Legends of Lancashire 7

Legends of Lancashire 7

“We part not thus, for your mistres’s sake. Ride by my side, and

you may command this arm to strike for your safety.”

 

At this moment the small army heard some half-concealed

movement made, behind the hedges, and instantly a close fire of

musketry;--only a few were wounded.

 

“The foe are in ambush!” exclaimed Sir Thomas.

 

“Nay,” replied the earl, “the greater part are before us,” pointing

to a large army which now appeared. “Let us advance. Sir Thomas,

take the half of the band, and I shall lead the others. Let a halt

be sounded. We can do nothing against those who fire from the

hedges. Let us cut through the main body.--A halt!”

 

Ere the signal had been given, many a brave fellow, had indeed,

halted, never more to advance, as a second volley, directed with a

steadier aim, was poured in upon them.

 

Derby, in a moment, was at the head of his detachment. “Soldiers

of Charles!” he said, with energetic eloquence, “there are his

enemies and yours; and where are your swords? Be mangled--be

slain--but yield not. Hear your leader’s vow. Upon this good sword,

I swear, that as long as steel can cut, flesh shall wield.--Charge!

Upon them! The king! the king!” and they dashed on to meet the

enemy.

 

Colonel Lilbourne, who commanded the enemy, instantly arrayed his

men, to bear up against the attack, and a dense square was formed

from hedge to hedge, of the regular troops, while the militia of

Lancashire and Cheshire were formed into a wing, to close in upon

the royalists, when they engaged with the main body.

 

Derby, with his three hundred men, spurred on with incredible fury,

until they found themselves hand to hand with the regular troops.

They were instantly surrounded, for the militia wing had wheeled,

and now assailed them in the rear. A shout from the Parliamentary

army was raised, as the three hundred seemed to be bound in their

power, when Sir Thomas Tyldesley, with his men, advanced; and so

furious was the onset, that the enemy were literally trodden under

foot, and Derby and the knight were riding abreast, at the head

of their respective bodies, fighting to cut a passage through

the dragoons. Heedless of danger, the royalists followed every

direction of their leaders, who, themselves, fought, as well as

commanded. They had now almost reached the extremity of Lilbourne’s

forces, and bloody was the passage which they had made.

 

“One effort more,” said the earl to his men, “and all is

gained!--On!” The battle raged more furiously--Derby’s sword, at

every thrust and plunge, was stained with fresh gore; but, all of

a sudden, he stood pale and surprised--for there was Sir Richard

Houghton advancing to meet him, from Lilbourne’s guard, with drawn

sword. Could he have turned traitor? The earl’s weapon was as ready

for a blow, as his heart was for a curse upon a false knight, and

instantly they would have crossed swords, had not Derby’s steed

been shot from under him, while that of the recreant knight carried

his rider beyond him, safe and unharmed. On foot the earl fought

with as much execution as when mounted; but his voice could not

be heard, as he addressed his men, from amidst the hoofs of the

enemy’s horse. An officer of the enemy approached. In a moment he

was dragged from the saddle, pierced as he lay on the ground, and

as his dying eyes were raised, he beheld Derby mounting his horse.

Many blows were then showered upon the gallant nobleman, and some

deadly thrusts were made in the direction of his breast, but he

seemed to escape unhurt.

 

The next moment placed Derby at the extremity of the opposing

lines. “King Charles and England’s royalty!” was the shout that

burst from his lips, and, although it was heard by the enemy, for

a few moments they fell back from the single arm of the loyal

nobleman. There seemed something supernatural in his bearing, so

calm, and yet so furious. Taking advantage of their inactivity,

he dashed through the rear. A gleam of sunshine flashed on his

armour, and hope entered his soul, as he found himself at the

top of the steep and sweeping descent which leads to the town.

It was then rocky and precipitous, but his horse never stumbled.

For a moment he wheeled round, and no followers were near, except

young Tyldesley, and the page. Stern was the __EXPRESSION__ on the

countenance of the former; but the latter, though pale, displayed

a heroism still wilder. And yet his sword had not, throughout the

battle, been unsheathed, and he had forced a passage without giving

a wound.

 

“Brave page!” exclaimed the earl. “Still, thou oughtest to have

used thy sword; thine arm might have sent the blow with power

sufficient to wound--aye, to kill!”

