THE DAUGHTER OF A REGICIDE.
When thy beauty appears
In its graces and airs,
All bright as an angel new dropped from the sky
At a distance I gaze and am awed at my fears,
So strangely you dazzle my eyes.
--PARNELL.
One bright morning in autumn a ship from Virginia entered Boston Harbor.
The appearance of a vessel was not an uncommon sight, and this one
attracted little more than passing comment. Passengers were coming
ashore and among them a stalwart youth of eighteen. His eyes wandered
about over the town while the breeze played with his long hair hanging
about his shoulders. He wore the costume of a cavalier, with a
low-crowned, broad-brimmed hat and plume; but his face had all the grave
aspect of a Puritan.
He asked no questions on landing, but went up to the Common, where a
fencing-master had erected a stage and was walking back and forth upon
it with a rapier in his hand, saying:
"Come, any who will, and fight me with swords."
Near him were a dozen or two swords of all kinds. The new-comer paused
near the platform on which the boaster stood and gazed at him in wonder.
"I have been on this platform for several days, defying any man to fence
with me. Have you no one in Boston brave enough?"
"I will," a voice cried at this moment. All turned at the sound, for the
voice was deep and commanding, sounding like the boom of a cannon.
This stranger to all assembled on the Common was most singularly armed
and equipped for a fight. On his left arm, wrapped in a linen cloth, was
a large cheese for a shield, while he carried, instead of a sword, a mop
dipped in muddy water.
"Who is he?"
"Some madman."
"Beware of him, and allow him not to go on the stage," cried another.
But the stranger, with an agility not to be expected in one of his
years, sprang upon the platform. The fencing-master evidently thought he
had an easy victory, for a smile curled his lip, as he asked:
"Are you ready?"
"Yes," was the answer.
"Guard!"
He sprang at the fencing-master, who made a thrust at him, burying the
point of his sword in the cheese, where the white-haired man held it,
while he smeared the face of his opponent with the mud on his mop.
[Illustration: "ARE YOU READY?"]
"Zounds! master what are you about?" cried the fencing-master.
"Marry! I am teaching you new tactics." Releasing his sword, the
fencing-master ran to the other end of the platform and, seizing a
broadsword, cried:
"I will have it out with you with these."
At this, the old man cried in a terrible voice:
"Stop, sir! hitherto you see I have only played with you and done you
no hurt; but if you come at me with the broadsword, I will take
your life."
The alarmed fencing-master cried out:
"Who can you be? You must be either Goffe, Whalley, or the devil, for
there are no others in England who could beat me."
In order to fully explain the meaning of the fencing-master's words, we
beg leave to step aside from our story for a moment and recall some
historical events which have a bearing upon it. Of the judges who tried
and condemned Charles I. three escaped to America. One was Edward
Whalley, who had first won laurels in the field at Naseby, had even
enjoyed the confidence of Cromwell, and remained a friend of the
Independents; one was William Goffe, a firm friend of the family of
Cromwell, a good soldier and an ardent partisan, but ignorant of the
true principles of freedom. Endicott was governor when these two arrived
in Boston. Goffe, with his child, came first, but was known as soon as
he entered the town, and lodging was refused him at every house until he
came to the home of the kind Puritan, Mathew Stevens, who sheltered the
man and his child, though it might endanger his own head.
Charles II. pursued the murderers of his father with unrelenting fury.
Whalley and Goffe both had been generals in the army of Cromwell and
were men of undoubted courage. When warrants came for them from England,
they hurried across the country to New Haven, where it was esteemed a
crime against God to betray a wanderer or give up an outcast; yet such
diligent search was made for them, that they never knew security. For a
time they went in secrecy from house to house, for awhile concealing
themselves in a mill, sometimes in clefts of rocks by the seaside, and
for weeks together, and even for months, they dwelt in a cave in the
forest. Great rewards were offered for their apprehension. Indians as
well as English were urged to scour the woods in quest of their
hiding-place.
John Dixwell, the third regicide, was more fortunate. He was able to
live undiscovered and, changing his name, was absorbed among the
inhabitants of New Haven. He married and lived peacefully and happily.
Raleigh's history of the world, written during his imprisonment, while
he was under sentence of death, was his favorite study. It is said that
to the day of his death he retained a firm belief that the spirit of
English liberty would demand a new revolution, which was achieved in
England while he was on his death-bed.
Another victim of the restoration, selected for his genius and
integrity, was Sir Henry Vane, the benefactor of Rhode Island. This ever
faithful friend of New England and liberty adhered with undaunted
firmness to "the glorious cause" of popular liberty, and, shunned by
every one who courted the returning monarch, he became noted for his
unpopularity. When the Unitarians were persecuted, not as a sect but as
blasphemers, Vane interceded for them. He also pleaded for the liberty
of the Quakers, and as a legislator he demanded justice in behalf of the
Roman Catholics. When monarchy was overthrown and a Commonwealth
attempted, Vane reluctantly filled a seat in the council, and, resuming
his place as a legislator, amidst the floating wrecks of the English
constitution, he clung to the existing parliament as to the only
fragment on which it was possible to rescue English liberty. His ability
enabled Blake to cope with Holland on the sea.
