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‘Is that you, Fleming?’ said the voice of old Price, our Welsh quartermaster. ‘Then turn out quick to the West Gate! The enemy has sent in a trumpet in form, and you are to convey him up to the Castle.’

Without delay I fetched my roan mare from the stable, mounted, and rode out beyond the West Gate to a point where the little River Wey runs close alongside the high-road. There I found the trumpet in converse with our picket, and took stock of him by aid of the sergeant’s lantern. He was a blackavised, burly fellow, with heavy side-locks, a pimpled face, and about the nose a touch of blue that, methought, did not come of the frosty air. He sat very high in saddle, upon a large-jointed bay, and wore a stained coat that covered his regimentals and reached almost to his rowels. A dirty red feather wagged over his hat-brim. As I rode up he greeted me with a jovial brotherly curse, and hoped–showing me his letter–that we kept good drink at the Castle. ‘And if so,’ he added, ‘your little William the Conqueror may keep me so long as he has a mind to.’

I told him, as we rode back and into Farnham, that Sir William, as a rule, made quick despatch of business.

‘He made pretty quick despatch of it at Lansdowne,’ said my Cavalier, and started trolling a catch,–

‘Great William the Con,
So fast he did run,
That he left half his name behind him!’

Perceiving him to be an ill-bred fellow, and that to answer his jeering would be time wasted, I turned the talk upon his message.

‘The Lord Crawford sends for an exchange of prisoners?’ I hazarded.

‘The Lord Crawford does not waste a man of my talents in swapping of prisoners,’ was the response. ‘And when Orlando Rich takes the road and risks his health on such a night as this, you may be sure ’tis on business of moment.’

I questioned him no further. We rode through the park (the sentries taking my password), and came to the guardroom of the Castle, where, as we dismounted, the general’s quartermaster lounged out and called for a couple of men to take our horses. Then, learning that my companion brought a message from Lord Crawford, he made no delay but led us straight to the general’s room.

Though the clock in the corner had gone midnight, the general sat in a litter of papers with a lamp at his elbow and his legs stretched out to a bright sea-coal fire. With him was closeted Colonel Pottley, of the London train-bands, and by the look of the papers around them they had been checking the lists (as two days later there was heavy court-martialling among the newly arrived drafts and cashiering of officers that had misbehaved in Middlesex).

‘You come from the Earl of Crawford?’ asked the general, not rising from his chair, but holding out a hand for the letter.

The messenger presented it, with a good soldierly salute; and so stood, pulling at his moustachios and looking fierce. ‘Your name?’

‘Sergeant Orlando Rich, of the Earl’s Loyal Troop.’ The general broke the seal, ran his eye over the paper, and let out a short laugh.

‘His lordship sends me his loving compliment and prays me to spare him a runlet of sack or of malvoisy, for that his own wine is drunk out and the ale at Alton does not agree with his stomach.’

‘Nor with any man’s,’ corroborated Sergeant Rich.

‘He promises to send me a fat ox in exchange, and–‘ the General glanced to the foot of the scrawl, turned the paper over, and found it blank save for the name and direction–‘and that, it seems, is all. No talk of prisoners. . . . Truly an urgent message to send post at midnight!’