Had those whose unpleasant visit Sir Henry expected come straight to
the Lodge, instead of staying for three hours at Woodstock, they would
have secured their prey. But the Familist, partly to prevent the King’s
escape, partly to render himself of more importance in the affair, had
represented the party at the Lodge as being constantly on the alert,
and had therefore inculcated upon Cromwell the necessity of his
remaining quiet until he (Tomkins) should appear to give him notice
that the household were retired to rest. On this condition he
undertook, not only to discover the apartment in which the unfortunate
Charles slept, but, if possible, to find some mode of fastening the
door on the outside, so as to render flight impossible. He had also
promised to secure the key of a postern, by which the soldiers might be
admitted into the house without exciting alarm. Nay, the matter might,
by means of his local knowledge, be managed, as he represented it, with
such security, that he would undertake to place his Excellency, or
whomsoever he might appoint for the service, by the side of Charles
Stewart’s bed, ere he had slept off the last night’s claret. Above all,
he had stated, that, from the style of the old house, there were many
passages and posterns which must be carefully guarded before the least
alarm was caught by those within, otherwise the success of the whole
enterprise might be endangered. He had therefore besought Cromwell to
wait for him at the village, if he found him not there on his arrival;
and assured him that the marching and countermarching of soldiers was
at present so common, that even if any news were carried to the Lodge
that fresh troops had arrived in the borough, so ordinary a
circumstance would not give them the least alarm. He recommended that
the soldiers chosen for this service should be such as could be
depended upon—no fainters in spirit—none who turn back from Mount
Gilead for fear of the Amalekites, but men of war, accustomed to strike
with the sword, and to need no second blow. Finally, he represented
that it would be wisely done if the General should put Pearson, or any
other officer whom he could completely trust, into the command of the
detachment, and keep his own person, if he should think it proper to
attend, secret even from the soldiers.
All this man’s counsels Cromwell had punctually followed. He had
travelled in the van of this detachment of one hundred picked soldiers,
whom he had selected for the service, men of dauntless resolution, bred
in a thousand dangers, and who were steeled against all feelings of
hesitation and compassion, by the deep and gloomy fanaticism which was
their chief principle of action—men to whom, as their General, and no
less as the chief among the Elect, the commands of Oliver were like a
commission from the Deity.
Great and deep was the General’s mortification at the unexpected
absence of the personage on whose agency he so confidently reckoned,
and many conjectures he formed as to the cause of such mysterious
conduct. Some times he thought Tomkins had been overcome by liquor, a
frailty to which Cromwell knew him to be addicted; and when he held
this opinion he discharged his wrath in maledictions, which, of a
different kind from the wild oaths and curses of the cavaliers, had yet
in them as much blasphemy, and more determined malevolence. At other
times he thought some unexpected alarm, or perhaps some drunken
cavalier revel, had caused the family of Woodstock Lodge to make later
hours than usual. To this conjecture, which appeared the most probable
of any, his mind often recurred; and it was the hope that Tomkins would
still appear at the rendezvous, which induced him to remain at the
borough, anxious to receive communication from his emissary, and afraid
of endangering the success of the enterprise by any premature exertion
on his own part.
In the meantime, Cromwell, finding it no longer possible to conceal his
personal presence, disposed of every thing so as to be ready at a
minute’s notice. Half his soldiers he caused to dismount, and had the
horses put into quarters; the other half were directed to keep their
horses saddled, and themselves ready to mount at a moment’s notice. The
men were brought into the house by turns, and had some refreshment,
leaving a sufficient guard on the horses, which was changed from time
to time.
Thus Cromwell waited with no little uncertainty, often casting an
anxious eye upon Colonel Everard, who, he suspected, could, if he chose
it, well supply the place of his absent confidant. Everard endured this
calmly, with unaltered countenance, and brow neither ruffled nor
dejected.
Midnight at length tolled, and it became necessary to take some
decisive step. Tomkins might have been treacherous; or, a suspicion
which approached more near to the reality, his intrigue might have been
discovered, and he himself murdered or kidnapped by the vengeful
royalists. In a word, if any use was to be made of the chance which
fortune afforded of securing the most formidable claimant of the
supreme power, which he already aimed at, no farther time was to be
lost. He at length gave orders to Pearson to get the men under arms; he
directed him concerning the mode of forming them, and that they should
march with the utmost possible silence; or as it was given out in the
orders, “Even as Gideon marched in silence when he went down against
the camp of the Midianites, with only Phurah his servant.
Peradventure,” continued this strange document, “we too may learn of
what yonder Midianites have dreamed.”
A single patrol, followed by a corporal and five steady, experienced
soldiers, formed the advanced guard of the party; then followed the
main body. A rear-guard of ten men guarded Everard and the minister.
