups, and broadswords, clashing together as the
troopers got into the saddle. At the same moment a
staff-officer hastened up, and the prince gave him an
order. I had come to report the result of a reconnoissance

I had made beyond Chinnor, and was about
to go now, when the prince stopped me with a gesture.

“Remain. My staff-officers are absent, and I need
some one,” he said, briefly.

The prince then set out at a rapid gallop in the
direction of the sound we had heard, Lord Falkland
galloping in silence beside him, I following.

As we went on rapidly through the moonlight, the
sound in front grew more distinct. The distant bark
of dogs and crowing of cocks mingled with it.

“A man of brains commands the enemy's front,”
Rupert said, halting suddenly and listening. “A force
of horse is moving to cut me off at Chiselhampton
bridge; and unless I can pass Chalgrove before they
reach that point, I must cut my way through.”

“Your column is moving, highness.”

Falkland pointed over his shoulder, as he spoke, to
the long lines of the royal cavalry advancing steadily,
with their full forage-wagons—the object of the expedition—in
rear.

The prince nodded.

“The race is close, my lord, for all that, and not
decided yet.”

“For the bridge?”

“Yes. If I knew the enemy's force, I would not
care. My own is small, and theirs may be great. I
may be cut off from Chiselhampton bridge.”

“What will you do then, highness? I ask from idle
curiosity, merely: we civilians listen to soldiers with
respect.”

Prince Rupert turned quickly.

“You are no civilian! You are a soldier born, from

crown to foot; soldier, soldier, my lord,—if soldier
means the clear brain, the fearless nerve, and the hero
heart! Well, I speak as soldier to soldier,—there is
no path to Oxford save over the bridge yonder.”

“Then—”

“Yes, my lord,—you will pardon my interruption,
—yes, I do not mean to surrender, and one thing is
always left to a soldier.”

“That is—?”

“To die, sword in hand,” said Rupert, laughing.

As he spoke, he turned to me.

“Order my column to take this road, inclining more
to the right, towards Chalgrove,” he said; “the men
to advance at a steady trot and prepare for action.”

He pointed to a country road coming into the main
highway. I saluted, went at full gallop to the head of
the column, and delivered the order; then I returned
to the prince, who was riding rapidly with Lord Falkland
over the road to the right.

The quick smiting of hoofs came more and more
clearly on the night breeze. The hostile columns were
rapidly converging towards Chiselhampton bridge.

“Here is Chalgrove,” said the prince, suddenly, as
he emerged upon a large field, bathed in moonlight.
“If we can pass ahead of them, then we need give
ourselves no further trouble. The bridge is gained.”

He was not to pass. As the prince, riding a short
distance in advance of his column, entered upon the
great field, a dark mass was seen advancing from the left
to cut him off. There was no longer any possibility of
reaching the bridge without a combat. Shouts from
both forces were heard,—line of battle was quickly

formed,—and, sword in hand, at a thundering gallop,
the opponents rushed together.

It is hard to describe a fight under the daylight,—a
night combat is wholly indescribable. Shouts, cheers,
the clash of weapons, the crack of pistol and musquetoon,
horses rolling over, with wild shrieks, men dying
with curses on their lips, in the darkness,—that is the
aspect of a night encounter.

The fight at Chalgrove was such. A painter might
delineate the rushing, trampling, gleaming conflict; I
cannot. For the rest, a few moments after the collision,
I kept my eyes fixed upon one figure.

In front of the enemy, and superbly mounted, I saw
Mr.—now Colonel—Hampden. I knew afterwards that
the move to cut Prince Rupert off was due to his military
energy and brain: Chiselhampton bridge he saw was
the point to guard: a mounted force was speedily
moving; leaving his own infantry regiment, he took
command of the horse, and moved so rapidly as to cut
off his able opponent Rupert.

The prince, fighting in front of his men like a common
soldier, saw the great figure of Hampden.

“Who is that officer?” he said hurriedly to Lord
Falkland, who was calmly riding beside him.

“'Tis Colonel Hampden,—God preserve him!”

As Falkland spoke, I saw the figure of Hampden
reel in the saddle. He was within ten paces of us, and
the moonlight made everything plain.

As he reeled back, his eyes met those of Falkland.

“See! I am wounded—to the death, I fear, my lord,”
he cried, in a broken voice. “Remember—we shall
meet again!”

As Hampden uttered these words, a sudden rush of
his own men carried him away. The parliament horse
had broken and were flying in wild disorder. When
we saw Hampden last, his head was drooping, and he
leaned for support on the neck of his horse, two men
assisting him from the field. He had received two
bullets, we afterwards heard, in the shoulder, the bone
of which was broken; and from these wounds he soon
afterwards died.

As his figure disappeared in the moonlight, followed
by his men in disordered retreat, I heard Lord Falkland
murmur,—

“Farewell, Hampden! Yes, we shall soon meet
again, I think.”

A bugle-note came like an echo. It was the recall
being sounded. Rupert moved on to the bridge,
crossed, and proceeded on his way to Oxford, after the
successful skirmish of Chalgrove field.

A skirmish;—but in that mean little encounter fell
one of the greatest men of England.