The King's General
Page 28
Our men stood alone--with His Majesty three hundred miles away or more, and General Fairfax was a very different leader from the Earl of Essex. He would walk into no trap, but if he came would cross the Tamar with a certainty.
In the afternoon Elizabeth from Coombe came to join us, her husband having gone, and told us that the rumor ran in Fowey that the siege of Plymouth had been raised and that Digby's troops, along with Wentworth's, were retreating fast to the Tamar bridges.
We sat before the smoldering fire in the gallery, a little group of wretched women, and I stared at that same branch of ash that had burned so brightly the preceding night, when our men were with us, and was now a blackened log among the ashes.
We had faced invasion before, had endured the brief horrors of enemy occupation, but we had never known defeat. Alice and Mary were talking of the children, the necessity this time of husbanding supplies beneath the floorboards of the rooms, as though a siege was all that was before us. But I said nothing, only stared into the fire. And I wondered who would suffer most, the men who died swiftly in battle or those who would remain to face imprisonment and torture. I knew then that I would rather Richard fought and died than stayed to fall into the hands of Parliament. It did not bear much thinking what they would do to Skellum Grenvile if they caught him.
"The King will march west, of course," Elizabeth was saying. "He could not leave Cornwall in the lurch. They say he is raising a great body of men in Oxfordshire, this moment. When the thaw breaks..."
"Our defenses will withstand the rebels," Joan said. "John was talking to a man in Tywardreath. Much has been accomplished since last time. They say we have a new musket--with a longer barrel--I do not know exactly, but the rebels will not face it, so John says..."
"They have no money," said Mary. "Jonathan tells me the Parliament is desperate for money. In London the people are starving. They have no bread. The Parliament are bound to seek terms from the King, for they will be unable to continue the war. When the spring comes..."
I wanted to put my fingers in my ears and muffle the sound of their voices. On and on, one against the other, the old false tales that had been told so often. It cannot go on... They must give in... They are worse off than we... When the thaw breaks, when the spring comes... And suddenly I saw Elizabeth look towards me--she had less reserve than Alice, and I did not know her so well--and ask, "What does Sir Richard Grenvile say? You must hear everything of what goes on. Will he attack and drive the rebels back to Dorset?"
Her ignorance, and theirs, was so supreme that I had not the heart nor the will to enlighten her.
"Attack?" I said. "With what forces do you suggest that he attacks?"
"Why, with those at his disposal," she answered. "We have many able-bodied men in Cornwall."
I thought of the sullen bands I had seen sulking in the square at Launceston, and the handful of brawny fellows in the fields below Werrington, wearing the Grenvile shield on their shoulders.
"A little force of pressed men," I said, "and volunteers, against some fifty thousand trained soldiers?"
"But man for man we are superior," urged Elizabeth. "Everyone says that. The rebels are well equipped, no doubt, but when our fellows meet them face to face, in fair fight, in open country..."
"Have you not heard," I said softly, "of Cromwell, and the New Model Army? Do you not realize that never in England, until now, has there been raised an army like it?"
They stared at me, nonplussed, and Elizabeth, shrugging her shoulders, said I had greatly altered since the year before, and was now become defeatist. "If we all talked in that fashion," she said, "we would have been beaten long ago. I suppose you have caught it from Sir Richard. I do not wonder that he is unpopular."
Alice looked embarrassed, and I saw Mary nudge Elizabeth with her foot.
"Don't worry," I said. "I know his faults far better than you all. But I think if the Council of the Prince would only listen to him this time, we might save Cornwall from invasion."
That evening, on going to my room, I looked out on the weather, and saw that the night was clear and the stars were shining. There would be no more snow, not yet awhile. I called Matty to me, and told her my resolve. This was to follow Richard back to Werrington, if transport could be got for me at Tywardreath, and to set forth at noon the following day, passing the night at Bodmin, and so to Werrington the day after. By doing this I would disobey his last instructions, but I had, in my heart, a premonition that unless I saw him now I would never see him more. What I thought, what I feared, I cannot tell. But it came to me that he might fall in battle, and that by following him I would be with him at the last.
The next morning was fine, as I expected, and I rose early, and went down to breakfast, and informed the Rashleigh family of my plan. They one and all begged me to remain, saying it was folly to travel the roads at such a season, but I was firm; and at length John Rashleigh, dear, faithful friend, arranged matters for me, and accompanied me as far as Bodmin.
It was bitter cold upon the moors, and I had little stomach for my journey, as, with Matty at my side, I left the hostelry at Bodmin at daybreak. The long road to Launceston stretched before us, bleak and dreary, with great snowdrifts on either side of us, and one false step of our horses would send the litter to destruction. Although we were wrapped about with blankets, the nipping, nagging wind penetrated the curtains, freezing our faces, and when we halted at Five Lanes for hot soup and wine to warm us I had half a mind to go no further, but find lodging for the night at Altarnun. The man at the inn put an end to my hesitation. "We have had soldiers here these past two days," he said, "deserters from the army before Plymouth. Some of Sir John Digby's men. They were making for their homes in west Cornwall. They were not going to stay on the Tamar banks to be butchered, so they told me."
