The Works of William Harrison Ainsworth

by William Harrison Ainsworth

  “I have no fear,” replied Jane, stoutly.

  “Who were the malignants with you? Was Charles Stuart one of them? Speak! I will have an answer.”

  His manner was so authoritative, that she felt almost compelled to obey. Still she remained silent.

  “I ask again, was Charles Stuart one of them?” said Cromwell, still more sternly. “I have received intelligence from one not likely to deceive me, that he meditates flight from the city on this very morn. And I am here on the watch for him.”

  “You have received false intelligence,” rejoined Jane. “The king will never leave the city.”

  “Ah! you have plenty of spirit, I find,” cried Cromwell. “But you draw suspicion on yourself by your reluctance to answer. For the third time, who were those with you?’

  “My brother, Colonel Lane, and my brother’s friend, Sir Clement Fisher,” she replied.

  “And your own suitor, perchance,” remarked Cromwell.

  “You are right,” rejoined Jane.

  At this juncture several of the troopers returned, and Cromwell called out:

  “Have you captured the men of Moab? Have you smitten them with the sword?’

  “No, your excellency,” replied Dighton, who commanded the party. “They have escaped into the city.”

  “Heaven be thanked for that!” exclaimed Jane. “Then I care not what becomes of me.”

  Cromwell regarded her fixedly, not without a certain admiration.

  “You are a stout-hearted maiden,” he said. “’Tis a pity you cannot understand the truth.”

  “I understand some things,” replied Jane, boldly. “I understand treason and rebellion, and I will have nought to do with traitors and rebels. Your excellency is fond of texts. Forget not that it has been said, ‘Rebellion is as the sin of witchcraft, and shall be so punished.’ Remember also what Rabshakeh said to Hezekiah, ‘On whom dost thou trust that thou rebellest?’ Lastly, I ask with Nehemiah, ‘What do ye? Will you rebel against the king?’”

  “There is no king left,” replied Cromwell. “The Lord has smitten the house of Ahab, and the seed royal shall be destroyed.”

  “Not so, thou worse than Athaliah,” said Jane. “The blood of the royal Martyr cries for vengeance upon his murderers, and it will not cry in vain. Thou mayest capture yonder city — mayest destroy its brave and devoted citizens, but the king will escape — ay, escape, I tell thee — and mount the throne when thou art dust.”

  “While I live he shall never mount the throne,” rejoined Cromwell.

  His brow had grown very dark as he listened to Jane’s imprudent speech, but he repressed his wrath, and a seasonable interruption was offered by the arrival of another party of musketeers under the command of Cornet Hardiman.

  With them was a young and good-looking woman on horseback, seated on a pillion behind a serving-man. She was habited in deep mourning.

  “How is this?” cried Oliver, angrily. “Can ye bring me none but women as prisoners to-day?”

  “May it please your excellency,” replied Hardiman, “this young dame is not a prisoner. She is the widow of that Urso Gives who was hanged by Charles Stuart. Having heard that you made some promise of a reward to her late husband, she entreated me to bring her before you, and believing her story, I consented.”

  “Is this the Widow Gives?” demanded Cromwell, regarding her with attention.

  “Ay, marry, your excellency,” replied the young dame. “I am the widow of that unfortunate man, who lost his life in your service. I have been informed by the Reverend Laban Foxe — a most godly minister — that your excellency promised Urso a reward, and that if he perished I should receive it.”

  “It is true, and I will not fail one word of my promise,” replied Cromwell. “You shall have the reward, but you must be content to wait for it till the city is in my hands.”

  “Then I trust she will have to wait for it long,” observed Jane.

  Cromwell took no notice of the remark, but said to the young widow:

  “You are passing fair, and I marvel not at your husband’s strong attachment to you.”

  “Of a truth, poor Urso was greatly attached to me,” replied the young widow, putting her handkerchief to her eyes.

