“Some day the soft ideal that we wooed

Confronts us fiercely, foe-beset, pursued,

And cries reproachful, ‘Was it, then, my praise,

And not myself was loved? Prove now thy truth;

I claim of thee the promise of thy youth;

Give me thy life, or cower in empty phrase,

The victim of thy genius, not its mate!’

Life may be given in many ways,

And loyalty to truth be sealed,

As bravely in the closet as the field,

So bountiful is fate;

But then to stand beside her,

When craven churls deride her,

To front a lie in arms and not to yield,

This shows, methinks, God’s plan,

And measure of a stalwart man.”

—Lowell.


It was on Wednesday, October 19, that the main body of Essex’s army set out from Worcester, and after making slow progress, owing to the terrible state of the roads, they reached the little market town of Kineton between nine and ten o’clock on the Saturday evening. The people, who in those parts were favourable to the Parliament, received them with no little kindness, and Gabriel soon found himself in comfortable quarters in the house of a certain Manoah Mills, a saddler, whose wife, Tibbie, was eager to bestow the good supper she had provided on six of the soldiers she thought most in need of it.

The worthy couple stood in their doorway to make choice of their guests. “We will have naught but knowledgeable men,” said Manoah, shaking his bald head shrewdly. “Good talkers that can tell us the news, and good men that can argue a point in theology.”

“Nay,” said Tibbie, “but I will have for one yon lad with the sad eyes, he’s sore in need of mothering, by the look of, Pshaw! a mere boy, and not even an officer,” protested Manoah.

But Tibbie had a will of her own, and while her husband brought in some shrewd and knowledgeable men to his taste, she beckoned to Gabriel. “Me and my husband can give you shelter for the night, sir, and a good supper, if you’ll step in. ’Tis hard if those who are fighting for us can’t get food and lodging on a cold night like this,” she said.

Gabriel thanked her, and gladly sat down to the excellent supper of fried eggs and bacon, and rye bread which the good woman provided; but when the “knowledgeable men” passed from the events of the day to a warm argument on a difficult point in theology, he fell far below Manoah’s standard, not being able to take any interest at all in the discussion, but growing more and more sleepy, till at length, when he had nodded violently in the middle of his host’s eager remarks on election and fore-ordination, Tibbie kindly pointed to an old oak settle by the fire. Here he stretched himself in great content, and leaving the theologians to edify themselves with their favourite pastime, was soon lulled by their voices into dreamless sleep.

Sunday was to be a day of rest, and he woke with a relieved consciousness that there would be no more ploughing their way knee deep in mud through the country lanes. Tibbie provided them with an excellent breakfast, and was just expressing her admiration of the way in which they all prepared to attend morning service at the Church, when the bugle sounded “to arms,” and like wild-fire the news ran through Kineton that the King was only two miles from them. Already the Royalist cavalry were forming on the top of Edgehill, a high hill overlooking the little market town, and Essex promptly drew out his forces in the open ground between, lining the hedges and enclosures which lay upon one side with musketeers.

Gabriel, in the Lord General’s regiment under Sir Philip Stapleton, found himself on the right wing next to Lord Brooke’s purple-coated troop, on the one side, and to Cromwell’s troop on the other.

Then came the apparently interminable waiting which most severely tries those who have never before been under fire. The day was cold and windy, moreover, and much rain had fallen during the night; to wait hour after hour while the King’s army massed itself on Edgehill was far from inspiriting.

At length, about one o’clock, when it became apparent that Essex was too good a general to scale heights guarded by a far more numerous army, and intended to wait in the admirable position he had chosen, at some little distance from the foot of the hill, the Royalist forces were brought down into the plain, and somewhat before three o’clock the dull roar of the cannon began. Then the Royalists advanced to the charge, and the left wing of the Parliamentary army, thrown into utter confusion through the treachery of Sir Faithful Fortescue, who had previously arranged with Prince Rupert to change sides on the field, broke and fled before Rupert’s fiery charge. Their panic, though partly checked by Denzil Holies, would certainly have ruined the hopes of the Parliamentary army had not Rupert been carried away by his usual impetuous zeal, and hotly pursued them as far as Kineton, where the sight of the valuable baggage waggons proved irresistible to him, and he and his troopers, totally ignoring the battle, lingered over the plunder till they were perforce driven back to the field by the advance of the Parliamentary rear-guard under Hampden and Grantham.

Meanwhile, Gabriel, who had had the good fortune to be in the admirably steadfast right wing, had passed through some strange experiences.

During the first exchange of cannon shots after those long hours of waiting, and before the first Royalist charge, a sickening imagination of what awaited them, for a minute half-paralysed him. He was grateful to a rugged-looking Scotsman beside him, who, understanding his sudden pallor, said: “Hoots, laddie, a’ that will pass by; think that the Cause has muckle need o’ just yer ain sel’.”