Cromwell required the attendance of the former, as it might be
necessary to examine him, or confront him with others; and he carried
Master Holdenough with him, because he might escape if left behind, and
perhaps raise some tumult in the village. The Presbyterians, though
they not only concurred with, but led the way in the civil war, were at
its conclusion highly dissatisfied with the ascendency of the military
sectaries, and not to be trusted as cordial agents in anything where
their interest was concerned. The infantry being disposed of as we have
noticed, marched off from the left of their line, Cromwell and Pearson,
both on foot, keeping at the head of the centre, or main body of the
detachment. They were all armed with petronels, short guns similar to
the modern carabine, and, like them, used by horsemen. They marched in
the most profound silence and with the utmost regularity, the whole
body moving like one man.
About one hundred yards behind the rearmost of the dismounted party,
came the troopers who remained on horseback; and it seemed as if even
the irrational animals were sensible to Cromwell’s orders, for the
horses did not neigh, and even appeared to place their feet on the
earth cautiously, and with less noise than usual.
Their leader, full of anxious thoughts, never spoke, save to enforce by
whispers his caution respecting silence, while the men, surprised and
delighted to find themselves under the command of their renowned
General, and destined, doubtless, for some secret service of high
import, used the utmost precaution in attending to his reiterated
orders.
They marched down the street of the little borough in the order we have
mentioned. Few of the townsmen were abroad; and one or two, who had
protracted the orgies of the evening to that unusual hour, were too
happy to escape the notice of a strong party of soldiers, who often
acted in the character of police, to inquire about their purpose for
being under arms so late, or the route which they were pursuing.
The external gate of the Chase had, ever since the party had arrived at
Woodstock, been strictly guarded by three file of troopers, to cut off
all communication between the Lodge and the town. Spitfire, Wildrake’s
emissary, who had often been a-bird-nesting, or on similar mischievous
excursions in the forest, had evaded these men’s vigilance by climbing
over a breach, with which he was well acquainted, in a different part
of the wall.
Between this party and the advanced guard of Cromwell’s detachment, a
whispered challenge was exchanged, according to the rules of
discipline. The infantry entered the Park, and were followed by the
cavalry, who were directed to avoid the hard road, and ride as much as
possible upon the turf which bordered on the avenue. Here, too, an
additional precaution was used, a file or two of foot soldiers being
detached to search the woods on either hand, and make prisoner, or, in
the event of resistance, put to death, any whom they might find lurking
there, under what pretence soever.
Meanwhile, the weather began to show itself as propitious to Cromwell,
as he had found most incidents in the course of his successful career.
The grey mist, which had hitherto obscured everything, and rendered
marching in the wood embarrassing and difficult, had now given way to
the moon, which, after many efforts, at length forced her way through
the vapour, and hung her dim dull cresset in the heavens, which she
enlightened, as the dying lamp of an anchorite does the cell in which
he reposes. The party were in sight of the front of the palace, when
Holdenough whispered to Everard, as they walked near each other—“See ye
not, yonder flutters the mysterious light in the turret of the
incontinent Rosamond? This night will try whether the devil of the
Sectaries or the devil of the Malignants shall prove the stronger. O,
sing jubilee, for the kingdom of Satan is divided against itself!”
Here the divine was interrupted by a non-commissioned officer, who came
hastily, yet with noiseless steps, to say, in a low stern whisper—
“Silence, prisoner in the rear—silence on pain of death.”
A moment afterwards the whole party stopped their march, the word halt
being passed from one to another, and instantly obeyed.
The cause of this interruption was the hasty return of one of the
flanking party to the main body, bringing news to Cromwell that they
had seen a light in the wood at some distance on the left.
“What can it be?” said Cromwell, his low stern voice, even in a
whisper, making itself distinctly heard. “Does it move, or is it
stationary?”
“So far as we can judge, it moveth not,” answered the trooper.
“Strange—there is no cottage near the spot where it is seen.”
“So please your Excellency, it may be a device of Sathan,” said
Corporal Humgudgeon, snuffing through his nose; “he is mighty powerful
in these parts of late.”
“So please your idiocy, thou art an ass,” said Cromwell; but, instantly
recollecting that the corporal had been one of the adjutators or
tribunes of the common soldiers, and was therefore to be treated with
suitable respect, he said, “Nevertheless, if it be the device of Satan,
please it the Lord we will resist him, and the foul slave shall fly
from us.—Pearson,” he said, resuming his soldierlike brevity, “take
four file, and see what is yonder—No—the knaves may shrink from thee.
Go thou straight to the Lodge—invest it in the way we agreed, so that a
bird shall not escape out of it—form an outward and an inward ring of
sentinels, but give no alarm until I come. Should any attempt to
escape, KILL them.”—He spoke that command with terrible emphasis.—“Kill
them on the spot,” he repeated, “be they who or what they will. Better
so than trouble the Commonwealth with prisoners.”
Pearson heard, and proceeded to obey his commander’s orders.
