Crown and Sceptre Part 41

"Oh, father," cried Scarlett, "and we are galloping away from home."

CHAPTER FIFTEEN.

FRED FORRESTER'S PRISONER.

Wild nearly with excitement, Fred Forrester kept his place in the ranks of his father's regiment all through that busy day of advance, retreat, and skirmish; but the Forresters were held in reserve during the final charge which resulted in the scattering of the king's forces before the warriors of the Parliament.

The day was won, and pursuit was going on in all directions; but the main body of the Parliamentarians were camping for the night, and tents were being set up, the wounded brought in, and strong parties engaged in burying the dead, while, as troop after troop returned with batches of prisoners, these were placed under guard, after being carefully disarmed.

The Forresters had dismounted at the edge of a beautiful, grove-like patch of timber at the foot of a hill. A stream of pure water babbled among the rocks, and, as the soft summer evening came slowly on, the grim, warlike aspect of the scene seemed to die out, and the smoke of the camp-fires, the pennons fluttering in the evening breeze, and the glinting of breastplate and morion formed a picture against the background of green, which might from a distance have been taken for one of peace.

Fred had dismounted, and, after taking off his heavy morion, which he would never own was too big and uncomfortable to a degree, hung it from the pommel of his saddle, while he patted and made much of his horse, unbuckling the bit, and leading the handsome beast to where it could make a meal from the soft, green gra.s.s.

"Poor old lad!" he said; "you must be nearly tired out."

The horse whinnied, and began feeding at once, while, after watching the men making their preparations for the bivouac, Fred was about to throw himself down, being too weary after his many hours in the saddle to care for food, when his father rode up, followed by a couple of the officers.

"Ah, Fred, my boy," he cried; "that's right: take care of your horse.

There will be some supper ready in about half an hour. A glorious day, my boy, a glorious day; and I'm proud of the way you behaved!"

"Are you, father," said Fred, sadly. "I don't think I have done much."

"You have done all I could wish to see you do. But, there, I must go and see after our men. Come up to my quarters soon, and eat, and then lie down and sleep. I may want you before long."

"To go on guard, sir?"

"No; for any little duty--to take charge of prisoners, perhaps. Where is Samson?"

"Gone, father."

"What? Not killed?"

"I hope not, father; but after that gallop, when we last changed front, I missed him, and, though we have searched, we can't find him. I'm afraid the enemy carried him off."

"Poor lad! A brave fellow, Fred. There, I must go."

"Shall I come with you now, father?"

"No; lie down and rest till the meal is ready."

Colonel Forrester rode off with his followers, and his son walked wearily to where his horse was feeding, and led it where it could have a hearty drink of the pure water. Then, having turned it loose again, he threw himself down, and lay gazing at the sunlit scene, wishing that the war was over, and that he could go back to the dear old manor house, and enjoy the pleasures of home and peace.

How beautiful it all looked, the golden sunshine glorifying the oak-trees with their tender leaves, and turning the pine trunks bronze-red! The films of wood smoke from the camp-fires spread in a pale blue vapour, and the babbling stream flashed. But, restful as the scene was, and pleasant as the reclining posture was to his aching bones, Fred did not feel happy, for he knew that not far away men were lying in fever and weariness, cut, stabbed, trampled by horse hoof, and shattered by bullet, many of them waiting anxiously for death, the same death that had come upon so many of their fellows, who were lying stark on the field, or being hastily laid in rows in their shallow grave.

"When will it all be over?" he said to himself. "I wonder where Scar is;" and then he thought how horrible it would be if ever he were to meet his old friend in action.

"And him with a sword in his hand and me with a sword in mine," he muttered. "Should we fight? I suppose so," he added, after a few moments' thought. "We are enemies now."

He started up on his elbow, for just then there was a cheer, in salutation of a man who was coming slowly up, leading his horse; and it only needed a second glance to show that it was Samson.

Fred forgot his weariness, sprang up, and ran toward his follower, who caught sight of him directly, and hastened to meet him.

"Oh!" e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed Fred, as he drew nearer and caught sight of the man's face. "What a horrible wound! Samson, lad, we thought you a prisoner, or dead."

"I arn't a prisoner, because I'm here," grumbled Samson; "and I arn't dead yet, thank ye, Master Fred."

"But your wound. Come on to the surgeon at once."

"My wound, sir?"

"Yes. Your face looks terrible. How did you manage to get here?"

"Face looks terrible--manage to get here! I'll tell you, sir. A big fellow with a broad grey hat and feathers, and all long hair and ragged lace, spurred at me, and, if I hadn't been tidy sharpish, he'd have rode me down. Hit at me, too, he did, with his sword, and caught me on the shoulder, but it didn't cut through the leather; and, 'fore he could get another cut at me, I give him a wipe on the head as made him rise up in his sterrups and hit at me with his fist."

"His fist, Samson?"

"Yes, sir. There was his sword in it, of course, and the pommel hit me right on the nose; and before I could get over it, he was off along with the rest, full gallop, and I was sitting on the ground, thinking about my mother and what a mess I was in, and my horse looking as if he was ashamed of me, as I was of myself. I wonder he didn't gallop off, too; but I s'pose he thought he wouldn't get a better master."

"But your face, Samson? It looks horrid."

"Well, I can't help that, Master Fred, can I? Didn't make my own face.

Good enough to come and fight with."

"Come along with me to the surgeon."

"What, and leave my horse? Not I, sir."

"A man's wounds are of more consequence than a horse."

"Who says so? I think a mortal deal more o' my horse than I do o' my wounds. 'Sides I arn't got no wounds."

"You have, and don't know it. You have quite a mask of blood on your face. It is hideous."

"Yah! that's nothing. It's my nose. It always was a one to bleed.

Whenever that brother o' mine, who went to grief and soldiering, used to make me smell his fist, my nose always bled, and his fist was quite as hard as that hard-riding R'y'list chap's. Called me a Roundhead dog, too, he did, as he hit me. If I'd caught him, I'd ha' rounded his head for him."

"Yes, yes, of course, Samson; but come down to the stream, and bathe your face. Your horse is grazing now."

"You're getting too vain and partic'lar, Master Fred," grumbled Samson.

"You're thinking of looking nice, like the R'y'lists, when you ought to be proud of a little blood shed in the good cause."

"I am proud and ready too, Samson; but come and wash your face."

"I'll come," grumbled Samson; "and I never kears about washing myself now. Never a drop o' hot water, no towels, no soap, and no well, and no buckets. Once a week seems quite enough, specially as you has to wait till you get dry."

By a little persuasion, Samson was led to the stream, where he knelt down and bathed his face, looking up to his master from time to time to ask if that was better, the final result being that, beyond a little swelling on one side, Samson's nose was none the worse for the encounter.

"There!" he cried at last; "I suppose that will do, sir."