[Illustration: SIR HENRY VANE.]
After the restoration, parliament had excepted Sir Henry Vane from the
indemnity, on the king's promise that he should not suffer death. It was
resolved to bring him to trial, and he turned his trial into a triumph.
Though he had always been supposed to be a timid man, he appeared
before his judges with animated fearlessness. Instead of offering
apologies for his career, he denied the imputation of treason with
scorn, defended the right of Englishmen to be governed by successive
representatives, and took glory to himself for actions which promoted
the good of England and were sanctioned by parliament as the virtual
sovereign of the realm. "He spoke not for his life and estate, but for
the honor of the martyrs to liberty that were in their graves, for the
liberties of England, for the interest of all posterity to come." When
he asked for counsel, the solicitor said:
"Who will dare speak for you, unless you can call down from the gibbet
the heads of your fellow-traitors?"
"I stand single," Vane defiantly answered. "Yet, being thus left alone,
I am not afraid, in this great presence, to bear my witness to the
glorious cause, nor to seal it with my blood."
Stimulated by the magnanimity of this noble spirit, his enemies clamored
for his life. The king wrote:
"Certainly Sir Henry Vane is too dangerous a man to let live, if we can
honestly put him out of the way."
Though he could not be honestly put out of the way, it was resolved that
he should die. The day before his execution his friends were admitted
to his prison, and sought to cheer his drooping spirits. He calmly
reviewed his political career, and in conclusion said:
"I have not the least recoil in my heart as to matter or manner of what
I have done. Why should we fear death? I find it rather shrinks from me
than I from it." His children gathered around him, and he stopped to
embrace them, mingling consolation with his kisses. "The Lord will be a
better father to you than I could have been. Be not you troubled, for I
am going to my father."
His farewell counsel was:
"Suffer anything from men rather than sin against God." When his family
had withdrawn, he declared: "I leave my life as a seal to the justness
of that quarrel. Ten thousand deaths, rather than defile the chastity of
my conscience; nor would I, for ten thousand worlds, resign the peace
and satisfaction I have in my heart."
He was beheaded at the block, and Charles II. smiled when news was
brought to him of the execution. We must not regard Charles II. as a
bloodthirsty man. In fact, he was rather good-natured, thinking more of
pleasures and beautiful mistresses than of vengeance; but it was only
natural that he should feel anxious to bring the murderers of his father
to the scaffold.
He had no love for Puritan Massachusetts and threatened to deprive them
of their liberties, demanding the retiring of the charter, which they
refused to surrender. Various rumors went to England to the detriment of
the people of Massachusetts. The New Englanders were not ignorant of the
great dangers they incurred by refusing to comply with the demand of the
sovereign. In January, 1663, the council for the colonies complained
that the government there had withdrawn all manner of correspondence, as
if intending to suspend their obedience to the authority of the king. It
was currently reported in England that Whalley and Goffe were at the
head of an army. The union of the four New England colonies was believed
to have had its origin in the express "purpose of throwing off
dependence on England."
Friends of the colonies denied the reports and assured the king that New
England was loyal; but despite the fact of their assertions, Whalley and
Goffe were still at large.
Even when their pursuers were close on their trail, Goffe, with a daring
that was reckless, frequently appeared in Boston, usually in disguise.
Long sojourn in rocks and caves had given him a natural disguise, in the
long, snowy hair and beard.
It was on one of his daring visits to Boston, that he met and conquered
the fencing-master as narrated in the opening of this chapter. Having
humbled the boaster, the man with the cheese and mop descended from the
platform, threw away his weapons and advanced toward the youth who had
been an amazed spectator of the scene.
"Good morrow, friend. Do you belong here?" he asked, taking his hand.
"No, sir, I just came in on the vessel."
"Whom do you wish to see?"
"Some relatives named Stevens."
"Is your name Stevens?"
"It is, sir."
"And you are from Virginia?" the old man asked.
"Verily, you have guessed it, sir. Who may you be?"
Without answering him, the strange swordsman seized his arm, saying:
"Come with me; I am going to the house of Mathew Stevens. What is your
father's name?"
"John Stevens was his name; but he is dead. He went on a voyage and was
lost at sea when I was quite young."
"And your grandfather was--"
"Philip Stevens, the friend of Captain John Smith."
"I know of him. We will go to the home of your relatives." He led Robert
over the hill toward a neat looking house, one of the best in Boston.
The old man was nervous and frequently halted to look about, as if
expecting pursuit.
"Surely you have no one to fear?" said Robert.
"Whom should I fear--the man whose face I plastered with mud? I carry a
sword at my side, and he could not fight me in a single combat."
"But he said something. He called you a name."
"What name?"
"Goffe."
"What know you of Goffe, pray?"