Meanwhile, the future Protector disposed the small force which remained
with him in such a manner that they should approach from different
points at once the light which excited his suspicions, and gave them
orders to creep as near to it as they could, taking care not to lose
each other’s support, and to be ready to rush in at the same moment,
when he should give the sign, which was to be a loud whistle. Anxious
to ascertain the truth with his own eyes, Cromwell, who had by instinct
all the habits of military foresight, which, in others, are the result
of professional education and long experience, advanced upon the object
of his curiosity. He skulked from tree to tree with the light step and
prowling sagacity of an Indian bush-fighter; and before any of his men
had approached so near as to descry them, he saw, by the lantern which
was placed on the ground, two men, who had been engaged in digging what
seemed to be an ill-made grave. Near them lay extended something
wrapped in a deer’s hide, which greatly resembled the dead body of a
man. They spoke together in a low voice, yet so that their dangerous
auditor could perfectly overhear what they said.
“It is done at last,” said one; “the worst and hardest labour I ever
did in my life. I believe there is no luck about me left. My very arms
feel as if they did not belong to me; and, strange to tell, toil as
hard as I would, I could not gather warmth in my limbs.”
“I have warmed me enough,” said Rochecliffe, breathing short with
fatigue.
“But the cold lies at my heart,” said Joceline; “I scarce hope ever to
be warm again. It is strange, and a charm seems to be on us. Here have
we been nigh two hours in doing what Diggon the sexton would have done
to better purpose in half a one.”
“We are wretched spadesmen enough,” answered Dr. Rochecliffe. “Every
man to his tools—thou to thy bugle-horn, and I to my papers in
cipher.—But do not be discouraged; it is the frost on the ground, and
the number of roots, which rendered our task difficult. And now, all
due rites done to this unhappy man, and having read over him the
service of the Church, _valeat quantum_, let us lay him decently in
this place of last repose; there will be small lack of him above
ground. So cheer up thy heart, man, like a soldier as thou art; we have
read the service over his body; and should times permit it, we will
have him removed to consecrated ground, though he is all unworthy of
such favour. Here, help me to lay him in the earth; we will drag briers
and thorns over the spot, when we have shovelled dust upon dust; and do
thou think of this chance more manfully; and remember, thy secret is in
thine own keeping.”
“I cannot answer for that,” said Joceline. “Methinks the very night
winds among the leaves will tell of what we have been doing—methinks
the trees themselves will say, ‘there is a dead corpse lies among our
roots.’ Witnesses are soon found when blood hath been spilled.”
“They are so, and that right early,” exclaimed Cromwell, starting from
the thicket, laying hold on Joceline, and putting a pistol to his head.
At any other period of his life, the forester would, even against the
odds of numbers, have made a desperate resistance; but the horror he
had felt at the slaughter of an old companion, although in defence of
his own life, together with fatigue and surprise, had altogether
unmanned him, and he was seized as easily as a sheep is secured by the
butcher. Dr. Rochecliffe offered some resistance, but was presently
secured by the soldiers who pressed around him.
“Look, some of you,” said Cromwell, “what corpse this is upon whom
these lewd sons of Belial have done a murder—Corporal Grace-be-here
Humgudgeon, see if thou knowest the face.”
“I profess I do, even as I should do mine own in a mirror,” snuffled
the corporal, after looking on the countenance of the dead man by the
help of the lantern. “Of a verity it is our trusty brother in the
faith, Joseph Tomkins.”
“Tomkins!” exclaimed Cromwell, springing forward and satisfying himself
with a glance at the features of the corpse—“Tomkins!—and murdered, as
the fracture of the temple intimates!—dogs that ye are, confess the
truth—You have murdered him because you have discovered his treachery—
I should say his true spirit towards the Commonwealth of England, and
his hatred of those complots in which you would have engaged his honest
simplicity.”
“Ay,” said Grace-be-here Humgudgeon, “and then to misuse his dead body
with your papistical doctrines, as if you had crammed cold porridge
into its cold mouth. I pray thee, General, let these men’s bonds be
made strong.”
“Forbear, corporal,” said Cromwell; “our time presses.—Friend, to
you,—whom I believe to be Doctor Anthony Rochecliffe by name and
surname, I have to give the choice of being hanged at daybreak
to-morrow, or making atonement for the murder of one of the Lord’s
people, by telling what thou knowest of the secrets which are in yonder
house.”
“Truly, sir,” replied Rochecliffe, “you found me but in my duty as a
clergyman, interring the dead; and respecting answering your questions,
I am determined myself, and do advise my fellow-sufferer on this
occasion”—
“Remove him,” said Cromwell; “I know his stiffneckedness of old, though
I have made him plough in my furrow, when he thought he was turning up
his own swathe—Remove him to the rear, and bring hither the other
fellow.—Come thou here—this way—closer—closer.—Corporal Grace-be-here,
do thou keep thy hand upon the belt with which he is bound. We must
take care of our life for the sake of this distracted country, though,
lack-a-day, for its own proper worth we could peril it for a pin’s
point.—Now, mark me, fellow, choose betwixt buying thy life by a full
confession, or being tucked presently up to one of these old oaks—How
likest thou that?”
“Truly, master,” answered the under-keeper, affecting more rusticity
than was natural to him, (for his frequent intercourse with Sir Henry
Lee had partly softened and polished his manners,) “I think the oak is
like to bear a lusty acorn—that is all.”
