Chapter Chapter 33 · Of the Onfall at Sedgemoor（2）

The battle was in this state when there rose a cry of ‘The King, the

King!’ and Monmouth rode through our ranks, bare-headed and wild-eyed,

with Buyse, Wade, and a dozen more beside him. They pulled up within a

spear’s-length of me, and Saxon, spurring forward to meet them, raised

his sword to the salute. I could not but mark the contrast between

the calm, grave face of the veteran, composed yet alert, and the half

frantic bearing of the man whom we were compelled to look upon as our

leader.

‘How think ye, Colonel Saxon?’ he cried wildly. ‘How goes the fight? Is

all well with ye? What an error, alas! what an error! Shall we draw off,

eh? How say you?’

‘We hold our own here, your Majesty,’ Saxon answered. ‘Methinks had we

something after the nature of palisados or stockados, after the Swedish

fashion, we might even make it good against the horse.’

‘Ah, the horse!’ cried the unhappy Monmouth. ‘If we get over this, my

Lord Grey shall answer for it. They ran like a flock of sheep. What

leader could do anything with such troops? Oh, lack-a-day, lack-a-day!

Shall we not advance?’

‘There is no reason to advance, your Majesty, now that the surprise has

failed,’ said Saxon. ‘I had sent for carts to bridge over the trench,

according to the plan which is commended in the treatise, “De vallis et

fossis,” but they are useless now. We can but fight it out as we are.’

‘To throw troops across would be to sacrifice them,’ said Wade. ‘We have

lost heavily, Colonel Saxon, but I think from the look of yonder bank

that ye have given a good account of the red-coats.’

‘Stand firm! For God’s sake, stand firm!’ cried Monmouth distractedly.

‘The horse have fled, and the cannoniers also. Oh! what can I do with

such men? What shall I do? Alas, alas!’ He set spurs to his horse and

galloped off down the line, still ringing his hands and uttering his

dismal wailings. Oh, my children, how small, how very small a thing is

death when weighed in the balance with dishonour! Had this man but borne

his fate silently, as did the meanest footman who followed his banners,

how proud and glad would we have been to have discoursed of him, our

princely leader. But let him rest. The fears and agitations and petty

fond emotions, which showed upon him as the breeze shows upon the water,

are all stilled now for many a long year. Let us think of the kind heart

and forget the feeble spirit.

As his escort trooped after him, the great German man-at-arms separated

from them and turned back to us. ‘I am weary of trotting up and down

like a lust-ritter at a fair,’ said he. ‘If I bide with ye I am like to

have my share of any fighting which is going. So, steady, mein Liebchen.

That ball grazed her tail, but she is too old a soldier to wince at

trifles. Hullo, friend, where is your horse?’

‘At the bottom of the ditch,’ said Sir Gervas, scraping the mud off his

dress with his sword-blade. ‘’Tis now half-past two,’ he continued,

‘and we have been at this child’s-play for an hour and more. With a line

regiment, too! It is not what I had looked forward to!’

‘You shall have something to console you anon,’ cried the German, with

his eyes shining. ‘Mein Gott! Is it not splendid? Look to it, friend

Saxon, look to it!’

It was no light matter which had so roused the soldier’s admiration. Out

of the haze which still lay thick upon our right there twinkled here and

there a bright gleam of silvery light, while a dull, thundering noise

broke upon our ears like that of the surf upon a rocky shore. More and

more frequent came the fitful flashes of steel, louder and yet louder

grew the hoarse gathering tumult, until of a sudden the fog was rent,

and the long lines of the Royal cavalry broke out from it, wave after

wave, rich in scarlet and blue and gold, as grand a sight as ever the

eye rested upon. There was something in the smooth, steady sweep of so

great a body of horsemen which gave the feeling of irresistible power.

Rank after rank, and line after line, with waving standards, tossing

manes, and gleaming steel, they poured onwards, an army in themselves,

with either flank still shrouded in the mist. As they thundered along,

knee to knee and bridle to bridle, there came from them such a gust of

deep-chested oaths with the jangle of harness, the clash of steel, and

the measured beat of multitudinous hoofs, that no man who hath not stood

up against such a whirlwind, with nothing but a seven-foot pike in his

hand, can know how hard it is to face it with a steady lip and a firm

grip.

