For Faith and Freedom

by Walter Besant

  CHAPTER XXII.

  THE DAY AFTER THE FIGHT.

  It was five o'clock when I awoke next morning. Though the hour wasso early, I heard a great trampling and running about the streets,and, looking out of window, I saw a concourse of the townspeoplegathered together, listening to one who spoke to them. But in themiddle of his speech they broke away from him and ran to anotherspeaker, and so distractedly, and with such gestures, that theywere clearly much moved by some news, the nature of which I couldnot guess. For in some faces there was visible the outward show oftriumph and joy, and on others there lay plainly visible the lookof amazement or stupefaction; and in the street I saw some womenweeping and crying. What had happened? Oh! what had happened? Then,while I was still dressing, there burst into the room Susan Blake,herself but half dressed, her hair flying all abroad, the comb inher hand.

  'Rejoice!' she cried. 'Oh! rejoice, and give thanks unto the Lord!What did we hear last night? That the Duke had but to shut thestable doors and seize the troopers in their beds. Look out ofwindow. See the people running and listening eagerly. Oh! 'tis thecrowning mercy that we have looked for: the Lord hath blown and Hisenemies are scattered. Remember the strange words we heard lastnight. What said the unknown man?--nay, he said it twice: "The Dukehad but to lock the stable doors." Nay, and yesterday I saw, andlast night I heard, the screech-owl thrice--which was meant for theruin of our enemies. Oh! Alice, Alice, this is a joyful day!'

  'But look,' I said, 'they have a downcast look; they run about as ifdistracted, and some are wringing their hands----'

  ''Tis with excess of joy,' she replied, looking out of the windowwith me, though her hair was flying in the wind. 'They are sosurprised and so rejoiced that they cannot speak or move.'

  'But there are women weeping and wailing; why do they weep?'

  'It is for those who are killed. Needs must in every great victorythat some are killed--poor brave fellows!--and some are wounded.Nay, my dear, thou hast three at least at the camp, who are dear tothee; and God knows I have many. Let us pray that we do not have toweep like those poor women.'

  She was so earnest in her looks and words, and I myself so willingto believe, that I doubted no longer.

  'Listen! oh! listen!' she cried; 'never, never before have bellsrung a music so joyful to my heart.'

  For now the bells of the great tower of St. Mary's began to ring.Clash, clash, clash, all together, as if they were cracking theirthroats with joy, and at the sound of the bells those men in thestreet, who seemed to me stupefied as by a heavy blow, put up theirhands to their ears and fled as if they could not bear the noise,and the women who wept wrung their hands, and shrieked aloud inanguish, as if the joy of the chimes mocked the sorrow of theirhearts.

  'Poor creatures!' said Susan. 'From my heart I pity them. But thevictory is ours, and now it only remains to offer up our humbleprayers and praises to the Throne of all mercy.'

  So we knelt and thanked God.

  'O Lord! we thank and bless Thee! O Lord! we thank and bless Thee!'cried Susan, the tears of joy and gratitude running down her cheeks.

  Outside, the noise of hurrying feet and voices increased, and morewomen shrieked, and still the joy-bells clashed and clanged.

  'O Lord! we thank Thee! O Lord! we bless Thee!' Susan repeated onher knees, her voice broken with her joy and triumph. 'Twas all thatshe could say.

  I declare that at that moment I had no more doubt of the victorythan I had of the sunshine. There could be no doubt. The joy-bellswere ringing: how should we know that the Rev. Mr. Harte, the Vicar,caused them to be rung, and not our friends? There could be nomanner of doubt. The people running to and fro in the street hadheard the news, and were rushing to tell each other and to hearmore--the women who wept were mothers or wives of the slain. Again,we had encouraged each other with assurances of our success, sothat we were already fully prepared to believe that it had come.Had we not seen a splendid army, seven thousand strong, march outof Taunton town, led by the bravest man and most accomplishedsoldier in the English nation? Was not the army on the Lord's side?Were we not in a Protestant country? Were not the very regiments ofthe King Protestants? Why go on? And yet--oh! sad to think!--evenwhile we knelt and prayed, the army was scattered like a cloud ofsummer gnats by a shower and a breeze, and hundreds lay dead uponthe field, and a thousand men were prisoners; and many were alreadyhanging in gemmaces upon the gibbets, where they remained till KingWilliam's coming suffered them to be taken down; and the rest wereflying in every direction hoping to escape.

  'O Lord! we thank Thee! O Lord! we bless Thee!'

  While thus we prayed we heard the door below burst open, and atrampling of a man's boots; and Susan, hastily rolling up her hair,ran downstairs, followed by mother and myself.

  There stood Barnaby. Thank God! one of our lads was safe out of thefight. His face and hands were black with powder; his red coat,which had been so fine, was now smirched with mud and stained withI know not what--marks of weather, of dust, and of gunpowder; theright-hand side was torn away; he had no hat upon his head, and abloody clout was tied about his forehead.

