XXIII. HOW THIRTY OF JOSSELIN ENCOUNTERED THIRTY OF PLOERMEL
All night the Castle of Ploermel rang with warlike preparations,
for the smiths were hammering and filing and riveting, preparing
the armor for the champions. In the stable yard hostlers were
testing and grooming the great war-horses, whilst in the chapel
knights and squires were easing their souls at the knees of old
Father Benedict.
Down in the courtyard, meanwhile, the men-at-arms had been
assembled, and the volunteers weeded out until the best men had
been selected. Black Simon had obtained a place, and great was
the joy which shone upon his grim visage. With him were chosen
young Nicholas Dagsworth, a gentleman adventurer who was nephew to
the famous Sir Thomas, Walter the German, Hulbitee - a huge
peasant whose massive frame gave promise which his sluggish spirit
failed to fulfil - John Alcock, Robin Adey and Raoul Provost.
These with three others made up the required thirty. Great was
the grumbling and evil the talk amongst the archers when it was
learned that none of them were to be included, but the bow had
been forbidden on either side. It is true that many of them were
expert fighters both with ax and with sword, but they were unused
to carry heavy armor, and a half-armed man would have short shrift
in such a hand-to-hand struggle as lay before them.
It was two hours after tierce, or one hour before noon, on the
fourth Wednesday of Lent in the year of Christ 1351 that the men
of Ploermel rode forth from their castle-gate and crossed the
bridge of the Due. In front was Bambro' with his Squire Croquart,
the latter on a great roan horse bearing the banner of Ploermel,
which was a black rampant lion holding a blue flag upon a field of
ermine. Behind him came Robert Knolles and Nigel Loring, with an
attendant at their side, who carried the pennon of the black
raven. Then rode Sir Thomas Percy with his blue lion flaunting
above him, and Sir Hugh Calverly, whose banner bore a silver owl,
followed by the massive Belford who carried a huge iron club,
weighing sixty pounds, upon his saddlebow, and Sir Thomas Walton
the knight of Surrey. Behind them were four brave Anglo-Bretons,
Perrot de Commelain, Le Gaillart, d'Aspremont and d'Ardaine, who
fought against their own countrymen because they were partisans of
the Countess of Montfort. Her engrailed silver cross upon a blue
field was carried at their head. In the rear were five German or
Hainault mercenaries, the tall Hulbitee, and the men-at-arms.
Altogether of these combatants twenty were of English birth, four
were Breton and six were of German blood.
So, with glitter of armor and flaunting of pennons, their
warhorses tossing and pawing, the champions rode down to the
midway oak. Behind them streamed hundreds of archers and men-
at-arms whose weapons had been wisely taken from them lest a
general battle should ensue. With them also went the townsfolk,
men and women, together with wine-sellers, provisions merchants,
armorers, grooms and heralds, with surgeons to tend the wounded
and priests to shrive the dying. The path was blocked by this
throng, but all over the face of the country horsemen and footmen,
gentle and simple, men and women, could be seen speeding their way
to the scene of the encounter.
The journey was not a long one, for presently, as they threaded
their way through the fields, there appeared before them a great
gray oak which spread its gnarled leafless branches over the
corner of a green and level meadow. The tree was black with the
peasants who had climbed into it, and all round it was a huge
throng, chattering and calling like a rookery at sunset. A storm
of hooting broke out from them at the approach of the English, for
Bambro' was hated in the country where he raised money for the
Montfort cause by putting every parish to ransom and maltreating
those who refused to pay. There was little amenity in the warlike
ways which had been learned upon the Scottish border. The
champions rode onward without deigning to take notice of the
taunts of the rabble, but the archers turned that way and soon
beat the mob to silence. Then they resolved themselves into the
keepers of the ground, and pressed the people back until they
formed a dense line along the edge of the field,' leaving the
whole space clear for the warriors.
The Breton champions had not yet arrived, so the English tethered
their horses at one side of the ground, and then gathered round
their leader. Every man had his shield slung round his neck, and
had cut his spear to the length of five feet so that it might be
more manageable for fighting on foot. Besides the spear a sword
or a battle-ax hung at the side of each. They were clad from head
to foot in armor, with devices upon the crests and surcoats to
distinguish them from their antagonists. At present their visors
were still up and they chatted gayly with each other.
