"You shall lead us, Kit," he said at last.
The time seemed long in passing before the three hundred men of Fairfax’s came marching at a stubborn pace into the hollow down below. Then, with a roar of "A Mecca for the King!" Christopher was down among them with his kinsmen.
When all was done, there was nothing left of the three hundred except a press of fugitives, some prisoners, and many bodies scattered on the highroad. The garrison at Skipton might sleep well to-night, so far as recruits to the besieging forces went.
It was the prisoners who troubled the Squire of Nappa. His view of war had been that it was a downright affair of enemies who were killed or who escaped. He glanced at the fifty captives his men had taken, massed together in a sullen company, and was perplexed. His roving troop of horse could not be burdened with such a dead weight of footmen. The garrison at Skipton Castle would not welcome them, for there were mouths enough to feed there already.
"What shall I do with them, lads?" he asked, riding apart with his men.
Michael Metcalf, a raking, black-haired fellow, laughed carelessly. "Best take powder and pistols from them and turn ’em adrift like sheep. They’ll bleat to little purpose, sir, without their weapons."
The Squire nodded. "Thou’rt not noted for great strength of head, Michael, save so far as taking blows goes, but that was sage advice."
The Metcalfs, trusting first to their pikes, and afterwards—the gentry-sort among them—to their swords, were disposed to look askance at the pistols as tools of slight account, until Michael again found wisdom. King’s men, he said, might find a use for weapons the enemy found serviceable.
When the arms had been gathered, Squire Metcalf reined up in front of the prisoners. "Men of Fairfax’s," he said bluntly, "you’re a ragged lot to look at, but there are gentlemen among you. I do not speak of rank or class. The gentlemen, as the price of freedom, will take no further part in the Rebellion. The louts may do as they please, but they had best not let me catch them at the fighting."
The words came hot and ready, and though the dispersed company of prisoners laughed afterwards at the Squire’s handling of the matter, they warmed to his faith in them. They had volunteered from many occupations to serve the Parliament. Blacksmiths and clothiers and carpenters from Otley were mingled with farmers and slips of the gentry from the outlying country. All answered to the keen issue Squire Metcalf had given them. They were trusted. On the next day twenty of them lost hold of his message, and went in search of arms; but thirty were constant to their pledge, and this, with human nature as it is, was a high tribute to the Squire’s persuasiveness.