Part 13 (1/2)

Fairfax attacked in the first days of January, 1646, in exceptionally cold weather. Honourable conditions of surrender had been first offered to the Governor, but were refused, and he prepared to fight to the end.

'In extreme bitter cold weather and snow' the Parliamentary forces moved forward, and, after examining the town as closely as they could, decided to take it by storm. Additional troops were ordered up to strengthen the besiegers, and Sir Thomas Fairfax sent for a squadron to prevent any help reaching the Royalists by sea. On Sunday evening 'the soldiers were all drawn out; about seven at night forlorn hopes were set, the evening very mild, as at midsummer, the frost being newly gone; the word was given: _G.o.d with us_.... About 11 o'clock at night the storm began.'

Three separate attacks were made simultaneously on different parts of the town, and though the besieged fought bravely, they fought in vain, and by the next morning all but the Castle and the little fort above were in the hands of the enemy. Sir Hugh Pollard, the Governor (Sir Edward Seymour was at this time taking part in the defence of Exeter), had been wounded the night before, and, realizing that his position was hopeless, 'after some dispute, 'he surrendered on Fairfax's terms, and yielded himself and his officers prisoners, the common soldiers being set at liberty to repair to their dwellings.'

The fort above Kingswear, commanded by Sir Henry Cary, was protected by strong bulwarks, and the defence being very well carried out, the garrison obtained better terms. 'To save time,' writes Fairfax to the House of Peers, 'I willingly condescended to let Sir Henry Cary march away with the rest, leaving the arms, ordnance, ammunition, with all provisions.'

This was all accomplished on the Monday, and on the evening following the attack the Parliament was in full possession of the town.

CHAPTER VIII

Kingsbridge, Salcombe, and the South Hams

'On the ninth day of November, at the dawning in the sky, Ere we sailed away to New York, we at anchor here did lie; O'er the meadows fair of Kingsbridge, then the mist was lying grey; We were bound against the rebels, in the _North America_.

O, so mournful was the parting of the soldiers and their wives, For that none could say for certain they'd return home with their lives.

Then the women they were weeping, and they curs'd the cruel day That we sailed against the rebels, in the _North America_.'

_Farewell to Kingsbridge._

Kingsbridge lies in a fold of the hills that rise beyond the head of the creek running inland from Salcombe Harbour, and seen from the water it is very picturesque--the houses cl.u.s.tered together and clinging to the slope, and the spire of St Edmund's Church standing out against the still, green background. Mr Mason has written of 'the mists on the hills, and the gulls crying along the valley,' by Kingsbridge, and this exactly sums up its individuality. It has the peculiar atmosphere of a sea-town, but why, precisely, it is difficult to say.

The Fore Street is steep and winding, and on one side stands a church which, without any very striking feature, is quietly impressive. It is a cruciform building, and a steeple rises from the centre. A chapel, dedicated to St Edmund, King and Martyr, stood on this spot before the year 1250; but it was rebuilt and aisles were added by the Abbot and monks of Buckfast in the beginning of the fifteenth century. In the south transept of the present church are remains of early English work, and the font is Early English. Hagioscopes slant through the chancel walls from the aisle on either side. The very unusual name of a benefactress must be noticed--Tryphena Tobys.

Dodbrooke is joined so closely to Kingsbridge that their streets run into each other, and they are separated only by small streams now partly covered in. It would be almost impossible for a stranger wandering about to say offhand which town he was in. Dodbrooke is really the older of the two. A grant to hold a market was made to Alan Fitz-Roald, in or possibly just before the year 1256. About this time a serious quarrel occurred, when 'Henry Fitz-Alan impleaded Matthew Fitz-John, with forty others, for throwing down a pillory in Dodbrooke. Forty seems a good many against the pillory! But the affair was not one of those cases in which a spark causes a fire, but was rather an outburst of flame in a long-smouldering feud between the Fitz-Alans and the Lords of Stokenham over the manor of Dodbrooke. In the end, the Fitz-Alans triumphed.

Three hundred years later we find the people of Dodbrooke complaining of the heavy contributions that they were called on to make towards furnis.h.i.+ng 's.h.i.+ps of war'; for after the Armada had been defeated the means of defence on these coasts were for some years kept up to a very high standard. Mr Richard Champernowne,--who, it must be admitted, from the general tenor of his ways, seems to have been one of those well-meaning but egotistical and meddlesome people who are always being surprised and hurt because their good offices are not better received,--wrote to the local authorities as follows:

'Cousin Cary, and the rest of the Commissioners for the s.h.i.+p causes, I have received some grievous complaints of some poor men who are taxed in Dodbrook to this, more than all their goods are worth.... Surely, as the country must bitterly speak against those [who] are procurors and a.s.sistants in this country, so would it be as highly disliked both of her Majesty as of the Lords, if they knew rightly of whom, and on what sort, this tax is levied.'