"By Saint Dunstan!" cried Percy, slapping his gauntleted hands
together and stamping his steel feet. "I shall be right glad to
get to work, for my blood is chilled."
"I warrant you will be warm enough ere you get through," said
Calverly.
"Or cold forever. Candle shall burn and bell toll at Alnwick
Chapel if I leave this ground alive, but come what may, fair sirs,
it should be a famous joust and one which will help us forward.
Surely each of us will have worshipfully won worship, if we chance
to come through."
"You say truth, Thomas," said Knolles, bracing his girdle. "For
my own part I have no joy in such encounters when there is warfare
to be carried out, for it standeth not aright that a man should
think of his own pleasure and advancement rather than of the
King's cause and the weal of the army. But in times of truce I
can think of no better way in which a day may be profitably spent.
Why so silent, Nigel?"
"Indeed, fair sir, I was looking toward Josselin, which lies as I
understand beyond those woods. I see no sign of this debonair
gentleman and of his following. It would be indeed grievous pity
if any cause came to hold them back."
Hugh Calverly laughed at the words. "You need have no fear, young
sir," said he. "Such a spirit lies in Robert de Beaumanoir that
if he must come alone he would ride against us none the less. I
warrant that if he were on a bed of death he would be borne here
and die on the green field."
"You say truly, Hugh," said Bambro'. "I know him and those who
ride behind him. Thirty stouter men or more skilled in arms are
not to be found in Christendom. It is in my mind that come what
may there will be much honor for all of us this day. Ever in my
head I have a rhyme which the wife of a Welsh archer gave me when
I crossed her hand with a golden bracelet after the intaking of
Bergerac. She was of the old blood of Merlin with the power of
sight. Thus she said -
"'Twixt the oak-tree and the river
Knightly fame aid brave endeavor
Make an honored name forever.'
Methinks I see the oak-tree, and yonder is the river. Surely this
should betide some good to us."
The huge German Squire betrayed some impatience during this speech
of his leader. Though his rank was subordinate, no man present
had more experience of warfare or was more famous as a fighter
than he. He new broke brusquely into the talk. "We should be
better employed in ordering our line and making our plans than in
talking of the rhymes of Merlin or such old wives' tales," said
he. "It is to our own strong arms and good weapons that we must
trust this day. And first I would ask you, Sir Richard, what is
your will if perchance you should fall in the midst of the fight?"
Bambro' turned to the others. "If such should be the case, fair
sirs, I desire that my Squire Croquart should command."
There was a pause while the knights looked with some chagrin at
each other. The silence was broken by Knolles.
"I will do what you say, Richard," said he, "though indeed it is
bitter that we who are knights should serve beneath a squire. Yet
it is not for us to fall out among ourselves now at this last
moment, and I have ever heard that Croquart is a very worthy and
valiant man. Therefore, I will pledge you on jeopardy of my soul
that I will accept him as leader if you fall."
"So will I also, Richard," said Calverly.
"And I too!" cried Belford. "But surely I hear music, and yonder
are their pennons amid the trees."
They all turned, leaning upon their short spears, and watched the
advance of the men of Josselin, as their troop wound its way out
from the woodlands. In front rode three heralds with tabards of
the ermine of Brittany, blowing loudly upon silver trumpets.
Behind them a great man upon a white horse bore the banner of
Josselin which carries nine golden torteaus upon a scarlet field.
Then came the champions riding two and two, fifteen knights and
fifteen squires, each with his pennon displayed. Behind them on a
litter was borne an aged priest, the Bishop of Rennes, carrying in
his hands the viaticum and the holy oils that he might give the
last aid and comfort of the Church to those who were dying. The
procession was terminated by hundreds of men and women from
Josselin, Guegon, and Helleon, and by the entire garrison of the
fortress, who came, as the English had done, without their arms.
The head of this long column had reached the field before the rear
were clear of the wood, but as they arrived the champions picketed
their horses on the farther side, behind which their banner was
planted and the people lined up until they had inclosed the whole
lists with a dense wall of spectators.
With keen eyes the English party had watched the armorial blazonry
of their antagonists, for those fluttering pennons and brilliant
surcoats carried a language which all men could read. In front
was the banner of Beaumanoir, blue with silver frets. His motto
"J'ayme qui m'ayme" was carried on a second flag by a little page.
