No Quarter!

“I’d go ’long wi’ ye to the Bird-in-the-Bush,” said the guard-sergeant, “but, as ye see, I’m on duty at this gate, and musn’t leave it for a minnit. If the captain was here – unlucky he isn’t just now – he’d let me off, I know – seein’ who it be.”

“Why for seein’ that, Rob?”

“Because o’ his knowin’ ye. He ha’ seen you and Jack at Hollymead House.”

“It be Sir Richard?”

“No, no,” hastily responded the ex-deer-stealer, in turn, perhaps, experiencing a twinge of jealousy as when by the quarry on Cat’s Hill. “Sir Richard be in Bristol, too; but he’s a colonel, not captain.”

“Who be the captain, then?”

“That young Cavalier gentleman as comed to Hollymead ’long wi’ Sir Richard, after fightin’ him. He changed sides there, an’s now on ours. Ye heerd that, han’t you?”

“Deed, yes. An’ more; heerd why. ’Twas all through a sweet face him seed there – so be the word ’bout Ruardean.”

“Well; I hope her won’t disappoint he, after his doin’ that for her. Better nor braver than he an’t in this big town o’ Bristol. But, Win, dear,” he added, changing tone, and slinging an arm round her neck, “’tan’t any consarn o’ ours. Oh! I be so glad to see ye again.”

She knew he was now.

“Hang it!” he went on, “I only weesh my turn o’ guard was over, so’s I could go ’long wi’ ye. Maybe when the captain come back he’ll let me off for a hour or so. Sit up late, if ye ain’t too tired. Ye will, won’t ye?”

“I will; for you all night, Rob. Ay, till the sun o’ morning shines clear in the sky.”

Her passionate and poetic words were succeeded, if not cut short, by a thumping on the pavement. Jerky’s wooden leg it was; its owner approaching in the darkness, the rapid repetition of the thumps telling him to be in great haste.

“Winny!” he called to her in urgent tone, “us maunt linger here any longer. Ye know somethin’ as needs our bein’ quick about it.”

“Yes, yes,” she answered, excitedly, as if recalled to a duty she felt guilty of having trifled with or neglected. “I be ready to go on, Jack.”

The guard-sergeant looked a little puzzled. There was a secret, after all, which had not been confided to him. What could it be?

Rough Forester though he had been, bold soldier as he now was, he lacked the courage, or rather the rudeness, to ask. It might be a question unwelcome.

Divining his thoughts, the woman said in a whisper, —

“Something Rob, us have sweared not to tell o’ to anybody, ’till’t be all over an’ done. When’s I see you at the inn ’twill be over, an’ ye shall hear all about it.”

“That be enough, Win?” said in rejoinder the trusting Rob; and the two great figures went apart in the shadowy night, the separation preceded by their lips once more meeting in a resonant smack.

On along the streets passed the cadger party; Jack urging Jinkum to haste by a succession of vociferous “yee-ups,” and now and then a sharp touch of the stick. He seemed angry with himself, or perhaps more at Winny, for having tarried so long by the gate.

“Good gracious!” he exclaimed in a troubled tone, “what if us get theer too late? Ye know, the Glo’ster governor told we not to waste one second o’ time. Maybe better keep on straight to the castle. What d’ye say, Winny?”

“It be but a step to Bird-in-the-Bush, now. Won’t take we mor’n ten minnits; that can’t a make much difference. An’ us can go faster when’s we’ve left Jinkum in the inn yard.”

Thus counselled and controlled, Jack, as was customary with him, gave way; and the trio continued on for the Bird-in-the-Bush.

Chapter Twenty Four

On the Bridge

The river Avon bisecting the city of Bristol was spanned by a bridge; one of those quaint structures of the olden time, with a narrow causeway, high tête-de-pont, and houses along each side. There were shops and dwellings, with a church of rare architectural style and rarer proportions – being but twenty-one feet in width, while over seventy in length!

A conspicuous and important part did this bridge of Bristol play in the political action of the time; for it was invested with a political character. Creditable, too; the dwellers upon it – the “Bridgemen,” as called – being all warm partisans of the Parliament. As a consequence, it was a favourite assembling-place for the citizens so disposed; especially in evening hours, after the day’s work had been done.