“Dally not with me, friend,” continued Oliver; “I profess to thee in
sincerity I am no trifler. What guests have you seen at yonder house
called the Lodge?”
“Many a brave guest in my day, I’se warrant ye, master,” said Joceline.
“Ah, to see how the chimneys used to smoke some twelve years back! Ah,
sir, a sniff of it would have dined a poor man.”
“Out, rascal!” said the General, “dost thou jeer me? Tell me at once
what guests have been of late in the Lodge—and look thee, friend, be
assured, that in rendering me this satisfaction, thou shalt not only
rescue thy neck from the halter, but render also an acceptable service
to the State, and one which I will see fittingly rewarded. For, truly,
I am not of those who would have the rain fall only on the proud and
stately plants, but rather would, so far as my poor wishes and prayers
are concerned, that it should also fall upon the lowly and humble grass
and corn, that the heart of the husbandman may be rejoiced, and that as
the cedar of Lebanon waxes in its height, in its boughs, and in its
roots, so may the humble and lowly hyssop that groweth upon the walls
flourish, and—and, truly—Understand’st thou me, knave?”
“Not entirely, if it please your honour,” said Joceline; “but it sounds
as if you were preaching a sermon, and has a marvellous twang of
doctrine with it.”
“Then, in one word—thou knowest there is one Louis Kerneguy, or
Carnego, or some such name, in hiding at the Lodge yonder?”
“Nay, sir,” replied the under-keeper, “there have been many coming and
going since Worcester-field; and how should I know who they are?—my
service is out of doors, I trow.”
“A thousand pounds,” said Cromwell, “do I tell down to thee, if thou
canst place that boy in my power.”
“A thousand pounds is a marvellous matter, sir,” said Joceline; “but I
have more blood on my hand than I like already. I know not how the
price of life may thrive—and, ’scape or hang, I have no mind to try.”
“Away with him to the rear,” said the General; “and let him not speak
with his yoke-fellow yonder—Fool that I am, to waste time in expecting
to get milk from mules.—Move on towards the Lodge.”
They moved with the same silence as formerly, notwithstanding the
difficulties which they encountered from being unacquainted with the
road and its various intricacies. At length they were challenged, in a
low voice, by one of their own sentinels, two concentric circles of
whom had been placed around the Lodge, so close to each other, as to
preclude the possibility of an individual escaping from within. The
outer guard was maintained partly by horse upon the roads and open
lawn, and where the ground was broken and bushy, by infantry. The inner
circle was guarded by foot soldiers only. The whole were in the highest
degree alert, expecting some interesting and important consequences
from the unusual expedition on which they were engaged.
“Any news, Pearson?” said the General to his aide-de-camp, who came
instantly to report to his superior.
He received for answer, “None.”
Cromwell led his officer forward just opposite to the door of the
Lodge, and there paused betwixt the circles of guards, so that their
conversation could not be overheard.
He then pursued his enquiry, demanding, “Were there any lights—any
appearances of stirring—any attempt at sally—any preparation for
defence?”
“All as silent as the valley of the shadow of death—Even as the vale of
Jehosaphat.”
“Pshaw! tell me not of Jehosaphat, Pearson,” said Cromwell. “These
words are good for others, but not for thee. Speak plainly, and like a
blunt soldier as thou art. Each man hath his own mode of speech; and
bluntness, not sanctity, is thine.”
“Well then, nothing has been stirring,” said Pearson.—“Yet
peradventure”—
“Peradventure not me,” said Cromwell, “or thou wilt tempt me to knock
thy teeth out. I ever distrust a man when he speaks after another
fashion from his own.”
“Zounds! let me speak to an end,” answered Pearson, “and I will speak
in what language your Excellency will.”
“Thy zounds, friend,” said Oliver, “showeth little of grace, but much
of sincerity. Go to then—thou knowest I love and trust thee. Hast thou
kept close watch? It behoves us to know that, before giving the alarm.”
“On my soul,” said Pearson, “I have watched as closely as a cat at a
mouse-hole. It is beyond possibility that any thing could have eluded
our vigilance, or even stirred within the house, without our being
aware of it.”
“’Tis well,” said Cromwell; “thy services shall not be forgotten,
Pearson. Thou canst not preach and pray, but thou canst obey thine
orders, Gilbert Pearson, and that may make amends.”
“I thank your Excellency,” replied Pearson; “but I beg leave to chime
in with the humours of the times. A poor fellow hath no right to hold
himself singular.”
He paused, expecting Cromwell’s orders what next was to be done, and,
indeed, not a little surprised that the General’s active and prompt
spirit had suffered him during a moment so critical to cast away a
thought upon a circumstance so trivial as his officer’s peculiar mode
of expressing himself. He wondered still more, when, by a brighter
gleam of moonshine than he had yet enjoyed, he observed that Cromwell
was standing motionless, his hands supported upon his sword, which he
had taken out of the belt, and his stern brows bent on the ground. He
waited for some time impatiently, yet afraid to interfere, lest he
should awaken this unwonted fit of ill-timed melancholy into anger and
impatience. He listened to the muttering sounds which escaped from the
half-opening lips of his principal, in which the words, “hard
necessity,” which occurred more than once, were all of which the sense
could be distinguished. “My Lord-General,” at length he said, “time
flies.”
