Of my Meeting with my Kinsman, Anthony Dacre, at the Wayside
Inn--of my Further Adventures, my Disinheritance by Sir Nicholas,
and my Doings with the Parliamentarians--and of my Employment on an
Important Mission by General Oliver Cromwell.
I.
It was but little beyond noon when I turned out of Francis French’s
park into the highroad, and I suddenly bethought myself that if I
went immediately to the trysting place I should be as like as not
to cool my heels there for some time ere Matthew Richardson joined
me. His message had required me to meet him within twenty-four
hours, and of the twenty-four there were still some seven or
eight to run. “Faith!” says I to myself, “he might have been more
explicit--does he expect me to sit by the wayside like a tinker who
puts his mare in the hedge-bottom to graze for her supper?” And I
went on somewhat out of humour, and that not altogether because
of Matthew’s thoughtlessness. To tell truth, Mistress Alison’s
last words, though I had laughed at them, had stung me rather
sharply and roused a certain anger in me. Now that I was out of her
presence I felt her scorn more than while I sat watching her. “So
I am to be flouted by every chit of a lass, am I?” says I, with
some bitterness. But on the instant my humour changed, and I fell
to laughter again at the thought of her looks when I paid her back
in her own coin. “What care I?” says I, shaking my bridle reins.
“Here’s for whatever comes next,” and so I cantered forward.
At the joining of the roads against Hickleton, I came to a wayside
inn of so inviting a sort that I involuntarily pulled up my beast
and asked myself whether it were not some time since breakfast.
I then discovered that I was prodigiously hungry, and so made
no more ado, but rode into the yard and handed over my horse to
the hostler, bidding him take good care of it, as it was my sole
dependence for a long journey. The fellow looked at it somewhat
curiously.
“I could swear, master,” says he, “that this is of old Sir
Nicholas Coope’s breeding--we have its marrow in yonder stable at
this moment--’tis a mare that Master Dacre of Foxclough rides--I
never saw two beasts more alike.”
“Aye?” says I. “Why, truly, thou hast a rare eye, lad--but what is
Master Dacre’s mare doing in your stable?”
“Master Dacre’s within,” says he, nodding his head towards the inn.
“Oh!” says I, and stands staring at the door, somewhat nonplussed.
I had not expected to meet any of my kinsfolk just then and scarce
relished the notion. “Come,” says I to myself, “what signifies
Anthony Dacre?--we’re as near strangers as may be,” and I once more
bade the man see to my horse, and walked into the house.
They seemed somewhat quiet inside--there were but two or three
men drinking in the kitchen, and the landlord leaned idly against
the corner of the settle, his hands tucked under the wide apron
that covered his capacious paunch. At sight of me he started
into activity. My eyes cast about them in search of Anthony--the
landlord noted it, and thought I looked for a place worthy of my
condition. “If your honour will but step into the parlour,” says
he, and flings the door open before me. So I slips in, and there
sat Anthony Dacre with a jug of ripe ale before him and some trifle
of food such as a wayside inn affords to chance comers. He gave
me a glance as I stepped within the room, and I saw that he did
not recognise me, which was naught to be surprised at for we had
not met those seven years. For a moment, then, I stood staring at
him, half doubtful whether to make myself known, or to go on my
way without recognising him. Faith! I have since wondered many’s
the time indeed, whether much of what followed might not have been
prevented if I had turned on my heel and left Anthony to refresh
himself in peace.
Now this man Anthony--at that time my senior by some three years,
and as proper a looking man as you might desire to set eyes on--was
the son of old Stephen Dacre of Foxclough House, that was related
to Sir Nicholas Coope by his marriage with Mistress Dorothy, the
old knight’s youngest sister. As for old Stephen and his wife
they were both dead, and all that they had, which was but little,
now lay in Master Anthony’s hands. A poor parcel of land it was,
that manor of Foxclough, the soil being stony in one place and
marshy in another, and old Stephen had done naught to improve
it, but had rather drained its feeble resources in order to keep
up his roystering habits, much to the grief and perturbation of
Sir Nicholas, who was given to frugality, though hospitable as a
gentleman should be. Thus Master Anthony had but little to live
and keep up his small state upon, and since he was well minded to
do as his father and grandfather had done before him and live as
royally as might be, there was naught for him but to curse his
fate and sharpen up his wits to his own betterment. And so far as
his own wits were concerned he saw no better chance, I suppose,
of improving his condition than by courting the society of Sir
Nicholas, and seeking to ingratiate himself in the old knight’s
favour. Thus it was that when we were lads together Anthony was
constantly at the Manor House, and made himself rival to me (though
indeed I knew naught of it at the time, being young and unlearned
in such matters), in my uncle’s affections. But there was something
occurred between them--I never knew what it was--which alienated
them, or, rather, which caused Sir Nicholas to look with disfavour
upon Anthony, and after that the latter never came to the Manor
House that I knew of, nor did my uncle ever speak of him except
to say now and then that Anthony was a real Dacre, and would be a
scapegrace and roysterer all the days of his life.