And at that minute, glancing towards the next troop, Gabriel perceived Cromwell a little in advance of his men, not looking harassed, as he had often seen him in London on his way to the House of Commons, but with an indescribable light in his strong, noble face—the light of one inspired: while from the manly voices of his troopers there rang out the psalm which, for Gabriel, would be for ever associated with Hilary and the morning in the cathedral when both had been so full of heaviness.


In trouble and adversity

The Lord God hear thee still,

The majesty of Jacob’s God

Defend thee from all ill.


What followed was more like some wild nightmare than like real waking existence; for awhile it seemed that the Parliamentary right wing was to be annihilated as the left had been, for beneath the splendid charge of Wilmot’s men Fielding’s regiment suffered grievously. By a rapid and clever movement Balfour and Stapleton slipped aside, that they might outflank the enemy, but Wilmot made precisely the same mistake made by Prince Rupert, and pursued the remnant of Fielding’s men, failing utterly to reckon with the men led by Cromwell, Balfour and Stapleton, who with great skill hemmed in the Royalists and fought with a desperate courage that carried all before it.

Of how matters were going Gabriel had scarcely a thought; he could realise only his near surroundings. He saw his Scotch neighbour drop to the ground, killed instantly by a ghastly injury of the head, and he sickened at the sight, till the memory of the dead man’s words came back to him. “The Cause has muckle need o’ just yer ain sel’.”

The next minute, with a horrible shriek, his horse reared wildly, and he found himself on the blood-stained turf. Struggling to his feet, still half-stunned by the shock, he snatched at the bridle of the dead Scot’s horse, and, mounting it, pressed eagerly forward, fighting now with an ardour and an impassioned zeal which he had not before felt. The Royalists were making a strenuous resistance, but they could not stand against the splendid charge of the Parliamentary troops, who, utterly undaunted by the line of pikes, pushed on with a steadfastness that was destined to retrieve their fortunes.

For Gabriel, however, it was soon merely a matter of blocking the way with his body, his second horse fell a victim, and as he leapt to the ground a pikeman ran him clean through the thigh; then came a crash and a sudden darkness, after which for some time he knew no more.

When he slowly revived and became conscious of the confused din of battle he for a moment thought himself in hell; the most horrible and unearthly screams close by made him shudder, and the pain of his wound, of which till then he had only been dully aware, became intolerable agony, as his shrieking horse in its dying struggles plunged on to him.

“God!” he cried, in his torture, “let me die!”

His words were heard. At that moment a horseman close by sharply reined back his galloping steed, put a pistol to the head of the plunging horse and ended its death agony, then, swiftly dismounting, bent for a moment over Gabriel, with a look of ineffable pity as he dragged him into a less torturing position.

He was a short man, and to Gabriel’s astonishment he wore the dress of a Royalist officer. Where had he before seen that broad-browed, kindly-eyed, yet decidedly plain face?

“Poor lad, I can do no more for you,” said a quiet voice which could scarcely be heard in the uproar.

“My Lord Falkland!” cried Gabriel, in amazement. “You!”

And then before he could say a word of gratitude, the black cloud began to steal over him once more and his eyes closed.

Falkland thought him dead, and remounting, rode back to rejoin Wilmot and urge him to attempt a decisive charge, for, like so many, he clung to the hope that the war might be ended by one great battle. At the same moment Hampden was urging a similar request to Essex, but the Generals on either side refused to venture a further attempt, and the gathering twilight gave them some excuse. The King’s standard-bearer, Sir Edward Verney, had been killed; the Royal Standard was taken; thousands of men lay dead or dying on the blood-stained plain, and the drawn battle of Edgehill was over.

Gabriel’s swoon must have lasted long, for it was quite dark when he again came to himself, he was too weak from loss of blood to wish definitely to live, though still the dead Scotsman’s words sounded in his ears and braced him to a certain extent, kept him, at any rate, from voluntarily letting go his precarious hold on life. Then a memory of Falkland’s pitying face came back to him, and he tried to think how it could have been possible that the Secretary of State should be there just at that minute. Early in the afternoon he had seen him with Wilmot’s men and had been surprised that one in his position should have exposed himself so needlessly. It must, he imagined, have been while returning with Wilmot from the pursuit of Fielding’s routed troop that he had chanced to ride in his direction. He moved a little, longing to make out where he lay, and how the day had gone, but the frightful agony of the attempt quickly made him desist; he sank down with his head propped up a little on the dead body of the horse which Falkland had put out of its pain.

And now he could make out here and there fires at some little distance on his left, while two or three fires on the top of Edgehill led him to think that the Royalists had retired again up the heights, and that Essex’s army intended to remain on the field throughout the night. Doubtless, in the morning, hostilities would be resumed.

The far away sound of a psalm raised him for a time above his pain; he prayed silently for the cause that had cost him so dear, and his thoughts wandered back to his home and to Hilary. How her face would have lighted up if he could have told her about Lord Falkland! Somehow, he could almost fancy the same pitying tone in her voice, had she come u............