"I have heard of him. My mother's husband frequently spoke of him as a
regicide."
The swordsman gazed on him for a moment, and asked:
"Do you know what a regicide is?"
"A king-killer."
"Well, my young cavalier, when a king has been convicted of treason,
should he not suffer death as the humblest peasant in the land?"
"He should," cried Robert, on whose republican soul the argument fell
with a delightful sensation. "A king is but a man and no better than the
poorest in the realm."
"Ha! young cavalier from Virginia, dare you utter those words in your
own colony?"
"No; I left my colony because I could not abide there."
"What! a fugitive?"
"I escaped prison by the aid of friends and fled to Boston."
"And wherefore, pray, were you imprisoned?"
"On the charges of my mother's husband and a false friend in whom I
trusted."
General Goffe shook his white locks and said:
"So young, and made to feel the grinding heel of the despot! Verily the
suffering race of Adam will claim their rights some time."
They reached the home of Mathew Stevens, a large old-fashioned New
England house, and were admitted at once.
Robert was conscious of being in the presence of several strange but
kindly faces. There was an old man and woman with some young people of
his own age. Then he noticed among them a beautiful, fairy-like little
creature, some four years younger than himself, who, at sight of the
white-haired man, rushed toward him and, placing her arms about his
neck, cried:
"Father, father, father!"
"Ester, my child," the swordsman returned, "have you been happy?"
"Happy as one could be with father away."
"Now that I have returned, you need sorrow no more."
All the while Robert Stevens was standing on the threshold waiting an
invitation to enter. The aged patriarch at last seized the arm of
General Goffe and asked:
"Whom have we here?"
The general, in the joy of meeting his daughter from whom he had been
separated, had forgotten Robert.
"This is Robert Stevens, your relative from Virginia."
"Robert, I knew your father; I heard he was lost at sea."
"He was," Robert answered sadly.
"And your mother?"
"Has married Hugh Price, a cavalier."
Robert told a part of his story, ending with the announcement that he
was forced to fly from home to escape prosecution for treason. This he
told with much reluctance, for it was a poor recommendation that he was
an escaped prisoner.
When all was known, Robert found an abundance of sympathy, and was told
that he might make his home with his relatives, until he could be
provided for.
Then followed long weeks, months and years of the most delightful period
of his life. His relatives were kind. Their home was attractive; but
kind relatives and an attractive home were not the chief magnets which
attracted him to the spot. It was the joy of a pair of soft brown eyes
which held him. Ester Goffe was the most interesting person at Boston.
She was a creature born to inspire one with love. She was young, hardly
yet budded into womanhood, when first he saw her. Day by day and week by
week she seemed to him to grow in beauty and goodness.
The third day after his arrival, General Goffe mysteriously disappeared.
He had been gone almost a week, when Robert asked Ester where her
father was.
"He is gone," she answered. "The king's men learned that he was here,
and were coming after him, when he escaped."
"Whither has he gone?"
"Alas, I know not."
"What would be his fate if he should be taken?"
"He would suffer as did Sir Henry Vane. No mercy will be shown to a
regicide."
"You must suffer uneasiness."
"I am in constant dread, though my father is brave and shrewd, while the
king's officers are but lazy fellows with dull wits, who do not care to
exert themselves, yet some unseen accident might place him in
their power."
Then he induced her to tell the sad story of their flight from the wrath
of an angry king, and how they had walked all the way from Plymouth
to Boston.
The year 1675 came, just one century before the shots at Lexington were
heard around the world.
There was a restless feeling in all the colonies. The governor of
Virginia was a tyrant. The Indians were becoming restless, and a general
outbreak was expected.
Robert had been informed by his mother that his friends had procured his
pardon from Governor Berkeley, and he was urged to come home. Robert was
now twenty-six years of age. Ester was twenty-two, and they were
betrothed. Their love was of that kind which grows quickly, but is as
eternal as the heavens. The regicide had been home very little for the
last five years. He came one night to spend a short time with his
daughter. They had scarce time to whisper a few words of affection, when
Robert ran to them, saying:
"The king's men are coming."
In a few moments a dozen cavaliers with swords and pistols rushed on
General Goffe.
"Do not surrender; I will defend you," cried Robert.
He drew his sword and assailed the foremost of the cavaliers with such
implacable fury that they fell back. General Goffe took advantage of the
moment to mount a swift horse and fly. A few pistol shots were fired at
him; but he escaped, and Robert conducted the half-fainting Ester home.
It was nearly midnight when a friend came to inform Robert that the
king's men had procured a warrant against him for resisting his
majesty's officers, and he must fly for his life. There was a flutter of
hushed excitement. Everybody was awakened. Robert hurriedly gathered up
his effects, which were taken to a brigantine ready to sail for
Virginia. There was a silent, tearful farewell with Ester; vows were
renewed, and he swore when the clouds had rolled away to come and make
her his wife.
Then a last embrace, a hasty kiss, and he hurried away to the bay. Ten
minutes later the house was surrounded by soldiers.