Until I met Anthony at the inn I had not heard of him for some
two years. It was said that he had gone to the wars, and that
Foxclough--which was a half-ruined barn of a house when old Stephen
died--was closed. Then it was thought that he was dead, or had gone
across seas in search of treasure. Certainly, it had never mattered
a straw to me whether he was dead or alive, here or there. I knew
naught of his secret desires for Sir Nicholas’s land and money, and
it would have made no difference to me if I had known of them. But
since he was a kinsman, and we had been lads together--at which
time, I, as the younger, had somewhat admired him--I made up my
mind to speak to him now that we had met accidentally.
“You have forgotten me, Master Anthony,” says I, standing before
him at the table while the landlord lingered at the door waiting
for my commands.
He paused in the act of lifting his cup to his lips, and stared at
me.
“Why--” says he, “I am somewhat--is it Dick Coope?” he says,
half-recognising me. “Lord! I did not know thee, Dick.”
He stretched out his hand across the table. “Sit down, lad,” says
he. “We will drink a cup together--let me recommend this ale to
thee. But perchance thou wouldst like a flask of----”
“Ale for me,” says I, “It’s all I am like to get for awhile, and
maybe more than I shall get.”
“Oh!” says he, and looks at me curiously. “Aye? Well, every man
knows his situation best, Dick. Let me see, ’tis some time since we
set eyes on each other, I think.”
“Some seven or eight years, I should think,” says I, sitting down
before him at the table.
“Aye, it must be all that,” says he. “And how goes the old knight,
my worshipful uncle--od’s zounds, he and I had a sore difference
the last time we met, Dick. But you’ll know all there is to know of
that, no doubt.”
“Nay,” says I, “I don’t--Sir Nicholas can be as close as any man
when he likes.”
“I should ha’ thought he’d have had no secrets from thee,” says he.
“Art a lucky man, Dick, to be heir to so snug a little property,
and I lay the old knight has a nice warm sum put away in some old
stocking. As for me,” he says, spreading out his hands, “here I
sit, as needy a poor devil as any scare-crow in a road-side field.”
Now I know not what it was that moved me to it, but there was
something in me that morning which prompted me to say all that I
thought, whether it were wise to say it or not. It may be that my
parting with Sir Nicholas, and that last stinging epithet bestowed
upon me by Mistress Alison, had disposed me to seek consolation
from the first person I met; certain it is, that sitting there with
Anthony Dacre, who was well-nigh a stranger to me, I had no more
sense than to tell him all that was in my mind.
“Aye,” says he again, “as needy as any scare-crow, Dick, and maybe
needier, seeing that he wants naught, and I want all.”
“Why?” says I, “I don’t know that you’re alone there, Anthony. Your
estate----”
“A patch of stones and bog,” grumbles he.
“It will feed something,” says I.
“A score miserable cattle,” says he.
“Why,” says I, “but that’s something. Now here I am with naught.”
He looked across the table at me in a sudden surprise, and if I
had kept my wits about me, I should have noticed his quick curious
glance.
“Hast never quarrelled with Sir Nicholas!” says he. “Gadzooks, I
thought thou wert--well, well,” he says, laughing, “then I am not
the only one of his relations to disagree with the old knight, it
seems. But what has parted you, Dick?--I understood you were a sort
of young Sir Nicholas already.”
“’Tis a political difference,” says I, like the fool that I was.
“Hah!” says he. “I can well believe it in these times. And for
which side art thou, Dick?--hark thee,” he says, bending across the
table to me, “I’m not afraid to tell thee, lad, that my sympathies
are all with the Parliament. ’Sdeath, I have been considering this
last week or so whether I won’t join with them--’tis a gentlemanly
occupation, that of arms.”
“’Tis what I am about to adopt,” says I.
“I trust on the right side,” says he.
“I am for the Parliament,” says I, stoutly.
“Aye, and Sir Nicholas is a staunch King and Church man,” he says.
“Well, well--so you differed on that point, eh?”
