They had not the look of a victorious army, Simon thought; they were too tired. He was beginning to nod forward again when the outer door opened with a crash, and a stout red-faced trooper appeared against the background of the twilit lane.
‘Captain Vanderhorst’s compliments,’ he said, addressing the room at large, with a cheerful grin, ‘and could he be obleeged with the loan of a little corn? Six more stragglers just come in, and quartered in the vicarage, and the Reverend Gentleman ain’t got no more.’
Simon struggled free of the sleep that seemed to enfold him like a blanket. ‘I expect so. Corporal Relf, see to it, will you?’
Corporal Relf got up, stowing the Bible back into the breast of his coat; and in that same instant a joyful roar burst from the man in the doorway, and he tramped forward, holding out a hand like a mottled ham. ‘Zeal! Zeal-for-the-Lord, or I’m a cross-eyed infidel!’
Corporal Relf swung round at the sound of his voice, and his dark face lit suddenly in reply. ‘Jonnie! Why, Jonnie, what do you do here?’
‘Come in with Old Noll, two days agone. Been garrisoning Ely, I have. My, but it’s good to see you! Us heard you was killed at Gainsborough, two years back.’
‘The Lord of Hosts in His mercy protected me,’ said Zeal-for-the-Lord. ‘The shield of His Power was stretched over me.’ Then he recollected himself, and turned quickly to Simon. ‘I beg your pardon, sir; I’ll see about the corn.’
‘I’ll see about the corn,’ Simon said. ‘It isn’t every day you come back from the dead. Give your gossip some ale.’ He called out several of the watching troopers, sent one of them to inform the farmer that corn for six more horses was being taken from his bins and that he had better put it down in the reckoning, and set off with the others for the stable yard.
When he returned to the firelit kitchen, Corporal Relf and his crony were deep in talk of old scenes and old friends.
‘I was up Spalding way in the spring, buying fodder for the garrison,’ the stranger was saying loquaciously, and seemingly giving Zeal-for-the-Lord little chance to do the talking. ‘And who should I run into but James Gibberdyke; so I went back with him for a meal. Most unwonted prosperous, he seemed too.’
Simon, back in his corner, could not help but hear every word, for the man’s voice was loud, and a lull had fallen over the drowsy troopers.
‘Barn re-thatched, and a new suit, and I dunno what-all! A aunt of his had died, seemingly, and left him a bit of money. Ah, I’ll tell you another surprising thing about James. He’d got a most beauteous thing growing in his bulb-plot; been working on it for years, he said, to get it perfect—and you wouldn’t think James was the sort for experimenting, would you? A double white hyacinth, ’twas, as sure as I stand here! A double white—’
A hoarse cry broke from Corporal Relf, and Simon, looking up quickly, saw him stagger back against the wall, as though from a blow between the eyes.
‘Why, whatever be the matter, neighbour?’ demanded the other. ‘What be there in a double white hyacinth to—’
But Corporal Relf had pulled himself together before the astonished stares of his troopers. He shook his head, and after a moment answered, ‘Nothing. Nothing in the world, Jonnie. ’Twas an old wound that ketches me sometimes, after a hard day.’
‘Well, if it ketches you like that, you did ought to get it seen to,’ said Jonnie severely.
‘I will, Jonnie, I will. Go on with what you were saying.’
‘I was saying as James Gibberdyke had growed this double white hyacinth. Going to put it on the market, come this autumn, and ’twill make a tidy bit o’ money for him, I shouldn’t wonder. We talked a good bit about you, Zeal—thinkin’, both of us, that you’d been killed at Gainsborough; and James were saying what a hidjus sad thing ’twas. Very upset about it, James were.’
‘That was—mighty good of James,’ said Corporal Relf, heavily.
‘Ah, but wait till he knows the joyful news!’
The old Ironside lifted his head, until it seemed to be looking into some dark prospect beyond the other’s square figure. ‘Yes, wait till he knows,’ he said.
‘Be you sure you’re all right now? Powerful queer you do look, to be sure.’
‘Quite all right. ’Tis time you was getting back to your Captain, Jonnie; you’ll be riding the Wooden Horse, else.’
