"That money which you gave me, friend," he whispered faintly, "'tis in
my pocket with some more besides. I have a wife and little girl in
Bridgewater. Wilt see they get it?"
"It shall be done," I answered.
Seeking my hand he pressed it closely, saying:
"Thanks, good, true friend; now can I die in peace."
With that he closed his eyes again, his head sank back upon my shoulder,
and I thought his life had sped; but suddenly he looked forth with a
wild, unearthly stare, and pointed skywards, saying:
"See! see! A mighty army which no man can number! Hark to the tramp of
feet! They march, and I must join them! Let me go, friend!"
Springing to his feet, he stood there swaying like a drunken man; and,
waving a hand above his head, cried:
"Monmouth! Liberty! God with----"
The choking blood gushed up into his throat, and so he staggered back
into my arms--a corpse.
I laid him gently down, folded his hands upon his breast, and having
said a simple prayer above him, rode swiftly back to other scenes of
death.
*CHAPTER XXI*
*I Leave the Service of King James*
When I reached the battle-field, the dawn was breaking and the fight was
all but done. Only the gallant men of Somerset still held their
ground--a handful of doomed heroes, who scorned to yield to anything
save death, which rushed upon them from all sides. 'Twas a moving sight
indeed to see these brave, misguided fellows standing there--hemmed in
on every side; deserted by their comrades; mowed down by dozens every
minute: yet still fighting manfully with pike and scythe and musket for
the cause they held so dear. In the midst of them stood a tall,
red-coated minister waving a sword in one hand and a Bible in the other,
the while he shouted words of exhortation and encouragement; but just as
I drew close a musket bullet struck him in the mouth, and down he went
to everlasting silence. Almost as he fell their firing slackened, and a
wild, beseeching cry broke from them:
"Powder! for God's sake, powder!"
Their only answer to this piteous appeal was another furious onfall of
the Royalist horse, which swept them clean away--and all was over. The
struggle for a kingly crown had once more been decided by the sacrifice
of innocent and simple men.
The Duke had long since fled the field. While there was hope he fought
with bravery (or at least 'tis said so, for I never saw him), leading
his men on foot, with pike in hand. But no sooner did defeat seem
certain than he galloped off with Grey--his general of horse, and Buyse,
the German soldier--leaving his hapless followers to their fate; an act
of perfidy, it seems to me, which must for ever brand him as a coward.
Yet it availed him nothing, for, as ye know, he was taken two days
afterwards, hiding in a ditch at Ringwood, in Hampshire--a wretched,
half-starved, bearded creature, disguised in shepherd's clothing, and so
changed that those who captured him scarce knew him for the handsome,
smiling fellow who had stepped ashore at Lyme less than a month before.
From Ringwood he was borne to London, and, notwithstanding all his
abject cries for pardon to the king, his uncle, he lost his head within
a week on Tower Hill.
But to return to Sedgemoor. The fight was over, and what had it cost?
Well, a thousand of the Duke's men lay there dead upon the moor, with
some three hundred of our own to keep them company. But this was only
the beginning of such wanton butchery as sent all England cold with
horror when the tidings of it spread abroad. For throughout those
western counties men were harried day and night--hunted down like
vermin--and either shot, stabbed, or hanged; while those who escaped so
swift a death were driven into the towns chained together like great
flocks of sheep, and there cast into prison to await a no less certain
doom when Jeffreys came his bloody rounds.
The frightened tithing-men, fearful lest lack of zeal might be construed
into a favouring of the rebels, made haste to set up rough gibbets in
wellnigh every village, and thereon, day in, day out, hanging went
forward at a sickening pace. Nor was this all. It did not stop at
hanging. Commands went forth that drawing and quartering was to follow;
and so heads and trunks, well seethed in pitch, were scattered
broadcast, to be set up as warnings to a people who were already far too
terrified to need them.
During those awful days I saw such sights as make this quill of mine
pause, shuddering, when I think of them. I will not harrow you by
dwelling on them, but here is one instance, out of many, which will go
to prove my statement. A youth, but little older than myself, was taken
prisoner, and, being famous as a runner, begged for a chance to save his
life by racing with a wild moor colt. This, to the captain of the troop
which captured him, seemed something of a merry jest. A colt was
straightway caught, and they were started off together. Ye will scarce
credit it, but the youth kept well ahead for half a mile or more, then
dropped. When they came up with him he rose and claimed his life for
having won the race. But, no. The cruel brutes made haste to hang him
for his pains upon the nearest tree!
Enough--let us leave these awful matters. They are among the blackest
annals of our country, and one man at any rate still goes hot with shame
to think he only saw such horrors.
After the battle my Lord Feversham posted up to London, there to receive
his honours, and left one Colonel Kirke in command at Bridgewater. This
fellow was as vile and merciless a wretch as e'er drew sword, while the
men of his own regiment (called Kirke's Lambs in bitter mockery) were
not a whit less cruel than their master. Nor age nor sex was spared by
them.