  “Be constant to his memory, if you can — though I fear ‘twill be a hard matter with you to be so,” observed Cromwell. “But I have no further time for idle discourse. Since there is no chance of capturing Charles Stuart, I shall not tarry longer here. Take charge of this damsel,” he added. “Her friends have left her. But mark me! she must not return to the city. Neither return thither thyself, if thou wouldst live to enjoy thy pension.”

  “Your excellency’s injunctions shall be obeyed,” replied Dame Gives, trembling.

  “I thought I was a prisoner,” remarked Jane, surprised.

  “I do not make prisoners of women,” replied Cromwell, coldly.

  With this, he gave the word to Dighton, and immediately rode off in the direction of Perry Wood, followed by his troops.

  No sooner was he gone, than Jane said to Dame Gives:

  “Notwithstanding the Lord General’s prohibition, I must, and will, return to Worcester. I must relieve my brother’s anxiety on my account.”

  “Beseech you do not, dear lady,” replied the young widow, earnestly. “Come with me to Droitwich, whither I am going, and I will undertake to provide you a faithful messenger, who shall convey a letter or a token from you to Colonel Lane or Sir Clement Fisher.”

  “You know me then!” cried Jane in astonishment.

  “There are very few in Worcester who do not know Mistress Jane Lane,” replied Dame Gives.

  “But your sympathies are with the enemy — not with us,” cried Jane.

  The very significant look given her by the young widow satisfied her she was mistaken.

  “Major Careless would tell you differently,” whispered Dame Gives, leaning forward.

  “My doubts are removed,” said Jane. “I will go with you to Droitwich.”

  “You will not find your confidence misplaced,” replied Dame Gives. “And it will delight me to be of service to you.”

  They then rode off at a brisk pace, and were soon on the high road to Droitwich.

  * * *

  CHAPTER XXIV.

  WHAT CHARLES BEHELD FROM THE SUMMIT OF THE CATHEDRAL TOWER.

  Brightly dawned the fatal 3rd of September, 1651, as if the day just breaking were destined to be one of peace and rejoicing rather than of strife and bloodshed. But the gladdening influence of the sunshine that gilded its towers, spires, and pinnacles could not dispel the gloom hanging over the devoted city. Men sprang from their restless couches oppressed with the sense that the dreadful contest in which they must of necessity take part was close at hand. Before night the king’s fate would probably be decided. If he fell, the city dedicated to his cause would fall with him.

  This conviction forced itself upon the minds of all who arose that morn in Worcester. After arming themselves, many of the soldier citizens looked round at their quiet homes as if taking leave of them for ever, or gazed with unspeakable anguish at their wives and children, well knowing the beloved ones would not be spared if the ruthless Parliamentarians should obtain the mastery. Some few were unmanned, but the majority faced the terrible situation resolutely, and conquered their emotion. Of victory they had now but little hope, yet they did not absolutely despair, since in war there is always a chance. Their word had been given to the king, and it must be kept, be the consequences what they might. If they could not secure him the throne they could die for him, and they were determined to sell their lives dearly. As to surrender, such a thought never occurred to these loyal folks, and if advantageous terms had been offered by Cromwell they would have rejected the dishonouring proposal with scorn.

  Half an hour before daybreak the reveillé was beaten in the streets, the citizens who belonged to the different corps having been ordered to muster at an early hour on the College Green, at the Cross, and in
other places. To these different points they were now marching, and the clank of arms resounded in all quarters.

  The men of Worcester were not inexperienced in military service, most of them having been engaged in the two previous sieges of the city. A considerable number were employed on the walls and fortifications to assist the regular artillerymen, but others were formed into companies, each corps being commanded by a skilled officer. These companies were intended as a reserve force. The city being under military rule, the authority of the mayor was to a certain extent superseded, but he had quite enough to do as commander of the mounted civic guard, which being augmented by recruits brought by gentlemen of the county new formed a regiment four hundred strong.

  All the gates of the city were strongly guarded, and, as already intimated, the Foregate, which formed the principal outlet on the north, had been walled up. No one, without an order, could cross the bridge; and no boats, except the large flat-bottomed ferry-boats employed for the transit of troops and horses, were allowed on the river.