But, alas! a severe snub was the result of this appeal, and the unhappy Mr Cary must have deeply regretted that he had obligingly forwarded the grievance to the Lords of the Council.

Their answer ran: 'The Court.... The Council to George Carey, J.P....'

They learn by his late letter that the county is unwilling to contribute the charges imposed upon it for 'setting out s.h.i.+ps etc.' It is paid cheerfully by other counties, and he is desired to return the names of those persons who are obstinate in refusing payment.

There is no building of special interest excepting the church, which is dedicated to St Thomas a Becket. The arches dividing the aisles from the nave are high and rather pointed, giving an impression of loftiness.

There is a beautiful carved screen, with painted figures on the panels; and the font is a very early one. Of the infants baptized in it, one at least obtained a rather unenviable celebrity--Dr John Wolcot, better known as 'Peter Pindar.' His bitter satires earned for him a harvest of hatred and abuse, but n.o.body denied his wit. 'There is a pretty story of the older Pindar that a swarm of bees lighted on his cradle in his infancy and left honey on his lips; but we fear in the case of our hero they were wasps that came, and that they left some of the caustic venom of their stings.' A surgeon's son, he studied medicine himself, but was unpopular with his patients for the reason that his ideas were too far ahead of his time. His opinion that 'a physician can do little more than watch Dame Nature, and give her a shove in the back when he sees her inclined to do right,' was considered a shocking heresy, and, no doubt, a confession of his own ignorance.

Before leaving Dodbrooke, mention must be made of the 'white ale'

peculiar to the place--a compound of malt, hops, and flour, fermented with an ingredient called 'grout.' Some of the statements about this ale show the curious tendency of traditions to transfer themselves from points in the nebulous past to points that are just beyond the range of living memory. It is difficult to discover when 'white ale' was first made, but the general idea is that it was invented a very long time ago, though personally I have not been able to find any indisputable reference to it earlier than in the edition of Camden's 'Britannia'

published in 1720, where there is a brief notice that the people of Dodbrooke pay t.i.thes in white ale to the Rector. A will dated 1528, however, gives directions in regard to a gift that was to include 'cakes, wine, and ale,' and it has been supposed that the particular kind made in this town would be the ale here referred to. Yet I was told by an inhabitant of the neighbourhood who was a good deal interested in local traditions, that it was introduced by the French doctor of the prisoners of war at Kingsbridge Barracks, for the benefit of those who found themselves ill at ease in this climate--an event that could not possibly have taken place till the very end of the eighteenth century.

There is a charm over all this country, not solely due to its beauty. It is true that it is rather drowsy, that the 'spell of the briar-rose' in part lies over it, but it may be that this adds to the charm. There is an absence of compet.i.tion, an air of plenty and of kindness, a golden glamour that gives the impression that Nature has told the people theirs is a generous portion, and they may sit still and be content. And they are content.

There is such an overbr.i.m.m.i.n.g wealth of bushes and plants and flowers on every side, that the fact of the water in the estuary being salt scarcely seems to prevent their growing in it! Along the bank washed by the flowing tide, and almost touching the ma.s.ses of tough golden-brown seaweed on the rocks, are mult.i.tudes of the daisy-flowers of sea-mayweed, flowering samphire, the stars of sow-thistle, and bright yellow bunches of charlock and straggling spires of wild-mignonette, against a darker background of blackthorn, hawthorn, ivy, and furze, lightly powdered with trails of bramble-blossom. Creeks, edged with low hills, wind away from the estuary. When the tide is low, great stretches of mud and sand lie on either side, and here may be seen black cormorants and crowds and crowds of gulls, here and there a heron, and quant.i.ties of smaller birds. The scene changes entirely at the mouth of the creek, for here the banks rise into high rugged cliffs, and the water frets restlessly over sunken rocks.

Salcombe is a tiny little town, with steep, narrow streets and high-walled gardens on each side of the close lane that ends the princ.i.p.al street; and between the gardens the air is fragrant with sweet clematis, that, as well as red valerian, tumbles in cl.u.s.ters over the walls. Salcombe has a very good claim to remembrance, for on a peninsular rock at the mouth of the harbour stand the ruins of a fortress that held out for King Charles later than any other place in Devons.h.i.+re. It was defended by Sir Edward Fortescue, and surrendered only on May 7, 1646.

On the opposite side of the estuary, high on the cliffs, lies the small village of Portlemouth. The cross-shaped church is dedicated to a Celtic saint, St Winwaloe, locally called St Onolaus. A proverb without much point (probably only the fragment of a more coherent saying) mentions St Winwaloe amongst several saints whose days fall on windy dates.

'First comes David, next comes Chad, And then comes Winneral, as though he were mad, White or black, On old house thack [thatch].'