“Peace, busy fiend, and urge me not!” said Cromwell. “Think’st thou,
like other fools, that I have made a paction with the devil for
success, and am bound to do my work within an appointed hour, lest the
spell should lose its force?”
“I only think, my Lord-General,” said Pearson, “that Fortune has put
into your coffer what you have long desired to make prize of, and that
you hesitate.”
Cromwell sighed deeply as he answered, “Ah, Pearson, in this troubled
world, a man, who is called like me to work great things in Israel, had
need to be, as the poets feign, a thing made of hardened metal,
immovable to feelings of human charities, impassible, resistless.
Pearson, the world will hereafter, perchance, think of me as being such
a one as I have described, ‘an iron man, and made of iron mould.’—Yet
they will wrong my memory—my heart is flesh, and my blood is mild as
that of others. When I was a sportsman, I have wept for the gallant
heron that was struck down, by my hawk, and sorrowed for the hare which
lay screaming under the jaws of my greyhound; and canst thou think it a
light thing to me, that, the blood of this lad’s father lying in some
measure upon my head, I should now put in peril that of the son? They
are of the kindly race of English sovereigns, and, doubtless, are
adored like to demigods by those of their own party. I am called
Parricide, Blood-thirsty Usurper, already, for shedding the blood of
one man, that the plague might be stayed—or as Achan was slain that
Israel might thereafter stand against the face of their enemies.
Nevertheless, who has spoke unto me graciously since that high deed?
Those who acted in the matter with me are willing that I should be the
scape-goat of the atonement—those who looked on and helped not, bear
themselves now as if they had been borne down by violence; and while I
looked that they should shout applause on me, because of the victory of
Worcester, whereof the Lord had made me the poor instrument, they look
aside to say, ‘Ha! ha! the King-killer, the Parricide—soon shall his
place be made desolate.’—Truly it is a great thing, Gilbert Pearson, to
be lifted above the multitude; but when one feeleth that his exaltation
is rather hailed with hate and scorn than with love and reverence—in
sooth, it is still a hard matter for a mild, tender-conscienced, infirm
spirit to bear—and God be my witness, that, rather than do this new
deed, I would shed my own best heart’s-blood in a pitched field, twenty
against one.” Here he fell into a flood of tears, which he sometimes
was wont to do. This extremity of emotion was of a singular character.
It was not actually the result of penitence, and far less that of
absolute hypocrisy, but arose merely from the temperature of that
remarkable man, whose deep policy, and ardent enthusiasm, were
intermingled with a strain of hypochondriacal passion, which often led
him to exhibit scenes of this sort, though seldom, as now, when he was
called to the execution of great undertakings.
Pearson, well acquainted as he was with the peculiarities of his
General, was baffled and confounded by this fit of hesitation and
contrition, by which his enterprising spirit appeared to be so suddenly
paralysed. After a moment’s silence, he said, with some dryness of
manner, “If this be the case, it is a pity your Excellency came hither.
Corporal Humgudgeon and I, the greatest saint and greatest sinner in
your army, had done the deed, and divided the guilt and the honour
betwixt us.”
“Ha!” said Cromwell, as if touched to the quick, “wouldst thou take the
prey from the lion?”
“If the lion behaves like a village cur,” said Pearson boldly, “who now
barks and seems as if he would tear all to pieces, and now flies from a
raised stick or a stone, I know not why I should fear him. If Lambert
had been here, there had been less speaking and more action.”
“Lambert! What of Lambert?” said Cromwell, very sharply.
“Only,” said Pearson, “that I long since hesitated whether I should
follow your Excellency or him—and I begin to be uncertain whether I
have made the best choice, that’s all.”
“Lambert!” exclaimed Cromwell impatiently, yet softening his voice lest
he should be overheard descanting on the character of his rival,—“What
is Lambert?—a tulip-fancying fellow, whom nature intended for a Dutch
gardener at Delft or Rotterdam. Ungrateful as thou art, what could
Lambert have done for thee?”
“He would not,” answered Pearson, “have stood here hesitating before a
locked door, when fortune presented the means of securing, by one blow,
his own fortune, and that of all who followed him.”
“Thou art right, Gilbert Pearson,” said Cromwell, grasping his
officer’s hand, and strongly pressing it. “Be the half of this bold
accompt thine, whether the reckoning be on earth or heaven.”
“Be the whole of it mine hereafter,” said Pearson hardily, “so your
Excellency have the advantage of it upon earth. Step back to the rear
till I force the door—there may be danger, if despair induce them to
make a desperate sally.”