“Something like it,” says I. “He would have had me go into garrison
at Pomfret Castle under Sir Jarvis Cutler.”
“A man must never give up his principles,” says he. “You stood by
yours, of course, Dick?”
“As you see,” says I, feeling somewhat important, and being
foolishly willing to parade it.
“I fear the old knight will disinherit thee, Dick,” says he,
regarding me closely. “Even as he did me some seven years ago
because I dared to contradict him on some trifling matter. ’Tis a
touchy old cock, and can ill bide opposition from any man.”
“Faith,” says I, “Can he bide it from a woman? He is like to have
it in plenty if I know aught,” I says, the memory of my little
scene with Mistress Alison still fresh in my mind.
“Oh!” says he. “Is he so? And how may that be, Dick?”
“He has sent for Alison French,” says I, draining my cup.
“Our cousin Alison, eh?” says he, still curious. “Aye, he had
always a tender spot in his heart for the lass.”
“Will he preserve it?” says I. “She has the sharpest tongue that
e’er I heard.”
He looked at me with interest. “I ha’nt seen her this two year,”
says he. “She bade fair to be a fine woman.”
“Fine enough,” says I. “But preserve me from her tongue--’tis keen
as a newly-whetted sword.”
“You seem to bear some lively recollection on’t,” says he, looking
at me with amusement. “Well, well--I seem to have come home to
some strange news. But thou art not off, man--sit out another jug
of ale with me.”
“I must be gone,” says I. “I am riding south.”
“And I am for my old ruin of a house,” he answers. “I have not set
eyes on’t this two year, Dick. I must see to it, I doubt--and then
for the wars.”
“Belike we shall meet there,” says I, and shakes him by the hand
and goes out to my horse. As I rode away from the inn I saw him
come to the door and gaze after me. He threw me a wave of his hand
as I turned the corner.
II.
Still in a sore discontent with myself and my recent doings, I
jogged forward through Hickleton and Sprotborough to Warmsworth,
and coming to the trysting-place about four o’clock of the
afternoon, sat me down by the roadside and waited until such time
as my friend Matthew Richardson should make his appearance. As
for my horse, I tied him up to the mile post and bade him crop
the grass within reach to his heart’s content “Yes,” says I,
“eat while thou canst, poor beast--God only knows what cheer we
shall have in the days that are coming!” By which you may perceive
that I had no great joy at the prospect before me. Now this may
seem strange, and yet ’twas not strange, for, as I have told you
before, I had never much inclination for such an active life as a
soldier must needs live, and still less for the privations that
fighting men are necessarily put to. But having put my hand to the
plough--by which I mean, having sworn to embrace, and if need be,
to fight for the popular cause--I was bound in honour not to look
back. And surely my sympathies were all in favour of the cause I
had espoused--it was but a natural sluggishness that made me hanker
after peaceful pursuits at a time when most men were furbishing up
their old weapons with uncommon zeal.
About five o’clock came Matthew Richardson, mounted on a good
horse, and full of enthusiasm and fervour. He greeted me with
warmth, but was somewhat taken aback on perceiving that I was not
armed.
“Why, what?” says he, staring at me. “Is it thus you ride to
war, friend Richard? Where be thy accoutrements, thy armour, thy
greaves, thy sword and spear----”
“You forget,” says I, “that I am escaped from a house where every
weapon is sacred to the cause of the King’s Majesty. ’Tis a marvel
that I have come hither at all.”
“Ah!” says he, “I forgot, ’tis true, that your uncle is a staunch
Royalist. Well, but we must arm thee, Richard, at the first
opportunity. I have friends in Derbyshire,” he says, musingly,
“that will fit thee out, I think. So now to horse and let us
onward.”
“Whither away first?” says I.
“To Northampton, lad. ’Tis there that Essex is gathering the army
in which lies all the hope of England. A brave array it is,” he
says, “judging by all that I hear.”
“I have heard naught of it,” says I, as we jogged along. “Until
last night I did not even know that war had broken out.”
“You are welcome to such news as I have,” says he, and for the
next hour he entertained me with information about the doings
of the Parliamentarians. The Earl of Essex, it seemed, had been
named general-in-chief and had appointed various officers to serve
under him, amongst whom were Kimbolton, Stamford, Holles, Hampden,
Cholmley, and Wharton. Lord Bedford was general of the cavalry, and
had under his command some five thousand men, captained by lords
and commoners, of whom Cromwell was one and Ireton another. “Three
and twenty thousand men, horse and foot, there are,” says Matthew.
