Simon by Rosemary Sutcliff Page B

dragged on, while the King and Montrose prepared to crush Lord Leven’s force between them: and Simon, knowing that his father was in that threatened Army, had fretted more than most. But the orders of the Committee were not for questioning. Finally, when Charles, halting in his march, had sacked Leicester, and all the Eastern counties were in danger, Fiery Tom had taken matters into his own hands. He had called a council of war, raised the siege of Oxford and marched north, and sent orders to Cromwell to return at once and take command of the Horse.
    That had been several days ago; and yesterday Cromwell had rejoined the main Army at Kislingbury, just as they were breaking camp in a chill mizzle-rain. Simon had seen him ride in with his six hundred troopers, red-eyed and mired to the combs of their helmets with hard riding, their horses leg-weary under them; and word had run like stubble-fire through the camp. ‘Noll’s back! Old Noll’s come in!’ The Foot had taken up the cry from the Horse, and the whole Army had cheered themselves hoarse as the weary company rode in, cheered until the voice of their cheering had seemed to beat against the sodden skies, bringing the rain down faster than ever.
    Last night, the New Model had come up close on the heels of the Royalist Army, and bivouacked at Guilsborough, still in the driving rain. It had been creepingly cold, and in the black hour before dawn, when Chaplain Joshua Sprigg had offered up prayers for victory, and a meal of hard biscuit had been doled out to the troops, Simon had not wanted any. There had been a queer cringing in the pit of his stomach, of which he had been desperately ashamed, and the bare idea of food made him feel sick. He had not known what to do with his biscuit, for he could not give it to anyone else without owning to that shameful feeling, and had finally pushed it guiltily inside the breast of his sodden coat. Barnaby, who was beside him, had seen him do it, but most surprisingly had not laughed.
    ‘Scared?’ Barnaby had demanded in a low voice, close to his ear.
    Simon had run his tongue over uncomfortably dry lips.
    ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Sorry.’
    ‘Well, why shouldn’t you be? It’s your first taste of field action. I’ve been in action a good many times now, and I’m scared stiff.’
    ‘No?’ said Simon, with a gleam of hope.
    ‘Bless you!—yes; and I’m not the only one. This is the worst part though, the part that makes your innards crawl; you’ll be as right as a trivet when we get going; we all shall. And look here, Simon—’ Barnaby sounded suddenly embarrassed, almost apologetic.
    ‘Yes?’
    ‘It doesn’t matter a straw
being
scared, you know. It’s only when you let it interfere with the job in hand that it starts being something to be ashamed of.’
    Somehow that had helped quite a lot, and Simon had fished out his biscuit again, and eaten it with a determined effort, though it turned to sawdust in his mouth. After that there had been no more time to bother about anything save the business in hand. Still in drizzling rain, the camp had broken up and begun to move, column after column swinging away into the darkness. But when the grey dawn came, there had been a bar of sodden primrose low in the west. It had broadened and spread, changing to aquamarine, to clear-washed blue; and by the time they reached Naseby and the baggage-train was left behind, the rain had stopped, and the spirits of the wet chilled Army had lifted to the reborn sunshine of the June morning.
    And Barnaby had been right. The waiting in the dark had been the worst part. Simon no longer had to be ashamed for his queasiness; he was filled with a queer eager expectancy, and nothing worse, as he sat his fidgeting mount between the troopers of his Standard Escort, awaiting the order to advance. On either side of him, and behind, were ranged the Regiments of the Right Wing, under Lieutenant-General Cromwell, holding as their natural heritage the place