"What news had they?" I asked, my heart heavy.
"Nothing good," he answered. "Confusion everywhere. Orders, and counterorders. Sir Richard Grenvile was down on Tamarside, inspecting bridges, giving instructions to blow them when the need arose, and a colonel of foot refused to take the order, saying he would obey none other than Sir John Digby. What is to become of us if the generals start fighting among themselves?"
I felt sick, and turned away. There would be no biding for me this night at Altarnun. I must reach Werrington by nightfall.
On, then, across the snow-covered moors, windswept and desolate, and every now and then we would pass straggling figures making for the west, their apparel proclaiming to the world that once they were King's men, but now deserters. They were blue from cold and hunger, and yet they wore a brazen, sullen look, as though they cared no longer what became of them, and some of them shouted as we passed, "To hell with the war. We're going home," and shook their fists at my litter, jeering, "You're driving to the devil."
The short winter afternoon soon closed in, and by the time we came to Launceston, and turned out of the town to St. Stephens, it was grown pitch dark, and snowing once again. An hour or so later I would have been snowbound on the road, with nothing but waste moorland on either side of me. At last we came to Werrington, which I had not thought to see again, and when the startled sentry at the gates recognized me, and let the horses pass through the park, I thought that even he, a Grenvile man, had lost his look of certainty and pride, and would become, granted ill fortune, no better than the deserters on the road.
We drew up into the cobbled court, and an officer came forth whose face was new to me. His expression was blank when I gave him my name, and he told me that the General was in conference and could not be disturbed. I thought that Jack might help me, and asked therefore if Sir John Grenvile, or his brother Mr. Bernard, could see Mistress Honor Harris on a matter of great urgency.
"Sir John is no longer with the General," answered the officer. "The Prince of Wales recalled him to his entourage yesterday. And Bernard Grenvile has returned to Stowe. I am the General's aide-de-camp at present." This was not hopeful, for he did not know me, and as
I watched the figures of the soldiers, passing backwards and forwards in the hall within the house, and heard the tattoo of a drum in the far distance, I thought how ill timed and crazy was my visit, for what could they do with me, a woman and a cripple, in this moment of great stress and urgency?
I heard a murmur of voices. "They are coming out now," said the officer. "The conference is over." I caught sight of Colonel Roscarrock, whom I knew well, a loyal friend of Richard's, and in desperation I leaned from my litter and called to him. He came to my side at once, in great astonishment, but at once, with true courtesy, covered his consternation and gave orders for me to be carried into the house. "Ask me no questions," I said. "I have come at a bad moment. I can guess that. Can I see him?" He hesitated for a fraction of a minute. "Why, of course," he said, "he will want to see you. But I must warn you, things are not going well for him. We are all concerned..." He broke off in confusion, looking most desperately embarrassed and unhappy.
"Please," I said, avoiding his eyes, "please tell him I am here." He went at once into the room that Richard used as his own, and where we had sat together, night after night, for over seven months. He stayed a moment, and then came for me. My chair had been lifted from the litter, and he took me to the room, then closed the door. Richard was standing by the table. His face was hard, set in the firm lines that I knew well. I could tell that of all things in the world I was, at that moment, the farthest from his thoughts.
"What the devil," he said wearily, "are you doing here?"
It was not the welcome that I yearned for, but was that which I deserved.
"I am sorry," I said. "I could not rest, once you were gone. If anything is going to happen--which I know it must--I want to share it with you. The danger, I mean. And the aftermath."
He laughed shortly, and tossed a paper onto my lap.
"There'll be no danger," he said, "not for you, or I. Perhaps, after all, it is as well you came. We can travel west together."
"What do you mean?" I said.
"That letter--you can read it," he said. "It is a copy of a message I have just sent to the Prince's Council, resigning from His Majesty's Army. They will have it in an hour's time."
I did not answer for a moment. I sat quite cold and still.
"What do you mean?" I asked at length. "What has happened?" He went to the fire and stood with his hands behind his back. "I went to them," he said, "as soon as I returned from Menabilly. I told them that, if they wished to save Cornwall and the Prince, they must appoint a supreme commander. Men are deserting in hundreds, discipline is nonexistent. This would be the only hope, the last and final chance. They thanked me. They said they would consider the matter. I went away. I rode next morning to Gunnislake and Callington. I inspected the defenses. There I commanded a certain colonel of foot to blow a bridge when need arose. He disputed my authority, saying his orders were to the contrary. Would you like to know his name?"
I said nothing. Some inner sense had told me.
"It was your brother, Robin Harris," he said. "He even dared to bring your name into a military matter. 'I cannot take orders from a man,' he said, 'who has ruined the life and reputation of my sister. Sir John Digby is my commander, and Sir John has bidden me to leave this bridge intact.' "
Richard stared at me an instant, and then began to pace up and down the strip of carpet by the fire.
"You would hardly credit it," he said; "such lunacy, such gross incompetence. It matters not that he is your brother, that he drags a private quarrel into the King's business. But to leave the bridge for Fairfax, to have the impertinence to tell me, a Grenvile, that John Digby knows his business best..."
