ILMINSTER CLINK.
How can I tell--oh! how can I sit down to tell in cold blood the
story of all that followed? Some parts of it for very pity I must
pass over. All that has been told or written of the Bloody Assize
is most true, and yet not half that happened can be told. There are
things, I mean, which the historian cannot, for the sake of pity,
decency, and consideration for living people, relate, even if he
hath seen them. You who read the printed page may learn how in one
place so many were hanged; in another place so many; how some were
hung in gemmaces, so that at every cross-road there was a frightful
gibbet with a dead man on it; how some died of small-pox in the
crowded prisons, and some of fever; and how Judge Jeffreys rode from
town to town, followed by gangs of miserable prisoners driven after
him to stand their trial in towns where they would be known; how the
wretched sufferers were drawn and quartered, and their limbs seethed
in pitch, and stuck up over the whole country; how the women and
boys of tender years were flogged through market-towns--you, I say,
who read these things on the cold page presently (even if you be a
stickler for the Right Divine and hold rebellion as a mortal sin)
feel your blood to boil with righteous wrath. The hand of the Lord
was afterwards heavy upon those who ordered these things; nay, at
the very time (this is a most remarkable Judgment, and one little
known) when this inhuman Judge was thundering at his victims--so
that some went mad and even dropped down dead with fear--he was
himself, as Humphrey hath assured me, suffering the most horrible
pain from a dire disease; so that the terrors of his voice and of
his fiery eyes were partly due to the agony of his disease, and
he was enduring all through that Assize, in his own body, pangs
greater than any that he ordered! As for his miserable end, and the
fate that overtook his master, that we know; and candid souls cannot
but confess that here were truly Judgments of God, visible for all
to see and acknowledge. But no pen can truly depict what the eye saw
and the ear heard during that terrible time. And, think you, if it
was a terrible and a wretched time for those who had no relations
among the rebels, and only looked on and saw these bloody executions
and heard the lamentations of the poor women who lost their lovers
or their husbands, what must it have been for me, and those like
me, whose friends and all whom they loved--yea, all, all!--were
overwhelmed in one common ruin, and expected nothing but death?
Our own misery I cannot truly set forth. Sometimes the memory of it
comes back to me, and it is as if long afterwards one should feel
again the sharpness of the surgeon's knife. Oh! since I must write
down what happened, let me be brief. And you who read it, if you
find the words cold where you would have looked for fire; if you
find no tears where there should have been weeping and wailing,
remember that in the mere writing have been shed again (but these
you cannot see) the tears which belonged to that time, and in the
writing have been renewed (but these you cannot hear) the sobbings
and wailings and terrors of that dreadful autumn.
The soldiers belonged to a company of Grenadiers of Trelawny's
Regiment, stationed at Ilminster, whither they carried the
prisoners. First they handcuffed Barnaby, but, on his giving his
parole not to escape, they let him go free; and he proved useful in
the handling of the cart on which my unhappy father lay. And, though
the soldiers' talk was ribald, their jests unseemly, and their
cursing and swearing seemed verily to invite the wrath of God, yet
they proved honest fellows in the main. They offered no rudeness to
us, nor did they object to our going with the prisoners; nay, they
even gave us bread and meat and cider from their own provisions when
they halted for dinner at noon. Barnaby walked sometimes with the
soldiers, and sometimes with us; with them he talked freely, and as
if he were their comrade and not their prisoner: with us he put in a
word of encouragement or consolation, such as 'Mother, we shall find
a way out of this coil yet;' or 'Sister, we shall cheat Tom Hangman.
