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<h3 class="chapter">Chapter Twenty Five.</h3> <h4 class="event">In Council of War.</h4> The man who had succeeded Colonel Essex in the governorship of Bristol was well, even enthusiastically, affected to the Parliamentary cause. Beyond that, he was altogether unfitted for the trust reposed in him. A lawyer before becoming soldier, he better understood the marshalling of arguments than armies, and, though a man of grave, serious thought, his passionate temper gave offence to friends as foes, oft thwarting his best intentions. Fortunately he had around him men of greater military capacity and experience, by whose counsels he was, to some extent, controlled—officers who had seen service in the Low Countries, Sweden, and Germany—among them Sir Richard Walwyn. How the knight came to be in Bristol—Eustace Trevor too—may need making known. At the breaking out of hostilities, when blood began to flow, the Dean Foresters were, in a way, taken by surprise, and for a time overpowered. In addition to their old enemy, Sir John Wintour, threatening them on the south, they had to contend with the strong and well-disciplined force of Lord Herbert on the west; while Harry Lingen, a man of more capability than either—as a partisan leader unsurpassed—had commenced harassing them from the Herefordshire side. Seeing he would be unable to hold ground against such odds, Sir Richard, who had hastily got together a body of horse, withdrew it from the Forest, and joined the main force of the Parliament, which confronted that of the King. At the time the two armies were manoeuvring in Worcestershire, Warwick, and Salop, every day expecting to come into collision, which they did soon after at Edgehill—a drawn battle, with feats of daring on both sides, and on both displays of abject cowardice. The men commanded by Sir Richard Walwyn were not chargeable with this last; instead, on that day distinguishable by the first, having performed prodigies of valour. Since then he and his Foresters had shown themselves on other fields, and done other gallant deeds, till the troop of horse, with the “big sergeant,” had become a name of terror to the Royalist soldiers. Even Rupert’s pick Cavaliers would have shied encounter with it, unless they knew themselves in the proportion of two to one. By the drift of events, this small but efficient body became part of the garrison of Bristol—disagreeable duty to the Foresters, but forced upon them by the chances of war. So in Bristol we now find them, with their commanding officer Sir Richard, their “big sergeant” Rob Wilde, and for one of their captains the ex-gentleman-usher, Eustace Trevor. To explain his presence there and position it needs but referring back to his words spoken in that hour when Lunsford was hammering at the door of Hollymead House. Reverting to the new governor, we must give him the credit of endeavour to do his best—that at least. Entering upon the office full of hope and spirit, he was correspondingly vigorous in the execution of its duties. And as there had been no time for his enthusiasm to get cool, or his vigour to become relaxed, before that 7th of March—but a few days after Essex had been clapped under arrest—Fiennes was in the very blush of energetic activity. Not dining, wining, and dancing, as his predecessor would have been, in the company of gay Cavaliers, and light-hearted, as light-headed ladies; but within one of the reception rooms of the castle, holding counsel with half-a-score of grave men—chiefly commanding officers of the troops that composed the garrison of the city. All were impressed with the seriousness of the situation, feeling themselves, if not actually besieged, likely soon to be. From without, reports were pouring in, daily, hourly, of reverses sustained by the Parliamentarians. The capture and massacre at Cirencester, the surrendering of Malmesbury, Tewkesbury, and Devizes, with the abandonment of Sudley and Berkeley Castles,—all adverse events, following in quick succession as the blows of a hammer,—were enough to alarm the new governor and the men in consultation with him. The more, from their belief that in all likelihood Bristol would be the next point aimed at by the now victorious Royalists. For they knew it was the quarry these would most like to stoop at and kill. Ever since the commencement of hostilities, it and Gloucester had been very thorns in the side of the Royalist party; both cities being storehouses of war material, and other effects conducive to the supply of its sinews. But chiefly the great seaport, at once door of entry and key to the rich Severn Valley—with its towns and villages up to Shrewsbury—while also commanding the commerce and intercourse with South Wales. Rupert, now at the head of a considerable body of troops, held all the open country from the Severn up to Oxford, raiding over and