Though dark and keenly cold that seventh of March night, it did not deter a number of them from congregating, as was their wont, about the bridge’s head, to talk over the news and events of the day, with the prospects and probabilities for the morrow. The fervour of their patriotism rendered them regardless of personal discomfort or exposure; just as one may see at a political meeting in the present time the thronging thousands, packed thick as mackerels in a barrel, standing thus for hours, up till midnight – ay, morning, if leave be allowed them – eagerly listening to hear words of truth and promise, with the hope of the promise being fulfilled.

I know no more pleasing or grander spectacle than that to be witnessed from a Liberal platform, a sea of faces – the faces of the people – by their expression giving proof of man’s natural inclinings to what is good and right, and abhorrence of what is wicked and wrong.

Nor can I conceive any shabbier spectacle than the crowd which usually displays itself before a platform where Toryism is preached. For there assemble all who are the foes of liberty, the enemies and oppressors of mankind.

Among the friends of liberty that night gathered upon the bridge of Bristol were several men armed and wearing uniform; soldiers, though not belonging to any regiment of the regular army. Volunteers, they were; a force then for the first time heard of in England, taking the place of the militia or “trained bands.” They were on guard with a young officer in command, one who afterwards made name and fame in the annals of his Country, and his sword sharply felt by its enemies. For it was Captain John Birch – the merchant-soldier.

The writers of the Restoration have flung their defiling mud at this brave man – which did not stick, however – by representing him as of humble birth, and mean calling – a common carrier, the driver of a pack-horse, – stigmas similar to that cast at Cromwell, the brewer of Huntingdon. But it should be remembered that in those days trade was not deemed degrading; and if here and there aristocratic noses were turned up at it, here and there also aristocratic people took a hand in it. What were the Coningsbys, those types of the Cavalier idea, but soap-boilers and soap-chandlers, holding a monopoly from the King for the making and selling of this useful commodity? As for John Birch, he was neither base-born nor of humble occupation; instead, engaged in honourable merchandise, and, for the times, on a somewhat extensive scale. His correspondence, extant, so far from proving him coarse or illiterate, shows both refinement and education beyond most of his contemporaries – soldier or civilian – even superior to that of the King himself.

In intelligence and courage few were his equals, while, as a partisan leader, he is entitled to first place; some of his feats in the guerilla line reading more like the fictions of troubadour romance.

One of the earliest and most ardent espousers of the Parliamentary cause, he had enrolled this company of Bristol volunteers – most of them “Bridgemen” – with a detail of whom on the bridge itself he was now keeping guard; not so much against an outside enemy, but one within the city’s walls. Bristol was full of Cavalier officers, prisoners in its gaols, but many of them freely circulating through the streets on parole– ready to break it if they but saw the chance, as some of them, to their eternal disgrace, actually did; though it failed to disgrace them in the eyes of their Royal master, who rather, the more favoured them after – as with Vavasour – promoting them to higher command!

The treason not only winked at, but fostered, by the deposed governor – now in the prison of Berkeley Castle – had not all been trodden out, but was still rampant, and ready to raise its Hydra head; so that Colonel Nathaniel Fiennes had his hands full in keeping it under. But he could not have had a better man to help him than John Birch. The young captain of Volunteers was especially prepared for this duty; since he had himself suffered from the late governor’s delinquency – the insult of having been placed under arrest. So, tempered to vigilance, if not revenge, he held guard upon the bridge-head, watchful and wary, carefully scrutinising all who passed over it.

While thus engaged he saw a party approaching of such singular composition as to attract him more than common. Little man with a wooden leg; tall woman nearly twice the man’s height; between the two a donkey, with pair of panniers – Jack, Winny, and Jinkum.

If Birch was not himself a pack-horse carrier, in his capacity of trading merchant he was well acquainted with all the country routes, and the modes of traffic and transit thereon. At a glance he took in the character of the cadgers; saw they were rustics fresh from the country; and, by the direction from which they were approaching, concluded they must have made entry at the gate towards Gloucester. On the bridge there was light in plenty, both from lamps and shops; and, as they came close, a scrutiny of their features gave the sharp-witted captain an idea that they, too, were of quick wit, especially the woman. She looked like one who did not tramp the roads without seeing what was to be seen, and hearing all that could be heard; one, moreover, capable of forming a correct estimate of how things stood, social, political, or military. If from Gloucester, or even Berkeley, she or the man might have picked up some scraps of news worth extracting from them.