“Truly, the oppressor hath need to quail and quake before them!”
“’Tis certainly a goodly array to hear of,” says I.
“Yes,” says he, with enthusiasm, “and ’tis representative of the
will of the people, Dick. Shouldst hear all that I have heard
of the sacrifices that have been made! High and low, rich and
poor--faith, lad! I had not thought that the popular cause had so
many friends. But yesterday comes Geoffery Scales--thou knowest
Geoff?--he will meet us at Mansfield on our way--and tells me
that when he was in London t’other week, there was the wildest
enthusiasm for the Parliament. Why, there has been plate of
gold and silver sent in for melting, and women of fashion have
given their gew-gaws, and the poorer sort their rings and little
ornaments--praise be to God!” he says, with a sudden fervour. “It
rejoiceth my soul exceedingly to perceive so vigorous a feeling in
favour of liberty.”
“Why,” says I, “but is there not an equal feeling on t’other
side, Matthew? It seems to me,” says I, “that for every ounce of
enthusiasm on our side the Royalists can show another, and maybe
more, on theirs.”
“Thou art come out of a Royalist hot-bed,” he says, not over well
pleased. “I trust they have not shaken thy faith at all, Richard?”
“Marry, no,” I says. “I daresay ’tis strong as thine, lad, though
I do not show it in just thy fashion. Thou art a dreamer, a
visionary, a man of fine and airy spirit, friend Matthew, and
thou dost see far into the future, whereas I am slow as an ox at
thought, and mighty sluggish into the bargain. Howbeit, I will
strike as many blows as you like for the good cause.”
“Yes,” says he, his eyes kindling, “and what a cause it is! Thou
callest me a visionary, Dick--why man, ’tis true I have seen the
rarest things in my dreams of what this nation may be, once freed
from the ancient oppression.”
“Aye, and what shall she be, Matthew?” says I. “That is, if our
side wins?”
“If our side wins?” he says angrily, turning hastily upon me. “If
our side wins! Why, man, we are bound to win--wherever yet in the
world’s history was there a popular cause that was not successful
in the end? But to thy question--why, Dick, we shall set aside the
tyrant and all his unholy crew, and after that we shall govern the
nation in justice and righteousness and there will be abiding peace
in the land.”
“The Lord grant it!” says I, with a sigh. “Faith!--’tis precisely
what I desire. Let us press on, Matthew, and hasten its coming.”
So we went forward, joined by one or other of our fellows at
various places along the road. Some of them were enthusiasts like
Matthew Richardson, who believed that they had a heaven-sent
mission to bring about the millennium by resort to arms, others
were like myself, in full sympathy with the wrongs of the nation,
who had come to the sorrowful conclusion that naught but war
would settle matters, and had therefore resolved to join the
Parliamentary forces. Five-and-twenty of us there were altogether,
all students of the ancient University of Oxford, who rode into
Northampton under Matthew Richardson’s command to take service
under Essex, every man bringing his own horse and his own gear, and
each resolved to do his best for the cause.
Now if this were a chronicle of my doings with the Parliamentarian
army I could here set down the history of many things which
happened to me during my service under its flag, for in good sooth
those were stirring times and I saw much of what went on. But this
is a plain account of the most notable passage in my own life and
in that of Alison French, my cousin, and all that I have so far
writ is as it were a prolegomena to the important business of my
story. But since you may know where I was, and what I was occupied
with during the period which elapsed ’twixt my leaving the Manor
House in 1642 and returning to it in 1644, let me tell you that
I was engaged in fighting the battles of the people in no paltry
fashion. Faith! when any man talks to me of the glories of war
I laugh in my sleeve at him for a fool that knows naught of his
subject. I was in Ireton’s troop during those two years, and know
as much of bloody heads, empty bellies, and sleeping out o’ doors,
as the best of them. The marvel is, looking back upon it from the
standpoint of a greybeard, that I endured so much privation and
discomfort, who had all my life been accustomed to gentle living
and soft quarters. But we were young, and young folks, especially
if they have any enthusiasm for a cause, or dogged belief in its
righteousness, will endure a deal. Now I had little enthusiasm,
but much dogged belief, and when I had finally assumed the steel
helmet and mastered the long sword of a trooper, there was in me
a grim determination to fight for the true cause that made me
regardless of either a raw wound or a couch of damp straw.
III.