But wonderful as was the sight, there was, as ye may guess, my

dears, little time for us to gaze upon it. Saxon and the German flung

themselves among the pikemen and did all that men could do to thicken

their array. Sir Gervas and I did the same with the scythesmen, who had

been trained to form a triple front after the German fashion, one rank

kneeling, one stooping, and one standing erect, with weapons advanced.

Close to us the Taunton men had hardened into a dark sullen ring,

bristling with steel, in the centre of which might be seen and heard

their venerable Mayor, his long beard fluttering in the breeze, and his

strident voice clanging over the field. Louder and louder grew the roar

of the horse. ‘Steady, my brave lads,’ cried Saxon, in trumpet tones.

‘Dig the pike-butt into the earth! Best it on the right foot! Give not

an inch! Steady!’ A great shout went up from either side, and then the

living wave broke over us.

What hope is there to describe such a scene as that--the crashing of

wood, the sharp gasping cries, the snorting of horses, the jar when the

push of pike met with the sweep of sword! Who can hope to make

another see that of which he himself carries away so vague and dim an

impression? One who has acted in such a scene gathers no general sense

of the whole combat, such as might be gained by a mere onlooker, but

he has stamped for ever upon his mind just the few incidents which may

chance to occur before his own eyes. Thus my memories are confined to a

swirl of smoke with steel caps and fierce, eager faces breaking through

it, with the red gaping nostrils of horses and their pawing fore-feet

as they recoiled from the hedge of steel. I see, too, a young beardless

lad, an officer of dragoons, crawling on hands and knees under the

scythes, and I hear his groan as one of the peasants pinned him to the

ground. I see a bearded, broad-faced trooper riding a grey horse just

outside the fringe of the scythes, seeking for some entrance, and

screaming the while with rage. Small things imprint themselves upon a

man’s notice at such a time. I even marked the man’s strong white teeth

and pink gums. At the same time I see a white-faced, thin-lipped man

leaning far forward over his horse’s neck and driving at me with his

sword point, cursing the while as only a dragoon can curse. All these

images start up as I think of that fierce rally, during which I hacked

and cut and thrust at man and horse without a thought of parry or

of guard. All round rose a fierce babel of shouts and cries, godly

ejaculations from the peasants and oaths from the horsemen, with Saxon’s

voice above all imploring his pikemen to stand firm. Then the cloud

of horse-men recoiled, circling off over the plain, and the shout of

triumph from my comrades, and an open snuff-box thrust out in front of

me, proclaimed that we had seen the back of as stout a squadron as ever

followed a kettledrum.

But if we could claim it as a victory, the army in general could scarce

say as much. None but the very pick of the troops could stand against

the flood of heavy horses and steel-clad men. The Frome peasants were

gone, swept utterly from the field. Many had been driven by pure weight

and pressure into the fatal mud which had checked our advance. Many

others, sorely cut and slashed, lay in ghastly heaps all over the ground

which they had held. A few by joining our ranks had saved themselves

from the fate of their companions. Further off the men of Taunton still

stood fast, though in sadly diminished numbers. A long ridge of horses

and cavaliers in front of them showed how stern had been the attack and

how fierce the resistance. On our left the wild miners had been broken

at the first rush, but had fought so savagely, throwing themselves upon

the ground and stabbing upwards at the stomachs of the horses, that they

had at last beaten off the dragoons. The Devonshire militiamen, however,

had been scattered, and shared the fate of the men of Frome. During the

whole of the struggle the foot upon the further bank of the Bussex Rhine

were pouring in a hail of bullets, which our musqueteers, having to

defend themselves against the horse, were unable to reply to.

It needed no great amount of soldierly experience to see that the battle

was lost, and that Monmouth’s cause was doomed. It was broad daylight

now, though the sun had not yet risen. Our cavalry was gone, our

ordnance was silent, our line was pierced in many places, and more than

one of our regiments had been destroyed. On the right flank the Horse

Guards Blue, the Tangiers Horse, and two dragoon regiments were forming

up for a fresh attack. On the left the foot-guards had bridged the ditch

and were fighting hand to hand with the men from North Somerset. In

front a steady fire was being poured into us, to which our reply was

feeble and uncertain, for the powder carts had gone astray in the dark,

and many were calling hoarsely for ammunition, while others were loading

with pebbles instead of ball. Add to this that the regiments which still

held their ground had all been badly shaken by the charge, and had lost

a third of their number. Yet the brave clowns sent up cheer after cheer,

and shouted words of encouragement and homely jests to each other,

as though a battle were but some rough game which must as a matter of

course be played out while there was a player left to join in it.

