Take Courage (32 page)

It seemed there were more beside John and myself who thought little of Lord Fairfax compared with his son. Since if the Parliament men stayed down in Bradford dale they would be caught by the Royalists on the hillsides like a rat in a trap, and in any case we had not provision for a long siege, it was decided to march out and meet the enemy on some ground where their horse and cannon would not have such great advantage, and try to beat them in a single battle. As I came out from Lord Fairfax's presence, through a crowd of officers thronging the passages, I heard half a sentence, loud and clear as one does sometimes when silence falls unexpectedly:

“If only the Lord General could be persuaded to absent himself from the battle!”

Sir Thomas beside me started and coloured, and turned towards the voice, frowning, but I noticed John gave him an eager look. When the officers saw that Sir Thomas was among them they hushed and coughed warningly, and the one who had spoken said in a loud tone of pretended assurance, though with a burning face:

“I was just saying, Sir Thomas—if for any cause the Lord General should be obliged to absent himself, you would be in command of the main battle.”

“My father will not absent himself,” replied Sir Thomas shortly.

By the looks that went round, and the sigh, suppressed and slight but audible, which arose, I could tell that this announcement did not give pleasure.

Our forces were to start out at four o'clock next morning, so as to be well out of Bradford and up on the hills, before they met the enemy. I rose at three, and roused the maids and set the boys to help the guards wake those of Sir Thomas's troop quartered at The Breck—they were sleeping all over the place, even in the dye-house and on the sacks of unsorted wool in the loom-chamber, indeed one could hardly move without treading on a soldier.

It was dark when I rose, and Sir Thomas meant to be well on his way before sunrise, but owing to some misunderstanding or carelessness or treachery, the soldiers did not gather to the rendezvous at the time appointed. The ammunition train, it seems, was late.

There was much galloping up and down our lane with angry messages, but the sun had long risen, and still they had not moved off. It was a lovely morning, I remember well coming to the door and looking out on it; the sky a cloudless blue, the sunshine bright gold, a little mist down in the hollows which gave promise of great heat later, the grass and the leaves all a fresh clear green, the pale oats rustling in a gentle breeze, the cotton grass on the distant moors all in bloom, very white and silky. Then suddenly I cried:

“David! What do you with that gun?”

For there he was, in a buff-coat he had borrowed from somewhere—it was Mr. Atkinson's—which was far too large for him and hung loosely on his thin form, awkwardly shouldering the old fowling-piece which had hung on The Breck chimney-breast ever since I could remember. He smiled but made no answer. I seized him by the unlaced
fronts of his coat and compelled him to look at me, and said:

“David, you are not to fight. David, you are to be a minister of religion; you should not take life.”

For I could not bear the notion of his going into battle. John was a grown man and well able to take care of himself, and if he wished to fight for his cause he must do as he wished and take his chance, and I had confidence he would not throw himself away without good reason; but David was a child and a scholar, if there were a noble foolishness to commit on the field of battle he would certainly commit it—little Sam would be safer as a soldier than his uncle.

“David!” I urged him.

“It is a matter of conscience, Penninah,” said David in his quiet scholar's tone. “I cannot let others fight my battles.”

“David!” I repeated, pleading. “For my sake! David!”

John came by. “Rest, Penninah, rest,” he said, laying his hand on my shoulder as he passed.

His voice and his touch were kinder than of late, and with this and David's calm persistence I was much disturbed. I began to lace up David's buff-coat, holding down my head and quietly weeping.

The foot and a troop of Little Holroyd clubmen, of whom David was one, were now marched off, and the order was given for the officers about Sir Thomas to mount. At this moment of farewell Lady Fairfax chose to make a commotion about Sir Thomas's headgear. She ran out from the house holding the red cap in her hand, and screeched:

“Tom! Your montero! You will catch cold if you leave it! You will miss it round your throat!”

