But at three o’clock, we, having been for the sixth time beaten back, were panting under cover of a hedge, and Sir John Berkeley, near by, was writing on a drumhead some message to the camp, when there comes a young man on horseback, his face smear’d with dirt and dust, and rides up to him and Sir Bevill. ’Twas (I have since learn’d) to say that the powder was all spent but a barrel or two: but this only the captains knew at the time.
“Very well, then,” cries Sir Bevill, leaping up gaily. “Come along, boys—we must do it this time.” And, the troop forming, once more the trumpets sounded the charge, and up we went. Away along the slope we heard the other trumpeters sounding in answer, and I believe ’twas a sursum corda! to all of us.
Billy Pottery was ranged on my right, in the first rank, and next to me, on the other side, a giant, near seven foot high, who said his name was Anthony Payne and his business to act as body-servant to Sir Bevill. And he it was that struck up a mighty curious song in the Cornish tongue, which the rest took up with a will. ’Twas incredible how it put fire into them all: and Sir Bevill toss’d his hat into the air, and after him like schoolboys we pelted, straight for the masses ahead.
For now over the rampart came a company of red musketeers, and two of russet-clad pikemen, charging down on us. A moment, and we were crushed back: another, and the chant rose again. We were grappling, hand to hand, in the midst of their files.
But, good lack! What use is swordsmanship in a charge like this? The first red coat that encounter’d me I had spitted through the lung, and, carried on by the rush, he twirled me round like a windmill. In an instant I was pass’d; the giant stepping before me and clearing a space about him, using his pike as if ’twere a flail. With a wrench I tugg’d my sword out and followed. I saw Sir Bevill, a little to the left, beaten to his knee, and carried toward me. Stretching out a hand I pull’d him on his feet again, catching, as I did so, a crack on the skull that would have ended me, had not Billy Pottery put up his pike and broke the force of it. Next, I remember gripping another red coat by the beard and thrusting at him with shortened blade. Then the giant ahead lifted his pike high, and we fought to rally round it; and with that I seem’d caught off my feet and swept forward:—and we were on the crest.
Taking breath, I saw the enemy melting off the summit like a man’s breath off a pane. And Sir Bevill caught my hand and pointed across to where, on the north side, a white standard embroider’d with gold griffins was mounting.
“ ’Tis dear Nick Slanning!” he cried; “God be prais’d—the day is ours for certain!”
XVII
I Meet with a Happy Adventure by Burning of a Green Light
The rest of this signal victory (in which 1,700 prisoners were taken, besides the Major-General Chudleigh; and all the rebels’ camp, cannon and victuals) I leave historians to tell. For very soon after the rout was assured (the plain below full of men screaming and running, and Col. John Digby’s dragoons after them, chasing, cutting, and killing), a wet muzzle was thrust into my hand, and turning, I found Molly behind me, with the groom to whom I had given her in the morning. The rogue had counted on a crown for his readiness, and swore the mare was ready for anything, he having mix’d half a pint of strong ale with her mash, not half an hour before.
So I determin’d to see the end of it, and paying the fellow, climb’d into the saddle. On the summit the Cornish captains were now met, and cordially embracing. ’Tis very sad in these latter times to call back their shouts and boyish laughter, so soon to be quench’d on Lansdowne slopes, or by Bristol graff. Yet, O favor’d ones!—to chase Victory, to grasp her flutt’ring skirt, and so, with warm, panting cheeks, kissing her, to fall, escaping evil days!
How could they laugh? For me, the late passionate struggle left me shaken with sobs; and for the starting tears I saw neither moors around, nor sun, nor twinkling sea. Brushing them away, I was aware of Billy Pottery striding at my stirrup, and munching at a biscuit he had found in the rebels’ camp. Said he, “In season, Jack, is in reason. There be times to sing an’ to dance, to marry and to give in marriage; an’ likewise times to become as wax: but now, lookin’ about an’ seein’ no haughty slaughterin’ cannon but has a Cornishman seated ’pon the touch-hole of the same, says I in my thoughtsome way, ‘Forbear!’ ”
Presently he pulls up before a rebel trooper, that was writhing on the slope with a shatter’d thigh, yet raised himself on his fists to gaze on us with wide, painful eyes.
“Good sirs,” gasp’d out the rebel, “can you tell me—where be Nat Shipward?”
“Now how should I know?” I answer’d.
“ ’A had nutty-brown curls, an’ wore a red jacket—Oh, as straight a young man as ever pitched hay! ’a sarved in General Chudleigh’s troop—a very singular straight young man.”
“Death has taken a many such,” said I, and thought on the man I had run through in our last charge.
The fellow groaned. “ ’A was my son,” he said: and though Billy pull’d out a biscuit (his pockets bulged with them) and laid it beside him,
