‘All battles are but chance work, your Majesty,’
remarked Saxon, whose sword-arm was bound round with
his kerchief. ’Some lucky turn, some slip
or chance which none can foresee, is ever likely to
turn the scale. I have lost when I have looked
to win, and I have won when I have looked to lose.
It is an uncertain game, and one never knows the finish
till the last card is played.’
‘Not till the stakes are drawn,’ said
Buyse, in his deep guttural voice. ’There
is many a leader that wins what you call the trick,
and yet loses the game.’
‘The trick being the battle and the game the
campaign,’ quoth the King, with a smile.
’Our German friend is a master of camp-fire
metaphors. But methinks our poor horses are in
a sorry state. What would cousin William over
at The Hague, with his spruce guards, think of such
a show as this?’
During this talk the long column of foot had tramped
past, still bearing the banners which they had brought
with them to the wars, though much the worse for wind
and weather. Monmouth’s remarks had been
drawn forth by the aspect of the ten troops of horse
which followed. The chargers had been sadly
worn by the continued work and constant rain, while
the riders, having allowed their caps and fronts to
get coated with rust, appeared to be in as bad a plight
as their steeds. It was clear to the least experienced
of us that if we were to hold our own it was upon our
foot that we must rely. On the tops of the low
hills all round the frequent shimmer of arms, glancing
here and there when the sun’s rays struck upon
them, showed how strong our enemies were in the very
point in which we were so weak. Yet in the main
this Wells review was cheering to us, as showing that
the men kept in good heart, and that there was no
ill-feeling at the rough handling of the zealots upon
the day before.
The enemy’s horse hovered about us during these
days, but the foot had been delayed through the heavy
weather and the swollen streams. On the last
day of June we marched out of Wells, and made our way
across flat sedgy plains and over the low Polden Hills
to Bridgewater, where we found some few recruits awaiting
us. Here Monmouth had some thoughts of making
a stand, and even set to work raising earthworks, but
it was pointed out to him that, even could he hold
the town, there was not more than a few days’
provisions within it, while the country round had been
already swept so bare that little more could be expected
from it. The works were therefore abandoned,
and, fairly driven to bay, without a loophole of escape
left, we awaited the approach of the enemy.
Of the Great Cry from the Lonely House
