That ride of mine all night to London was such as I shall never forget,
not from any outward incident that happened, but for the thoughts that
went continually through my heart and brain; and I do not suppose that I
spoke twenty words to James all night, until we saw about seven o'clock
the smoke and spires of London against the morning sky.
* * * * *
So soon as the coast was clear, and the last sound of the horses was
died away on the hill beyond the Castle Inn--for the men rode fast and
hard to catch me--I was out and away in the opposite direction, to
Puckeridge; but first we brought the horses back as softly as we could,
with James (who, like a good servant had not stirred an inch from his
orders through all the tumult which he had heard plainly enough from the
meadow), round to the head of the little lane that leads from Hormead
Magna into Hare Street. There we waited, I say, all four of us in
silence, until we heard the hoofs no more; and then James and I mounted
on our horses.
I had said scarcely a word to Dorothy, nor she to me; for we both felt,
I think, that there was no great need of words after such an adventure,
and that it had knit us closer together than any words could do; and,
besides, that was no place to talk. Yet it was not all pure joy; for
here was the knowledge which we both had, that I must go away, and that
God only knew when I should get back again; and, whatever that knowledge
was to Dorothy, it was as a sword for pain to me. As for my Cousin Tom,
he was no better than a dummy; for he was still terrified at all that
had happened, and at the magistrate's words to him. I told them both,
while we were still in the house, that I must go to London, partly for
that that was the last place in the world that any would look for me in,
and partly--(but this I told neither of them)--for that I must return
the packet to His Majesty: and I said that from London I would go to
France for a little, until it seemed safe for me to get back again. But
there, waiting in the dark, I said nothing at all; but before I mounted
I kissed Dorothy on the cheek; and her cheek was wet, but whether with
the feigned tears she had shed in the house, or with tears even dearer
to me than those, I do not know. But I dared not delay any longer, for
fear that when Mr. Harris came to Barkway, which was five miles away, he
might learn that no one that could be James and I had passed that way,
and so return to search again.
* * * * *
The clouds had rolled away by now; and it was a clear night of stars
until they began to pale about two o'clock in the morning; and I think
that for a lover who desires to be alone with his thoughts, there is no
light of sun or moon or candle so sweet as the light of stars; and by
that time we were beyond Ware and coming out of the valley.
It was solemn to me to watch that dawn coming up, for it was, I thought,
the last dawn that I should see in England for a while, since I was
determined but to see the King in London, and push straight on to Dover
and take the packet there: and it was a solemn dawn too, in another way,
for it was the first I had seen since I had been certain not only that I
loved my Cousin Dolly as I had my own heart, but that she loved me also;
and that is a great day for a lover.
To see the King then, and to push on to Dover, was all that I had
rehearsed to myself; but Providence had one more adventure for me first,
that was one of the saddest I have ever had in all my life, and yet not
all sad.
* * * * *
My road took me in through the City and down Gracechurch Street; but
here I took a fancy to turn to the right up Leadenhall and Cornhill,
which were all crowded with folks, though at first I did not think why,
that I might go by Newgate where the Jesuits lay, and see at least the
walls that enclosed those saints of God; for I was pretty bold here,
knowing that Mr. Dangerfield who was my chief peril, was off to Harwich
to find me; and even if they found that I was not gone through Barkway,
I did not think that they could catch me, for their horses were tired
and ours fresh; and you do not easily get a change of a dozen horses, or
anywhere near it, in Hertfordshire villages. So I went very boldly, and
made no pretence not to look folks in the face.
After we had passed up Cheapside it appeared to me that the streets were
strangely full, and that all the folk were going the same way; and so
astonished was I at this--for no suspicion of the truth came to me--that
I bid my man ask someone what the matter was. When he came up with me
again I could see that something was the matter indeed; and so it was.
"Sir," he said in a low voice, so that none else could hear, "they are
taking the prisoners to execution this morning."
Then there came upon me a kind of madness--for, although by God's
blessing it brought no harm to me--yet it was nothing else; and I
determined to go to Newgate as I had intended, and at least see them
brought out. For here was to be a martyrdom indeed--five men, all
priests, all Religious--suffering, in God's eyes at least, for nothing
in the world but the Catholic religion; yes, and in men's too, if they
had known all, for I remembered how Mr. Whitbread had refused to escape,
while he had yet a whole day for it, for fear of seeming to confess his
guilt and so bringing scandal upon the Church and his order. From such a
martyrdom, then, so near to me, how could I turn away? and I determined,
if I could, to speak with Father Whitbread, and get his blessing.