‘Is Captain Clarke there?’ cried Decimus Saxon, riding up with his

sword-arm flecked with blood. ‘Ride over to Sir Stephen Timewell and

tell him to join his men to ours. Apart we shall be broken--together we

may stand another charge.’

Setting spurs to Covenant I rode over to our companions and delivered

the message. Sir Stephen, who had been struck by a petronel bullet,

and wore a crimsoned kerchief bound round his snow-white head, saw

the wisdom of the advice, and moved his townsmen as directed. His

musqueteers being better provided with powder than ours did good service

by keeping down for a time the deadly fire from across the fosse.

‘Who would have thought it of him?’ cried Sir Stephen, with flashing

eyes, as Buyse and Saxon rode out to meet him. ‘What think ye now of our

noble monarch, our champion of the Protestant cause?’

‘He is no very great Krieger,’ said Buyse. ‘Yet perhaps it may be from

want of habit as much as from want of courage.’

‘Courage!’ cried the old Mayor, in a voice of scorn. ‘Look over yonder

and behold your King.’ He pointed out over the moor with a finger

which shook as much from anger as from age. There, far away, showing

up against the dark peat-coloured soil, rode a gaily-dressed cavalier,

followed by a knot of attendants, galloping as fast as his horse would

carry him from the field of battle. There was no mistaking the fugitive.

It was the recreant Monmouth.

‘Hush!’ cried Saxon, as we all gave a cry of horror and execration;

‘do not dishearten our brave lads! Cowardice is catching and will run

through an army like the putrid fever.’

‘Der Feigherzige!’ cried Buyse, grinding his teeth. ‘And the brave

country folk! It is too much.’

‘Stand to your pikes, men!’ roared Saxon, in a voice of thunder, and

we had scarce time to form our square and throw ourselves inside of it,

before the whirlwind of horse was upon us once more. When the Taunton

men had joined us a weak spot had been left in our ranks, and through

this in an instant the Blue Guards smashed their way, pouring through

the opening, and cutting fiercely to right and left. The burghers on the

one side and our own men on the other replied by savage stabs from their

pikes and scythes, which emptied many a saddle, but while the struggle

was at its hottest the King’s cannon opened for the first time with a

deafening roar upon the other side of the rhine, and a storm of balls

ploughed their way through our dense ranks, leaving furrows of dead

and wounded behind them. At the same moment a great cry of ‘Powder! For

Christ’s sake, powder!’ arose from the musqueteers whose last charge had

been fired. Again the cannon roared, and again our men were mowed down

as though Death himself with his scythe were amongst us. At last our

ranks were breaking. In the very centre of the pikemen steel caps were

gleaming, and broadswords rising and falling. The whole body was swept

back two hundred paces or more, struggling furiously the while, and

was there mixed with other like bodies which had been dashed out of all

semblance of military order, and yet refused to fly. Men of Devon, of

Dorset, of Wiltshire, and of Somerset, trodden down by horse, slashed by

dragoons, dropping by scores under the rain of bullets, still fought on

with a dogged, desperate courage for a ruined cause and a man who

had deserted them. Everywhere as I glanced around me were set faces,

clenched teeth, yells of rage and defiance, but never a sound of fear

or of submission. Some clambered up upon the cruppers of the riders and

dragged them backwards from their saddles. Others lay upon their faces

and hamstrung the chargers with their scythe-blades, stabbing the

horsemen before they could disengage themselves. Again and again the

guards crashed through them from side to side, and yet the shattered

ranks closed up behind them and continued the long-drawn struggle. So

hopeless was it and so pitiable that I could have found it in my heart

to wish that they would break and fly, were it not that on the broad

moor there was no refuge which they could make for. And all this time,

while they struggled and fought, blackened with powder and parched with

thirst, spilling their blood as though it were water, the man who called

himself their King was spurring over the countryside with a loose rein

and a quaking heart, his thoughts centred upon saving his own neck, come

what might to his gallant followers.

Large numbers of the foot fought to the death, neither giving nor

receiving quarter; but at last, scattered, broken, and without

ammunition, the main body of the peasants dispersed and fled across the

moor, closely followed by the horse. Saxon, Buyse, and I had done all

that we could to rally them once more, and had cut down some of the

foremost of the pursuers, when my eye fell suddenly upon Sir Gervas,

standing hatless with a few of his musqueteers in the midst of a swarm

of dragoons. Spurring our horses we cut a way to his rescue, and laid

our swords about us until we had cleared off his assailants for the

moment.