‘Aye, mebbe so,’ Jonnie agreed. ‘Be seeing you again by and by, I reckon. And do ’ee take my advice and have that wound seen to! ’Twill most like turn to gout if ’tis left!’ And still talking, he got himself as far as the door, then turned back, remembering his errand.
‘The corn has gone off to Captain Vanderhorst,’ Simon forestalled him.
The man saluted, beaming like a jovial red sun. ‘Thank ’ee kindly, sir,’ he said, and was gone.
A while later, Simon was returning from a last look at the horse-lines before turning in. It was a very still night, the wind having dropped quite away; the stars were swollen and soft with moisture in the summer sky, and the cool air sweet with the scent of elder flowers and new-mown hay; but Simon did not notice these things, for his mind was full of that story of a double white hyacinth. Corporal Relf had seemed quite himself again, when he had accompanied him a few minutes ago, on rounds; and yet—
The warm light of fire and candles still streamed from the uncurtained window of the farm kitchen, casting a golden stain over the garden plot; and on the edge of the stain, faintly outlined against the crowding shadows beyond, stood a tall figure; a wild, agonized figure with quivering fists up-thrust towards the stars. As Simon hesitated, uncertain what to do, his Corporal’s voice reached him in a kind of shudderng whisper, ‘Mine own familiar friend, in whom I trusted. Mine own familiar friend—’
Next morning, when the section mustered, Corporal Relf was missing. His mount was still in the horse-lines; his equipment, including his sword and one pistol, was ranged neatly on his sleeping-place in the big barn. But the other pistol had gone with him, wherever it was that he had gone. Simon, his heart suddenly sick within him, ordered a strict search of the farm-yard and nearby fields, knowing, as he gave the order, that it was quite useless. The search did have one result, for it produced a shepherd who had passed a man heading eastward across the hills, some time in the night; he couldn’t say when, not for sure. A tall man, talking to himself; talk that sounded as if it came out of the Good Book—a surly sort of chap, who hadn’t seemed to notice when the shepherd bade him good night in passing.
When Simon had heard the shepherd’s story, he left his senior trooper in charge, and went to report the matter to Lieutenant Colebourne, whom he found watching his horses watered at the stream.
Lieutenant Colebourne cocked an inquiring eyebrow at his cornet, and then, seeing his face, sobered abruptly. ‘What’s wrong?’ he demanded.
‘I have to report Corporal Relf missing, sir,’ Simon said.
‘Missing?’
‘Some time in the night.’
‘But—you’re not serious? Relf isn’t the man to—here, wait a moment.’ He gave orders to his Corporal for seeing the horses watered, and then moved away, with Simon at his side. ‘You’ve searched the farm buildings?’ he asked, when they were out of earshot.
Simon nodded.
‘This is a queer business, Simon. Relf isn’t the sort who deserts. Have you any idea what possessed him?’
‘Yes, I have.’ Staring moodily down at the brown trout-stream, Simon told the whole story as he knew it.
When he had finished there was a long pause; and then Barnaby said, ‘So you think he’s gone off on private revenge?’
‘Vengeance, he would call it,’ Simon said. ‘It was his friend, you see.’
‘Yes, I see. But the Lord-General isn’t fond of deserters, whatever their reasons for deserting. If he’s caught, the Lord have mercy on him, for Fairfax will have none.’
‘If only I’d done something about it last night; but—devil take it!—what could I do?’ Simon’s voice was desperate.
‘He’s old enough to be my father, and he looked—like a man on the tack. I thought the only thing to do was to leave him alone.’
‘It was the only thing,’ Barnaby said. ‘Bar putting him in irons, there’s nothing the likes of you or I could say or do that would turn Corporal Relf from anything he’d set his mind to.’ He kicked thoughtfully for a moment at a tussock of grass, then shrugged, and turned back towards the place where the horses were now being led up from watering. ‘I’ll report to Major Disbrow. Get back to your own men now. Muster for the march in an hour.’