To this monster (man I cannot call him) was left the task of hunting
down the wretched fugitives, and I, perforce, served under him; though
'tis something to my comfort to remember that, at the risk of life
itself, I helped more than one poor creature to escape; nor was I in
Kirke's service long, as you will see.
Having worked his will at Bridgewater, he moved on to Taunton, taking
with him a long string of prisoners, chained two and two, while others
who were wounded lay with their wounds undressed (heaped in a wagon).
More were caught upon the way, and so, when at last we marched into the
town, whose people, not a month before, had strewn flowers in Monmouth's
path, and given him a rich-worked banner, we drove before us such a herd
of poor distracted creatures, of all ages, as might have made a Spartan
pitiful.
And now there happened that which made me think it shame instead of
honour, to be serving as a soldier of King James.
At Taunton Kirke took up his quarters at the White Hart Inn, and
straightway turned the very sign thereof into a gibbet. Thus, seated at
the window, drinking with his officers, he laughed and jested while
dozens of his hapless fellow-countrymen were swung to death upon this
homely gallows. And when they kicked and struggled in their agony he
bade the drums beat, saying he would give them music for their dancing.
Nor was this all. On pain of instant death, if he refused, they had
forced a hapless yokel to be quarterer (Tom Boilman, as he was
thenceforward known throughout that countryside by shuddering men and
women, who would not go within a yard of him). And there he stood
beneath the gallows, working for very life amid the blood and boiling
pitch. That was enough for me. Rushing to Kirke's room, I told him
hotly that I would not serve another hour on such a frightful business.
He sprang up, and, with his sword half-drawn, cried:
"What's that, you saucy dog?"
"Why, this," I thundered, "that I will not serve another minute under
such a bloody-minded wretch as you! Here is my commission." And I
threw it on the table.
His face and head went red with anger; the veins upon his neck stood out
like cords; and for a time he could not speak.
"Whelp!" he hissed at last. "You shall smart for this! Yea, verily,"
he added, with an awful oath, "but you shall dance like yonder rebel!"
He pointed to a struggling figure which had just been raised aloft.
"My Lord Feversham may have a word to say on that point," I answered
coldly. "For the rest, I take my chance."
Just then the drums began to beat, and so I turned upon my heel and left
him, as he stood there clawing at the air with rage.
Going out I mounted Kitty, and, with my back towards those scenes of
butchery, galloped forth for Lyme.
*CHAPTER XXII*
*In which I become a Prisoner*
I found all well at home, though Lyme itself was trembling with fear; as
well it might, considering the active part which it had played in
Monmouth's luckless venture. The little town, which but a month before
had been as blithe as any in the kingdom, now lay beneath a cloud of
jeopardy. Indeed, the place seemed half-deserted, for scores of its
inhabitants had fled the wrath to come; while those who still remained
crept in and out with frightened looks, and trembled when a horseman
clattered through the cobbled streets.
Many questioned me about the late rebellion, and not a few, with tearful
eyes, implored me to protect them; but, though I strove to soothe them,
the comfort that I could offer was a poor, cold thing indeed. For what
was I? A youth who, without zeal therein--to serve his own ends, that
is--had fought upon the winning side; then, for good reasons, had thrown
up the business, and thereby brought upon his head the dire displeasure
of a man who, by acts of vilest, wanton cruelty, was mounting higher
every day into the royal pleasure. I, who had started out from Lyme
three weeks before in search of great revenge, had found it--or at least
a part thereof--yet what had it availed me? Nothing. And here, as one
who proved its truth to the uttermost, I put on record that revenge when
won is but an empty husk. The striving after it is all that counts
(that well may stir the blood and make a man a demon, as indeed it
does); but the thing itself, when gained, is worse than vanity.
Thus when news came that Ferguson (plotting to the end) had managed to
escape from England, the tidings moved me little, and though, had I met
him then, I would still have killed him, the keen desire to hunt him
down at any price had vanished.
The days and weeks sped by, and I (sad at heart and feeling older by
some years) went to and fro, unhindered, on my business, until at last
it seemed that, after all, Kirke's threat had either been an empty one
or clean forgotten. But like a thunder-clap there came the proof that
this was not so; and also that one Robert Ferguson, for all his dash for
life, had yet contrived to work me mischief.
One day towards the end of August (on the twenty-seventh of that month,
to be exact) a troop of horse drew up before The Havering, and, when I
went forth to enquire the cause of it, a captain, with a paper in his
hand, strode up to me.
"Are you Cornet Michael Fane?" he asked.
"I am Michael Fane, but cannot claim the rank," I answered coldly, for
his bearing was both bold and insolent.
"That matters not," quoth he. "I hold a warrant here for your arrest."
