Great Britain -- History -- Charles I, 1625-1649 -- Fiction
But what a spectacle they themselves to those inside it, to the
hundreds, nay thousands, who gazed off and out from turret, wall, and
window! The first glimpse got of them was by the warder in the Castle's
keep, just as the brightening sky enabled him to descry objects at a
distance. Then other sentries saw them from the watch towers of the
gates on that side; and the signal of alarm ran along the line of
fortification, round and round. Soon bells rang, trumpets brayed, and
drums beat all over the city, startling the citizens out of their sleep
and beds. Before the sun had yet shown above the horizon, not one but
was awake, and most out of doors. Men rushed wildly through the
streets--women too--or stood aperch, clustering on every eminence, every
pinnacle and parapet thick as bees, with eager, anxious glances scanning
the country outside. At length to fix them on the long, glittering
line--for the sheen of the cuirasses were not all gone--that now
approached in slow, laboured pace, as the crawl of a scotched snake.
When near enough for the bare heads and battered helmets to be
distinguished, the blood smouches on dress, arms, and accoutrements, the
gloom on brows and in eyes, with lips compressed and features hard set
as in sullen anger--when these sure insignia of disaster were fully
before them, a feeling of despondency came over the hearts of the
Bristolians. Intensified, doubled, when at the head of this figment of
a force, crushed and shattered, they saw Sir William Waller, and by his
side Sir Arthur Hesselrig--the two leaders so long victorious as to be
deemed invincible! They had seen them ride out with an army numbering
nigh 6,000 men, and now saw them returning, in retreat, with but a bare
hundred! These so down-looking and dispirited, that, as Waller
himself--candid as he was brave--confessed in his report to the Lord
General, "a corporal with an ordinary squadron could have routed them."
To many who witnessed their re-entry within Bristol's gates it was as
much spectre as spectacle--the presentiment of misfortune for
themselves.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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