It was early morning, about five o'clock, when we came to Charmouth; but the little town was as busy as though it were noon on fair-day. The street was crowded. People were coming in from all the countryside. A man was haranguing the crowd from a horseless waggon drawn up at an inn. The horses had no doubt been pressed into Monmouth's service some hours before. I should think that there must have been three hundred people listening to the orator. Men, already half drunk, with green boughs in their hats, were marching about the town in uneven companies, armed with clubs torn from the hedges. Weeping women followed them, trying to persuade their sons or husbands to come home. Other men were bringing out horses from private stables. People were singing. One man, leaning out of a window, kept on firing his pistol as fast as he could load. Waving men cheered from the hill above. The men in the town cheered back. There was a great deal of noisy joking everywhere. They cheered us as we rode through them, telling us that Monmouth had arms for all. One poor woman begged Mr. Blick to tell her man to come home, as without him the children would all starve. The crowd groaned at her; but Mr. Blick stopped them, calling the husband, who was in a sad state of drunken vainglory, to leave the ranks in which he tried to march. “We don't want fathers of families,” he cried. “We want these tight young bachelors. They're the boys.” Indeed, the tight young bachelors felt that this was the case, so the woman got her man again; lucky she was to get him. As far as I could judge, the crowd imagined us to be great officers; at any rate our coming drew away the listeners from the waggon. They came flocking to our heels as though we were the Duke himself. A drummer beat up a quickstep; the crowd surged forward. We marched across the fields to Lyme, five hundred strong. One of the men, plucking a sprig of hawthorn from the hedge, asked me to wear it in my hat as the Duke's badge, which I did. He called me “Captain.” “Captain,” he said. “We had a brush with them already, this morning, along the road here. Two on 'em were killed. They didn't stay for no more.” So fighting had begun then, the civil war had taken its first fruits of life. There could be no more shillyshallying; we had put our hands to a big business. In spite of the noise of the march, my spirits were rather dashed by the thought of those two men, lying dead somewhere on the road behind us, killed by their own countrymen.