"Ah, so! And, prithee, on what grounds?" I asked.
"Why, on the best of grounds," he answered, opening the paper with a
flourish. "For having aided and abetted rebels; for having spoken
seditious words against His Majesty, King James, et cetera, et cetera."
"It is a lie!" I thundered.
"Then come and prove it so before my Lord Chief Justice Jeffreys, at
Dorchester," said he, folding up the paper with great care.
Dorchester, whose prison was already full to overflowing! and Jeffreys,
the heartless monster, who had just sent grey-haired, saintly Alice
Lisle to death! I stood and stared until the horsemen, sitting there
before me, seemed to vanish like a vision. But I was soon brought back
to the grim reality of things.
"Come!" said the captain, striking his jack-boot with the warrant.
"There is no time to lose. We have a spare horse here; so, when you're
ready----"
There was nothing for it but to go. Calling Tom, the groom, I told him
quickly how things stood, at which his terror and amazement were such
that he could only stand there dumb and gaping. So I mounted, and away
we went.
As we passed through the town the people stared at me as though the end
of everything was come: but I took no heed of them; the world and
everything therein seemed as nothing to me then. Thus that night found
me in the jail at Dorchester.
On the terrors of that pestilential place I will not dwell. Over three
hundred prisoners were crowded there like cattle in a pen, and almost
every one of them was doomed to certain death. The air was foul and
stifling, while cries and groans of anguish made up such a scene of
horror as no pen could properly describe.
There were several faces there well known to me, and barely had I
entered when a little wizened man came darting through the crowd and
seized my hands. 'Twas old Samuel Robins, who, as you will remember,
sold fish to Monmouth's men aboard the frigate and was kept there. That
was his crime.
"Oh, Master Fane," he cried, looking up at me with wild imploring eyes,
"what do it mean? What be Oi here for? I sold them fish as fair and
straight as any man; fore-right I did, and how were Oi to know as it
were Monmouth's ship? Zur, zur! My pretty boo-at! What be they
a-goin' to do wi' me and her? Get back, zur; go you to the King and tell
en old Sam Robins ne'er did harm to any man."
He tried to drag me to the door. Alas! he did not understand that I was
just as helpless as himself. I tried to comfort him as best I could,
but he only raved the louder, wringing his hands and asking God to save
him and his "pretty boo-at".
Many of the prisoners were sick, and some still suffering from wounds.
Amongst these moved a grey-haired gentleman, endeavouring, by word and
touch, to give relief. His name was Dr. Temple, and he told me that he
hailed from Nottingham, but had been in the Netherlands some years; that
when Monmouth's expedition sailed thence he had shipped as surgeon,
being told that they were bound for western seas, and had not found out
the truth until they had been two days at sea. At Sedgemoor he had
worked zealously among the wounded of both sides--and this was his
reward!
"I am old," said he, "and if death comes it finds me well upon the road
to meet it. But you are young and strong, and it troubles me to see you
here."
Far into the night we two sat talking, until at last, in spite of
stifling heat and groans, we fell asleep.
I dreamt prodigiously, and, strange as it may seem to you, my dreams
were not unpleasant--being for the most part of old, happy days long
passed--but, oh, the grim awakening!
*CHAPTER XXIII*
*"The Scourge of the West"*
For one long, awful week I had lain a prisoner in that foul den, when at
length, on the third day of September, the roll of drums and blare of
trumpets told us that Lord Chief Justice Jeffreys was come into the town
to hold assize. Next morning he attended service at St. Mary's Church,
and 'tis said that when the preacher mentioned mercy Jeffreys laughed
aloud; and I can well believe it, for with him "the quality of mercy",
so far from being "strained", was utterly unknown.
That day the bloody work began. Prisoners were hurried off in batches
to the court-house to be tried, and soon returned with faces which told
plainly of the sentence passed upon them. It had been pressed upon us
by our jailers that our only chance of pardon lay in pleading guilty,
but this was quickly found to be nothing save a wicked trap to hasten on
the business; for no sooner did a man plead guilty than he was condemned
to death. Never shall I forget the woeful, desperate looks of those
poor fellows as they were thrust back into the prison with the shadow of
the gallows over them. It was as though each had the noose already
round his neck.
All day long this branding for the death went forward, until at last,
when the judge rose from his labours, nearly a hundred had been
sentenced; Dr. Temple, old Sam Larkyns, and Sampson Larke, the
grey-haired Baptist minister of Lyme, among them.
Next day the ugly tale was taken up afresh--over another hundred were
condemned. Then Sunday brought a pause--but what a pause! The fate of
two parts of the prisoners was already sealed, while for the rest the
future held no sort of hope; nay, rather was that Sabbath but a black
suspense which lay between us and our doom. Despite the jailers, hymns
and prayers went up through that day of gloom, and when night fell a
simple, fervid faith had brought real fortitude to many, though here and
there loud cries and sobs betokened broken hearts which naught could
heal.