Look not so gloomy upon it;' or, again, he reminded us that many a
shipwrecked sailor gets safe ashore, and that where there are so
many they cannot hang all. 'Would the King,' he asked, 'hang up the
whole county of Somerset?' But he had already told me too much. In
his heart I knew he had small hope of escape; yet he preserved his
cheerfulness, and walked towards his prison (to outward seeming) as
insensible of fear, and with as unconcerned a countenance as if he
were going to a banquet or a wedding. This cheerfulness of his was
due to a happy confidence in the ordering of things rather than
to insensibility. A sailor sees men die in many ways, yet himself
remains alive. This gives him something of the disposition of the
Oriental, who accepts his fate with outward unconcern, whatever it
may be. Perhaps (I know not) there may have been in his mind that
religious Assurance of which he had told me. Did Barnaby at this
period, when death was very near unto him, really believe that there
was one religion for landsmen and another for sailors--one way to
heaven for ministers, another for seamen? Indeed, I cannot tell;
yet how otherwise account for his courage and cheerfulness at all
times--even in the very presence of death?
'Brother,' he asked the Sergeant, 'we have been lying hid for a
fortnight, and have heard no news. Tell me, how go the hangings?'
'Why, Captain,' the fellow replied with a grin, 'in this respect
there is little for the rebels to complain of. They ought to be
satisfied, so far, with the attentions paid to them. Lord Feversham
hanged twenty odd to begin with. Captain Adlan and three others are
trussed up in chains for their greater honour; and, in order to put
the rest in good heart, one of them ran a race with a horse, being
promised his life if he should win. When he had beaten the horse,
his Lordship, who was ever a merry man, ordered him to be hanged
just to laugh at him. And hanged he was.'
'Ay,' said Barnaby, 'thus do the Indians in America torture their
prisoners first and kill them afterwards.'
'There are two hundred prisoners laying in Weston Zoyland church,'
the Sergeant went on; 'they would have been hanged, too, but the
Bishop interfered. Now they are waiting to be tried. Lord! what
signifies trial, except to give them longer rope?'
'Ay, ay; and how go things in Bridgwater and Taunton?'
'From Weston to Bridgwater there is a line of gibbets already; in
Taunton, twenty, I believe, have swung--twenty, at least. The drums
beat, the fifes played, and the trumpets sounded, and Colonel Kirke
drank to the health of every man (such was his condescension!)
before he was turned off. 'Twould have done your heart good,
Captain, only to see the brave show.'
'Ay, ay,' said Barnaby, unmoved; 'very like, very like. Perhaps I
shall have the opportunity of playing first part in another brave
show if all goes well. Hath the Duke escaped?'
'We heard yesterday that he is taken somewhere near the New Forest.
So that he will before long lay his lovely head upon the block.
Captain, your friends have brought their pigs to a pretty market.'
'They have, Brother; they have,' replied Barnaby, still with unmoved
countenance. 'Yet many a man hath recovered from worse straits than
these.'
I listened with sinking heart. Much I longed to ask if the Sergeant
knew aught of Robin; but I refrained, lest merely to name him might
put the soldiers on the look-out for him, should he, happily, be in
hiding.
Next the Sergeant told us (which terrified me greatly) that there
was no part of the country where they were not scouring for
fugitives; that they were greatly assisted by the clergy, who, he
said, were red-hot for King James; that the men were found hiding,
as we had hidden, in linneys, in hedges, in barns, in woods; that
they were captured by treachery--by information laid, and even, most
cruel thing of all, by watching and following the men's sweethearts
who were found taking food to them. He said also that, at the
present rate, they would have to enlarge their prisons to admit ten
times their number, for they were haling into them not only the men
who had followed Monmouth, but also those who had helped him with
money, arms, or men. The Sergeant was a brutal fellow, yet there
was about him something of good nature, and even of compassion for
the men he had captured. But he seemed to take delight in speaking
of the sufferings of the unfortunate prisoners. The soldiers, he
told us, were greatly enraged towards the rebels--not, I suppose,
on account of their rebellion, because three years later they
themselves showed how skin-deep was their loyalty, but because the
rustics, whom they thought contemptible, had surprised and nearly
beaten them. And this roused in them the spirit of revenge.
