Chapter 37 - No Quarter! by Mayne Reid
Fiennes Shows the White Feather
Waller’s stay in Bristol was of the shortest, only long enough to rest his wearied men and their jaded horses. The “Night Owl” was not the bird to relish being engaged in a beleaguered city, which he anticipated Bristol would soon be. The field, not the fortress, was his congenial sphere of action; and though sadly dispirited, his army all gone, he had not yet yielded to despair. He would recruit another, if it cost him his whole fortune. So “To horse!” and off again without delay—Hesselrig along with him.
London was his destination, and to reach it, with such feeble escort, a dangerous enterprise. For it was but continuing his retreat through a country swarming with the triumphant enemy. With a skill worthy of Cyrus he made it good, however; going round by Gloucester, Warwick, and Newport Pagnell, at length arriving safe in the metropolis.
But what of the citizens of Bristol he left behind? If they had been despondent on seeing the shattered Cuirassiers re-enter their city not long after these left, they saw another sight which filled them with dismay. Also a body of horsemen approaching the place; not a skeleton of a regiment in retreat, but the vanguard of a victorious army—that which had won the day at Roundway Down. For as the defeated one had suffered utter annihilation, the western shires, now overrun by the Royalists, were completely at their mercy. The only Parliamentarian forces that remained there were the garrisons of Gloucester and Bristol, and it was but a question as to which should be first assaulted.
The former had already experienced something of a siege, and, thanks to its gallant Governor, successfully resisted it; while its bigger sister, farther down the Severn, only knew what it was to be threatened. But the Bristolians also knew their city to be better game—a richer and more tempting prize—and that they might expect the plunderers at any moment. So when they beheld the Light Horse of Wilmot and Byron scouring the country outside, and up to their very gates, they had little doubt of their being the precursors of a larger and heavier force—an army on the march to assail them.
Soon it appeared in formidable array, and leaguer all round. For there was more than one army left free to enfilade them. First came up the conquering host of Hertford and Maurice, fresh from the field of Lansdown. Then, on the Oxford side, appeared Rupert with his freebooters, fire-handed from the burning of Birmingham, and red-wristed from the slaughter at Chalgrove; where, by the treachery of the infamous Urrey, they had let out the life-blood of England’s purest patriot.
In a very revel of Satanic delight they drew around the doomed city, as eagles preparing to stoop at prey, or rather as vultures on quarry already killed. For it had neither strength of fortification, nor defending force sufficient to resist them. As already said, Waller going west had almost stripped it of its defenders, numbers of whom were now lying dead on the downs of Wiltshire, as the Royalist leaders well knew. So there was no question as between siege and assault, Rupert, soon as arrived on the ground, determining to storm.
And storm it was, commenced the next morning at earliest hour. Successful on the Gloucester side, where Rupert himself attacked, and the traitor Langrish, with the timid Fiennes, defended. After all his boasting, the lawyer-soldier let the enemy in, almost without striking a blow. Nor did they pass over his dead body either. He survived the sad day, but never more to be trusted with sword in the cause of a struggling people.
Very different was the defence on the southern side, and of different stuff the defenders. There Sir Richard Walwyn with his Foresters, and Birch with his Bridgemen, held the ramparts against Hertford and Maurice, not only foiling the attack, but beating them off. In that quarter had been blows enough, with blood flowing in rivers. The Cornish men were cut down by scores, among them some of their best leaders, as Slanning and Trevannion. Alas! all in vain. Alike to no purpose proved the gallantry of the soldier knight and the stanch courage of the merchant-soldier! Unavailable their deeds of valour; for while they were fighting the foe in their front—in the act of putting him to rout—behind they heard a trumpet sounding signals for parley! And turning, beheld a white flag, waving from a staff, within the city’s walls! Saw and heard all this with amazement. On their side the assailants were repulsed, and Bristol still safe. Why then this show of surrender? Could it be treason?
Birch believed it was, though not on the part of Fiennes. He was but vacillating and frightened, Langrish playing the traitor, as the events proved, ending in capitulation. But while Sir Richard and his troopers were still in doubt about the purport of the signals, they saw an aide-de-camp galloping towards them—the same who brought the despatch to Montserrat House at the breaking up of the ball. A verbal message he carried now—command for them to cease fighting.
“And why?” demanded the astonished knight, other voices asking the same, as much in anger as astonishment. “For what reason should we cease fighting? We’re on the eve of victory!”
“I know not the reason, Colonel Walwyn,” responded the aide-de-camp, evidently ashamed of the part he was constrained to play; “only that they’ve beaten us on the Gloucester side, and got into the works. The Governor asked for an armistice, which Prince Rupert has granted.”
“Oh! you have Rupert round there, have you? I thought as much. This is Langrish’s doing. Gentlemen,” he observed to the officers now gathering around him, “we may guess how ’twill end—in a base, traitorous surrender. Possibly to be delivered over to the tender mercies of this princely freebooter. Are you ready to risk it with me, and cut our way out?”
“Ready—yes!” responded Eustace Trevor, and the men of the Forester troop, loudest of all their sergeant.
“We, too!” cried the Bridgemen, Birch giving them the cue; while others here and there echoed the daring resolve.
But the majority were silent, and shrank back. It was too hopeless, too desperate, running the gauntlet against countless odds. With the whole garrison agreeing to it, there might have been a chance. But they knew this would be divided, in view of the treason hinted at.
While they were still in debate as to what should be done, another mounted messenger came galloping up with news which quickened their deliberation, bringing it almost instantly to a close. The enemy had offered honourable terms, and Fiennes had accepted them. It was no longer a question of surrender, but a fait accompli.
“What are the conditions?” every one eagerly asked.
To get answer: “No prisoners to be taken, no plundering. Soldiers, and all who have borne arms against the King, left free to march out and away. Citizens the same, if they wish it. Three days to be allowed the disaffected for clearing out of the city, and removal of household effects.” After that—ay, and before it, as the wise ones believed—it would be “’ware the pillager!”
On its face the bond was fair and reasonable enough, and many were rather surprised at its leniency. Certainly, to one unacquainted with the circumstances, such conditions of surrender might seem more than generous. But knowing the motives, all idea of generosity is at once eliminated. Around to Rupert had come the report of repulse on the southern side—Slanning killed, Trevannion, too; with slaughter all along the Cornish line, and a likelihood of utter rout there. Besides, two or three scores of distinguished prisoners inside Bristol had to be considered; these no longer on parole, but jailed, and still held as hostages. With, these guages against any attempt at cruel extortion, none could be safely made; and the keys of Bristol were handed over to Prince Rupert by Nathaniel Fiennes in a quiet, consenting, almost amicable way, as might the seals of office from a going-out mayor to his successor.
How the son of the Elector Palatinate honoured the trust, and kept faith with his word, is matter of history. He did neither one nor the other; instead, disregarded both, basely, infamously. Soon as his followers were well inside the gates, as had been predicted, there was pillage unrestrained; insult and outrage to every one they encountered on the streets, women not excepted. This was the way of the Cavaliers—the self-proclaimed gentlemen of England.