My turn came on the Monday, and I recollect how sweet it seemed, in
spite of that which lay before me, to pass from such pestiferous
foulness into the sunlight and breathe the cool, refreshing air again.
But we (there were some eighty of us) had little time to drink in these
delights, being hurried, under strong guard, along the streets and so
into the court-house.
The hall was hung with scarlet (fit colour for so murderous a place!),
and at the far end, seated in a high-backed chair upon a crimson-covered
dais (as though he swam in blood), I beheld the man whose very name was
already a terror and a byword, not only in the stricken West, but
throughout the length and breadth of England--the infamous Judge
Jeffreys. At a table beneath him sat the Crown lawyers, barristers and
others, shuffling and docketing their papers with much show of zeal, as
if, forsooth, the trial were a fair and righteous one rather than the
ghastly farce it was. On his left, in a sort of long narrow pew, sat
the jury--twelve fat, well-liking fellows--picked men from the county,
who could be counted on to send their fellow-countrymen to death at
Jeffreys' bidding.
But though all this was new and strange to me it was the judge himself
who most surprised me. I had pictured him an ugly, coarse-faced fellow,
with something of the butcher in his bearing, but instead thereof I
found a not ill-featured man of under forty, who, notwithstanding that
debauchery had set its mark upon him, had still some claim to
handsomeness.
As he sat there, with his chin upon his hand, watching us in a dreamy,
thoughtful fashion as we filed into the hall, it seemed scarce credible
that this was the wild, ferocious brute whose ravening thirst for blood
had made a mockery of law and justice. But the grim truth soon crashed
on us like a thunderbolt.
As soon as we were all assembled there was dead silence for a good half
minute, then Jeffreys suddenly shot up and for a time stared at us with
a look of startled horror, as though he knew not who we were. At last he
leaned slowly forward with his hands upon the chair and said:
"What have we here? Can it be? Another batch of wickedness already!
How many do they number?"
"Eighty-and-eight, my lord," replied a clerk, rising with swift
readiness.
"Eighty-and-eight!" exclaimed the judge in horrified amazement.
"Eighty-and-eight more workers of iniquity! Eighty-and-eight more
traitors to as good and kind a king as e'er wore crown!
Eighty-and-eight more sinks of villainy and rank rebellion! Good Lord!
when shall we reach the end of this long tale of wickedness? Heavens!
if it doth not make me ill to think on't! Yes, verily, it breaks my
heart!"
He sank back, groaning, in his chair and sobbed aloud. But this was
quickly past, and then he broke out on us with such a wild vehemence as
made the very lawyers gape upon him in amazement. He waved his arms,
stamped his feet, and struck the desk before him; his face went red and
white by turns, his throat swelled out until it seemed as though his
words would choke him. I never saw such blind, ungovernable fury. It
was as though some inward demon strove to rend him.
I will not make the vain attempt to set down here that mad harangue, for
no pen could do it rightly. Not till his breath forsook him did he stop;
then, having rested for a moment and refreshed himself with wine, he
started straightway on his work of butchery, sending men to their doom
at such a pace as gave them scarcely time to realize what had befallen
them. The dock was filled and emptied, filled and filled again. No
witnesses were called, and though a lawyer, briefed by the Crown, was
there for our defence, he soon proved but a puppet in the one great
farce, for when he spoke, a look or word from Jeffreys sent him, white
and trembling, into ignominious silence. And, if a prisoner dared to
raise his voice, he was immediately shouted down, with threatening
violence, by the judge.
Thus did that cruel, heartless work go on until at last it came to my
turn.
As I stepped forward and faced that demon in the wig and gown, the court
and all that it contained, save him--lawyers, jury, prisoners, and
everything--seemed to vanish, leaving us two alone. A pair of cruel,
ravening eyes I saw, and nothing else. Yet 'tis certain that I felt no
fear; and, indeed, I should have been a poltroon if I had, after seeing
how some four-score simple fellows had already faced this bullying
monster with unflinching courage and met their fate like heroes.
Therefore, with such brave examples as my guide, and looking on my fate
as settled, I only wished to get the business over speedily, and to show
Jeffreys that, although he had the power to kill me, nothing he might
say or do could shake my fortitude.
Thus, for what seemed to me some minutes, we stared at one another; then
Jeffreys leaned slowly forward, and, in a purring voice, like some great
cat about to spring, said:
"So you are Michael Fane, eh?"
"That is my name," I answered coldly.