From the time that I said farewell to Anthony Dacre at the door
of the wayside inn until June of the following year I never
heard aught of my relatives, though they, as it appeared--thanks
to Master Anthony--heard no little of me. I was here and there
with the army under Essex all that autumn and winter of 1642-43,
and truth to tell, we had no very brave times of it. There was
discontent and despondency, and also there was disease and
desertion, and there was the affair at Kingston Bridge where we
let the king escape us in the most childish fashion, and these
matters did us little good, as you may believe. The king was
negotiating, and quibbling, and lying, at Oxford, and nobody was
sorry when spring came and put an end to all the talk and writing.
Essex reunited his army, and there was not a man of us that did not
look forward to the resumption of hostilities. It was Hampden’s
notion that we should immediately invest Oxford, which was at
that time ill calculated to withstand a siege, but Essex thought
differently, and made for Reading, which he reduced after a ten
days’ siege. About the middle of June we approached Oxford and
fixed our headquarters at Thame, within ten miles of the city, and
it was while we lay there that I received news of my relations at
the Manor House.
There came into my tent one afternoon a tall fellow that first
stared about him with an air of great curiosity, and then enquired
if he spoke to Master Richard Coope.
“You do, master,” says I.
“My name is Stephen Morrel,” says he.
“I never heard on’t before,” I says. “Have you business with me,
Master Morrel?”
He lugged a packet out of his breast and held it towards me so that
I could see the handwriting.
“Do you recognise that fist, Master Coope?” says he.
“Why!” says I. “’Tis my uncle’s.” There was no mistaking the
crabbed up and down strokes. “Sit you down, Master Morrel,” I says,
“Faith! I had no idea that you carried news to me.”
“Why,” says he, “I know naught about the news, Master Coope. But
suffer me,” he says, seating himself, “to give you some account of
the manner in which this packet came into my hands.”
“With the greatest joy in the world,” says I. “But don’t be long in
your story, for I am mighty impatient to read my uncle’s letter.”
“I will waste no words,” says he, settling himself in a fashion
that made me think he intended at least an hour’s discourse. “It
was after this fashion,” he says. “You must know, Master Coope,
that I set out from the North some three weeks ago, bearing
despatches from Sir Thomas Fairfax to the Earl of Essex. ’Tis
a mighty desperate thing, let me tell you, this carrying of
despatches through a lonely country where you may as like as not
be stopped by stray parties of the enemy, or fall across some town
or village that is mad for the King’s Majesty. What do you think,
Master Coope, on that point?”
“Sir,” says I, “I am so exceeding loth to interrupt you that I
shall not trouble you with my thoughts. This packet, now--?”
“Aye, to be sure,” says he, “Well, Master Coope, I progressed
safely through divers difficulties--though, indeed, I had one
adventure twixt Northallerton and York that has elements of danger
in’t--until I had passed the town of Pomfret by some two miles,
when my horse had the ill-fortune to fall and cut its right knee
very severely. As you may believe, this put me in a sad position,
for my orders were imperative. Now as I stood there, wondering what
to do, there came along the road an old gentleman of exceeding
fine presence, and with him the handsomest young gentlewoman that
I have seen this many a day. ‘Sir,’ says I, ‘I am in sore trouble,
and crave your assistance. My horse has cut its knee somewhat
severely--if your stable is at hand suffer me to lead him there
that I may wash and bandage his wound.’ ‘Of a surety!’ says he,
very prompt and polite. But he suddenly looked at me from head to
foot. ‘What art thou?’ he says, with rank suspicion in his eyes.
‘Sir,’ says I, ‘I am an officer in the Parliamentarian forces.’
‘A rebel!’ says he. ‘A renegade! Get thee gone, traitor--expect
no help from me--shouldst hang from yonder oak!’ ‘Sir,’ says I,
‘I entreat you to forget that I am your foe, and beg you only to
remember that I am a gentleman, a Christian, and in need.’”
“Faith!” says I, “you touched him in a sore place there.”
“So I perceived,” says he, “for he immediately straightened himself
up and looked at me very fierce. ‘Hah!’ says he. ‘Bring thy horse
after us--I have forgotten thy first description of thyself, young
man.’ So I walked after him, the young gentlewoman having gone on
before, and presently he turns aside into an ancient courtyard that
lay within the gates of an old manor-house. ‘There,’ says he, ‘take
thy beast into the stable and doctor him--God forbid that I should
not do thee mercy, even if thou art an enemy.’ ‘Sir,’ says I, ‘I am
no enemy to you, but your very much obliged servant.’ ‘Tut, tut,’
says he, and goes into his house. So I made for the stable with my
horse and there put his wound to rights, and felt thankful that I
had fared so well. But my story is wearisome to you, Master Coope?”