Stepping out into the middle of the causeway, he confronted the cadger party, and brought it to a stop, with the interrogation:

“Whence come you, my worthy people?”

“Frae Gloster, yer honner,” responded Jack, spokesman by right of sex and seniority.

“And what’s your business in Bristol?”

“Only our reg’lar business, sir. As ye see, us be cadgers.”

“But your panniers appear to be empty!” said the officer, peeping into and giving them a shake. “How is that?”

The question was awkward, nonplussing Jerky, and, the second time, calling for explanation from his sister; who, however, promptly vouchsafed it.

“Ye see, master, us be come to Bristol to take back some things Gloster way, an’ far ayont. Us belong to the Forest o’ Dean.”

“Ah! All that way off. And when left you the Forest country?”

“A good week agone, yer honner,” Jerky giving the response.

“At least that, I should say,” rejoined the officer, with a look at the wooden leg. “Well, you must have seen and met many people upon the road, especially between this and Gloucester. Can you tell me whether – ”

He ceased speech abruptly, seeing it was overheard by the street passengers, who, attracted by the oddness of the group, had begun to gather round it.

He was about to demand of the cadgers, sotto voce, where they intended putting up, with a view to further conference, when a man of herculean stature – soldier in cavalry uniform – made appearance inside the circle of bystanders, going straight up to the woman, and speaking some words, as one who had familiar acquaintance with her, —

“Ah! Sergeant Wilde,” said the Volunteer officer, “you know these people, do you?”

“I ought to, Captain. All o’ us war born an’ brought up in the Forest o’ Dean, not very far apart.”

“Enough,” said, or rather thought, Birch, who, after a whispered word with the colossal trooper, gave permission for the cadger party to pass on over the bridge.

Rob went with them; soon as beyond earshot of the crowd, saying:

“Dear Win! I ha’ got leave o’ guard duty for the whole o’ an hour. Captain Trevor coined back to the gate ’most the minnit ye left it. When I tolt him who’d passed through, it war, ‘Rob, go and see to their bein’ stowed in comfortable quarters.’ Kind o’ him, warn’t it?”

“Deed war it,” answered Win, but without thinking it strange; her woman’s instinct told her the why and wherefore of Captain Trevor’s kindness.

Jerky seemed less satisfied than either of the other two; for a reason he knew of, equally known to his sister. That detention on the bridge’s head had been torture to him; it might forfeit the reward promised and expected. She cared less for it, hers already gained, in having her beloved Rob once more by her side.

The two, talking of old things and times, might have lagged upon the way, had Jack given them time and opportunity, which he did not; on the contrary, urging greater haste than ever, while persuading Jinkum to make still better speed by a multiplication of “gee-ups,” and a storm of solid thwacks administered by the cudgel.

But they had not reached the Bird in the Bush – were scarce beyond sight of the people who saw them depart from the bridge – when he who had just held speech with them was accosted by one whose speech and air told that she, too – for it was a woman – had a secret to communicate; but, unlike the cadgeress, wanted – was impatient – to reveal it. And altogether unlike the latter otherwise was the new applicant for converse with Captain Birch – so far as could be seen of her – for she was cloaked and hooded. But when the hood was tossed back, so that she could herself see and speak freely, a face was revealed, beautiful and of delicate outlines, unmistakably that of a lady.

That she was not unknown to the young Volunteer officer might be told from the start of surprise at seeing her. Still better proof of their being acquainted in the words she addressed to him, spoken in panting haste and excitedly. He had said, interrogatively:

“What’s brought you hither, Marian?” to get for response, “You, John; your life’s in danger.”

“How? From what?”

“Treason. Even now – at this minute – there are conspirators armed and ready to start out into the streets, with a cry for the King.”

“But where?”

“Some in the house of Yeomans, others at Boucher’s. They have expectation of help from the outside; that’s why they’re gathered now.”

“How do you know it, Marian?”

“Don’t ask me, John; God help me! To think my own father is one of them – my brother, too! But your life is dearer to me than either. And you will lose it if you don’t listen to my warning.”