"Ah! Michael Fane," he went on in the same low tones, "thou overgrown
young shoot of perfidy; thou offshoot of that gnarled old tree of evil,
Gilbert Fane, I----"
"Stop!" I broke in hotly. "Your power to hang me doth not include the
right to smirch a fair, good name. My father was as true and brave a
gentleman as e'er----"
[Illustration: MICHAEL FANE BEFORE JUDGE JEFFREYS]
"What's that, sirrah?" shrieked the judge with throttling fury. "You
dare to interrupt me! Behold him, gentlemen!" he added, turning to the
jury, while he waved a hand at me. "Hark how yon mountain of iniquity
doth brazenly affront and flout me! Didst ever hear the like of such
amazing impudence? Oh, Michael Fane, thou cunning, treacherous dog,
have a care, yea, have a care, or 'twill be bad indeed for thee! Again
I say you are the offspring of as traitorous and false a sire as----"
"And I say again----" I began; but at that his fury burst forth like a
cataract.
"Sirrah," he shouted, waving his arms and thumping the desk in front of
him, "you dare to interrupt again! Have a care, yea, have a care, you
bellowing bull of Bashan! Another word, and, by my life, I'll have you
swung off now from yonder beam! Ah! that tames you, does it? Say, how
tall are ye?"
"Six feet two."
"Six feet two! Behold him, gentlemen! Measure him with your eyes!
Seventy and four inches of such vileness as you ne'er set eyes upon
before! And how old are ye, pray?"
"Eighteen."
"Eighteen!" cried Jeffreys, raising both hands as though amazed.
"Eighteen, say ye! Gentlemen, gentlemen! Just consider it! To think
that such a sapling should have brought forth such a crop of wickedness!
Heavens, if it doth not almost make my heart stop beating! Oh, Michael
Fane, thou lusty limb of infamy! doth it not seem to you a mockery that
I should have to ask what plea you make? Yet, as the law is fair and
merciful e'en to such rogues as you, I must. What is it, counsel?"
The lawyer who, as I have said, was there for our defence, rose
tremblingly and answered:
"The prisoner pleads not guilty, your lordship."
"What!" shrieked the judge, addressing me. "You dare to make so false a
plea? Are ye not afraid of instant judgment from above for uttering so
black a lie? Zounds! if I think not that this very court is in rank
peril from avenging thunderbolts while we share it with such a Jonah of
a villain! Not guilty, quotha? You, who like a wolf in sheep's skin,
made pretence to fight at Sedgemoor, and, as I'll warrant me, killed
many a king's man under cover of the darkness! You, who aided and
abetted rebels! You, who defied that zealous soldier, Colonel Kirke,
and strove to stop him in his duty! You, who with rank insolence
deserted your sovereign's service! What say ye to these charges,
fellow?"
"It seems as though 'twere folly to say anything," I answered. "Yet
will I swear that I fought not treacherously at Sedgemoor, but fair and
straight, and that 'twas only Colonel Kirke's abominable cruelty to
helpless prisoners which made me----"
"Stop! stop!" shrieked the judge, thumping the desk before him with both
hands. "Such brazen, lying impudence beats everything! I will not
listen to it!"
And, as he plugged his ears up with his fingers, 'twas useless for me to
proceed.
"Ye hear him, gentlemen, ye hear him!" he continued, perceiving I was
silent. "Mark well his words. Remember them; yet know that what
already hath been said is not the twentieth, nay, nor the hundredth part
of that which stands against him. Listen! On a morning in June last,
yon wretch, while holding guilty converse with his villain of a father,
was overheard to utter vile, seditious words against his king. But even
that is nothing when compared with this, for here I have such evidence
against him as would hang a hundred men."
Then, indeed, I started, for in the parchment which Jeffreys waved
triumphantly above his head I recognized the Black Box documents.
"Ah! ye may well turn white and tremble," quoth the judge, regarding me
with a malicious grin which bared his teeth. "Behold him, gentlemen,
and see how even such brazen wickedness and cunning is at last brought
low. Here is the corner-stone of his amazing falsity. For what are
these?" he added, spreading out the parchments. "Why, nothing more nor
less than written lies which seek to prove that Monmouth (who hath
already met so well-deserved a fate) was the rightful heir to England's
throne. Ye have all heard that monstrous story of a Black Box. Well,
here at last we have the secret of it. Forgeries, rank forgeries! the
work of that prince of plotters, that sink of falsity, one Robert
Ferguson, who hath not thought it shame thus to forge the signature of
our late sovereign, King Charles of blessed memory; and who, Heaven
grant, may yet be caught. Again, with these vile productions there is a
letter to a man, one Jones of Lyme (who, by my life, shall swing for it
on a tree in his own garden), warning him secretly of Monmouth's
landing. And where, think ye, gentlemen, all these accursed documents
were found? Ah! ye may well shake your heads, and ye will scarce credit
it when I tell ye that they were found in yonder false, designing
miscreant's house! They reached me but this very morning, coming from
one unknown, who signs himself 'a friend of good King James'--and truly
so, for a friend he is indeed; yea, and 'tis a thousand pities that he
hides himself, for otherwise he should have been most handsomely
rewarded. Take them, read them for yourselves, and then tell me if ye
ever saw so villainous a piece of make-believe."