“Sir,” says I, “since you introduced my worshipful uncle into it,
it has possessed the keenest interest for me.”
“Well,” he says, “while I was repairing the damage to my beast’s
knee, the old gentleman, your uncle, came to me again and looked
at me with some curiosity. ‘So thou art in good sooth, a rebel?’
says he, at last. ‘Sir,’ says I, ‘I am what you call a rebel, and
you are what I call a rebel.’ ’Tis a mere difference of opinion
between us.’ ‘Hah!’ says he. ‘Well I grieve for thee, young man. Be
advised; go home, and serve the king loyally.’ ‘Sir,’ I says, ‘I
serve a greater Power than the king, and am on its business now.’
At that he walks up and down the stable awhile with his head bent
and his hands behind his back.”
“A favourite position of his,” says I, my thoughts going back to
other times.
“Then he comes back to me and looks me squarely in the face.
‘Art thou by any chance going nigh to the army commanded by the
traitor Essex?’ says he. ‘Sir,’ I says, ‘as between Royalist and
Parliamentarian, no; as between gentleman and gentleman, yes.’ He
takes another turn or two. ‘I have a lad, my nephew, with that
army,’ says he. ‘Wilt thou take a message to him?’ ‘Of a surety,’
says I, ‘if I should chance to come across him.’ ‘I have no certain
news of his whereabouts,’ says he, ‘but if thou canst find him--his
name it is Richard Coope--tell him that--nay,’ he says, ‘why should
not I write him letters with my own hand?’ ‘Why not, indeed?’ says
I. ‘But canst thou tarry?’ says he. ‘Sir,’ says I, ‘I will tarry
an hour to please you.’ Now at that he bustled me into the house
and had me into his hall, where I found the young gentlewoman I
spoke of plying her distaff, and conversing with a man of sinister
countenance, yet handsome withal----”
“Anthony Dacre!” says I.
“That indeed was his name. Well, the old gentleman bids the girl
see to my wants, and faith! she caused to be set up before me
a noble collation, with good wine, but not one word would she
exchange with me of conversation, but was as coldly polite as you
can imagine. However, the man talked with me somewhat freely, and
seemed desirous of hearing something of my business, as to which,
you may be sure, I said naught to him. After a time back comes the
old knight and gives me this packet, whereupon I took my leave. The
sinister-faced man came forth with me. ‘As you are riding towards
Doncaster,’ says he, ‘I will set you on your road for a mile or
two.’ ‘’Tis agreeable,’ says I, and away we rode at an easy pace.
Now within the half-hour we came to a steep bit of road where there
were many trees on either side.”
“’Tis Barnsdale,” says I, mighty interested.
“I don’t know the name,” says he, “but I have lively
recollections of what took place there. This fellow that was riding
at my side suddenly whips out a pistol and presents it at my face.
‘Give me that packet!’ says he. ‘If you value your life, give it
to me on the instant!’ Now I then knew what I was dealing with,
so I made a rapid movement with my horse and suddenly knocked the
pistol out of the fellow’s hand, and had drawn my own ere he could
get at his sword. ‘Softly, good sir,’ says I, and lets him see that
I meant to shoot him at the least sign of resistance. ‘What is
your meaning?’ I says. But he began to scowl and swear, whereupon
I relieved him of his weapons and secured them to my own saddle
bow. ‘I perceive,’ says I, ‘that this packet bears some news for
Master Richard Coope which you have no mind for him to receive.’
‘Now,’ I says, ‘I don’t know where Master Coope is, or if he be
dead or alive, but if the latter I’ll see that this letter reaches
him.’ And with that I left him--‘and here,’ he says, handing me the
packet, ‘is your worshipful uncle’s epistle, Master Richard--and
faith! I think you’ll acknowledge that I had some slight adventures
in carrying it safe to you.’”
And with that he went out of the tent ere I could thank him for his
kindness.
IV.
“Here’s a pretty puzzle!” says I to myself, staring at my uncle’s
letter, and full of wonder as to its contents. “What on earth is
that fellow Anthony up to now that he should try to shoot a man who
happens to be carrying me a packet from Sir Nicholas? Faith!” says
I, cutting the strings, “there seems to be something queer in all
this--let’s see what the good old knight has been minded to write
to me.”