  'Barnaby!' I cried.

  'Captain Barnaby!' cried Susan, clasping her hands.

  'My son!' cried mother. 'Oh! thou art wounded! Quick, Alice,child--a basin of water, quick!'

  'Nay--'tis but a scratch,' he said; 'and there is no time fornursing.'

  'When--where--how?' we all cried together, 'was the victory won? Isthe enemy cut to pieces? Is the war finished?'

  'Victory?' he repeated, in his slow way--'what victory? Give me adrink of cider, and if there is a morsel of victual in the house----'

  I hurried to bring him both cold meat and bread and a cup full ofcider. He began to eat and drink.

  'Why,' he said, talking between his mouthfuls, 'if the worst comes'tis better to face it with a----Your health, Madam': he finishedthe cider. 'Another cup, Sister, if you love me: I have neithereaten nor drunk since yesterday at seven o'clock, or thereabouts.'He said no more until he had cleared the dish of the gammon andleft nothing but the bone. This he dropped into his pocket. 'Whenthe provisions are out,' he said wisely, 'there is good gnawing inthe shankbone of a ham.' Then he drank up the rest of the cider andlooked around. 'Victory? Did someone speak of victory?'

  'Yes--where was it? Tell us quick!'

  'Well, there was in some sort a victory. But the King had it.'

  'What mean you, Barnaby? The King had it?--what King?'

  'Not King Monmouth. That King is riding away to find some port andget some ship, I take it, which will carry him back to Holland.'

  'Barnaby, what is it? Oh! what is it? Tell us all.'

  'All there is to tell, Sister, is that our army is clean cut topieces, and that those who are not killed or prisoners are makingoff with what speed they may. As for me, I should have thrown awaymy coat and picked up some old duds and got off to Bristol and soaboard ship and away, but for Dad.'

  'Barnaby,' cried my mother, 'what hath happened to him? Where is he?'

  'I said, mother,' he replied very slowly, and looking in her facestrangely, 'that I would look after him, didn't I? Well, when wemarched out of Bridgwater at nightfall nothing would serve but hemust go too. I think he compared himself with Moses who stood afaroff and held up his arms. Never was there any man more eager to getat the enemy than Dad. If he had not been a minister, what a soldierhe would have made!'

  'Go on--quick, Barnaby.'

  'I can go, Sister, no quicker than I can. That is quite sure.'

  'Where is he, my son?' asked my mother.

  Barnaby jerked his thumb over his left shoulder.

  'He is over there, and he is safe enough for the present. Well,after the battle was over, and it was no use going on any longer,Monmouth and Lord Grey having already run away----'

  'Run away? Run away?'

  'Run away, Sister. Aboard ship the Captain stands by the crew tothe last, and, if they strike, he is prisoner with them. Ashore,the General runs away and leaves his men to
find out when they willgive over fighting. We fought until there was no more ammunition,and then we ran with the rest. Now, I had not gone far before I sawlying on the moor at my very feet the poor old Dad.'

  'Oh!'

  'He was quite pale, and I thought he was dead. So I was about toleave him when he opened his eyes. "What cheer, Dad?" He saidnothing; so I felt his pulse and found him breathing. "But whatcheer, Dad?" I asked him again. "Get up if thou canst, and come withme." He looked as if he understood me not, and he shut his eyesagain. Now, when you run away, the best thing is to run as fast andto run as far as you can. Yet I could not run with Dad lying in theroad half dead. So while I tried to think what to do, because themurdering Dragoons were cutting us down in all directions, therecame galloping past a pony harnessed to a kind of go-cart, where, Isuppose, there had been a barrel or two of cider for the soldiers.The creature was mad with the noise of the guns, and I had much adoto catch him and hold the reins while I lifted Dad into the cart.When I had done that, I ran by the side of the horse and drove himoff the road across the moor, which was rough going, but for dearlife one must endure much, to North Marton, where I struck the roadto Taunton, and brought him safe, so far.'

  'Take me to him, Barnaby,' said my mother. 'Take me to him.'

  'Why, mother,' he said kindly, 'I know not if 'tis wise. For, lookyou--if they catch us, me they will hang or shoot, though Dad theymay let go, for he is sped already--and for a tender heart likethine 'twould be a piteous sight to see thy son hanging from abranch with a tight rope round his neck and thy husband dead on ahand-cart.'

  'Barnaby, take me to him!--take me to him!'

  'Oh! Is it true? Is it true? Oh! Captain Barnaby, is it really true?Then, why are the bells a-ringing?'

  Clash! Clash! Clash! The bells rang out louder and louder. One wouldhave thought the whole town was rejoicing. Yet there were a thousandlads in the army belonging to Taunton town alone, and I know not howmany ever came home again.

  'They are ringing,' said Barnaby, 'because King Monmouth's armyis scattered and the rebellion is all over. Well: we have had ourchance and we are undone. Now must we sing small again. Madam,' hesaid earnestly, addressing Susan, 'if I remember right, they wereyour hands that carried the naked sword and the Bible?'