While the jury, with heads clubbed together, were examining the
documents, Jeffreys fixed me with a murderous look and hissed:
"Well, sirrah, and what say ye now? Wilt, perhaps, deny that they were
found inside your house, eh?"
"I do nothing of the kind," I answered. "They were there, and they were
stolen from it by one of Ferguson's tools."
"Ah! a pretty tale, quotha! But, say, how came ye by the Black Box
which, as reported, held these treasonable things?"
"My father took it years ago from Ferguson himself by force."
"What!" cried Jeffreys, starting upright in his chair. "Attention,
gentlemen, attention! Ah! so your father was a friend of Ferguson?"
"He was no friend of his," I answered curtly. "My father met Ferguson in
London, not knowing that 'twas he, for he called himself Elijah Annabat,
and professed to be a scrivener in the city. My father trusted him with
money, and, when robbed of it, took the Black Box instead."
"Lies! lies! lies!" broke in Jeffreys like a maniac, waving his hands
and fairly frothing at the mouth. "Oh, Michael Fane, thou wicked son of
Anak! Truly, thou art the child of Ananias, of whom we read in Holy
Scripture, and, like him, shalt pay the penalty. Ye hear him, gentlemen,
how he doth add unto his infamy by mocking us with lying tongue. Was
ever so much villainy encompassed in one man before? It seems scarce
possible that only eighteen years can have borne so great a crop of evil
fruit. The very sight of such a monster of iniquity doth make my eyes
sore and my blood run cold. To think that our all-generous, wise, and
loving king hath this creature for his subject is more than I can bear;
yea, verily, it bursts my heart."
With that he leaned forward, with his head upon his arms, and broke out
sobbing.
While he was thus engaged in grieving for my many sins, a man came
pushing through the crowded court until he reached a place in front. To
my astonishment I found that it was Dassell, who, as ye well remember,
was so much to the fore at Monmouth's landing. He turned and gave me
one swift, meaning glance, then stood waiting till the judge at length
looked up; then he spoke.
"My lord," said he, "by your leave, I would say a word for yonder
prisoner."
"What's that!" roared Jeffreys, glaring at him fiercely. "Have my
senses left me? Ye would speak for yonder heap of infamy! Who are ye,
fellow?"
"I am Samuel Dassell, my lord, deputy searcher of the port of Lyme."
"Ah, and what would ye say?" asked Jeffreys, with a heavy frown.
"Why, this, my lord," said Dassell with great haste, "that I have known
the prisoner, Michael Fane, and his father many years, and have ever
found them true and loyal gentlemen. I never heard a whisper against
either of them, and if----"
"Stop!" roared the judge, bringing a fist down on the desk. "What fresh
infamy is this, that you should dare to speak in favour of yon villain?
Think ye it not a burning shame that you, who serve the King and eat his
very bread, should raise your voice in favour of his enemies? Ah!
Samuel Dassell, you are surely in the wrong place; ye should be either
in the dock or else in prison. Yea, verily, methinks I see you dancing
at a rope-end even now. Deputy searcher, quotha! Go ye and search for
the loyalty ye lack! Away with ye! I say, before my zeal doth tempt me
to lay hands upon you. Go!"
And with a long sad look at me, poor Dassell left the court-house.
Then Jeffreys swept the hall with one swift, flashing glance, and,
turning to the jury, said:
"Gentlemen, ye have surely heard enough, aye, and far more than that,
concerning yonder giant of iniquity. Have ye, then, your verdict ready?"
"We have, your lordship," said the foreman, rising with eager readiness.
"And it is----"
"Guilty, your lordship."
"Ah, by my life, and I should think so," roared Jeffreys. "Guilty,
indeed! guilty as any man who ever faced a judge. Listen, Michael Fane!
Ye have tried lying, brazen impudence, and every other wile to save your
neck, but all have failed you. One more question: Where is the box in
which 'tis said these documents were stored?"
"How should I know, seeing they were stolen from us?" I answered warily,
not meaning to enlighten him on that point. "Ask those who stole them."
"Ah! so we flout and snarl unto the end, eh? Well, well, it matters
not, for verily that mocking tongue of yours will soon be put to
silence. Listen, Michael Fane! Ye die, and would that I only had your
wicked father here, that I might send him to his death along with you.