When I got near Newgate the press grew greater every instant; but as we
were on horseback and the greater number of the folks on foot, we got
through them at last, and so came to the foot of the stairs by the
chapel, where the sleds were laid ready with a pair of horses to each. I
had never before seen an execution done in England, so I observed very
carefully everything that was to be seen. The sleds were three in
number, and were each made flat of strong wood with runners about an
inch high; and there was a pair of horses harnessed to each, with a man
to guide them. I got close to these, next behind the line of yellow
trainbandmen who kept the way open, as well as the stairs. We were in
the shadow here, in a little court of which the gates were set open, but
the people were all crowded in behind the trainbandmen as well as in the
street outside, and from them rose a great murmuring of talk, of which I
did not hear a word spoken in sympathy, for I suppose that the Catholics
there held their tongues.
We had not very long to wait; for, by the appointment of God, I was come
just to time; and very soon the door at the head of the stairs was
opened and men began to come out. I saw Mr. Sheriff How among them, who
was to see execution done; but I did not observe these very closely,
since I was looking for the Jesuits.
Mr. Harcourt came first into the sunlight that was at the head of the
steps; and at the sight of him I was moved very deeply; for he was an
old man with short white hair, very thick, and walked with a stick with
his other hand in some fellow's arm. A great rustle of talk began when
he appeared, and swelled into a roar, but he paid no attention to it,
and came down, smiling and looking to his steps. Next came Mr.
Whitbread; and at the sight of him I was as much affected as by the old
man; for I had spoken with him so often. He too walked cheerfully, first
looking about him resolutely as he came out at all the faces turned up
to his; and at him too was even a greater roaring, for the people
thought him to be at the head of all the conspiracy. He was pinioned
loosely with cords, but not so that he could not lift his hands (and so
were the other three that followed), and a fellow held the other end of
the cord in his hand. Mr. Turner and Mr. Gavan, who came next, I had
never seen before--(Mr. Gavan was he that was taken in the stables of
the Imperial Ambassador--Count Wallinstein)--they came one behind the
other, and paid no more attention than the others to the noise that
greeted them; and last of all came Mr. Fenwick who had entertained me so
often in Drury Lane, looking pinched, I thought, with his imprisonment,
yet as courageous as any. Behind him came a minister and then the tail
of the guard.
As I saw Mr. Fenwick come out I put into execution a design I had formed
just now; and slipping from my horse I got out a guinea and begged in a
low voice the fellow before me--for I was just by the sled on which Mr.
Harcourt and Mr. Whitbread would be bound--to let me through enough to
speak a word with him; and at the same time I pressed the guinea into
his hand: so he stood aside a little and let me through, on my knees,
enough to speak to Mr. Whitbread. Mr. Harcourt was already laid down on
the sled, on the further side from me, and Mr. Whitbread was getting to
his knees for the same end. As he turned and sat himself on the sled he
saw me, and frowned ever so little. Then he smiled as I made the sign of
the cross on myself and he made it too at me, and I saw his lips move as
he blessed me. He was not an arm's length from me. That was enough for
me; and I stepped back again and mounted my horse once more. The fellow
who had let me through looked at me over his shoulder once or twice, but
said nothing; for he had my guinea; and, as for myself I sat content,
though my eyes pricked with tears, for I had had the last blessing (or
very nearly) which that martyr of God would ever give in this world.
* * * * *
When they were all ready, and the five were bound on the sleds, with
their beads to the horses' heels, I looked to see how I could best
follow; and it appeared to me that it was best for me to keep close at
the tail, rather than to attempt to go before. When the word was given,
the whips cracked, and the sled nearest me, with Mr. Whitbread and Mr.
Harcourt upon it, began to move. Then came Mr. Turner and Mr. Gavan, and
last Mr. Fenwick all by himself. The minister whose name was Samuel
Smith, as I learned later, and who was the Ordinary of Newgate, followed
on foot, and behind him came the guards to close them all in.
My fellow in front, whom I had bribed, seemed to understand what I
wanted; for in the confusion he let me through, and my man James forced
his way after me; so that we found ourselves with three or four other
gentlemen, riding immediately behind the guards, as we came out of the
court into the street outside; and so we followed, all the way to
Tyburn.
That adventure of mine was I think the most observable I have ever had,
and, too, the greatest privilege to my soul: for here was I, if ever any
man did, following the Cross of Christ in the passion of His
servants--such a _Via Crucis_ as I have never made in any church--for
here was the very road along which so many hundreds of the Catholic
martyrs had passed before; and at the end was waiting the very death by
which they had died. I know that the martyrdom of these five was not so
evident an one as that of others before them, since those died for the
Faith directly, and these for an alleged conspiracy; yet before God, I
think, they died no less for Religion, since it was in virtue of their
Religion that they were accused. So, then, I followed them.