‘Jump up behind me!’ I cried. ‘We can make good our escape.’

He looked up smiling and shook his head. ‘I stay with my company,’ said

he.

‘Your company!’ Saxon cried. ‘Why, man, you are mad! Your company is cut

off to the last man.’

‘That’s what I mean,’ he answered, flicking some dirt from his cravat.

‘Don’t ye mind! Look out for yourselves. Goodbye, Clarke! Present my

compliments to--’ The dragoons charged down upon us again. We were all

borne backwards, fighting desperately, and when we could look round the

Baronet was gone for ever. We heard afterwards that the King’s troops

found upon the field a body which they mistook for that of Monmouth, on

account of the effeminate grace of the features and the richness of the

attire. No doubt it was that of our undaunted friend, Sir Gervas Jerome,

a name which shall ever be dear to my heart. When, ten years afterwards,

we heard much of the gallantry of the young courtiers of the household

of the French King, and of the sprightly courage with which they fought

against us in the Lowlands at Steinkirk and elsewhere, I have always

thought, from my recollection of Sir Gervas, that I knew what manner of

men they were.

And now it was every man for himself. In no part of the field did

the insurgents continue to resist. The first rays of the sun shining

slantwise across the great dreary plain lit up the long line of the

scarlet battalions, and glittered upon the cruel swords which rose and

fell among the struggling drove of resistless fugitives. The German had

become separated from us in the tumult, and we knew not whether he lived

or was slain, though long afterwards we learned that he made good his

escape, only to be captured with the ill-fated Duke of Monmouth. Grey,

Wade, Ferguson, and others had contrived also to save themselves, while

Stephen Timewell lay in the midst of a stern ring of his hard-faced

burghers, dying as he had lived, a gallant Puritan Englishman. All this

we learned afterwards. At present we rode for our lives across the moor,

followed by a few scattered bodies of horse, who soon abandoned their

pursuit in order to fasten upon some more easy prey.

We were passing a small clump of alder bushes when a loud manly voice

raised in prayer attracted our attention. Pushing aside the branches, we

came upon a man, seated with his back up against a great stone, cutting

at his own arm with a broad-bladed knife, and giving forth the Lord’s

prayer the while, without a pause or a quiver in his tone. As he glanced

up from his terrible task we both recognised him as one Hollis, whom I

have mentioned as having been with Cromwell at Dunbar. His arm had

been half severed by a cannon-ball, and he was quietly completing the

separation in order to free himself from the dangling and useless limb.

Even Saxon, used as he was to all the forms and incidents of war, stared

open-eyed and aghast at this strange surgery; but the man, with a short

nod of recognition, went grimly forward with his task, until, even as

we gazed, he separated the last shred which held it, and lay over with

blanched lips which still murmured the prayer. (1) We could do little

to help him, and, indeed, might by our halt attract his pursuers to his

hiding-place; so, throwing him down my flask half filled with water, we

hastened on upon our way. Oh, war, my children, what a terrible thing it

is! How are men cozened and cheated by the rare trappings and prancing

steeds, by the empty terms of honour and of glory, until they forget

in the outward tinsel and show the real ghastly horror of the accursed

thing! Think not of the dazzling squadrons, nor of the spirit-stirring

blare of the trumpets, but think of that lonely man under the shadow of

the alders, and of what he was doing in a Christian age and a Christian

land. Surely I, who have grown grey in harness, and who have seen as

many fields as I have years of my life, should be the last to preach

upon this subject, and yet I can clearly see that, in honesty, men must

either give up war, or else they must confess that the words of the

Redeemer are too lofty for them, and that there is no longer any use in

pretending that His teaching can be reduced to practice. I have seen a

Christian minister blessing a cannon which had just been founded, and

another blessing a war-ship as it glided from the slips. They,

the so-called representatives of Christ, blessed these engines of

destruction which cruel man has devised to destroy and tear his

fellow-worms. What would we say if we read in Holy Writ of our Lord

having blessed the battering-rams and the catapults of the legions?

Would we think that it was in agreement with His teaching? But there!

As long as the heads of the Church wander away so far from the spirit of

its teaching as to live in palaces and drive in carriages, what wonder

if, with such examples before them, the lower clergy overstep at times

the lines laid down by their great Master?