“And if they do sally, is there one of my Ironsides who fears fire or
steel less than myself?” said the General. “Let ten of the most
determined men follow us, two with halberts, two with petronels, the
others with pistols—Let all their arms be loaded, and fire without
hesitation, if there is any attempt to resist or to sally forth—Let
Corporal Humgudgeon be with them, and do thou remain here, and watch
against escape, as thou wouldst watch for thy salvation.”
The General then struck at the door with the hilt of his sword—at first
with a single blow or two, then with a reverberation of strokes that
made the ancient building ring again. This noisy summons was repeated
once or twice without producing the least effect.
“What can this mean?” said Cromwell; “they cannot surely have fled, and
left the house empty.”
“No,” replied Pearson, “I will ensure you against that; but your
Excellency strikes so fiercely, you allow no time for an answer. Hark!
I hear the baying of a hound, and the voice of a man who is quieting
him—Shall we break in at once, or hold parley?”
“I will speak to them first,” said Cromwell.—“Hollo! who is within
there?”
“Who is it enquires?” answered Sir Henry Lee from the interior; “or
what want you here at this dead hour?”
“We come by warrant of the Commonwealth of England,” said the General.
“I must see your warrant ere I undo either bolt or latch,” replied the
knight; “we are enough of us to make good the castle: neither I nor my
fellows will deliver it up but upon good quarter and conditions; and we
will not treat for these save in fair daylight.”
“Since you will not yield to our right, you must try our might,”
replied Cromwell. “Look to yourselves within; the door will be in the
midst of you in five minutes.”
“Look to yourselves without,” replied the stout-hearted Sir Henry; “we
will pour our shot upon you, if you attempt the least violence.”
But, alas! while he assumed this bold language, his whole garrison
consisted of two poor terrified women; for his son, in conformity with
the plan which they had fixed upon, had withdrawn from the hall into
the secret recesses of the palace.
“What can they be doing now, sir?” said Phœbe, hearing a noise as it
were of a carpenter turning screw-nails, mixed with a low buzz of men
talking.
“They are fixing a petard,” said the knight, with great composure. “I
have noted thee for a clever wench, Phœbe, and I will explain it to
thee: ’Tis a metal pot, shaped much like one of the roguish knaves’ own
sugarloaf hats, supposing it had narrower brims—it is charged with some
few pounds of fine gunpowder. Then”—
“Gracious! we shall be all blown up!” exclaimed Phœbe,—the word
gunpowder being the only one which she understood in the knight’s
description.
“Not a bit, foolish girl. Pack old Dame Jellicot into the embrasure of
yonder window,” said the knight, “on that side of the door, and we will
ensconce ourselves on this, and we shall have time to finish my
explanation, for they have bungling engineers. We had a clever French
fellow at Newark would have done the job in the firing of a pistol.”
They had scarce got into the place of security when the knight
proceeded with his description.—“The petard being formed, as I tell
you, is secured with a thick and strong piece of plank, termed the
madrier, and the whole being suspended, or rather secured against the
gate to be forced—But thou mindest me not?”
“How can I, Sir Henry,” she said, “within reach of such a thing as you
speak of?—O Lord! I shall go mad with very terror—we shall be
crushed—blown up—in a few minutes!”
“We are secure from the explosion,” replied the knight, gravely, “which
will operate chiefly in a forward direction into the middle of the
chamber; and from any fragments that may fly laterally, we are
sufficiently guarded by this deep embrasure.”
“But they will slay us when they enter,” said Phœbe.
“They will give thee fair quarter, wench,” said Sir Henry; “and if I do
not bestow a brace of balls on that rogue engineer, it is because I
would not incur the penalty inflicted by martial law, which condemns to
the edge of the sword all persons who attempt to defend an untenable
post. Not that I think the rigour of the law could reach Dame Jellicot
or thyself, Phœbe, considering that you carry no arms. If Alice had
been here she might indeed have done somewhat, for she can use a
birding-piece.”
Phœbe might have appealed to her own deeds of that day, as more allied
to feats of mêlée and battle, than any which her young lady ever acted;
but she was in an agony of inexpressible terror, expecting, from the
knight’s account of the petard, some dreadful catastrophe, of what
nature she did not justly understand, notwithstanding his liberal
communication on the subject.
“They are strangely awkward at it,” said Sir Henry; “little Boutirlin
would have blown the house up before now.—Ah! he is a fellow would take
the earth like a rabbit—if he had been here, never may I stir but he
would have countermined them ere now, and
—‘’Tis sport to have the engineer
Hoist with his own petard.’
as our immortal Shakspeare has it.”
“Oh, Lord, the poor mad old gentleman,” thought Phœbe—“Oh, sir, had you
not better leave alone playbooks, and think of your end?” uttered she
aloud, in sheer terror and vexation of spirit.
“If I had not made up my mind to that many days since,” answered the
knight, “I had not now met this hour with a free bosom—
‘As gentle and as jocund as to rest,
Go I to death—truth hath a quiet breast.’”