He hath sorely cheated me by dying of his own accord. Ye die, I say,
and as ye hail from Lyme--that sink of rank rebellion--there ye hang,
and that as near as may be to the spot where Monmouth landed. If ye be
not quartered also, 'twill be marvellous. I have already twelve more
knaves to hang at Lyme--some who came ashore there with their pretty
Duke, and some who waited for his coming. Ye make thirteen--a good round
baker's dozen! (Make a note of that, clerk--Michael Fane to hang at Lyme
with others on the twelfth of this month; and mark it that he dies the
last of them.) Oh, Michael Fane, thou lusty scoundrel, doth not even a
heart so base as yours feel some small gratitude that I have it in my
power to end a life so wicked in its early days? Consider what ye would
have grown to, and use what little time remains to you on earth in
thinking deeply on your awful sins. Away with ye!"
He waved his hands, the warders seized me, and so, like one a-dreaming,
I was hurried back to prison. I found it much less crowded than it had
been, for many had already gone to death. Many, also, were to die upon
the morrow, and for all of us who gathered there that night there was
not left a single ray of hope.
*CHAPTER XXIV*
*Beneath the Gallows*
Early in the morning on the twelfth, those who were to die at Lyme (Sam
Robins, the fisherman, Sampson Larke, the minister, Dr. Temple, and
myself among them) were brought forth from the prison, placed in two
carts, and driven on our way to death.
As we rumbled through the ancient streets of Dorchester, the trembling,
sad-faced townsfolk watched us go, and many tears were shed. Thus we
passed out into the silence of the lanes. 'Twas a glorious, sunny
morning, and to me the world had never seemed so fair a place as it did
then.
"'Tis hard," said Dr. Temple, who stood next me, "that we should have to
say good-bye to all this brightness."
He waved his hand around.
"'Tis hard, indeed," I answered. "Naught is left us now, except to go
through bravely with the business."
"True, true," he murmured: "and I, who have seen death, and fought him
too in almost every ugly form, should be the last to fear him now. Sir,
my thoughts are chiefly set upon my native town of Nottingham. Wast ever
there?"
"Nay, sir, but my father was, and he hath told me of it."
"Ah! 'tis a lovely place, set high upon the hills, with a noble river
winding by it through the meadows. And on its highest hill there stands
a fine old church--St. Mary's it is called. Its great tower rises up
before me even now. There was I baptized, confirmed, and married; and
there my young wife lieth buried. Ah! if I could but see that spot once
more, methinks I should die happier!"
He turned his face away, and I was silent. There was much singing on the
way, and Sampson Larke, the minister, spoke many ringing words of hope;
for though his poor old wife lay dying even then in Lyme, he hid his own
grief manfully, and strove amain to comfort those about him. He was a
fine, upstanding fellow, and as he stood there in the cart behind us
with his long hair streaming in the wind, his hand raised, and his face
aglow with zeal, he made a picture that brought into my mind the ancient
prophets.
As for little Samuel Robins, he bore up bravely, joining with a high
shrill voice in hymn and psalm, until at last the great blue bay of Lyme
burst suddenly in view. But this was too much for him. Stretching out
his hands towards it, he broke down utterly and sobbed like any child.
Soon after this a strange thing happened; for as we gained the bottom of
the hill and neared the sea, the horses utterly refused to face it.
They kicked and plunged, and neither word nor blow could urge them
forward. It seemed as if the poor dumb beasts rebelled against the duty
forced upon them. So, in the end, we were taken out and marched on foot
down to the place of death.
The gallows (two stout uprights with a cross-beam) had been set up
behind the Cobb--that is, upon the western side of it, not twenty paces
from the spot where Monmouth landed. Here a silent, awe-struck crowd
was gathered, and as we passed between the lines of saddened, tearful
faces, 'twas like a funeral procession.
Around the gallows stood the sheriff and his officers, together with
some soldiers with a captain in command. The latter had a list of
victims ready in his hand, and no time was lost in going forward with
the brutal business. The way of it was this. Standing ready, with the
noose around his neck, the prisoner was asked if he had aught to say.
If he had, he said it (providing it was not too long or violent), then
he climbed up a ladder reared against the scaffold, and was at once
turned off therefrom.
Ye may guess how sickening a sight this was to me who came the last of
them! 'Twas worse than death itself to see my friends swung thus into
eternity; yet though I tried to look another way I could not.
Number ten was Sampson Larke, and he, who had fought with Cromwell, and
had girded on his sword again for Monmouth, was not the man to tremble
now. He spoke both fearlessly and long--so long, in fact, that the
captain stopped him.
"Then," said he, "I will speak to One who I am sure will hear me."
With that he uttered one swift prayer, and having blessed the people,
climbed the ladder and went bravely to his death.
A gasping groan ran through the crowd and sobs broke out on all sides,
for he was much beloved, and not a few there would have gladly died for
him.
"Number eleven! Benjamin Temple."
The doctor grasped my hand, said "God bless thee, friend. Farewell!"
then stepped firmly to his place. He told the people what was known to
me already--namely, that he hailed from Nottingham, and was entirely
innocent, having had no knowledge that the Duke was bent upon rebellion
when he sailed with him from the Texel; also, that he died at peace with
all men. This done, he made a simple prayer, then climbed to death.
