The Last Man
famine, and they followed in the wake of the Americans for England
also. The crossing of the sea could not arrest their progress. The
harbours of the desolate sea-ports of the west of Ireland were filled
with vessels of all sizes, from the man of war to the small fishers’
boat, which lay sailorless, and rotting on the lazy deep. The emigrants
embarked by hundreds, and unfurling their sails with rude hands, made
strange havoc of buoy and cordage. Those who modestly betook themselves
to the smaller craft, for the most part achieved their watery journey
in safety. Some, in the true spirit of reckless enterprise, went on
board a ship of an hundred and twenty guns; the vast hull drifted with
the tide out of the bay, and after many hours its crew of landsmen
contrived to spread a great part of her enormous canvass—the wind took
it, and while a thousand mistakes of the helmsman made her present her
head now to one point, and now to another, the vast fields of canvass
that formed her sails flapped with a sound like that of a huge
cataract; or such as a sea-like forest may give forth when buffeted by
an equinoctial north-wind. The port-holes were open, and with every
sea, which as she lurched, washed her decks, they received whole tons
of water. The difficulties were increased by a fresh breeze which began
to blow, whistling among the shrowds, dashing the sails this way and
that, and rending them with horrid split, and such whir as may have
visited the dreams of Milton, when he imagined the winnowing of the
arch-fiend’s van-like wings, which encreased the uproar of wild chaos.
These sounds were mingled with the roaring of the sea, the splash of
the chafed billows round the vessel’s sides, and the gurgling up of the
water in the hold. The crew, many of whom had never seen the sea
before, felt indeed as if heaven and earth came ruining together, as
the vessel dipped her bows in the waves, or rose high upon them. Their
yells were drowned in the clamour of elements, and the thunder rivings
of their unwieldy habitation—they discovered at last that the water
gained on them, and they betook themselves to their pumps; they might
as well have laboured to empty the ocean by bucketfuls. As the sun went
down, the gale encreased; the ship seemed to feel her danger, she was
now completely water-logged, and presented other indications of
settling before she went down. The bay was crowded with vessels, whose
crews, for the most part, were observing the uncouth sportings of this
huge unwieldy machine—they saw her gradually sink; the waters now
rising above her lower decks—they could hardly wink before she had
utterly disappeared, nor could the place where the sea had closed over
her be at all discerned. Some few of her crew were saved, but the
greater part clinging to her cordage and masts went down with her, to
rise only when death loosened their hold.
This event caused many of those who were about to sail, to put foot
again on firm land, ready to encounter any evil rather than to rush
into the yawning jaws of the pitiless ocean. But these were few, in
comparison to the numbers who actually crossed. Many went up as high as
Belfast to ensure a shorter passage, and then journeying south through
Scotland, they were joined by the poorer natives of that country, and
all poured with one consent into England.
Such incursions struck the English with affright, in all those towns
where there was still sufficient population to feel the change. There
was room enough indeed in our hapless country for twice the number of
invaders; but their lawless spirit instigated them to violence; they
took a delight in thrusting the possessors from their houses; in
seizing on some mansion of luxury, where the noble dwellers secluded
themselves in fear of the plague; in forcing these of either sex to
become their servants and purveyors; till, the ruin complete in one
place, they removed their locust visitation to another. When unopposed
they spread their ravages wide; in cases of danger they clustered, and
by dint of numbers overthrew their weak and despairing foes. They came
from the east and the north, and directed their course without apparent
motive, but unanimously towards our unhappy metropolis.
Communication had been to a great degree cut off through the paralyzing
effects of pestilence, so that the van of our invaders had proceeded as
far as Manchester and Derby, before we received notice of their
arrival. They swept the country like a conquering army, burning—laying
waste— murdering. The lower and vagabond English joined with them. Some
few of the Lords Lieutenant who remained, endeavoured to collect the
militia—but the ranks were vacant, panic seized on all, and the
opposition that was made only served to increase the audacity and
cruelty of the enemy. They talked of taking London, conquering
England—calling to mind the long detail of injuries which had for many
years been forgotten. Such vaunts displayed their weakness, rather than
their strength—yet still they might do extreme mischief, which, ending
in their destruction, would render them at last objects of compassion
and remorse.
We were now taught how, in the beginning of the world, mankind clothed
their enemies in impossible attributes—and how details proceeding from
mouth to mouth, might, like Virgil’s ever-growing Rumour, reach the
heavens with her brow, and clasp Hesperus and Lucifer with her
outstretched hands. Gorgon and Centaur, dragon and iron-hoofed lion,
vast sea-monster and gigantic hydra, were but types of the strange and
appalling accounts brought to London concerning our invaders. Their
landing was long unknown, but having now advanced within an hundred
miles of London, the country people flying before them arrived in
successive troops, each exaggerating the numbers, fury, and cruelty of
the assailants. Tumult filled the before quiet streets—women and
children deserted their homes, escaping they knew not whither—fathers,
husbands, and sons, stood trembling, not for themselves, but for their
loved and defenceless relations. As the country people poured into
London, the citizens fled southwards—they climbed the higher edifices
of the town, fancying that they could discern the smoke and flames the
enemy spread around them. As Windsor lay, to a great degree, in the
line of march from the west, I removed my family to London, assigning
the Tower for their sojourn, and joining Adrian, acted as his
Lieutenant in the coming struggle.
