Chapter 48 - No Quarter! by Mayne Reid
Between Two Prisons
In Parliamentary war times English roads were very different from what they are of to-day. Those of the shires bordering Wales were no better than bridle paths, generally following the routes of ancient British trackways, regardless of ups and downs. Travel over them was chiefly in the saddle or afoot, traffic by pack-horse, wheels rarely making mark on them save when some grand swell of the period transported his family from town to country house. Then it was a ponderous coach of the chariot order, swung on leathern springs—such as the gossipy Pepys and Sir Charles Grandison used to ride in—calling for at least four horses, with a retinue of attendants. These last armed with sword and pistol for protection against robbers, but also, pioneer fashion, carrying spade and axe to fill up ruts, patch broken bridges, and cut down obstructing trees.
Where the routes ran over hills, the causeway, sunk below the level of the adjacent land, was more like the bed of a dry watercourse than a highway of travel; this due to the wear of hoof and washing away by rains. There was no Macadam then to keep the surface to its normal height by a compensating stratum of stone; and in many places the tallest horseman, on the back of a sixteen-hands horse would see a cliff on either side of him, its crest barely touchable with the stock of his whip. Often half a mile or more of this ravine-like road would be encountered, so narrow that vehicles meeting upon it could not by any possibility pass each other; one of them must needs back again, perhaps, hundreds of yards! To avoid such contretemps, the husbandman who had occasion to carry corn to the mill, or produce to the market town, in his huge lumbering wain, was compelled by law to announce its approach by a jangle of big bells, or the blowing of a horn!
Yet over these ancient highways—many of them still in existence—the Roman legionaries of Ostorius Scapula had borne their victorious eagles; and along them many a Silurian warrior, standing erect in his scythe-winged chariot, was carried to conquest or defeat.
At a later period had they echoed the tramp of armed men, when Henry the Fourth, father of Agincourt’s hero, made war upon the Welsh. Later still, twice again, in the days of the gallant Llewellyn and those of the bold Glendower; and still farther down the stream of time were they stained with blood as of brother shed by brother, when England’s people—those of Wales as well—King-mad and King-cursed, took a fancy, or frenzy, to cut one another’s throats about the colour of a rose.
And now, on these same roads, two centuries later, they were again engaged in a fratricidal strife, though not as before with both sides infatuated through kingcraft. One was fighting for a better cause—the best of all—a people’s freedom. The first time they had struck blow for this or themselves; their stand for Magna Charta, so much vaunted, being a mere settling of disputes between barons and king; no quarrel of theirs, nor its results much gain to them. Neither would it be far from the truth to say, it was the last time for them to draw sword on the side of human liberty; indeed difficult to point out any war in which Great Britain has been engaged since not undertaken for the propping up of vile despotisms, or for selfish purposes equally vile, to the very latest of them—Zululand and Afghanistan videlicet.
But the rebellion against Charles Stuart had a far different aim, all who upheld it being actuated by higher and nobler motives; and, though the war was internecine, it need never be regretted. For on the part of England’s people it brought out many a display of courage, devotion to virtue, and other good qualities, of which any people might be proud.
Nor was it all fruitless, though seeming so. From it we inherit such fragment of liberty as is left us, and to it all such aspirations turn. Not all stifled by the corruption which came immediately after under the rule of the Merry Monarch; nor yet by what followed further on, during the foul reign of “Europe’s first gentleman;” and let us hope still to survive through one foreshadowing, nay, already showing, corruption great as either.
Though in the Parliamentary wars no great battle occurred in the counties of Monmouth or Hereford, in both there was much partisan strife, at first chiefly along their eastern borders. Their interior districts, save during the Earl of Stamford’s brief occupation, and Waller’s sweeping raid, had been hitherto in the hands of the Royalists; and no traveller thought of venturing on their roads who was not prepared upon challenge to cry “For the King!”
Two routes were especially frequented; but more by warlike men than peaceful wayfarers. One of them ran due north and south between their respective capitals. The other passed through the same, but with a bow-like bend eastward, keeping to the valley of the Wye, and about midway communicating with the town of Ross. Between them lay a wild-wooded district of country, the ancient kingdom of Erchyn, to this day known as the Hundred of Archenfield. Through this was a third road, leading from Goodrich Castle north-west; which, on the shoulder of a high hill, Acornbury, some six miles south of Hereford, met the more direct route from Monmouth—the two thence continuing the same to the former city.
