Arts & Manners

Being a prisoner of war is no pleasant thing, but, if you must be one, let it be in Worcester, England. It was in that pleasant old cathedral city that, on a recent August evening, I found the tap room of my hotel (Ye Old Talbot, a delightful, renovated hostelry dating from the thirteenth century) occupied by enemy troops. They were Roundheads, of course, members of the notorious Warwick Regiment, and their ribald singing had sent several respectable matrons scrambling out the door just before I entered. Expecting the worst, I sought out their commanding officer, a squat, plebeian fellow with a beard, red nose and bleary eyes, and peacefully surrendered. As a senior Cavalier officer from North America, it seemed the reasonable thing to do.

The gesture was not necessary. On the eve of battle, this particular group of Roundheads was more interested in singing and guzzling tepid bitter than in taking prisoners. Only after I asked a distinctly Southern Irish member of the group if he knew the words to “The Sash My Father Wore” did I detect a momentary tenseness. It flared briefly, extinguished by a further pint of bitter. Innocent conversation with a comely wench in period garb, more drinking and banter, and then to bed. It had been a full day and on the morrow, foemen were destined to clash. No time for dalliance.

AB

About the Author

Aram Bakshian Jr.

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Being a prisoner of war is no pleasant thing, but, if you must be one, let it be in Worcester, England. It was in that pleasant old cathedral city that, on a recent August evening, I found the tap room of my hotel (Ye Old Talbot, a delightful, renovated hostelry dating from the thirteenth century) occupied by enemy troops. They were Roundheads, of course, members of the notorious Warwick Regiment, and their ribald singing had sent several respectable matrons scrambling out the door just before I entered. Expecting the worst, I sought out their commanding officer, a squat, plebeian fellow with a beard, red nose and bleary eyes, and peacefully surrendered. As a senior Cavalier officer from North America, it seemed the reasonable thing to do.

The gesture was not necessary. On the eve of battle, this particular group of Roundheads was more interested in singing and guzzling tepid bitter than in taking prisoners. Only after I asked a distinctly Southern Irish member of the group if he knew the words to “The Sash My Father Wore” did I detect a momentary tenseness. It flared briefly, extinguished by a further pint of bitter. Innocent conversation with a comely wench in period garb, more drinking and banter, and then to bed. It had been a full day and on the morrow, foemen were destined to clash. No time for dalliance.