I could see Robin, very red about the neck, with beating heart and swelling anger, thinking, dear damned idiot, that by defying his commander he was somehow defending me and downing, in some bewildering hothead fashion, the seducer of his sister.
"What then?" I asked. "Did you see Digby?"
"No," he answered. "What would be the use, if he defied me, as your brother did? I returned here to Launceston, to take my commission from the Council as supreme commander, and thus show my powers to the whole army, and be damned to them."
"And you have the commission?"
He leaned to the table, and, seizing a small piece of parchment, held it before my eyes. "The Council of the Prince," he read, "appoints Lord Hopton in supreme command of His Majesty's forces in the West, and desires that Sir Richard Grenvile should serve under him as Lieutenant General of the foot."
He read slowly, with deadly emphasis and scorn; and then tore the document to tiny shreds and threw the pieces in the fire. "That is my answer to them," he said. "They may do as they please. Tomorrow you and I will return to shoot duck at Menabilly." He pulled the bell beside the fire, and his new aide-de-camp appeared. "Bid the servants bring some supper," he said. "Mistress Harris has traveled long, and has not dined."
When the officer had gone I put out my hand to Richard.
"You can't do this," I said. "You must do as they tell you."
He turned round on me in anger. "Must?" he said. "There is no must. Do you think that I shall truckle to that damned lawyer at this juncture? It is he who is at the bottom of this, he who is to blame. I can see him, with his bland attorney's manner, talking to the members of the Council. 'This man is dangerous,' he says to them, 'this soldier, this Grenvile. If we give him the supreme command he will take precedence of us, and send us about our business. We will give Hopton the command. Hopton will not dare to disobey. And when the enemy cross the Tamar, Hopton will withstand them just long enough for us to slip across to Guernsey with the Prince.' That is how the lawyer talks; that is what he has in mind. The traitor, the damned disloyal coward."
He faced me, white with anger.
"But, Richard," I persisted, "don't you understand, my love, my dear, that it is you they will call disloyal at this moment? To refuse to serve under another man, with the enemy in Devon? It is you who will be pointed at, reviled? You, and not Hyde?"
He would not listen; he brushed me away with his hand.
"This is not a question of pride, but concerns my honor," he said. "They do not trust me. Therefore I resign. Now, for God's sake, let us dine, and say no more. Tell me, was it snowing still at Menabilly?"
I failed him that last evening. Failed him miserably. I made no effort once to enter in his mood, that switched now so suddenly from black anger to forced jollity. I wanted to talk about the future, about what he proposed to do, but he would have none of it. I asked what his officers thought, what Colonel Roscarrock had said, and Colonels Arundell and Fortiscue. Did they too uphold him in his grave, unorthodox decision? But he would not speak of it. He bade the servants open another bottle of wine, and with a smile he drained it all, as he had done seven months before at Ottery St. Mary. It was nearly midnight when the new aide-de-camp knocked upon the door, bearing a letter in his hand.
Richard took it, and read the message; then with a laugh threw it in the fire. "A summons from the Council," he said, "to appear before them at ten tomorrow, in the Castle Court at Launceston. Perchance they plan some simple ceremony, and will dub me Earl. That is the customary reward for soldiers who have failed."
"Will you go?" I asked.
"I shall go," he said, "and then proceed with you to Menabilly."
"You will not relent?" I asked. "Not swallow your pride, or honor, as you call it, and consent to do as they demand of you?"
He looked at me a moment, and he did not smile.
"No," he said slowly. "I shall not relent."
I went to bed, to my old room, next to his, and left the door open between our chambers, should he be restless, and wish to come to me. But at past three in the morning I heard his footstep on the stair, and he did not speak or call to me.
I slept one hour perhaps, or two. I do not remember. It was still snowing when I woke, and dull and gray. I bade Matty dress me in great haste, and sent word to Richard, asking if he would see me.
"I will be gone an hour," he said; "two at the utmost. I shall but delay to tell the Council what I think of them, and then come back to breakfast with you. My anger is all spent. This morning I feel free, and light of heart. It is an odd sensation, you know, to be at long last without responsibility." He kissed my two hands, and then went away. I heard the sound of the horses trotting away across the park. There was a single drum, and then silence. Nothing but the footsteps of the sentry, pacing up and down before the house. I went and sat in my chair beside the window, with a rug over my knees. It was snowing steadily. There would be a white carpet on the Castle Green at Launceston. Here, at Werrington, the world was desolate. The deer stood huddled under the trees down by the river. At midday Matty brought me meat, but I did not fancy it. I went on sitting at the window, gazing out across the park, and presently the snow had covered all trace of the horses, and the soft white flakes began to freeze upon the glass of the casement, clouding my view. It must have been past three when I heard the sentry standing to attention, and once again the muffled tattoo of a drum. Some horses were coming to the house by the northern entrance, and because my window did not face that way I could not see them. I waited. Richard might not come at once--there would be many matters to see to in that room downstairs. At a quarter to four there came a knock upon my door, and a servant demanded, in a hushed tone, if Colonel Roscarrock could wait on Mistress Harris. I told him, "Certainly," and sat there, with my hands clasped on my lap, filled with that apprehension that I knew too well.