On the morning of the capture of Monmouth, at the earliest hour of dawn, a cavalcade was seen issuing from the gates of Goodrich Castle, and turning along this road in the direction of Hereford. It numbered nigh an hundred files, riding “by twos,” a formation which the narrow trackway rendered compulsory. Most of the men comprising it carried the lance, a favourite weapon with Colonel Sir Henry Lingen, its commanding officer. But some twenty were without arms of any kind, though on horseback: the prisoners of whom Kyrle had spoken as likely to be transferred from Goodrich to the capital. The information accidentally received by him was correct; they were now in transit between the two places, escorted by nearly all the castle’s garrison, Lingen himself at the head.
Had he known of Monmouth being in the hands of the enemy, he would not have been thus moving away from his stronghold. But, by some mischance, the messenger sent to apprise him of the disaster, did not reach Goodrich till after his departure for Hereford.
Nor was his errand to the latter place solely to see his prisoners safely lodged. He had other business there, with its Governor, Sir Barnabas Scudamore; hence his going along with them. For taking such a large retinue there was the same reason. Sir Barnabas contemplated an attack on Brampton Bryan Castle; so heroically defended by Lady Brilliana Harley, who had long and repeatedly foiled his attempts to take it.
The High Sheriff of Hereford county—for such was Lingen—took delight in a grand Cavalier accompaniment—many of his followers belonging to the best families of the shire—and along the route they were all jollity, talking loud, and laughing at each jeu d’esprit which chanced to be sprung. Just come from hard blows at Beachley, and crowded quarters in Monmouth, they were on the way to a city of more pretension, and promising sweeter delights. Hereford was at the time a centre of distinction, full of gentry from the surrounding shires; above all, abounding in the feminine element, with many faces reputed fair. Lingen’s gallants meant to have a carousal in the capital city, and knew they would there find the ways and means, with willing hosts to entertain them.
Different the thoughts of those whom they were conducting thither as captives. No such prospects to cheer or enliven them; but the reverse, as their experience of prison life had already taught them.
Most of all was Eustace Trevor dejected, for he was among them. It had been a trying week for the ex-gentleman-usher. Captured, wounded—by good fortune but slightly—transported from prison to prison, taunted as a rebel, and treated as a felon, he was even more mortified than sad. Enraged also to the end of his wits; he the proud son of Sir William Trevor to be thus submitted to ignominy and insult; he to whom, at Whitehall Palace, but two short years before, earls and dukes had shown subservience, believing him the favourite of a Queen!
Harrowing the reflections, and bitter the chagrin, he was now enduring, though the Queen had nought to do with them. All centred on a simple girl, in whose eyes he had hoped to appear a hero. Instead, he had proved himself an imbecile; been caught as in a trap! What would she—Vaga Powell—think of him now?
Oft since his capture had he anathematised his ill-fate—oft lamented it. And never more chafed at it than on this morning while being marched towards Hereford. While at Monmouth he had entertained a hope of getting rescued. A rumour of the affair at Beachley had penetrated his prison; and he knew Massey had been long contemplating an expedition across the Forest and over the Wye. But Hereford was in the heart of the enemy’s country, a very centre of Royalist strength and rule. Not much chance of his being delivered there; instead, every mile nearer to it the likelier his captivity to be of long continuance.
Hope had all but forsaken him; yet, in this his darkest hour of despondence, a ray of it scintillated through his mind, once more inspiring him with thoughts of escape. For something like a possibility had presented itself, in the shape of a horse—his own. The same animal he bestrode in his combat with Sir Richard Walwyn, and that had shown such spirit after a journey of nigh fifty miles. Many a fifty miles had it borne him since, carried him safe through many a hostile encounter.
He was not riding it now, alas! but astride the sorriest of nags. “Saladin,” the name of the tried and trusty steed, had been taken from him at Hollymead, and become the property of a common soldier, one of those who had assisted in his capture, the same now having him in especial charge. For each of the prisoners was guarded by one of the escort riding alongside.
It was by a mere accidental coincidence that the late and present owners of Saladin were thus brought into juxtaposition; and at first the former only thought of its singularity, with some vexation at having been deprived of his favourite charger, which he was not likely to recover again. By-and-by, however, the circumstance became suggestive. He knew the mettle of the horse, no man better. Perhaps, had Sir Harry Lingen, or any of his officers, known it as well, a common trooper would not have been bestriding it. But as yet the animal’s merits remained undiscovered by them, none supposing that in heels it could distance all in their cavalcade, and in bottom run them dead down.