Looking back from the summit of the low hills which lie to the westward

of the moor, we could see the cloud of horse-men streaming over the

bridge of the Parret and into the town of Bridgewater, with the helpless

drove of fugitives still flying in front of them. We had pulled up our

horses, and were looking sadly and silently back at the fatal plain,

when the thud of hoofs fell upon our ears, and, turning round, we found

two horsemen in the dress of the guards riding towards us. They had made

a circuit to cut us off, for they were riding straight for us with drawn

swords and eager gestures.

‘More slaughter,’ I said wearily. ‘Why will they force us to it?’

Saxon glanced keenly from beneath his drooping lids at the approaching

horsemen, and a grim smile wreathed his face in a thousand lines and

wrinkles.

‘It is our friend who set the hounds upon our track at Salisbury,’ he

said. ‘This is a happy meeting. I have a score to settle with him.’

It was, indeed, the hot-headed young comet whom we had met at the outset

of our adventures. Some evil chance had led him to recognise the tall

figure of my companion as we rode from the field, and to follow him, in

the hope of obtaining revenge for the humiliation which he had met with

at his hands. The other was a lance-corporal, a man of square soldierly

build, riding a heavy black horse with a white blaze upon its forehead.

Saxon rode slowly towards the officer, while the trooper and I fixed our

eyes upon each other.

‘Well, boy,’ I heard my companion say, ‘I trust that you have learned to

fence since we met last.’

The young guardsman gave a snarl of rage at the taunt, and an instant

afterwards the clink of their sword-blades showed that they had met.

For my own part I dared not spare a glance upon them, for my opponent

attacked me with such fury that it was all that I could do to keep him

off. No pistol was drawn upon either side. It was an honest contest of

steel against steel. So constant were the corporal’s thrusts, now at my

face, now at my body, that I had never an opening for one of the heavy

cuts which might have ended the matter. Our horses spun round each

other, biting and pawing, while we thrust and parried, until at last,

coming together knee to knee, we found ourselves within sword-point, and

grasped each other by the throat. He plucked a dagger from his belt and

struck it into my left arm, but I dealt him a blow with my gauntleted

hand, which smote him off his horse and stretched him speechless upon

the plain. Almost at the same moment the cornet dropped from his horse,

wounded in several places. Saxon sprang from his saddle, and picking the

soldier’s dagger from the ground, would have finished them both had I

not jumped down also and restrained him. He flashed round upon me with

so savage a face that I could see that the wild-beast nature within him

was fairly roused.

‘What hast thou to do?’ he snarled. ‘Let go!’

‘Nay, nay! Blood enough hath been shed,’ said I. ‘Let them lie.’

‘What mercy would they have had upon us?’ he cried passionately,

struggling to get his wrist free. ‘They have lost, and must pay

forfeit.’

‘Not in cold blood,’ I said firmly. ‘I shall not abide it.’

‘Indeed, your lordship,’ he sneered, with the devil peeping out through

his eyes. With a violent wrench he freed himself from my grasp, and

springing back, picked up the sword which he had dropped.

‘What then?’ I asked, standing on my guard astride of the wounded man.

He stood for a minute or more looking at me from under his heavy-hung

brows, with his whole face writhing with passion. Every instant I

expected that he would fly at me, but at last, with a gulp in his

throat, he sheathed his rapier with a sharp clang, and sprang back into

the saddle.

‘We part here,’ he said coldly. ‘I have twice been on the verge of

slaying you, and the third time might be too much for my patience. You

are no fit companion for a cavalier of fortune. Join the clergy, lad; it

is your vocation.’

‘Is this Decimus Saxon who speaks, or is it Will Spotterbridge?’ I

asked, remembering his jest concerning his ancestry, but no answering

smile came upon his rugged face. Gathering up his bridle in his left

hand, he shot one last malignant glance at the bleeding officer, and

galloped off along one of the tracks which lead to the southward. I

stood gazing after him, but he never sent so much as a hand-wave back,

riding on with a rigid neck until he vanished in a dip in the moor.

‘There goes one friend,’ thought I sadly, ‘and all forsooth because I

will not stand by and see a helpless man’s throat cut. Another friend is

dead on the field. A third, the oldest and dearest of all, lies wounded

at Bridgewater, at the mercy of a brutal soldiery. If I return to my

home I do but bring trouble and danger to those whom I love. Whither

shall I turn?’ For some minutes I stood irresolute beside the prostrate

guardsmen, while Covenant strolled slowly along cropping the scanty

herbage, and turning his dark full eyes towards me from time to time, as

though to assure me that one friend at least was steadfast. Northward I

looked at the Polden Hills, southwards, at the Blackdowns, westward

at the long blue range of the Quantocks, and eastward at the broad fen

country; but nowhere could I see any hope of safety. Truth to say, I

felt sick at heart and cared little for the time whether I escaped or

no.