IX
Sentence of the Court Martial
AT NASEBY, THE New Model seemed to be settled in for several days. The whole place had become a vast camp, with Fairfax and his staff in the Manor House, and his troops quartered under every roof for miles around, including that of the church. The largest farm had been turned into a field hospital, where the army surgeons worked day and night among the Royalist and Parliamentary wounded lying side by side. The whole Royalist baggage-train had been captured, and was now parked with that of the New Model in the fields below the village; and there were five thousand prisoners to be dealt with, as well as horses, guns and several hundred camp-followers. And in the Manor House library, Fairfax himself, with Daddy Skippon, swathed in bandages but indomitable, beside him, went through Charles Stuart’s private papers which had been captured with the baggage-train—papers that told a disturbing story of a King who had appealed to France, Lorraine and the Low Countries for help against his own countrymen.
Into this great camp, Cromwell and his weary troops returned before evening of the day following the battle. Quarters had been kept free against their coming, and they dropped thankfully into them, finding the prospect of a few days respite unbelievably good. From Cromwell himself to the latest joined trooper, their spirits kicked upward to match the boisterous mood of the camp, and for the first time they felt that they had accomplished something. But for Simon there was no mood of exultancy, even now. He had had his baptism of fire, and come through it without disgrace; he had done his bit to ease the threat of that hard-pressed Northern army; but he had lost Corporal Relf. Barnaby had reported the matter to Major Disbrow, and there was nothing more to be done. He tried to put Zeal-for-the-Lord out of his mind; but it was no use. Always before his inner eye was a picture of his Corporal, walking into the night, with a pistol in his belt for the man who had been his friend.
On the evening of the second day, as Simon returned from guard-mounting, he was met by a drummer of Fairfax’s Foot, who saluted and asked, ‘Cornet Carey, sir?’
‘Yes, I am Cornet Carey.’
‘The Lord-General’s compliments, sir, and he’d be obliged if you will wait on him as soon as may be.’
‘Right,’ Simon said, and set off for the Manor House at a smart pace.
Sir Thomas Fairfax was punctiliously polite to his officers, and always sent his compliments and ‘would be obliged’; but that did not mean that one dawdled in answering the summons: not if one was wise. As he strode along, his hands automatically making sure that the narrow crimson scarf about his middle was properly tied, his uniform coat as it should be, and his sword hanging at the correct angle, Simon was wondering what was the reason for the summons. He had not, so far as he knew, committed any dereliction of duty. Most likely, he decided, it meant that Corporal Relf had been rounded up; and he remembered with a sinking heart Barnaby’s words: ‘If he’s caught, the Lord have mercy on him, for Fairfax will have none.’ And yet, whatever his punishment, it would surely be better for Corporal Relf to be caught, before he could use that pistol. Not for James Gibberdyke’s sake, who deserved to be pistolled if ever a man did, Simon thought savagely, but for the Corporal’s own.
He had no time to think farther, for at that moment he reached the Manor House. For a few minutes, while news of his arrival was passed on to the Commander-in-Chief, he waited in a panelled hall full of the usual coming and going of soldiery, where captured Royalist drums and Colours had been stacked against one wall in a kind of rough trophy. He examined them as well as he could in the fading light, the piled drums with their banners still upon them, the Colours and Standards against the polished panelling, some bright and new, some ragged and battle-worn; the proud emblems of regiments that were now scattered in defeat. One of them, he knew—for the story had gone round the Army—had been captured by Fiery Tom with his own band, and he wondered which one it was.
The door behind him opened, and an orderly came out and stood aside for him to enter; and he walked into a long room in which were many books and beautifully engraved celestial globes on stands. By the confused light that comes of candles being lit before the daylight is quite gone, he saw the usual writing-table scattered with papers. But for once, Sir Thomas was not working. He was sitting in a wing chair beside the empty hearth, supporting in one hand the silver bowl of a long-stemmed pipe, his head tipped back against the gilded leather squab, to look up at the only other occupant of the room. This was a loose-limbed greying-sandy Scot in a stained doublet, who stood with one elbow on the mantle, industriously poking bits of candlewick out of a pair of snuffers with the blunt end of a lancet. David Morrison was the Commander-in-Chief’s personal friend as well as his regimental surgeon, but evidently it was as a doctor that he had been speaking the moment before, for as Simon entered, he heard Fairfax’s slow pleasant voice answering through a cloud of tobacco smoke, ‘Be hanged to you, Davy. How can I rest it? I’ve got a campaign on my hands.’ An instant later he laid aside his pipe and sat up. ‘Good evening, Cornet Carey.’