  'Sir, they were my hands. I am proud of that day.'

  'And they were your scholars who worked the flags and gave them tothe Duke that day when you walked in a procession?'

  'They were my scholars,' she said proudly.

  'Then, Madam, seeing that we have, if all reports be true, a damnedunforgiving kind of King, my advice to you is to follow my exampleand run. Hoist all sail, Madam, and fly to some port--any port.Fly false colours. When hanging, flogging, branding, and the likeamusements set in, I think they will remember the Maids of Taunton.That is my advice, Madam.'

  'Sir,' said Susan bravely, though her cheek grew pale when he spokeof floggings and brandings, 'I thank you. Whither should I fly?Needs must I stay here and bear whatever affliction the Lord may layupon me. And, since our Protestant hero is defeated, methinks itmatters little what becomes of any of us.'

  'Why,' Barnaby shook his head, 'King Monmouth is defeated, that ismost true; but we who survive have got ourselves to look after.Sister, get a basket and put into it provisions.'

  'What will you have, Barnaby?'

  'Everything that you can find. Cold bacon for choice, and bread, anda bottle of drink if you have any, and--all you can lay hands upon.With your good leave, Madam.'

  'Oh! Sir, take all--take all. I would to God that everything I havein the world could be used for the succour of these my friends!' Andwith that she began to weep and to cry.

  I filled a great basket with all that there was in the house, and hetook it upon his arm. And then we went away with many tears and fondfarewells from this kind soul who had done so much for the Cause,and was now about to pay so heavy a penalty for her zeal.

  Outside in the street the people recognised Barnaby for one ofMonmouth's Captains, and pressed round him and asked him a thousandquestions, but he answered shortly.

  'We were drubbed, I tell you. King Monmouth hath run away. We haveall run away. How should I know how many are killed? Every man whodoth not wish to be hanged had best run away and hide. The game isup--friend, we are sped. What more can I say? How do I know, in theDevil's name, whose fault it was? How can I tell, Madam, if your sonis safe? If he is safe, make him creep into a hiding-place'--and soon to a hundred who crowded after him and questioned him as to thenature and meaning of the defeat. Seeing that no more news could begot from him, the people left off following us, and we got out ofthe town on the east side, where the road leads to Ilminster; but itis a bad road and little frequented.

  Here Barnaby looked about him carefully to make sure that no one wasobserving us, and then, finding that no one was within sight, heturned to the right down a grassy lane between hedges.

  ''Tis this way that I brought him,' he said. 'Poor old Dad! he cannow move neither hand nor foot; and his legs will no more be any useto him. Yet he seemed in no pain, though the jolting of the cartmust have shaken him more than a bit.'

  The lane led into a field, and that field into another and a smallerone, with a plantation of larches on two sides and a brook shadedwith alders on a third side. In one corner was a linney, with athatched roof supported on wooden pillars in front and closed in atback and sides. It was such a meadow as is used for the pasture ofcattle and the keeping of a bull.

  At the entrance of this meadow Barnaby stopped and looked about himwith approbation.

  'Here,' he said slowly, 'is a hiding-place fit for King Monmouthhimself. A road unfrequented; the rustics all gone off to thewars--though now, I doubt not, having had their bellyfull offighting. I suppose there were once cattle in the meadow, but theyare either driven away by the clubmen for safety, or they have beenstolen by the gipsies. No troopers will this day come prying alongthis road, or if they do search the wood, which is unlikely, theywill not look in the linney; here can we be snug until we make upour minds what course is best.'

  'Barnaby,' I said, 'take us to my father without more speech.'

  'I have laid him,' he went on, 'upon the bare ground in the linney;but it is soft and dry lying, and the air is warm, though last nightit rained and was cold. He looks happy, mother, and I doubt if hehath any feeling left in his limbs. Once I saw a man shot in thebackbone and never move afterwards, but he lived for a bit. Here heis.'

  Alas! lying motionless on his back, his head bare, his white hairlying over his face, his eyes closed, his cheek white, and no signof life in him except that his breast gently heaved, was my father.Then certain words which he had uttered came back to my memory.'What matters the end,' were the words he said, 'if I have freedomof speech for a single day?'

  He had enjoyed that freedom for three weeks.

  My mother threw herself on her knees beside him and raised his head.

  'Ah! my heart,' she cried, 'my dear heart, my husband, have theykilled thee? Speak, my dear--speak if thou canst! Art thou in pain?Can we do aught to relieve thee? Oh! is this the end of all?'

  But my father made no reply. He opened his eyes, but they did notmove: he looked straight before him, but he saw nothing.

  And this, until the end, was the burden of all. He spoke no word toshow that he knew anyone, or that he was in pain, or that he desiredanything. He neither ate nor drank, yet for many weeks longer hecontinued to live.