" Whose is the shield behind him - silver with scarlet drops?"
asked Knolles.
"It is his Squire, William of Montaubon," Calverly answered. "And
there are the golden lion of Rochefort and the silver cross of Du
Bois the Strong. I would not wish to meet a better company than
are before us this day. See, there are the blue rings of young
Tintiniac, who slew my Squire Hubert last Lammastide. With the
aid of Saint George I will avenge him ere nightfall."
"By the three kings of Almain," growled Croquart, "we will need to
fight hard this day, for never have I seen so many good soldiers
gathered together. Yonder is Yves Cheruel, whom they call the man
of iron, Caro de Bodegat also with whom I have had more than one
bickering - that is he with the three ermine circles on the
scarlet shield. There too is left-handed Alain de Karanais; bear
in mind that his stroke comes on the side where there is no
shield."
"Who is the small stout man" - asked Nigel - " he with the black
and silver shield? By Saint Paul! he seems a very worthy person
and one from whom much might be gained, for he is nigh as broad as
he is long."
"It is Sir Robert Raguenel," said Calverly, whose long spell of
service in Brittany had made him familiar with the people. It is
said that he can lift a horse upon his back. Beware a full stroke
of that steel mace, for the armor is not made that can abide it.
But here is the good Beaumanoir, and surely it is time that we
came to grips."
The Breton leader had marshaled his men in a line opposite to the
English, and now he strode forward and shook Bambro' by the hand.
"By Saint Cadoc! this is a very joyous meeting, Richard," said
he, "and we have certainly hit upon a very excellent way of
keeping a truce."
"Indeed, Robert," said Bambro', "we owe you much thanks, for I can
see that you have been at great pains to bring a worthy company
against us this day. Surely if all should chance to perish there
will be few noble houses in Brittany who will not mourn."
"Nay, we have none of the highest of Brittany," Beaumanoir
answered. "Neither a Blois, nor a Leon, nor a Rohan, nor a Conan,
fights in our ranks this day. And yet we are all men of blood and
coat-armor, who are ready to venture our persons for the desire of
our ladies and the love of the high order of knighthood. And now,
Richard, what is your sweet will concerning this fight?"
"That we continue until one or other can endure no longer, for
since it is seldom that so many brave men draw together it is
fitting that we see as much as is possible of each other."
"Richard, your words are fair and good. It shall be even as you
say. For the rest, each shall fight as pleases him best from the
time that the herald calls the word. If any man from without
shall break in upon us he shall be hanged on yonder oak."
With a salute he drew down his visor and returned to his own men,
who were kneeling in a twinkling, many colored group whilst the
old bishop gave them his blessing.
The heralds rode round with a warning to the spectators. Then
they halted at the side of the two bands of men who now stood in a
long line facing each other with fifty yards of grass between.
The visors had been closed, and every man was now cased in metal
from head to foot, some few glowing in brass, the greater number
shining in steel. Only their fierce eyes could be seen smoldering
in the dark shadow of their helmets. So for an instant they stood
glaring and crouching.
Then with a loud cry of "Allez!" the herald dropped his upraised
hand, and the two lines of men shuffled as fast as their heavy
armor would permit until they met with a sharp clang of metal in
the middle of the field. There was a sound as of sixty smiths
working upon their anvils. Then the babel of yells and shouts
from the spectators, cheering on this party or that, rose and
swelled until even the uproar of the combat was drowned in that
mighty surge.
So eager were the combatants to engage that in a few moments all
order had been lost and the two bands were mixed up in one furious
scrambling, clattering throng, each man tossed hither and thither,
thrown against one adversary and then against another, beaten and
hustled and buffeted, with only the one thought in his mind to
thrust with his spear or to beat with his ax against anyone who
came within the narrow slit of vision left by his visor.
But alas for Nigel and his hopes of some great deed! His was at
least the fate of the brave, for he was the first to fall. With a
high heart he had placed himself in the line as nearly opposite to
Beaumanoir as he could, and had made straight for the Breton
leader, remembering that in the out set the quarrel had been so
ordered that it lay between them. But ere he could reach his goal
he was caught in the swirl of his own comrades, and being the
lighter man was swept aside and dashed into the arms of Alain de
Karanais, the left-handed swordsman, with such a crash that the
two rolled upon the ground together. Light footed as a cat, Nigel
had sprung up first, and was stooping over the Breton Squire when
the powerful dwarf Raguenel brought his mace thudding down upon
the exposed back of his helmet. With a groan Nigel fell upon his
face, blood gushing from his mouth, nose, and ears. There he lay,
trampled over by either party, while that great fight for which
his fiery soul had panted was swaying back and forward above his
unconscious form.