'Captain,' said the Sergeant, ''tis pity that so lusty a gentleman
as thou shouldst die. Hast thou no friends at Court? No? Nor any who
would speak for thee? 'Tis pity. Yet a man can die but once. With
such a thick neck as thine, bespeak, if so much grace be accorded
thee, a long rope and a high gallows. Else, when it comes to the
quartering'--he stopped and shook his head--'but there--I wish you
well out of it, Captain.'
In the evening, just before sunset, we arrived at Ilminster, after a
sad and weary march of ten miles, at least; but we could not leave
the prisoners until we knew how and where they were bestowed; and
during all this time my mother, who commonly walked not abroad from
one Sabbath to the next, was possessed with such a spirit that she
seemed to feel no weariness. When we rode all night in order to join
the Duke she complained not; when we rode painfully across the hills
to Taunton she murmured not; nor when we carried our wounded man
up the rough and steep comb; no, nor on this day, when she walked
beside her husband's head, careful lest the motion of the cart
should cause him pain. But he felt nothing, poor soul! He would feel
nothing any more.
Ilminster is a goodly town, rich and prosperous with its spinners
and weavers. This evening, however, there was no one in the streets
except the troopers, who swaggered up and down or sat drinking at
the tavern door. There is a broad open place before the market,
which stands upon great stone pillars. Outside the market is
the Clink, whither the soldiers were taking their prisoners.
The troopers paid not the least heed to our mournful little
procession--a wounded man; a prisoner in scarlet and lace, but the
cloth tattered and stained and the lace torn. They were only two
more men on their way to death. What doth a soldier care for the
sight of a man about to die?
'Mother,' said Barnaby when we drew near the prison gates, 'come not
within. I will do all that I can for him. Go now and find a decent
lodging, and, Sister, hark ye, the lads in our army were rough, but
they were as lambs compared with these swaggering troopers. Keep
snug, therefore, and venture not far abroad.'
I whispered in his ear that I had his bag of money safe, so that
he could have whatever he wanted if that could be bought. Then the
prison gates were closed, and we stood without.
It would have been hard indeed if the wife and daughter of Dr.
Comfort Eykin could not find a lodging among godly people, of whom
there are always many in every town of Somerset. We presently
obtained a room in the house of one Martha Prior, widow of the
learned and pious Joshua Prior, whilom preacher and ejected
minister. Her case was as hard as our own. This poor woman had two
sons only, and both had gone to join the Duke; one already risen to
be a Master Serge-maker and one a Draper of the town. Of her sons
she could hear no news at all: whether they were alive or dead.
If they were already dead, or if they should be hanged, she would
have no means of support, and so must starve or eat the bread of
charity. (I learned afterwards that she never did hear anything of
them, so that it is certain that they must have been killed on the
battle-field or cut down by the dragoons in trying to escape. But
the poor soul survived not long their loss.)
The church of Ilminster stands upon a rising ground; on the north
of the church is the grammar school, and on the other three sides
are houses of the better sort, of which Mrs. Prior had one. The
place, which surrounds the churchyard, and hath no inn or ale-house
in it, is quiet and retired. The soldiers came not thither, except
once or twice, with orders to search the houses (and with a private
resolution to drink everything that they might lay their hands
upon), so that, for two poor women in our miserable circumstances,
we could not have a more quiet lodging.
Despite our troubles, I slept so well that night that it was
past seven in the morning when I awoke. The needs of the body do
sometimes overcome the cares of the spirit. For a whole fortnight
had we been making our beds on the heather, and, therefore, without
taking off our clothes; and that day we had walked ten miles, at
least, with the soldiers, so that I slept without moving or waking
all the night. In the morning, I dressed quickly and hurried to the
jail, not knowing whether I might be admitted or should be allowed
speech of Barnaby. Outside the gate, however, I found a crowd of
people going into the prison and coming out of it. Some of them,
women like ourselves, were weeping--they were those whose brothers
or lovers, husbands or sons, were in those gloomy walls. Others
there were who brought, for such of the prisoners as had money to
buy them, eggs, butter, white bread, chickens, fruit, and all kinds
of provisions; some brought wine, cider, and ale; some, tobacco. The
warders who stood at the gates made no opposition to those who would
enter. I pressed in with a beating heart, prepared for a scene of
the most dreadful repentance and gloomy forebodings. What I saw was
quite otherwise.
