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course.
    Most of Gray’s cavalry had fled the field.
A blow; but there was nothing Jonathan could do. He hoped the
handlers of the ammunition carts left at Peasey Farm would stand
fast, as the horsemen were headed that way.
    “ Turnabout and line up by the ditch. Keep to the ditch,
men!” Jonathan’s throat burned with shouting, though his message
had the desired effect as the infantry formed a ragged line along
the edge of what must be the Bussex Rhine.
    Jonathan slashed and cut, grunted and
flailed, fighting to keep his seat on Buchan, who reared and
screamed in terror. It took all his strength to keep the animal
from bolting. His head ached from the roar of the cannon, his voice
hoarse from shouting for more ammunition from men too dazed to hear
him, or too terrified to obey - for none came.
    From the corner of his eye, Jonathan saw
Monmouth, his half pike in his hand, waving his men onto the edge
of the ditch, ordering them to fire, while in the distance
Feversham’s officers ordered the Cavalry brought up for an
attack.
    Wiping sweat from his eyes with one hand,
Jonathan looked up. No longer black as pitch, the sky showed purple
and blue in the distance. Fingers of light crawled across the
horizon, harbingers of a summer day so many would not see. Dawn was
coming. How could the night have gone so soon?
    The dragoons had formed into an imposing
barrier behind the ditch. Musket fire continued off to the left,
though all around him silence fell and horses pawed the ground,
some whickering in fright. No one moved forward.
    What are they waiting for?
    Then it came to him. Of course. Feversham
was holding off until daybreak so he could order a full charge in
better light. Still nothing moved.
    Well, come , if you are coming, you
bastards.
    As if in response to Jonathan’s silent
scream, a wave of horses and men flooded across the ditch across a
waterlogged field, and the royal troopers fell on his
men.
    Jonathan ’s chest swelled with pride at the
sight of his ill-equipped troops, running full pelt at the royal
horse, keeping up a constant fire on the foot battalions. There was
the repeated wet whoosh of steel slicing into flesh, and the primal
cries of men in agony doomed to be trampled by horses – friends” or
foes”.
    Dawn showed that the first enthusiastic
wave of rebels had been forced back, the stalwarts who fought on
being steadily shot or slashed without mercy.
    Most of Jonathan’s men had been scattered,
and even those still able to hear his orders were most likely dead,
or too injured to obey. He urged Buchan on, between and over fallen
men of both sides, his ears closed to the shrieks of the wounded,
until his mounts flanks shook with exertion.
    “ I have
more to ask of you, boy.” Jonathan reached forward and patted the
clammy neck. “I have to find the Duke.”
    Their options were few, but the next
decision was not Jonathan’s to make. He found Lord Grey and
Monmouth beside a massive tree at the edge of the field, their
armour piled at their feet.
    Buyse and Anton stood nearby, their faces
haggard.
    Jonathan halted beside them. “What now my
Lord? Our men are all but slaughtered.”
    “ We have
no choice, Woulfe.” Lord Grey stepped in front of Monmouth, who
seemed unable to look at Jonathan. “We must get away as best we
can.”
    “ You’re
leaving us?” Jonathan’s anger made him reckless. “Look at them!” He
waved an arm at the devastation on the field. “They’re being
massacred. You cannot abandon them.”
    Grey winced and made to step nearer, but
Buchan gave a half-rear. Holding up a hand to fend the massive
horse off, he raised his voice. “If the Duke is no longer here, the
troopers may show some mercy.”
    “ You
coward, Grey,” Jonathan growled, his head bent to inches from the
man’s ear. “I’ll see you pay for this treachery!”
    Grey started as if he had been slapped in
the face, then his eyes narrowed and he stepped back, his place
replaced by Monmouth, now