Now Sir Nicholas’s letter ran thus--I transcribe it from the
original, which is strictly preserved with my other family papers:--
“NEPHEW RICHARD,
“As Providence will have it there is put into my power to-day
the chance of holding some communication with you, and I hasten
to avail myself of the same, and to take my pen in hand to write
to you, though indeed I have no certain knowledge as to whether
you be alive or dead. However, if you be alive I trust these
may reach you, so that haply you may repent of your exceeding
naughtiness upon hearing my admonition thereon, and be turned
once more to better ways. Thou art my only brother’s only child,
and ’tis a sore vexing of the spirit to me that thou shouldst so
strangely depart from those paths of virtue in which I strove
to make thee walk. But let me address myself to the immediate
purpose with which I write to you. It must be done in few words,
for the messenger is in sore haste to be gone on his evil
errand. God forgive me for lending assistance to an enemy of the
king!--’Swounds, I would not have done it, but that he appealed
to me as a Christian, and that I thought there might be some
chance of communicating through him with thee, Dick.
“I understood, nephew, when you left me, that you were there and
then returning to your studies at Oxford. This was displeasing
to me, for I had wished you to fight for the King’s Majesty, but
after all there was naught of absolute evil in your desire or
your faintheartedness. And yet two days are not gone by after
your departure when in comes my other nephew, Anthony Dacre,
whom I had dismissed years ago in your favour, Dick, and tells
me that he met thee carousing in some wayside inn, and declaring
thy intention of joining thyself to the rebels. ’Sdeath, it was
a marvel that I did not there and then run him through with my
sword! I never heard tell of such a thing as a Coope fighting
against his sovereign--’tis most marvellous. But he assured me
in the most solemn fashion that he spake the truth. I trust in
God, nephew, that he lied, and yet I fear me he did not, for I
have since heard that thou and Lawyer Richardson’s son, and some
other of your college friends and acquaintance, have attached
yourselves to the enemy, being hot-headed young fools. Still I am
loth to believe aught that I hear against thee, Dick, for a Coope
should always serve the king whose good pleasure it was to make
me a knight.
“I know not whether these will ever reach thee, for I have really
no knowledge of where thou art, but I now write to inform thee
that if thou hast indeed joined the rebels all is over between
thee and me. I trust to hear better news, or at any rate that
thou wilt repent even at the eleventh hour--I could find it in
my heart to forgive thee, nephew, even then--and return to thy
proper place, instead of consorting with a pack of scoundrelly
crop-eared knaves that would disgrace Tyburn.
“I would have thee know that Anthony Dacre--whom I like not--is
for ever pressing his attentions upon Mistress Alison, thy
cousin, whom I had always meant thee to marry. I cannot tell
whether the wench favours him or not.
“I beseech thee, nephew, if these should come to thy hand and
find thee a rebel, to repent thee of thy naughtiness, and to
immediately abjure thy errors and return home. I am sore vexed at
thy froward conduct, and shall visit thee sharply for it, but as
I am a merciful man and stand in _loco parentis_, as the saying
is, to thee, I shall also reserve for thee my forgiveness on
condition that you do henceforward fight on the right side.
“Anthony Dacre told me that you spoke disrespectfully of me and
of Alison when he met you at the wayside inn as you was on your
way to the wars. I should joy to know that in this, as in that
other matter, A. D. was a liar--as I firmly believe him to be,
being much inclined that way.
“How hast thou managed for money? Alas--I wish I knew whether
these words will ever come under thy notice.
“I rest thy affectionate kinsman,
“NICHOLAS COOPE, Knt.”
_Post-Scriptum._--“The messenger, being still at his meat, I
open this to tell thee, Dick, that we had yesterday a litter of
fourteen young pigs from the old sow, and that thy bay mare
gave us a fine foal about a sen’night ago. The land is looking
very well hereabouts, and so far we have had none of our stock
or produce carried off by your rascally Parliamentarians, though
we have twice contributed liberally to the needs of passing
regiments of the king’s forces, which, to be sure, was our
bounden duty. My gout is a deal better--I am in hopes to harness
myself and go to the wars yet.
“If all that A. D. says of thee is true, I am minded to cut thee
off altogether. So no more at this present from thy uncle.”
I laid this letter aside with many diverse feelings. It showed to
me plainly that that precious rascal Anthony had drawn me out as we
sat at the wayside inn, and had forthwith blabbed all I had said
to Sir Nicholas, embellishing his news, doubtless, with a deal of
his own invention and ornament. “If ever there comes a chance,
Master Anthony,” says I, “I’ll pay you for your kindness.” And
yet, going by the letter, was there aught untrue in what Anthony
had evidently told them at the Manor House? It was true that I
had left Sir Nicholas under a false impression; it was true that
I had joined the Parliamentarians; it was true that I had spoken
of Mistress Alison French in a way that was aught but respectful.