 

At this moment two of the enemy, who had pursued the leader of the

royalists, rushed on him. His horse plunged furiously, and turned

himself altogether on one of the assailants--thus exposing his

rider. Instantly that assailant sprung forward with a loud shout

of joy; but that shout was ended in a dying shriek, as the sword

of the page passed through his body. The other fell by the earl’s

own hand. For a brief space the page looked with something of

satisfaction on the blood-stained sword. But as a drop fell upon

that small hand, a shudder passed over his frame, and his eye was

fixed, with unnatural light, on the spot.

 

“It is of a foul colour!” he exclaimed. “Good God! and have these

fair hands been stained with human blood? What will Anne Houghton,”

he added in a low tone, “think of me now?”

 

“Nay, nay,” hastily replied the earl, “repent not the deed at the

sight of blood. I thank thee, brave youth. But now, what movement

is to be made? Shall we rush upon Wigan without our followers?”

 

“I’ll defend the church,” said the page, “as the brave countess

defended her home.”

 

But before Derby had decided--for all that we have related took

place in a few moments--a cry arose from his men in the rear,

who, overpowered by numbers, could neither fight nor advance.

The dragoons, headed by Sir Richard Houghton, had so surrounded

them, that they must either surrender, or die to a man. That

knight conducted himself most valorously, for, in every enemy who

approached, he expected to recognize those whose perfidy (such he

thought it) he burned to revenge. At every attempt of the small

band of royalists to rally, by shouting “Derby and Tyldesley,” he

dealt his blows more fiercely. Still, the royalists did not call

for quarter; and soon, in this awful emergency, they heard the

voice of Derby cheering them on, as he came to their succour. So

sudden was the assault, and so much impetus was given to it, that

the enemy, in the terror of the moment, crowded to the hedges, over

which many of them leapt their horses. But Sir Richard Houghton

kept his station, at the head of a few followers, who remained

firm; when his eye, falling upon young Tyldesley, he spurred his

horse forward, aiming a blow at his enemy. A shriek, at that moment

arising from the page, arrested his arm.

 

“No! no!” exclaimed Sir Richard, “it cannot be; and yet, so like

in sound!” Ere he had uttered these words, his arms were gently

grasped by the page; but a follower of the knight soon freed him

from the encumbrance, and the wounded youth fell into the arms

of Harry Tyldesley, who bore him forth, himself fatally wounded.

Bloody was the harvest which the royalists now began to reap, as

they charged the fugitives, with impetuous fury. The earl, and his

brave fellow-leader, Sir Thomas Tyldesley, met, having literally

cut down, and cut through the intervening troops of the enemy.

Several officers had been slain, and Sir Richard Houghton had been

carried from the field by his men, faint from wounds.

 

“Again!” was the exclamation of the loyal leaders, as they

separated to lead their followers once more to the work of death.

 

Success attended every blow, and many were the bodies which they

rolled over mounds, and charged into the river, entirely routing

their array. But soon they were vigorously repulsed by Lilbourne’s

guard, who closely engaged them. After a long struggle, the

gallant royalists made their way to the farthest line of the

enemy. “Again!” was now not only the exclamation of the leaders,

but likewise the war-cry of their men, and they wheeled and dashed

through the centre of the dragoons. Here the scene of battle

widened, the enemy had been driven from their ranks, and the

royalists had left theirs to follow them; and now the fate of the

battle seemed altogether changed. The combat was almost single,

and then six were opposed to one. Derby was unhorsed a second

time, and his brave and faithful servant, who had, in his youth,

followed him from France, fell in warding off some blows from his

master. Lord Widdrington was pursued by a whole rank of dragoons,

and slain on the banks of the Douglas. In vain did the royalists

attempt to rally. Their leaders saw that the battle was lost. The

earl had, himself, received many wounds, and was faint from the

loss of blood. His sword was heavy for his arm, and he could attack

with difficulty, since he was on foot. He stood, for a moment,

bewildered, when he heard Sir Thomas Tyldesley, at the head of

about twenty men, exclaim, “through, or die!” Instantly the brave

knight was in the thickest of the engagement. His plume waved long,

and his arm plunged furiously. At length he fell, pierced by many

weapons, but his head lay proudly in death, upon a heap of those

whom his own hands had slain, forming a monument more lasting than

that which the gratitude of a follower has erected, on the same

spot, to the hero’s memory.

 

Derby now stood alone:--after great exertions he could only rally a

few men. These persuaded him that he could only die, did he choose

to remain. He perceived then that his death should be in vain, that

it could not change the fate of that day’s battle. They mounted

him on a horse, and scouring over the hedges together, were hotly pursued to Wigan.