  Grim war had set its stamp on Worcester. Since the citizens had all become soldiers, there seemed to be soldiers everywhere — none but soldiers. No women were abroad; they were afraid to stir forth, and would fain have barricaded their dwellings. The clank of arms, the beating of drums, the call of the bugle, were the only sounds heard in the streets.

  The churches were open, and those who chose stepped in to breathe a prayer — the last, perhaps, they might ever utter. Alas! how those sacred edifices were soon afterwards profaned! The taverns likewise were open — indeed, they had been open all night — and were full of Cavaliers fortifying themselves before assembling for duty with a morning’s draught of canary. A large body of the mounted civic guard was drawn up in front of the Guildhall awaiting the mayor’s appearance, while small detachments were patrolling the streets. In the Corn Market the king’s body-guard was assembled, ready to escort his majesty to the cathedral.

  As soon as it became light, anxious looks were directed towards the strong intrenchments thrown up by Cromwell on Perry Wood, and to the camp on Red Hill, but no movements were distinguishable at either place.

  Charles was as early astir as any of the citizens. He had slept soundly on the last night he was destined to pass at Worcester, and awoke refreshed and in good spirits, fully prepared for any perils and fatigue he might encounter. Had he known all he would have to go through during the next twenty-four hours he might have felt grateful for the good night’s rest he had enjoyed.

  Half an hour before daybreak he was roused by Careless, and after making a hearty breakfast with Lord Derby, put on his armour and rode with the earl to the cathedral.

  A council of war had been summoned to meet the king soon after daybreak on the summit of the cathedral tower, whence the whole surrounding district could be surveyed, and the movements of the enemy more easily discovered than from any other post of observation in the city, and his majesty was now proceeding to the place of rendezvous.

  Alighting at the northern portal, Charles and the Earl of Derby entered the sacred edifice, and found the Duke of Hamilton, the Duke of Buckingham, the Earl of Lauderdale, Lord Talbot, Lord Wilmot, Lord Rothes, and several other distinguished personages, assembled in the nave.

  All being fully armed, they formed a very striking group. The anxious expression of their countenances, which none cared to conceal, showed how deeply they were impressed with the perilous position of affairs. Charles appeared far more hopeful than his generals, and returned their grave salutations with a cheerfulness that surprised some of those who expected to find him despondent.

  Massey had so far recovered from his wounds that he was able to attend the council, and Pitscottie was likewise present; but Montgomery, Keith, Drummond, Dalyell, and Sir Alexander Forbes were necessarily absent, and Lesley had sent an excuse.

  Several small groups of soldiers were collected within the cathedral, and amongst them were half a dozen Highlanders, who formed Pitscottie’s guard.

  Inviting the members of the council to follow him, the king proceeded to the north aisle of the choir, in which was the entrance to a spiral stone staircase communicating with the tower. Two musketeers were stationed at this door. Careless mounted first; the king went next, and the others followed, as they might, in no particular order.

  In the belfry, which he soon reached, Charles found Middleton and Colonel Legge, and was well pleased to see them, but being impatient, he scarcely paused a moment, and quickly ascended a second circular staircase, narrower and steeper than the first, and soon gained the summit of the tower.

  A wide and beautiful prospect now lay before him, but it was not the beauty or extent of the landscape that attracted him. The lofty post he had attained enabled him to see the whole of the adjoining districts on the south and south-east of the city, Red Hill and Perry Wood, both banks of the river, the junction of the Teme and the Severn, Powick with its church crowning a woody eminence, and all the country skirting the right bank of the Severn, and lying between Powick and Upton.

  But before proceeding with our description, let us say a word about the cathedral tower, on the summit of which the king stood.