A muttered oath followed by a groan roused me from my meditations.

The corporal was sitting up rubbing his head with a look of stupid

astonishment upon his face, as though he were not very sure either of

where he was or how he came there. The officer, too, had opened his

eyes and shown other signs of returning consciousness. His wounds were

clearly of no very serious nature. There was no danger of their pursuing

me even should they wish to do so, for their horses had trotted off to

join the numerous other riderless steeds who were wandering all over the

moorlands. I mounted, therefore, and rode slowly away, saving my good

charger as much as possible, for the morning’s work had already told

somewhat heavily upon him.

There were many scattered bodies of horse riding hither and thither over

the marshes, but I was able to avoid them, and trotted onwards, keeping

to the waste country until I found myself eight or ten miles from the

battlefield. The few cottages and houses which I passed wore deserted,

and many of them bore signs of having been plundered. Not a peasant was

to be seen. The evil fame of Kirke’s lambs had chased away all those who

had not actually taken arms. At last, after riding for three hours, I

bethought me that I was far enough from the main line of pursuit to

be free from danger, so I chose out a sheltered spot where a clump of

bushes overhung a little brook. There, seated upon a bank of velvet

moss, I rested my weary limbs, and tried to wash the stains of battle

from my person.

It was only now when I could look quietly at my own attire that it was

brought home to me how terrible the encounter must have been in which

I had been engaged, and how wonderful it was that I had come off so

scatheless. Of the blows which I had struck in the fight I had faint

remembrance, yet they must have been many and terrible, for my sword

edge was as jagged and turned as though I had hacked for an hour at an

iron bar. From head to foot I was splashed and crimsoned with blood,

partly my own, but mostly that of others. My headpiece was dinted with

blows. A petronel bullet had glanced off my front plate, striking it

at an angle, and had left a broad groove across it. Two or three other

cracks and stars showed where the good sheet of proof steel had saved

me. My left arm was stiff and well-nigh powerless from the corporal’s

stab, but on stripping off my doublet and examining the place, I found

that though there had been much bleeding the wound was on the outer side

of the bone, and was therefore of no great import. A kerchief dipped in

water and bound tightly round it eased the smart and stanched the blood.

Beyond this scratch I had no injuries, though from my own efforts I felt

as stiff and sore all over as though I had been well cudgelled, and the

slight wound got in Wells Cathedral had reopened and was bleeding. With

a little patience and cold water, however, I was able to dress it and to

tie myself up as well as any chirurgeon in the kingdom.

Having seen to my injuries I had now to attend to my appearance, for

in truth I might have stood for one of those gory giants with whom the

worthy Don Bellianis of Greece and other stout champions were wont to

contend. No woman or child but would have fled at the sight of me, for

I was as red as the parish butcher when Martinmas is nigh. A good wash,

however, in the brook soon removed those traces of war, and I was

able to get the marks off my breastplate and boots. In the case of my

clothes, however, it was so hopeless to clean them that I gave it up in

despair. My good old horse had been never so much as grazed by steel or

bullet, so that with a little watering and tending he was soon as fresh

as ever, and we turned our backs on the streamlet a better-favoured pair

than we had approached it.

It was now going on to mid-day, and I began to feel very hungry, for I

had tasted nothing since the evening before. Two or three houses stood

in a cluster upon the moor, but the blackened walls and scorched thatch

showed that it was hopeless to expect anything from them. Once or twice

I spied folk in the fields or on the roadway; but at sight of an armed

horseman they ran for their lives, diving into the brushwood like wild

animals. At one place, where a high oak tree marked the meeting of three

roads, two bodies dangling from one of the branches showed that the

fears of the villagers were based upon experience. These poor men had in

all likelihood been hanged because the amount of their little hoardings

had not come up to the expectations of their plunderers; or because,

having given all to one band of robbers, they had nothing with which

to appease the next. At last, when I was fairly weary of my fruitless

search for food, I espied a windmill standing upon a green hill at

the other side of some fields. Judging from its appearance that it had

escaped the general pillage, I took the pathway which branched away to

it from the high-road. (Note J, Appendix)

1. The incident is historically true, and may serve to show what sort of

men they were who had learned their soldiering under Cromwell.