All the way along Holborn we went, and High Holborn and St. Giles, and
at last out into the Oxford Road that ran then between fields and
gardens; and all the way we went the crowds went with us, booing and
roaring from time to time, and others, too, from the windows of the
houses, joined in the din that was made. At first the way was nasty
enough, with the pails that folks had emptied out of doors into the
gutter; but by the time we reached the Oxford Road the way was dusty
only; so that the five on the sleds were first nastied, and then the
dust fell on them from the horses' heels. I could see only Mr. Fenwick's
face from time to time; he kept his eyes closed the most of the way, and
was praying, I think. Of the rest I could see nothing.
It was a terrible sight to me when we came out at last and saw the
gallows--the "Deadly Nevergreen" as it was called--the three posts with
the beams connecting them--against the western sky. The ropes were in
place all in one line; and a cart was there beneath them. A cauldron,
too, sent up its smoke a little distance away beside the brook. All this
space was kept clear again by guards; and there were some of the new
grenadiers among them, in their piebald livery, with furred caps; and
without the guards there was a great crowd of people. Here, then, was
the place of the Passion.
The confusion was so great as the sleds went within the line of guards,
and the people surged this way and that, that I was forced, somewhat,
out of the place I had hoped to get, and found myself at last a good way
off, with a press of people between me and the gallows; so that I could
see nothing of the unbinding; and, when they spoke later could not hear
all that they said.
It was not long before they were all in the cart together, with the
ropes about their necks, and the hangman down again upon the ground; and
as soon as that was done, a great silence fell everywhere. I had seen
Mr. Gavan say something to the hangman, and he answered again; but I
could not hear what it was.
Then, when the silence fell, I heard Mr. Whitbread begin; and the first
sentence was clear enough, though his voice sounded thin at that
distance.
"I suppose," he said, "it is expected I should speak something to the
matter I am condemned for, and brought hither to suffer."
Then he went on to say how he was wholly guiltless of any plot against
His Majesty, and that in saying so he renounced and repudiated any
pretended pardons or dispensations that were thought to have been given
him to swear falsely. He prayed God to bless His Majesty, and denied
that it was any part of Catholic teaching that a king might be killed as
it was said had been designed by the alleged plot; and he ended by
recommending his soul into the hands of his blessed Redeemer by whose
only merits and passion he hoped for salvation. He spoke very clearly,
with a kind of coldness.
Father Harcourt's voice was not so clear, as he was an old man; but I
heard Mr. Sheriff How presently interrupt him. (He was upon horseback
close beside the gallows.)
"Or of Sir Edmund Berry Godfrey's death?" he asked.
"Did you not write that letter concerning the dispatch of Sir Edmund
Berry Godfrey?"
"No, sir," cried the old man very loud. "These are the words of a dying
man. I would not do it for a thousand worlds."
He went on to affirm his innocence of all laid to his charge; and he
ended by begging the prayers of all in the communion of the Roman Church
in which he himself died.
When Mr. Anthony Turner had spoke a while, again Sheriff How interrupted
him.
"You do only justify yourselves here," he said. "We will not believe a
word that you say. Spend your time in prayer, and we will not think your
time too long."
But Mr. Turner went on as before, affirming his entire innocence; and,
at the end he prayed aloud, and I heard every word of it.
"O my dear Saviour and Redeemer," he cried, lifting up his eyes, and his
hands too as well as he could for the cords, "I return Thee immortal
thanks for all Thou hast pleased to do for me in the whole course of my
life, and now in the hour of my death, with a firm belief of all things
Thou hast revealed, and a stedfast hope of obtaining everlasting bliss.
I cheerfully cast myself into the arms of Thy mercy, whose arms were
stretched on the Cross for my redemption. Sweet Jesus, receive my
spirit."
Then Mr. Gavan spoke to the same effect as the rest, but he argued a
little more, and theologically too, being a young man; and spoke of
Mariana the Jesuit who had seemed to teach a king-killing doctrine; but
this sense on his words he repudiated altogether. He too, at the end,
commended his soul into the hands of God, and said that he was ready to
die for Jesus as Jesus had died for him.
Mr. Fenwick had scarcely begun before Mr. Sheriff How broke in on him,
and argued with him concerning the murder of Sir Edmund.
"As for Sir Edmund Berry Godfrey," cried Mr. Fenwick, "I protest before
God that I never saw the man in my life."
"For my part," said the Sheriff, "I am of opinion that you had a hand
in it."
"Now that I am a dying man," said the priest, "do you think that I would
go and damn my soul?"