‘You sent for me, sir.’
‘I did.’
As Simon squared his shoulders and advanced, the Scottish doctor set down the snuffers with a click, and returned the lancet to his pocket. ‘Ye’ll no be wanting me for a wee while, I’m thinking.’
‘Then don’t be thinking, man. There is nothing in what I have to say to Cornet Carey that will not do for your ears.’
‘Ah, weel . . .’ The surgeon turned and crossed to the window, taking a book at random from one of the shelves as he passed.
Fairfax turned back to Simon. ‘I sent for you to tell you that one of the patrols have picked up your missing Corporal, and brought him into camp a short while ago.’
‘Yes, sir,’ said Simon.
‘And to ask you if you have any idea why he deserted.’
‘I—I think I have, sir.’
Fairfax leaned forward, his eye on his young officer’s face. ‘The position is this: Corporal Relf will go before a Court Martial tomorrow, to answer for his conduct, and it may be that his reason for deserting will be better kept until then; but if you feel at liberty to tell it to me, I should be very glad. I am not fond of moving completely in the dark.’
Simon was silent for a long moment. It was a difficult decision to make. But though revenge was not, he supposed, a very good reason for deserting, he could not help feeling that it was likely to find more favour with Fiery Tom than the more usual ones. ‘Well, sir,’ he said at last, ‘I don’t know for certain; it’s really only guesswork—’ Once again, he told the whole story.
Fairfax heard him out, without moving. ‘Not a pleasant story,’ he said when it was finished. ‘None the less, the pursuit of a private revenge is scarcely an excuse for deserting in time of war.’
‘No, sir; but he’s a fearsome good Corporal; and it was his friend. That was what made it so bad.’
‘He has chosen the wrong time to commit a breach of military discipline.’
‘The wrong time, sir?’ Simon’s voice was bewildered.
‘Carey, I believe seamen will tell you that when a ship is newly launched, she is only so many pieces of timber and metal; and it is not until she has been at sea long enough for these separate parts to settle into one whole, that the ship herself is born. This Army is at present in a like case. It has not yet found itself, and whether or not it ever does so, depends on many things, one of which is discipline.’ Simon
found the clear dark eyes of the Commander-in-Chief looking very straightly into his own. ‘There have been several cases of desertion in the past forty-eight hours; several more of looting and wilful damage. That is to be expected after a battle; but in this New Model Army of ours, it must not happen again.’
Over by the window, old David Morrison was softly whistling his one tune. Simon had once asked him what it was, and been told, ‘Och, you will be meaning “The Flowers of the Forest”? It iss a lament for Flodden; for the King and the flower of the Clans lying dead among the broom and the bell-heather, and the peat hearths left desolate.’ Now, as he found himself listening to the slow-falling cadences, they seemed to hold all the heartache of the world.
‘As his officer, you will be called to testify to your Corporal’s past conduct and character,’ Fairfax was saying.
‘Yes, sir—and he’s a really good man,’ Simon said again, eagerly.
The Lord-General’s dark face lit for an instant with his rare smile. ‘Tell the officers of the Court Martial that— Oh, and, Carey, you are of course at liberty to visit the prisoner.’
‘Thank you, sir. Where shall I find him?’
‘In the village lock-up. Good night.’
‘Good night, sir.’
Half an hour later, Simon was with his Corporal in the village lock-up. Viewed from the outside, it was a charming place, deep-thatched and dripping with Traveller’s Joy; but inside, it was less pleasant: the walls damp-stained with leprous patches, the straw sodden. There was a thick smell of dirt and decay, and even as Simon entered and the door was fastened behind him, a rat scampered over his feet and disappeared into the brown shadows.