We employed only two days in our preparations, and made good use of
them. Artillery and arms were collected; the remnants of such
regiments, as could be brought through many losses into any show of
muster, were put under arms, with that appearance of military
discipline which might encourage our own party, and seem most
formidable to the disorganized multitude of our enemies. Even music was
not wanting: banners floated in the air, and the shrill fife and loud
trumpet breathed forth sounds of encouragement and victory. A practised
ear might trace an undue faltering in the step of the soldiers; but
this was not occasioned so much by fear of the adversary, as by
disease, by sorrow, and by fatal prognostications, which often weighed
most potently on the brave, and quelled the manly heart to abject
subjection.
Adrian led the troops. He was full of care. It was small relief to him
that our discipline should gain us success in such a conflict; while
plague still hovered to equalize the conqueror and the conquered, it
was not victory that he desired, but bloodless peace. As we advanced,
we were met by bands of peasantry, whose almost naked condition, whose
despair and horror, told at once the fierce nature of the coming enemy.
The senseless spirit of conquest and thirst of spoil blinded them,
while with insane fury they deluged the country in ruin. The sight of
the military restored hope to those who fled, and revenge took place of
fear. They inspired the soldiers with the same sentiment. Languor was
changed to ardour, the slow step converted to a speedy pace, while the
hollow murmur of the multitude, inspired by one feeling, and that
deadly, filled the air, drowning the clang of arms and sound of music.
Adrian perceived the change, and feared that it would be difficult to
prevent them from wreaking their utmost fury on the Irish. He rode
through the lines, charging the officers to restrain the troops,
exhorting the soldiers, restoring order, and quieting in some degree
the violent agitation that swelled every bosom.
We first came upon a few stragglers of the Irish at St. Albans. They
retreated, and, joining others of their companions, still fell back,
till they reached the main body. Tidings of an armed and regular
opposition recalled them to a sort of order. They made Buckingham their
head-quarters, and scouts were sent out to ascertain our situation. We
remained for the night at Luton. In the morning a simultaneous movement
caused us each to advance. It was early dawn, and the air, impregnated
with freshest odour, seemed in idle mockery to play with our banners,
and bore onwards towards the enemy the music of the bands, the
neighings of the horses, and regular step of the infantry. The first
sound of martial instruments that came upon our undisciplined foe,
inspired surprise, not unmingled with dread. It spoke of other days, of
days of concord and order; it was associated with times when plague was
not, and man lived beyond the shadow of imminent fate. The pause was
momentary. Soon we heard their disorderly clamour, the barbarian
shouts, the untimed step of thousands coming on in disarray. Their
troops now came pouring on us from the open country or narrow lanes; a
large extent of unenclosed fields lay between us; we advanced to the
middle of this, and then made a halt: being somewhat on superior
ground, we could discern the space they covered. When their leaders
perceived us drawn out in opposition, they also gave the word to halt,
and endeavoured to form their men into some imitation of military
discipline. The first ranks had muskets; some were mounted, but their
arms were such as they had seized during their advance, their horses
those they had taken from the peasantry; there was no uniformity, and
little obedience, but their shouts and wild gestures showed the untamed
spirit that inspired them. Our soldiers received the word, and advanced
to quickest time, but in perfect order: their uniform dresses, the
gleam of their polished arms, their silence, and looks of sullen hate,
were more appalling than the savage clamour of our innumerous foe. Thus
coming nearer and nearer each other, the howls and shouts of the Irish
increased; the English proceeded in obedience to their officers, until
they came near enough to distinguish the faces of their enemies; the
sight inspired them with fury: with one cry, that rent heaven and was
re-echoed by the furthest lines, they rushed on; they disdained the use
of the bullet, but with fixed bayonet dashed among the opposing foe,
while the ranks opening at intervals, the matchmen lighted the cannon,
whose deafening roar and blinding smoke filled up the horror of the
scene. I was beside Adrian; a moment before he had again given the word
to halt, and had remained a few yards distant from us in deep
meditation: he was forming swiftly his plan of action, to prevent the
effusion of blood; the noise of cannon, the sudden rush of the troops,
and yell of the foe, startled him: with flashing eyes he exclaimed,
“Not one of these must perish!” and plunging the rowels into his
horse’s sides, he dashed between the conflicting bands. We, his staff,
followed him to surround and protect him; obeying his signal, however,
we fell back somewhat. The soldiery perceiving him, paused in their