"I wish you all the good that I can," said Mr. How, "but I assure you I
believe never a word you say."
Well; he let him alone after that; and Mr. Fenwick finished, once more
denying and renouncing the part that had been assigned to him, and
maintaining his innocence.
There followed after that a very long silence, of half an hour, I should
think. The five men stood in the cart together, with their eyes cast
down; and each, I think, absolved his neighbour. The crowd about kept
pretty quiet, only murmuring together; and cried no more insults at
them. I, too, did my best to pray with them and for them; but my horse
was restless, and I had some ado to keep him quiet. After a good while,
Mr. Sheriff How spoke to them again.
"Pray aloud, gentlemen, that we may join with you. We shall do you no
hurt if we do you no good."
They said nothing to that; and he spoke again, with some sharpness.
"Are you ashamed of your prayers?"
Still they did not speak; and he turned on Father Gavan.
"Why, Mr. Gavan," he said, "it is reported that you did preach in the
Quakers' meeting-house."
The priest opened his eyes.
"No, sir," he said, "I never did preach there in all my life."
It was very solemn and dreadful to wait there while they prayed; for
they were at it again for twenty minutes, I should judge, and no more
interruptions from Mr. How, who, I think, was a shade uneasy. It was a
clear June day, beginning to be hot; and the birds were chirping in the
trees about the place--for at times the silence was so great that one
could hear a pin fall, as they say. Now I felt on the brink of hell--at
the thought of the pains that were waiting for my friends, at the memory
of that great effusion of blood that had been poured out and of the
more that was to follow. There was something shocking in the quietness
and the glory of the day--such a day as many that I had spent in the
meadows of Hare Street, or in the high woods--faced as it was with this
dreadful thing against the blue sky, and the five figures beneath it,
like figures in a frieze, and the smoke of the cauldron that drifted up
continually or brought a reek of tar to my nostrils. And, again, all
this would pass; and I would feel that it was not hell but heaven that
waited; and that all was but as a thin veil, a little shadow of death,
that hung between me and the unimaginable glories; and that at a word
all would dissolve away and Christ come and this world be ended. So,
then, the minutes passed for me: I said my _Paternoster_ and _Ave_ and
_Credo_ and _De Profundis_, over and over again; praying that the
passage of those men might be easy, and that their deaths might be as
sacrifices both for themselves and for the country. I was beyond fearing
for myself now; I was in a kind of madness of pity and longing. And, at
the last I saw Mr. Whitbread raise his head and look at the Sheriff.
There rose then, as he made a sign, a great murmur from all the crowd. I
had thought that they would have been impatient, but they were not; and
had kept silence very well; and I think that this spectacle of the five
men praying had touched many hearts there. Now, however, when the end
approached, they seemed to awaken again, and to look for it; and they
began to move their heads about to see what was done, so that the crowd
was like a field of wheat when the wind goes over it.
Then fell a horrible thing.
There broke out suddenly a cry, that was like a trumpet suddenly
sounding after drums--of a different kind altogether from the murmuring
that was before. I turned my head whence it came, and saw a great
confusion break out in the outskirts of the crowd. Then I saw a horse's
head, and a man's bare head behind it, whisk out from the trees in the
direction of the park, and come like a streak across the open ground.
As the galloper came nearer, I could see that he was spurring as if for
life. Then once more a great roar broke out everywhere--
"A pardon! a pardon!" And so it was.
The crowd opened out to let the man through; and immediately he was at
the gallows, and handing the paper to the sheriff. A roar was going up
now on all sides; but as in dumb play I could see that Mr. How was
speaking to the priests who still stood as before. Mr. Whitbread shook
his head in answer and so did the others. Then I saw Mr. How make a
sign; the hangman came forward again (for he had stepped back just now);
and the roar died suddenly to silence.
Then I understood that the pardon was offered only on conditions which
these men could not accept--and indeed they turned out afterwards to be
that they should confess their guilt--and my anger at that bitter
mockery swelled up so that I could scarcely hold myself in. But I did
so.
Then the hangman climbed once more into the cart, and, one by one with
each, he adjusted the rope, and then pulled down the caps over their
faces, beginning with Father Whitbread and ending with Father Fenwick.
Then he got down from the cart again; and the murmur rose once more to a
roar.
I kept my eyes fixed upon the five, caring for nothing else; and even in
that horrible instant my lips moved in the _De Profundis_ for their
souls' easy passage. Then I saw old Father Harcourt suddenly stagger,
and then the rest staggered; and I saw that the cart was being pulled
away. And then all five of them were in the air together, beginning to
twist to and fro; and I shut my eyes, for I could bear no more.