And so on and so on, her loud voice sounding so that even the clubmen in the Lane looked round to see what was going on, while the officers bit their lips so as not to smile. Sir Thomas, who was bareheaded, frowned and threw his cloak impatiently under his arm, as he used to do when he was angry, and said shortly that he meant to wear his helmet—which perhaps was what Lady Fairfax intended.
To make a fool of him like that before his men was tiresome, yet I thought he might have shown her a little more tenderness, since all it meant was her love, and sorrow at his going.

When they had all gone I sat down heavily and covered my eyes with my hand. I was nigh on seven months gone with child, and all this toil, and anxiety, and grief, and little food, and now this last trouble over David, had quite overcome me. Lady Fairfax was very kind in attentions; she shooed the maids and the children away from me as if they were poultry, and gave me a little bottle to smell from, very pungent. She urged me to rest, and I remembered John too had commanded this, so I crawled upstairs and lay on my bed. After a time I heard the great guns begin to thunder, and then a sharp rattle of musketry; and then there rose, away to the south-east in the direction of the road to Wakefield, a kind of distant uproar, compound, I suppose, of shouts and blows. At first I shuddered at every discharge, but I was so profoundly weary that—though I suppose no-one now could credit a woman's sleeping through a battle—I did in fact sleep heavily.

When I awoke I could tell by the way the light fell through the windows that it was well past noon. I was ashamed so to have neglected my guests; I tidied my dress and went down quickly. Lady Fairfax was reading aloud from a book of sermons to the three children. Lister was leaning against the door-jamb, but he moved away quickly when I appeared. They all looked very quiet and dejected, and I could see by Lady Fairfax's face that something was troubling her. I went to her, and began to ask what was the matter, but my voice was drowned by a very heavy roar of ordnance. Lady Fairfax clutched my arm and whispered:

“I am sure those guns are nearer!”

“Nearer?” I said stupidly, not understanding the point of this, even if it were so. “Yes, they sound nearer.”

“Then don't you see, our men are being driven back on Bradford!” cried Lady Fairfax.

“No, no!” I exclaimed. “I'll never believe Sir Thomas will lose the battle.”

“Sir Thomas is not in command,” said Lady Fairfax sombrely.

A sharp rattle of musketry, much clearer and therefore nearer than those we had heard before, made us look at each other, and then there came a cannon discharge which seemed almost on top of the house. On a common impulse we both ran for the door, Lady Fairfax throwing down her sermons as she sprang. I flung open the door and we ran out and stood staring; there was nothing to be seen, and we heard no more guns, but a huge loud murmur rose and rose till the whole air seemed swollen with it. The clamour seemed to pass behind us and die, and then start up again over towards the church in Bradford.

“What can that be?” muttered Lady Fairfax, wringing her hands. “O God, I am sure we have lost the battle.”

“It is very sultry,” I said stupidly, my teeth chattering.

“Penninah, go in,” said Lady Fairfax, turning to me. “Go in and rest, or you will have a miscarriage.”

I suffered her to lead me in and give me some cordial. To speak truth, I was in better case than she, poor lady, but it was something to do to turn our minds from the fighting. And while we sat there together, the children clustering about us with frightened faces, we heard heavy running steps come flying down the Ferrand fields, and across our beck and up the slope; and the latch lifted and the door was flung back, and David stood before us. He was crimson in the face, sweating and breathless; he threw his fowling-piece down on the table, and gasped out heavily:

“We have lost—we have lost the battle.”

“I knew it!” exclaimed Lady Fairfax.

“John shouted at me to come to you,” gasped David.

“Is he hurt?” I asked quickly.

David shook his head. “Not sorely,” he said. “Sir Thomas and all his folk have got away over towards Halifax.”

I rose up and gave him a sup of cordial, and stood beside him as he drank it, and smoothed his hair and wiped the sweat off his face.

“Will Uncle David tell us about the battle?” whispered Sam behind my skirts.

“Not now; hush, lovey,” I whispered back.

“I'm so ashamed, Pen, so ashamed!” broke out David, feeling for my hand.

“Why, what hast done, love?” I said, taking his head to my breast.

“Nothing!” said David bitterly. “Nothing! I never fired a shot or struck a blow. We clubmen marched with the rest up the hill to Adwalton Moor and stood in the rear; and it was passed back to us that the Cavaliers were there already, drawn up in battalions—”

“That looks like treachery,” said Lady Fairfax.