Little Sam Robins was the next to go, and to me, at least, he was the
saddest sight of any. He showed no fear, he neither spoke nor faced the
people, but turning to the sea he said a long good-bye to what had been
so dear to him, and with his eyes still fixed thereon he died.
"Number thirteen! Michael Fane."
My turn had come at last, and I was more than glad. A murmur ran among
the people, for I had been known to most of them since childhood; yet
when I stood beneath the gallows with the noose about my neck, it was as
though the crowd had vanished into space. I saw them not at all. My
whole life flashed before me like a dazzling blaze, and, strange as it
may seem to you, the only thing I noted was a certain far-off spot
where, as a boy, I had first climbed the cliffs.
"Have you aught to say, sir?" asked the captain.
No, I was there to die and not to speak, and therefore had naught to
say; or rather, what I had to say was said full swiftly underneath my
breath, to Someone else. Then I turned to mount the ladder: but I never
did it, for even as I set my foot upon the bottom rung, a distant cry
broke out behind me; and glancing round, as everyone was doing, I saw a
horseman coming headlong down the hill towards us, waving a paper high
above his head and shouting as he rode.
Soon he was near enough for us to catch his words.
"Stop! in the King's name, stop!" he shrieked.
And then I knew him. It was Dassell. The crowd made instant way for
him, as well they might, for such was his furious speed that otherwise
he would most certainly have rushed straight into them. In the shadow
of the gallows he drew up. His horse was lathered in sweat, and
dripping foam, while he himself was wellnigh fighting for his breath.
"Well, and what now, sir?" asked the captain, staring in amazement.
"A--pardon--from--His--Majesty--the--King--for--Michael Fane!" gasped
Dassell.
What followed is not very clear to me, but I know a mighty shout of joy
arose, and that, later on, I walked, like one a-dreaming, with good
friend Dassell to my home, The Havering. And there I heard from him the
story of my wonderful deliverance. Here it is, exactly as he told it
me:--
After being snuffed out by Jeffreys in the courthouse at Dorchester, he
lingered till my fate was settled, then posted up to London. There he
sought and found Lord Feversham, whom he urged to plead with James on my
behalf: and his lordship, having known my father well, and also me, was
not averse to doing it. So he went straightway to the King, bearing
Dassell with him.
They found His Majesty in no great mood for pardoning anyone just then,
but hearing that my father had served his father (King Charles I) with
zeal; and, moreover, wishing to please Lord Feversham, who then stood in
high favour, he gave his gracious promise to think carefully upon my
case.
Two other things there were which favoured me: one was the fact that
Kirke had gone too far, and had been recalled to London in disgrace; the
other, that the King was mighty glad to think that the mystery of the
Black Box had been solved. Thus the outcome of it was that my pleaders
were to call at Whitehall on the morrow, for His Majesty's decision.
This they did, and found him in a rare good humour. The Black Box
documents had come to hand, and so the King was pleased to sign my
pardon.
Then Dassell started on his journey westward with a will. One horse
fell dead beneath him; but he got another, and riding through the night,
was just in time to save me. How near a thing it was, and how he
snatched me from the very jaws of death, ye know already.
I fought no more for King James--indeed, there was no chance of doing
so, even had I wished it; for, until the Prince of Orange landed at
Torbay and drove his faithless uncle flying from the kingdom, England
was at peace, if persecution can be called so. But for good King William
I have, thank God (along with Kitty, who still flourishes), fought much;
and as I am still upon the sunny side of forty, may I have the chance to
draw sword for him again! Aye, verily, my father's words ring often in
my ears: "There is no finer work for any man than fighting for his king
and country".
Yet, sometimes, when I pace the Cobb or shore, I see again the fine
brave landing of Duke Monmouth, whose coming brought such suffering and
disaster to the West. Or, when wind and sea moan plaintively, I seem to
hear the mournful voices of those brave, misguided men whom I so nearly
followed to a violent death. Then, with a heavy heart, I come back to
The Havering and think sadly of it all.
What more is there to say? Well, very little, for now I have reached
the end of that which I set out to tell you. If it hath been done
clumsily, forgive me, for, indeed, I have small skill in writing. But
at any rate, I swear it is a fore-right statement, as we say in Lyme. I
have left nothing out, nor have I added anything.... Stay, though!
Yes, by my life, I have left something out; for as I sit here writing in
the quiet study where, seventeen years ago, I took the first step in the
strange adventures here recorded, there stands that at my very elbow
which seems to cry aloud for notice. It bears clear signs of mending;
it is, in fact, a small Black Box; but though the sight of it brings
back dark memories, it holds no terrors for me now.
PRINTED IN GREAT BRITAIN
_By Blackie & Son, Limited, Glasgow_