ravaging it at will. But the rumour had got ground that he meant soon to engage in something more than mere skirmishing warfare, by making a dash at Bristol, either to attempt taking that city by assault, or laying siege to it. The assemblage of officers at the Castle was in consequence of this rumour, which had just reached the Governor’s ears, and he had hastily called them together to have their views and advice upon what steps had best be taken in the contingency—should it occur. But, as already made known, something more than the enemy without called for their consideration. The egg of treason, which had been hatching under Essex’s too lenient rule, was not an addled one. The vile bird was still vigorous within it, threatening to break the shell. A gleam of warmth and hope, the touch of a helping hand, and it would burst forth full fledged, ready to tear with beak and talons. On this night Nathaniel Fiennes was unusually excited; angry at the difficult task left him by his predecessor, just as might the Earl of Ripon be with Lord Lytton, that ass in lion’s skin—now politically defunct—for demising him the legacy of Afghanistan. But the lawyer-soldier, however worried and over-weighted, was not either dismayed or discouraged. After listening to what his fellow counsellors had to say, and giving his own views, he exclaimed in conclusion, and determinedly: “Before our enemies enter Bristol they’ll have to pass over my dead body!” “And mine, too!” “And mine!” were echoes of like patriotic resolve. All emphatic, though not all sincere; for the loudest of them came from the lips of a man who least meant what he said. Even then, Colonel Langrish was contemplating the treason he afterwards perpetrated. No one present so quietly declared himself as Sir Richard Walwyn. A man more of deeds than words, such pompous proclamation was averse to his nature, and pompous, so far as regarded Fiennes, it afterwards proved. For the enemy did enter Bristol, not over his dead body, nor even fiercely fighting with him, but by surrender, facile, and so much like being criminal, that the lawyer-soldier was himself cast into prison, not by foes, but those hitherto his friends; afterwards tried for his life, and let off as the son of Lord Saye and Sele, though without leave to play at soldiering any more. But we anticipate. Returning to the conference in the Castle, it had well-nigh reached conclusion, when the usher in charge of the door entered to announce a party seeking audience of the Governor, to whom alone the communication was made. “Who are they?” demanded Fiennes. “I don’t know, your Excellency. They’re still outside the gate. The guard-corporal brought the message—he’s at the door.” “Bring him in!” The abrupt order was with promptness executed; and in twenty seconds after, the corporal of the castle guard stood before the Governor, saluting in military style. “Who are these wishing to speak with me?” asked the latter. “I only know one of them, your Excellency,” returned the corporal. “That’s Sergeant Wilde, of the Forest of Dean troop—Sir Richard Walwyn’s. The other two are a short man and a tall woman—very tall she is. The man has a wooden leg.” “If I’m not mistaken, Colonel Fiennes,” interposed Sir Richard, who, standing by, overheard what the corporal had said, “I know all the party. And as my sergeant, Wilde, appears to be one of them, I’ll answer for the honesty of their purpose in seeking an interview with you, whatever it be.” “Let them be brought in?” commanded the Governor—“all three.” At which the guard-corporal, once more saluting, made “about face,” and with the usher disappeared from the room. “Who are they, Sir Richard?” asked the Governor, as the door was again closed. “By the description,” answered the knight, “I identify the short man and the very tall woman as cadgers, who follow their humble calling around the Forest of Dean; despite the reversed proportions in stature, being brother and sister.” “But what, think you, can they be wanting with me?” “That I can’t say, your Excellency. Though likely something of grave concern, or Rob Wilde wouldn’t be with them as their introducer. He isn’t the man to intrude, without serious purpose.” Their dialogue was interrupted by sounds in the hallway outside; a scraping and shuffling of heavily-shod feet, with something that resembled the strokes of a wooden mallet upon the stone flags, administered in regular repetition. It was no mystery, however, either to the Governor or the knight, both already aware that they were to see a man with a wooden leg. Which they did, as the door was again pushed open, and the usher entered for the third time, conducting in Jerky Jack and his sister, the sergeant bringing up the rear. <hr /></div> <div class="page-break"></div> <div class="bodytext"> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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