But Nigel was not long unavenged. The huge iron club of Belford
struck the dwarf Raguenel to the ground, while Belford in turn was
felled by a sweeping blow from Beaumanoir. Sometimes a dozen were
on the ground at one time, but so strong was the armor, and so
deftly was the force of a blow broken by guard and shield, that
the stricken men were often pulled to their feet once more by
their comrades, and were able to continue the fight.
Some, however, were beyond all aid. Croquart had cut at a Breton
knight named Jean Rousselot and had shorn away his shoulder-piece,
exposing his neck and the upper part of his arm. Vainly he tried
to cover this vulnerable surface with his shield. It was his
right side, and he could not stretch it far enough across, nor
could he get away on account of the press of men around him. For
a time he held his foemen at bay, but that bare patch of white
shoulder was a mark for every weapon, until at last a hatchet sank
up to the socket in the knight's chest. Almost at the same moment
a second Breton, a young Squire named Geoffrey Mellon, was slain
by a thrust from Black Simon which found the weak spot beneath the
armpit. Three other Bretons, Evan Cheruel, Caro de Bodegat, and
Tristan de Pestivien, the first two knights and the latter a
squire, became separated from their comrades, and were beaten to
the ground with English all around them, so that they had to
choose between instant death and surrender. They handed their
swords to Bambro' and stood apart, each of them sorely wounded,
watching with hot and bitter hearts the melee which still surged
up and down the field.
But now the combat had lasted half an hour without stint or rest,
until the warriors were so exhausted with the burden of their
armor, the loss of blood, the shock of blows, and their own
furious exertions, that they could scarce totter or raise their
weapons. There must be a pause if the combat was to have any
decisive end. "Cessez! Cessez! Retirez!" cried the heralds, as
they spurred their horses between the exhausted men.
Slowly the gallant Beaumanoir led the twenty-five men who were
left to their original station, where they opened their visors and
threw themselves down upon the grass, panting like weary dogs, and
wiping the sweat from their bloodshot eyes. A pitcher of wine of
Anjou was carried round by a page, and each in turn drained a cup,
save only Beaumanoir who kept his Lent with such strictness that
neither food nor drink might pass his lips before sunset. He
paced slowly amongst his men, croaking forth encouragement from
his parched lips and pointing out to them that among the English
there was scarce a man who was not wounded, and some so sorely
that they could hardly stand. If the fight so far had gone
against them, there were still five hours of daylight, and much
might happen before the last of them was laid upon his back.
Varlets had rushed forth to draw away the two dead Bretons, and a
brace of English archers had carried Nigel from the field. With
his own hands Aylward had unlaced the crushed helmet and had wept
to see the bloodless and unconscious face of his young master. He
still breathed, however, and stretched upon the grass by the
riverside the bowman tended him with rude surgery, until the water
upon his brow and the wind upon his face had coaxed back the life
into his battered frame. He breathed with heavy gasps, and some
tinge of blood crept hack into his cheeks, but still he lay
unconscious of the roar of the crowd and of that great struggle
which his comrades were now waging once again.
The English had lain for a space bleeding and breathless, in no
better case than their rivals, save that they were still
twenty-nine in number. But of this muster there were not nine who
were hale men, and some were so weak from loss of blood that they
could scarce keep standing. Yet, when the signal was at last
given to reengage there was not a man upon either side who did not
totter to his feet and stagger forward toward his enemies.
But the opening of this second phase of the combat brought one
great misfortune and discouragement to the English. Bambro' like
the others, had undone his visor, but with his mind full of many
cares he had neglected to make it fast again. There was an
opening an inch broad betwixt it and the beaver. As the two lines
met the left-handed Breton squire, Alain de Karanais, caught sight
of Bambro's face, and in an instant thrust his short spear through
the opening. The English leader gave a cry of pain and fell on
his knees, but staggered to his feet again, too weak to raise his
shield. As he stood exposed the Breton knight, Geoffrey Dubois
the Strong, struck him such a blow with his ax that he beat in the
whole breast-plate with the breast behind it. Bambro' fell dead
upon the ground and for a few minutes a fierce fight raged round
his body.