As he spoke, a broad glare of light flashed from without, through the
windows of the hall, and betwixt the strong iron stanchions with which
they were secured—a broad discoloured light it was, which shed a red
and dusky illumination on the old armour and weapons, as if it had been
the reflection of a conflagration. Phœbe screamed aloud, and, forgetful
of reverence in the moment of passion, clung close to the knight’s
cloak and arm, while Dame Jellicot, from her solitary niche, having the
use of her eyes, though bereft of her hearing, yelled like an owl when
the moon breaks out suddenly.
“Take care, good Phœbe,” said the knight; “you will prevent my using my
weapon if you hang upon me thus.—The bungling fools cannot fix their
petard without the use of torches! Now let me take the advantage of
this interval.—Remember what I told thee, and how to put off time.”
“Oh, Lord—ay, sir,” said Phœbe, “I will say any thing, Oh, Lord, that
it were but over!—Ah! ah!”—(two prolonged screams)—“I hear something
hissing like a serpent.”
“It is the fusee, as we martialists call it,” replied the knight; “that
is, Phœbe, the match which fires the petard, and which is longer or
shorter, according to the distance.”
Here the knight’s discourse was cut short by a dreadful explosion,
which, as he had foretold, shattered the door, strong as it was, to
pieces, and brought down the glass clattering from the windows with all
the painted heroes and heroines, who had been recorded on that fragile
place of memory for centuries. The women shrieked incessantly, and were
answered by the bellowing of Bevis, though shut up at a distance from
the scene of action. The knight, shaking Phœbe from him with
difficulty, advanced into the hall to meet those who rushed in, with
torches lighted and weapons prepared.
“Death to all who resist—life to those who surrender!” exclaimed
Cromwell, stamping with his foot. “Who commands this garrison?”
“Sir Henry Lee of Ditchley,” answered the old knight, stepping forward;
“who, having no other garrison than two weak women, is compelled to
submit to what he would willingly have resisted.”
“Disarm the inveterate and malignant rebel,” cried Oliver. “Art thou
not ashamed, sir, to detain me before the door of a house which you had
no force to defend? Wearest thou so white a beard, and knowest thou
not, that to refuse surrendering an indefensible post, by the martial
law, deserves hanging?”
“My beard and I,” said Sir Henry, “have settled that matter between us,
and agree right cordially. It is better to run the risk of being
hanged, like honest men, than to give up our trust like cowards and
traitors.”
“Ha! say’st thou?” said Cromwell; “thou hast powerful motives, I doubt
not, for running thy head into a noose. But I will speak with thee by
and by.—Ho! Pearson, Gilbert Pearson, take this scroll—Take the elder
woman with thee—Let her guide you to the various places therein
mentioned—Search every room therein set down, and arrest, or slay upon
the slightest resistance, whomsoever you find there. Then note those
places marked as commanding points for cutting off intercourse through
the mansion—the landing-places of the great staircase, the great
gallery, and so forth. Use the woman civilly. The plan annexed to the
scroll will point out the posts, even if she prove stupid or
refractory. Meanwhile, the corporal, with a party, will bring the old
man and the girl there to some apartment—the parlour, I think, called
Victor Lee’s, will do as well as another.—We will then be out of this
stifling smell of gunpowder.”
So saying, and without requiring any farther assistance or guidance, he
walked towards the apartment he had named. Sir Henry had his own
feelings, when he saw the unhesitating decision with which the General
led the way, and which seemed to intimate a more complete acquaintance
with the various localities of Woodstock than was consistent with his
own present design, to engage the Commonwealth party in a fruitless
search through the intricacies of the Lodge.
“I will now ask thee a few questions, old man,” said the General, when
they had arrived in the room; “and I warn thee, that hope of pardon for
thy many and persevering efforts against the Commonwealth, can be no
otherwise merited than by the most direct answers to the questions I am
about to ask.”
Sir Henry bowed. He would have spoken, but he felt his temper rising
high, and became afraid it might be exhausted before the part he had
settled to play, in order to afford the King time for his escape,
should be brought to an end.
“What household have you had here, Sir Henry Lee, within these few
days—what guests—what visitors? We know that your means of
house-keeping are not so profuse as usual, so the catalogue cannot be
burdensome to your memory.”
“Far from it,” replied the knight, with unusual command of temper, “my
daughter, and latterly my son, have been my guests; and I have had
these females, and one Joceline Joliffe, to attend upon us.”
“I do not ask after the regular members of your household, but after
those who have been within your gates, either as guests, or as
malignant fugitives taking shelter.”
“There may have been more of both kinds, sir, than I, if it please your
valour, am able to answer for,” replied the knight. “I remember my
kinsman Everard was here one morning—Also, I bethink me, a follower of
his, called Wildrake.”
“Did you not also receive a young cavalier, called Louis Garnegey?”
said Cromwell.
“I remember no such name, were I to hang for it,” said the knight.
“Kerneguy, or some such word,” said the General; “we will not quarrel
for a sound.”
“A Scotch lad, called Louis Kerneguy, was a guest of mine,” said Sir
Henry, “and left me this morning for Dorsetshire.”