“But we never saw them,” went on David. “We saw nothing—nothing except grass and hedges and the backs of our men ahead and to right and left. Then guns sounded and muskets went off, and those in front of us moved away, and we were shouted at to go forward, and we went forward; and then suddenly there were red-coats on our left, and our men came rushing back, shouting at us to get out of the way, their mouths all round and their faces red, and we
got
out of the way,” he concluded with a rueful laugh. “I saw only the results, never the action which produced them.”

“And Sir Thomas?” pressed Lady Fairfax.

“While we were scrambling about behind the hedges out of the buff-coats' way,” said David, “a troop of horse came along a cross lane, riding swiftly but in good order, with Sir Thomas and John and some officers at the head of them. John saw me and shouted to me to go to The Breck, and the horse rode on the lane—it's a lane which goes off towards Hartshead and Halifax. Then there came a great shouting and a scurry, and when I looked there was a line of men with pikes charging straight at us. So we ran.
How
we ran!” said poor David. “After a little time I saw that if I went much further in that direction, I should find myself in Halifax instead of Bradford, with the redcoats between, so I took over a hedge northwards. I judge the others did much the same, for we scattered and saw each other no
more. We were all Bradford men, and knew the by-ways. And that is all I saw of the battle of Adwalton Moor—a confused muddle,” said poor David. He sighed, and concluded: “It was very unlike a battle in Xenophon.”

“It is perfectly clear to anyone experienced in fighting what occurred,” said Lady Fairfax with some asperity. “You attacked early and had some success, and the right wing advanced too far, and the enemy outflanked it and wheeled it round, and so cut it off from the main battle and put it to rout. God knows what will have happened to poor Lord Fairfax, cut off from Sir Thomas!”

I reminded her that we had heard the murmur of men on the march over towards Bradford Church, as well as behind us. “Lord Fairfax may have returned to Bradford,” I said.

“Aye, he may. Well, if Sir Thomas is safe in Halifax, he will surely send for me,” said Lady Fairfax. “I will go make preparations.” She picked up her skirts and ran upstairs, and we heard her calling her maid and beginning to pack up her things.

David and I exchanged glances.

“Sir Thomas is not the man I think him, if he makes no attempt to reach his father,” I said. “He will surely try to get back to Bradford.”

“Aye—the Cavaliers are not on this side of the town yet; he could come over Clayton Heights and down by Great Holroyd and slip in that way,” said David. “But he may not—there may be some point of military strategy in it of which we are ignorant.”

“I am sure he will try to rejoin his father,” I persisted, and I went into the kitchen to set on water to heat, so that men's wounds could be washed if necessary, and to prepare what slight stock of provisions was left to us. There was only one of our maids there, and when I asked for the other girl she looked uncomfortable. “Where is she?” I asked sharply, and the girl, stammering, told me she had run away when she heard Master David say we had lost the battle. “Oh, the silly child!” I cried, distressed. “To run off alone, in front of a whole Royalist army!”

The remaining girl coloured and muttered agreement, but as it chanced I saw her slip a bundle under the table, and knew she had meant to run off too and was only prevented by my entrance. I set her to work and kept her bustling and cheerful.

By the time I returned to the large room, Lady Fairfax was sitting by the hearth in cloak and hat, little Moll beside her dressed for a journey, her bundles all about her and her precious dressing-case in her lap.

“He will send for me soon,” she said, almost simpering with pleasure.

I was a little disconcerted by this sudden proposed departure and her certainty of it, so I made no comment. David, however, drew me aside.

“Pen, I have been considering—you and the boys had perhaps better prepare to leave The Breck,” he began.

“Leave The Breck!” I exclaimed. “Are you mad, David? What are you thinking of?”

“If the Cavaliers mean to besiege Bradford, if they press close about it with their troops, make a leaguer, I believe it is called,” said David, pronouncing the unfamiliar word with great precision, “the inhabitants of the neighbouring countryside should seek shelter within the besieged city's defensive works.”