Then the English drew back, sullen and dogged, bearing Bambro'
with them, and the Bretons, breathing hard, gathered again in
their own quarter. At the same instant the three prisoners picked
up such weapons as were scattered upon the grass and ran over to
join their own party.
"Nay, nay!" cried Knolles, raising his visor and advancing. "This
may not be. You have been held to mercy when we might have slain
you, and by the Virgin I will hold you dishonored, all three, if
you stand not back."
"Say not so, Robert Knolles," Evan Cheruel answered. "Never yet
has the word dishonor been breathed with my name, but I should
count myself faineant if I did not fight beside my comrades when
chance has made it right and proper that I should do so."
"By Saint Cadoc! he speaks truly," croaked Beaumanoir, advancing
in front of his men. "You are well aware, Robert, that it is the
law of war and the usage of chivalry that if the knight to whom
you have surrendered is himself slain the prisoners thereby become
released."
There was no answer to this and Knolles, weary and spent, returned
to his comrades. " I would that we had slain them," said he. "We
have lost our leader and they have gained three men by the same
stroke."
"If any more lay down their arms it is my order that you slay them
forthwith," said Croquart, whose bent sword and bloody armor
showed how manfully he had borne himself in the fray. "And now,
comrades, do not be heavy-hearted because we have lost our leader.
Indeed, his rhymes of Merlin have availed him little. By the
three kings of Almain! I can teach you what is better than an old
woman's prophecies, and that is that you should keep your
shoulders together and your shields so close that none can break
between them. Then you will know what is on either side of you,
and you can fix your eyes upon the front. Also, if any be so weak
or wounded that he must sink his hands his comrades on right and
left can bear him up. Now advance all together in God's name, for
the battle is still ours if we bear ourselves like men."
In a solid line the English advanced, while the Bretons ran
forward as before to meet them. The swiftest of these was a
certain Squire, Geoffrey Poulart, who bore a helmet which was
fashioned as a cock's head, with high comb above, and long pointed
beak in front pierced with the breathing-holes. He thrust with
his sword at Calverly, but Belford who was the next in the line
raised his giant club and struck him a crushing blow from the
side. He staggered, and then pushing forth from the crowd, he ran
round and round in circles as one whose brain is stricken, the
blood dripping from the holes of his brazen beak. So for a long
time he ran, the crowd laughing and cock-crowing at the sight,
until at last he stumbled and fell stone-dead upon his face. But
the fighters had seen nothing of his fate, for desperate and
unceasing was the rush of the Bretons and the steady advance of
the English line:
For a time it seemed as if nothing would break it, but gap-toothed
Beaumanoir was a general as well as a warrior. Whilst his weary,
bleeding, hard-breathing men still flung themselves upon the front
of the line, he himself with Raguenel, Tentiniac, Alain de
Karanais, and Dubois rushed round the flank and attacked the
English with fury from behind. There was a long and desperate
melee until once more the heralds, seeing the combatants stand
gasping and unable to strike a blow, rode in and called yet
another interval of truce.
But in those few minutes whilst they had been assaulted upon both
sides, the losses of the English party had been heavy. The
Anglo-Breton D'Ardaine had fallen before Beaumanoir's sword, but
not before he had cut deeply into his enemy's shoulder. Sir
Thomas Walton, Richard of Ireland one of the Squires, and Hulbitee
the big peasant had all fallen before the mace of the dwarf
Raguenel or the swords of his companions. Some twenty men were
still left standing upon either side, but all were in the last
state of exhaustion, gasping, reeling, hardly capable of striking
a blow.
It was strange to see them as they staggered with many a lurch and
stumble toward each other once again, for they moved like drunken
men, and the scales of their neck-armor and joints were as red as
fishes' gills when they raised them They left foul wet footprints
behind them on the green grass as they moved forward once more to
their endless contest.
Beaumanoir, faint with the drain of his blood and with a tongue of
leather, paused as he advanced. "I am fainting, comrades," he
cried. "I must drink."
"Drink your own blood, Beaumanoir!" cried Dubois, and the weary
men all croaked together in dreadful laughter.