“Dearest Marian, I not only listen to, but believe in it. More, I’ll take instant action to stop this conspiracy you speak of, trust me for that.”

She could trust him, and did; saw that to leave him unfettered, and free for the action intended, she should no longer remain there; and pulling the hood down over her face, though not till after two pairs of lips had met under it, she lightened the cloak around her shoulders, and hurried away from the bridge-head.

Heart full of sweet thoughts, thrilled by them, the young merchant-soldier stood looking after the graceful figure till it waned and was lost in the dim light of distant lamps. No wonder he should so long continue his gaze. She was one of Bristol’s fairest daughters; daughter, too, of one of its richest merchants, and proudest; her father a man who would have seen her hurled from the parapet of that bridge, and drowned in Avon’s stream, rather than know of her having stood upon its head, and said what she had said to John Birch.

Whatever the reflections of John Birch himself about this jealously-guarded daughter, they seemed to pass away soon as she was out of sight; though not the warning she had given. This was with him still; and so vividly realistic, he lost not a moment in acting up to it. A word or two with his sergeant of guard – orders earnestly enjoined – and away went he from the bridge, with face turned towards the Castle, and step hurried as man could make, almost a run!

Chapter Twenty Five

In Council of War

The man who had succeeded Colonel Essex in the governorship of Bristol was well, even enthusiastically, affected to the Parliamentary cause. Beyond that, he was altogether unfitted for the trust reposed in him. A lawyer before becoming soldier, he better understood the marshalling of arguments than armies, and, though a man of grave, serious thought, his passionate temper gave offence to friends as foes, oft thwarting his best intentions. Fortunately he had around him men of greater military capacity and experience, by whose counsels he was, to some extent, controlled – officers who had seen service in the Low Countries, Sweden, and Germany – among them Sir Richard Walwyn.

How the knight came to be in Bristol – Eustace Trevor too – may need making known. At the breaking out of hostilities, when blood began to flow, the Dean Foresters were, in a way, taken by surprise, and for a time overpowered. In addition to their old enemy, Sir John Wintour, threatening them on the south, they had to contend with the strong and well-disciplined force of Lord Herbert on the west; while Harry Lingen, a man of more capability than either – as a partisan leader unsurpassed – had commenced harassing them from the Herefordshire side.

Seeing he would be unable to hold ground against such odds, Sir Richard, who had hastily got together a body of horse, withdrew it from the Forest, and joined the main force of the Parliament, which confronted that of the King. At the time the two armies were manoeuvring in Worcestershire, Warwick, and Salop, every day expecting to come into collision, which they did soon after at Edgehill – a drawn battle, with feats of daring on both sides, and on both displays of abject cowardice.

The men commanded by Sir Richard Walwyn were not chargeable with this last; instead, on that day distinguishable by the first, having performed prodigies of valour. Since then he and his Foresters had shown themselves on other fields, and done other gallant deeds, till the troop of horse, with the “big sergeant,” had become a name of terror to the Royalist soldiers. Even Rupert’s pick Cavaliers would have shied encounter with it, unless they knew themselves in the proportion of two to one.

By the drift of events, this small but efficient body became part of the garrison of Bristol – disagreeable duty to the Foresters, but forced upon them by the chances of war.

So in Bristol we now find them, with their commanding officer Sir Richard, their “big sergeant” Rob Wilde, and for one of their captains the ex-gentleman-usher, Eustace Trevor. To explain his presence there and position it needs but referring back to his words spoken in that hour when Lunsford was hammering at the door of Hollymead House.

Reverting to the new governor, we must give him the credit of endeavour to do his best – that at least. Entering upon the office full of hope and spirit, he was correspondingly vigorous in the execution of its duties. And as there had been no time for his enthusiasm to get cool, or his vigour to become relaxed, before that 7th of March – but a few days after Essex had been clapped under arrest – Fiennes was in the very blush of energetic activity. Not dining, wining, and dancing, as his predecessor would have been, in the company of gay Cavaliers, and light-hearted, as light-headed ladies; but within one of the reception rooms of the castle, holding counsel with half-a-score of grave men – chiefly commanding officers of the troops that composed the garrison of the city.