  Some five centuries old, being finished in 1374, this structure, one of the finest in the kingdom, and the richest in embellishment, is upwards of one hundred and sixty feet high, measured from the roof of the central transept from which it springs. Exquisite tabernacle work surrounds the upper stage, and the eastern façade is ornamented by figures, one of which represents Edward III., at the latter end of whose reign the tower was completed. Viewed from all points, owing to the position of the reverend pile it adorns, the tower appears to singular advantage.

  About fifty years subsequent to the date of our history, this noble structure was repaired — judiciously repaired, we are bound to add — and the existing pinnacles and battlements were erected. In other respects it is unaltered since Charles II.’s time, except what has been done internally in the belfry and clock-chamber by the unwearied exertions of the Rev. Richard Cattley, one of the present minor canons of the cathedral. As the battlements at the time of our history were more than six feet high, a wooden platform had been constructed to enable the king and his attendants to look over them without inconvenience. Above the tower, on a tall flag-staff, floated the royal standard.

  Springing up the wooden steps Charles leaned over the south parapet, and gazed eagerly at the posts of the enemy. In another minute the whole of the battlements were thronged, and a dozen field-glasses anxiously directed towards Perry Wood and Red Hill.

  The main body of the Parliamentary army which now occupied the former post remained stationary, but it was evident that some movement was taking place on the western slopes of Red Hill — probably in the direction of the Severn — and thinking this might be so, Charles directed his scrutiny to the near bank of the river, but though he scanned it carefully for a couple of miles he could discern nothing to justify alarm. The river that flowed past the lofty pile on which he stood was nowhere disturbed. Next following the Teme from its point of junction with the larger river — its course being easily traced by the withies and willows fringing its banks — his eye rested on the old bridge of Powick. A desperate effort he had always felt would be made by the enemy, early in the day, to secure this pass; but he did not foresee, nor did any of his generals foresee, the skilful manœuvre by which its capture would be effected.

  Charles had every reliance on General Montgomery’s vigilance and bravery, supported as he was by Colonel George Keith.

  Viewed from the cathedral tower on that bright morning, Powick seemed close at hand, and though the old bridge was partially veiled in a slight mist arising from the river, Montgomery’s brigade could be seen drawn up on Wykefield, a large meadow, close beside it — the helmets and accoutrements of the men flashing in the sunbeams.

  Satisfied that Montgomery was on the alert, and that no immediate danger threatened him, Charles continued his inspection, and, with
his field-glass, swept the district lying between Powick and Upton.

  Suddenly an exclamation broke from him that caused all the other glasses to be turned in the same direction as his own, and it was then perceived by all that a large body of cavalry was skirting the Old Hills.

  Almost immediately afterwards another regiment of horse could be descried somewhat nearer the Severn. Both were evidently advancing upon Powick Bridge.

  “That must be Fleetwood’s brigade,” cried Charles, still keeping his glass fixed on the troops.

  “Your majesty is right,” observed Massey, who was standing behind the king. “It is Fleetwood’s regiment — Ingoldsby is nearer the river — and with him are Goff and Gibbons. The troops coming through Woodsfield copse, if I mistake not, are commanded by General Deane. Montgomery will have enough to do to maintain the bridge against such odds.”

  “He must be reinforced — and quickly,” cried Charles. “No troops can be spared from the city. Dalyell must send a detachment from St. John’s. Careless shall take a message to him at once.”

  “I will go myself, sire,” said Massey, “and take command of the detachment.”

  “But have you strength enough for the task, general?”

  “My strength will return when I meet the enemy,” rejoined Massey.

  Charles did not attempt to stay him, and he departed.

  Again the king watched the regiments advancing from Upton. They came on slowly and cautiously, while the skirmishers scoured the fields and lanes.

  “How is this?” cried Charles, angrily. “Are they to be allowed to reach Powick without hindrance?”

  “Not so, my liege,” replied Middleton, who had taken Massey’s place behind the king. “They will meet with a warm reception anon. Look more closely, and you will perceive that the hedges are lined with soldiers. Those are your new recruits, and they are just the men for this sort of work. Ah! they are beginning in earnest now.”