But now the English had learned from experience, and under the
guidance of Croquart they fought no longer in a straight line, but
in one so bent that at last it became a circle. As the Bretons
still pushed and staggered against it they thrust it back on every
side, until they had turned it into the most dangerous formation
of all, a solid block of men, their faces turned outward, their
weapons bristling forth to meet every attack. Thus the English
stood, and no assault could move them. They could lean against
each other back to back while they waited and allowed their foemen
to tire themselves out. Again and again the gallant Bretons tried
to make a way through. Again and again they were beaten back by a
shower of blows.
Beaumanoir, his head giddy with fatigue, opened his helmet and
gazed in despair at this terrible, unbreakable circle. Only too
clearly he could see the inevitable result. His men were wearing
themselves out. Already many of them could scarce stir hand or
foot, and might be dead for any aid which they could give him in
winning the fight. Soon all would be in the same plight. Then
these cursed English would break their circle to swarm over his
helpless men and to strike them down. Do what he might, he could
see no way by which such an end might be prevented. He cast his
eyes round in his agony, and there was one of his Bretons slinking
away to the side of the lists. He could scarce credit his senses
when he saw by the scarlet and silver that the deserter was his
own well-tried squire, William of Montaubon.
"William! William!" he cried. "Surely you would not leave me?"
But the other's helmet was closed and he could hear nothing.
Beaumanoir saw that he was staggering away as swiftly as he could.
With a cry of bitter despair, he drew into a knot as many of his
braves as could still move, and together they made a last rush
upon the English spears. This time he was firmly resolved, deep
in his gallant soul, that he would come no foot back, but would
find his death there amongst his foemen or carve a path into the
heart of their ranks. The fire in his breast spread from man to
man of his followers, and amid the crashing of blows they still
locked themselves against the English shields and drove hard for
an opening in their ranks.
But all was vain! Beaumanoir's head reeled. His senses were
leaving him. In another minute he and his men would have been
stretched senseless before this terrible circle of steel, when
suddenly the whole array fell in pieces before his eyes, his
enemies Croquart, Knolles, Calverly, Belford, all were stretched
upon the ground together, their weapons dashed from their hands
and their bodies too exhausted to rise. The surviving Bretons had
but strength to fall upon them dagger in hands, and to wring from
them their surrender with the sharp point stabbing through their
visors. Then victors and vanquished lay groaning and panting in
one helpless and blood-smeared heap.
To Beaumanoir's simple mind it had seemed that at the supreme
moment the Saints of Brittany had risen at their country's call.
Already, as he lay gasping, his heart was pouring forth its thanks
to his patron Saint Cadoc. But the spectators had seen clearly
enough the earthly cause of this sudden victory, and a hurricane
of applause from one side, with a storm of hooting from the other
showed how different was the emotion which it raised in minds
which sympathized with the victors or the vanquished.
William of Montaubon, the cunning squire, had made his way across
to the spot where the steeds were tethered, and had mounted his
own great roussin. At first it was thought that he was about to
ride from the field, but the howl of execration from the Breton
peasants changed suddenly to a yell of applause and delight as he
turned the beast's head for the English circle and thrust his long
prick spurs into its side. Those who faced him saw this sudden
and unexpected appearance. Time was when both horse and rider
must have winced away from the shower of their blows. But now
they were in no state to meet such a rush. They could scarce
raise their arms. Their blows were too feeble to hurt this mighty
creature. In a moment it had plunged through the ranks, and seven
of them were on the grass. It turned and rushed through them
again, leaving five others helpless beneath its hoofs. No need to
do more! Already Beaumanoir and his companions were inside the
circle, the prostrate men were helpless, and Josselin had won.
That night a train of crestfallen archers, bearing many a
prostrate figure, marched sadly into Ploermel Castle. Behind them
rode ten men, all weary, all wounded, and all with burning hearts
against William of Montaubon for the foul trick that he had served
them.
But over at Josselin, yellow gorse-blossoms in their helmets, the
victors were borne in on the shoulders of a shouting mob, amid the
fanfare of trumpets and the beating of drums. Such was the combat
of the Midway Oak, where brave men met brave men, and such honor
was gained that from that day he who had fought in the Battle of
the Thirty was ever given the highest place and the post of honor,
nor was it easy for any man to pretend to have been there, for it
has been said by that great chronicler who knew them all, that not
one on either side failed to carry to his grave the marks of that
stern encounter.