All were impressed with the seriousness of the situation, feeling themselves, if not actually besieged, likely soon to be. From without, reports were pouring in, daily, hourly, of reverses sustained by the Parliamentarians. The capture and massacre at Cirencester, the surrendering of Malmesbury, Tewkesbury, and Devizes, with the abandonment of Sudley and Berkeley Castles, – all adverse events, following in quick succession as the blows of a hammer, – were enough to alarm the new governor and the men in consultation with him.

The more, from their belief that in all likelihood Bristol would be the next point aimed at by the now victorious Royalists. For they knew it was the quarry these would most like to stoop at and kill. Ever since the commencement of hostilities, it and Gloucester had been very thorns in the side of the Royalist party; both cities being storehouses of war material, and other effects conducive to the supply of its sinews. But chiefly the great seaport, at once door of entry and key to the rich Severn Valley – with its towns and villages up to Shrewsbury – while also commanding the commerce and intercourse with South Wales.

Rupert, now at the head of a considerable body of troops, held all the open country from the Severn up to Oxford, raiding over and ravaging it at will. But the rumour had got ground that he meant soon to engage in something more than mere skirmishing warfare, by making a dash at Bristol, either to attempt taking that city by assault, or laying siege to it.

The assemblage of officers at the Castle was in consequence of this rumour, which had just reached the Governor’s ears, and he had hastily called them together to have their views and advice upon what steps had best be taken in the contingency – should it occur.

But, as already made known, something more than the enemy without called for their consideration. The egg of treason, which had been hatching under Essex’s too lenient rule, was not an addled one. The vile bird was still vigorous within it, threatening to break the shell. A gleam of warmth and hope, the touch of a helping hand, and it would burst forth full fledged, ready to tear with beak and talons.

On this night Nathaniel Fiennes was unusually excited; angry at the difficult task left him by his predecessor, just as might the Earl of Ripon be with Lord Lytton, that ass in lion’s skin – now politically defunct – for demising him the legacy of Afghanistan.

But the lawyer-soldier, however worried and over-weighted, was not either dismayed or discouraged. After listening to what his fellow counsellors had to say, and giving his own views, he exclaimed in conclusion, and determinedly:

“Before our enemies enter Bristol they’ll have to pass over my dead body!”

“And mine, too!” “And mine!” were echoes of like patriotic resolve.

All emphatic, though not all sincere; for the loudest of them came from the lips of a man who least meant what he said. Even then, Colonel Langrish was contemplating the treason he afterwards perpetrated.

No one present so quietly declared himself as Sir Richard Walwyn. A man more of deeds than words, such pompous proclamation was averse to his nature, and pompous, so far as regarded Fiennes, it afterwards proved. For the enemy did enter Bristol, not over his dead body, nor even fiercely fighting with him, but by surrender, facile, and so much like being criminal, that the lawyer-soldier was himself cast into prison, not by foes, but those hitherto his friends; afterwards tried for his life, and let off as the son of Lord Saye and Sele, though without leave to play at soldiering any more. But we anticipate.

Returning to the conference in the Castle, it had well-nigh reached conclusion, when the usher in charge of the door entered to announce a party seeking audience of the Governor, to whom alone the communication was made.

“Who are they?” demanded Fiennes.

“I don’t know, your Excellency. They’re still outside the gate. The guard-corporal brought the message – he’s at the door.”

“Bring him in!”

The abrupt order was with promptness executed; and in twenty seconds after, the corporal of the castle guard stood before the Governor, saluting in military style.

“Who are these wishing to speak with me?” asked the latter.

“I only know one of them, your Excellency,” returned the corporal. “That’s Sergeant Wilde, of the Forest of Dean troop – Sir Richard Walwyn’s. The other two are a short man and a tall woman – very tall she is. The man has a wooden leg.”

“If I’m not mistaken, Colonel Fiennes,” interposed Sir Richard, who, standing by, overheard what the corporal had said, “I know all the party. And as my sergeant, Wilde, appears to be one of them, I’ll answer for the honesty of their purpose in seeking an interview with you, whatever it be.”

“Let them be brought in?” commanded the Governor – “all three.”

At which the guard-corporal, once more saluting, made “about face,” and with the usher disappeared from the room.