When Charles the First was King by J.S. Fletcher

During the next few months we heard little news of Philip Lisle and Jack Drumbleforth, for the war made but small progress, the rival armies being for the most part in safe quarters for the winter. Now and then, indeed, we had letters from both our adventurers, but they had little to tell us, nor could they give us any information as to what time we might expect to see them again. So matters went on during that winter, and there were many who prophesied that before spring the sad difference 'twixt King and Parliament would be adjusted, and the nation restored to peace and tranquillity. But there were others, men of keener sight and perception, who knew that the unhappy quarrel now in existence would only be terminated by the complete overthrow of one side or the other. Amongst these men, who proved the true prophets in the end, there were none more sagacious than Oliver Cromwell, the man of whom Jack Drumbleforth had spoken in his letter, and who afterwards came to enjoy great power, so that he ruled England for many years with sterner hand than any king had ever exercised. This Cromwell was a yeoman of Huntingdon, a man of the most surprising powers, so that those who favoured his views looked upon him as nearly divine, and obeyed him as surely no king was ever obeyed. As for his generalship, none will dispute that he was the central figure of this sad war, for he and his Ironsides turned the fortunes of the fight many a time when things were going against the Parliamentarians. Now, during that winter this Cromwell was training his men with a skill and conviction which speedily made his troop unrivalled for bravery and prowess in the field. Such a general, I suppose, never lived, for he refused to have men under him who fought not from conviction, so that his regiment became a body of troopers who struck each blow under the firm belief that their strength was increased by the powers of Heaven. Men who fought for fighting's sake, old soldiers who fought because to fight was their profession, he would have none of; his Ironsides were men like himself, animated with the sense of a mission from on high. How these men did succeed in the Civil War all England knows at this present time. And though I could never side with them, being by conviction a Royalist, and believing that popular government is much more tyrannical than ever monarchical has been or can be, I did yet see enough of them to know that they were true Englishmen, and impelled to what they did by a sense of real patriotism.

Now, during that winter I had other matters to think of than the war, for I was much exercised in my mind over the peculiar conduct of Dennis Watson. I have said little of Dennis and his father lately, for indeed they have not come within my history, I having seen little of them since my father's death. True, I constantly saw them at the markets, never holding speech with them nor being in their company, for I regarded them both with exceeding bitter feelings, being convinced that Rupert Watson was the murderer of my dear father, and not liking what I knew of Dennis. Many an hour did I pass in thinking over the events of that fatal night when my father was shot down at my side, and at such times my fingers itched to grasp his assassin's throat and crush the breath out of him. But with all my thinking I could never get any nearer the heart of the matter, and so was fain to let it rest as it did. And yet I had no doubt that it was Rupert Watson who committed that foul deed, and I have often stood in Pontefract Marketplace watching his dark face and longing that I could fasten the full guilt upon him and bring him to task for his crime.