The gates of the prison opened upon a courtyard, not very big, where
the people were selling their wares, and some of the prisoners were
walking about, and some were chaffering with the women who had the
baskets. On the right-hand side of the yard was the Clink itself; on
the left hand were houses for the warders or officers of the prison.
In general, a single warder, constable, or head-borough is enough
for a town such as Ilminster, to keep the peace of the prison, which
is for the most part empty, save when they enforce some new Act
against Nonconformists and fill it with them or with Quakers. Now,
however, so great was the press that, instead of two, there were
a dozen guards, and, while a stout cudgel had always been weapon
enough, now every man went armed with pike and cutlass to keep order
and prevent escapes. Six of them occupied the gate-house; other six
were within, in a sort of guard-house, where they slept on the left
hand of the court.
The ground floor of the Clink we found to be a large room, at
least forty feet each side in bigness. On one side of it was a
great fireplace, where, though it was the month of July, there was
burning a great fire of Welsh coal, partly for cooking purposes,
because all that the prisoners ate was cooked at this fire; and
partly because a great fire kept continually burning sweetens the
air, and wards off jail fever. On another side was a long table and
several benches. Thick wooden pillars supported the joists of the
rooms above; the windows were heavily barred, but the shutters had
been taken down, and there was no glass in them. In spite of fire
and open windows, the place was stifling, and smelt most horrible.
Never have I breathed so foul an air. There lived in this room about
eighty prisoners (later on the numbers were doubled); some were
smoking tobacco and drinking cider or ale; some were frying pieces
of meat or smoked herrings over the fire; and the tobacco, the ale,
the wine, the cooking, and the people themselves--nearly all country
lads, unwashed, who had slept since Sedgemoor, at least, in the same
clothes without once changing--made so foul an air that jail fever,
putrid throats, and small-pox (all of which afterwards broke out)
should have been expected sooner.
They were all talking, laughing, and even singing, so that, in
addition to the noisome stench of the place, there was such a din as
one may hear at Sherborne Fair of an evening. I expected, as I have
said, a gloomy silence with the rattling of chains, the groans of
those who looked for death, and, perhaps, a godly repentance visible
upon every countenance. Yet they were all laughing, except a few who
sat retired and who were wounded. I say that they were all laughing.
They had nothing to expect but death, or at the best to be horribly
flogged, to be transported, to be fined, branded, and ruined. Yet
they laughed! What means this hardness and indifference in men?
Could they not think of the women they had left at home? I warrant
that none of them were laughing.
Among them--a pipe of tobacco in his lips and a mug of strong ale
before him on the table, his hat flung backwards--sat Barnaby, his
face showing, apparently, complete satisfaction with his lot.
When he saw us at the door, he rose and came to meet us.
'Welcome,' he said. 'This is one of the places where King Monmouth's
men are to receive the honour due to them. Courage, gentle hearts.
Be not cast down. Everywhere the prisons are full, and more are
brought in every day. Our very numbers are our safety. They cannot
hang us all. And hark!' here he whispered, 'Sister, we now know
that Colonel Kirke hath been selling pardons at ten pounds, twenty
pounds, and thirty pounds apiece. Wherefore we are well assured that
somehow or other we shall be able to buy our release. There are
plenty besides Colonel Kirke who will sell a prisoner his freedom.'
'Where is your father?' asked my mother.
'He is bestowed above, where it is quieter, except for the groaning
of the wounded. Go up-stairs, and you will find him. And there is
a surprise for you, besides. You will find with him one you little
expect to see.'
'Oh! Barnaby, is there new misery for me? Is Robin a prisoner?'
'Robin is not here, Sis; and as for misery, why, that is as you take
it. To be sure the man above is in prison, but no harm will happen
to him. Why should it? He did not go out with Monmouth's men. But go
up-stairs--go up-stairs, and see for yourselves.'