On this, and things collateral, had Eustace Trevor commenced reflecting; hence his new-sprung hope. Wounded, with his arm in a sling, he was not bound—such precaution seeming superfluous. Besides, badly mounted as he was, any attempt at flight would have been absurd, and could but end in his being almost instantly retaken. So no one thought of his making it, save himself; but he did—had been cogitating upon it all along the way.
“If I could but get on Saladin’s back!” was his mental soliloquy, “I’d risk it. Three lengths of start—ay, one—and they might whistle after me. Their firelocks and lances all slung, pistols in the holsters buckled up; none dreaming of—Oh! were I but in that saddle!”
It was his own saddle to which he referred, now between the legs of the trooper, who had appropriated it also.
Every now and then his eyes were turned towards the horse in keen, covetous look; which the man at length observing, said,—
“Maybe ye’d like to get him back, Master Captain? He be precious good stuff; an’ I don’t wonder if ye would. Do ye weesh it?”
It was just the question Saladin’s ci-devant owner desired to be asked, and he was on the eve of answering impressively, “Very much.” A reflection restraining him, he replied, in a careless indifferent way,—
“Well, I shouldn’t mind—if you care to part with him.”
“That would depend on what ye be willin’ to gie. How much?”
This was a puzzler. What had he to give? Nothing! At his capture they had stripped him clean, rifled his pockets, torn from his hat the jewelled clasp and egret’s plume—that trophy of sweet remembrance. Even since, in Monmouth gaol, they had made free with certain articles of his attire; so that he was not only unarmed and purseless, but rather shabbily dressed; anything but able to make purchase of a horse, however moderate the price.
Would the man take a promise of payment at some future time—his word for it? The proposal was made; a tempting sum offered, to be handed over soon as the would-be purchaser could have the money sent him by his friends; but rejected.
“That’s no dependence, an’ a fig for your friends?” was the coarse response of the sceptical trooper. “If ye can’t show no better surety for payin’, I hold on to the horse, an’ you maun go without him. ’Sides, Master Captain, what use the anymal to ye inside o’ a prison, where’s yer like to be shut up, Lord knows how long?”
“Ah, true!” returned the young officer, with a sigh, and look of apparent resignation. “Still, corporal,”—the man had a cheveron on his sleeve—“it’s killing work to ride such a brute as this. If only for the rest of the way to Hereford, I’d give something to exchange saddles with you.”
“If ye had it to gie, I dare say ye would,” rejoined the corporal, with a satirical grin, as he ran his eye over the bare habiliments of his prisoner. “But as ye han’t, what be the use palaverin’ ’bout it? Till ye can show better reezon for my accommodatin’ you, we’ll both stick to the saddles we be in.”
This seemed to clinch the question; and for a time Eustace Trevor was silent, feeling foiled. But before going much farther a remembrance came to his aid, which promised him a better mount than the Rosinante he was riding—in short, Saladin’s self. The wound he had received was a lance thrust in the left wrist—only a prick, but when done deluging the hand in blood. This running down his fingers had almost glued them together, and the kerchief hastily wrapped round had stayed there ever since, concealing a ring which, seen by any of the Cavalier soldiers, would have been quickly cribbed. None had seen it; he himself having almost forgotten the thing, till now, with sharpened wits, he recalled its being there; knew it to be worth the accommodation denied him, and likely to obtain it.
“Well, corporal,” he said, returning to the subject, “I should have liked a ride on the horse, if only for old times’ sake, and the little chance of my ever getting one again. But I’d be sorry to have you exchange without some compensation. Still, I fancy, I can give you that without drawing upon time.”
The trooper pricked up his ears, now listening with interest. He was not inexorable; would have been willing enough to make the temporary swop, only wanted a quid pro quo.
“What do you say to this?” continued the young officer.
He had slipped his right hand inside the sling; and drawn forth the golden circlet, which he held out while speaking. It was a jewelled ring, the gems in cluster bedimmed with the blood that had dried and become encrusted upon them. But they sparkled enough to show it valuable; worth far more than what it was being offered for. And there was a responsive sparkle in the eyes of him who bestrode Saladin, as he hastened to say,—“That’ll do. Bargain be it?”