“Lord!” says I to myself, “What a position am I placed in by my own
folly.” And yet I was conscious of naught wrong in my conduct. I
had left Sir Nicholas as I did in order to spare his feelings (and
to save him from locking me up, as he surely would have done had he
known my true thoughts), I had joined the Parliamentarians because
I honestly agreed with them; and if I had said aught sharp about
my cousin, why, it was because she had spoke sharply to me. “The
mischief was,” thinks I, “to say aught at all to Anthony--I should
have kept my thoughts to myself.”
Now, I cared naught about Anthony and his lies, or about Alison’s
disdain of me, but I had an honest affection for the old knight,
and felt that I must endeavour to set myself right with him, and
therefore I went about the camp, seeking Stephen Morrel, under the
hope that he was presently to travel North again with despatches.
And finding that he was, I sat down and wrote a long letter to
my uncle, wherein I set out all my conduct, excusing myself in
naught, but putting my own case boldly and in a manful way, and
claiming the right to think for myself in these vexed matters.
Also I assured him of my unfailing love and respect for himself,
and begged him to allow me--these troublous times over--to pay him
my duty in person. All this I wrote and more, and two days later
committed the packet to the care of Morrel, who was riding North
with despatches from Essex to Fairfax. But as ill-luck would have
it my letter was never delivered, for Morrel was taken prisoner by
the Royalists ere he had well got out of Oxfordshire and was shot,
and so Sir Nicholas was left in ignorance of me and my motives for
a long time. Howbeit there came at last a chance for me to put
myself right with him, and it was the seizing of it that led me to
the most important adventure of my life.
Upon the twenty-seventh day of October, 1644, was fought the second
battle of Newbury. Essex was ill, and the army was commanded by
Manchester, who had with him Cromwell as general of the cavalry.
Which of us it was that had the advantage I cannot say--the king
retired upon Oxford, but there was no pursuit of him. Some said
there was a difference of opinion between Manchester and Cromwell,
and as to that I know naught either. What I do know is that on the
following morning I was fetched to Cromwell’s tent, where I found
him sealing a despatch, and conversing with Ireton. He looked me
up and down, with that keen glance of his, which seemed to read a
man’s thoughts on the instant.
“You are a Yorkshireman?” says he.
“I am, sir,” says I.
“I have here a despatch of the strictest importance for Sir Thomas
Fairfax, who is now investing the castle at Pomfret,” says he. “I
think you are the man to carry it.”
“Sir,” says I, “I am at your orders.”
He sat looking at me, his fingers playing drum-taps on the sealed
packet.
“This,” says he, “must not be permitted to fall into the hands of
the enemy. ’Twixt Sheffield and Pomfret they are now in full force.
I think you, as a native of that part, should circumvent them.”
“I’ll undertake that, too,” says I.
“What do you propose?” says he.
“Not to travel like this,” says I, with a glance at my uniform.
“I’ll go as a travelling scholar--I have my old suit at hand.”
“Begone,” says he, and hands over the packet. He kept his thumb
and finger on one corner of it, and looked me squarely in the face.
“If this should fall into the enemy’s hand,” he says, and pauses.
He let the packet go. “You will be on your way in an hour, Master
Coope,” says he, and waves me out.
I was out of the camp in half-an-hour after that, and on my way
northward. I wore my old suit, and out of one pocket stuck a Livy,
and out of the other a Horace. As for the packet for Sir Thomas
Fairfax, it was sewed within the lining of my doublet. I had ridden
a good ten mile before I remembered that my mission would give me
the opportunity of waiting upon Sir Nicholas. That, I think, added
some zest to my adventure, for I was honestly anxious to see the
good old knight once more.
Now, I made good speed in my journey, and met with little hindrance
until the afternoon of the fourth day, when I was brought up by as
unfortunate an accident as a man in my position could encounter.
My horse, which had left Sheffield that morning, seemingly fresh
and fit for the last stage of his journey, suddenly fell dead under
me on the roadside ’twixt Hickleton and Barnsdale, leaving me
staring at him with as rueful thoughts as ever I had in my life. It
was then four o’clock in the afternoon, and by six I had trudged
forward to Barnsdale. There, pausing under the trees, I stood to
catch a glimpse of the Manor House in the distance. I laid my hand
on the packet hidden in my doublet. “That must be delivered ere
nightfall,” says I. But I was dead tired, and by no means certain
as to how my resolution was to be carried out.