“So late!” exclaimed Cromwell, stamping with his foot—“How fate
contrives to baffle us, even when she seems most favourable!—What
direction did he take, old man?” continued Cromwell—“what horse did he
ride—who went with him?”
“My son went with him,” replied the knight; “he brought him here as the
son of a Scottish lord.—I pray you, sir, to be finished with these
questions; for although I owe thee, as Will Shakspeare says,
Respect for thy great place, and let the devil
Be sometimes honoured for his burning throne,—
yet I feel my patience wearing thin.”
Cromwell here whispered to the corporal, who in turn uttered orders to
two soldiers, who left the room. “Place the knight aside; we will now
examine the servant damsel,” said the General.—“Dost them know,” said
he to Phœbe, “of the presence of one Louis Kerneguy, calling himself a
Scotch page, who came here a few days since?”
“Surely, sir,” she replied, “I cannot easily forget him; and I warrant
no well-looking wench that comes into his way will be like to forget
him either.”
“Aha,” said Cromwell, “sayst thou so? truly I believe the woman will
prove the truer witness.—When did he leave this house?”
“Nay, I know nothing of his movements, not I,” said Phœbe; “I am only
glad to keep out of his way. But if he have actually gone hence, I am
sure he was here some two hours since, for he crossed me in the lower
passage, between the hall and the kitchen.”
“How did you know it was he?” demanded Cromwell.
“By a rude enough token,” said Phœbe.—“La, sir, you do ask such
questions!” she added, hanging down her head.
Humgudgeon here interfered, taking upon himself the freedom of a
co-adjutor. “Verily,” he said, “if what the damsel is called to speak
upon hath aught unseemly, I crave your Excellency’s permission to
withdraw, not desiring that my nightly meditations may be disturbed
with tales of such a nature.”
“Nay, your honour,” said Phœbe, “I scorn the old man’s words, in the
way of seemliness or unseemliness either. Master Louis did but snatch a
kiss, that is the truth of it, if it must be told.”
Here Humgudgeon groaned deeply, while his Excellency avoided laughing
with some difficulty. “Thou hast given excellent tokens, Phœbe,” he
said; “and if they be true, as I think they seem to be, thou shalt not
lack thy reward.—And here comes our spy from the stables.”
“There are not the least signs,” said the trooper, “that horses have
been in the stables for a month—there is no litter in the stalls, no
hay in the racks, the corn-bins are empty, and the mangers are full of
cobwebs.”
“Ay, ay,” said the old knight, “I have seen when I kept twenty good
horses in these stalls, with many a groom and stable-boy to attend
them.”
“In the meanwhile,” said Cromwell, “their present state tells little
for the truth of your own story, that there were horses to-day, on
which this Kerneguy and your son fled from justice.”
“I did not say that the horses were kept there,” said the knight. “I
have horses and stables elsewhere.”
“Fie, fie, for shame, for shame!” said the General; “can a
white-bearded man, I ask it once more, be a false witness?”
“Faith, sir,” said Sir Henry Lee, “it is a thriving trade, and I wonder
not that you who live on it are so severe in prosecuting interlopers.
But it is the times, and those who rule the times, that make
grey-beards deceivers.”
“Thou art facetious friend, as well as daring in thy malignity,” said
Cromwell; “but credit me, I will cry quittance with you ere I am done.
Whereunto lead these doors?”
“To bedrooms,” answered the knight.
“Bedrooms! only to bedrooms?” said the Republican General, in a voice
which indicated such was the internal occupation of his thoughts, that
he had not fully understood the answer.
“Lord, sir,” said the knight, “why should you make it so strange? I say
these doors lead to bedrooms—to places where honest men sleep, and
rogues lie awake.”
“You are running up a farther account, Sir Henry,” said the General;
“but we will balance it once and for all.”
During the whole of the scene, Cromwell, whatever might be the internal
uncertainty of his mind, maintained the most strict temperance in
language and manner, just as if he had no farther interest in what was
passing, than as a military man employed in discharging the duty
enjoined him by his superiors. But the restraint upon his passion was
but
“The torrent’s smoothness ere it dash below.”[1]
[1] But mortal pleasure, what art thou in truth?
The torrent’s smoothness ere it dash, below.
CAMPBELL’S _Gertrude of Wyoming_.
The course of his resolution was hurried on even more forcibly, because
no violence of expression attended or announced its current. He threw
himself into a chair, with a countenance that indicated no indecision
of mind, but a determination which awaited only the signal for action.
Meanwhile the knight, as if resolved in nothing to forego the
privileges of his rank and place, sat himself down in turn, and putting
on his hat, which lay on a table, regarded the General with a calm look
of fearless indifference. The soldiers stood around, some holding the
torches, which illuminated the apartment with a lurid and sombre glare
of light, the others resting upon their weapons. Phœbe, with her hands
folded, her eyes turned upwards till the pupils were scarce visible,
and every shade of colour banished from her ruddy cheek, stood like one
in immediate apprehension of the sentence of death being pronounced,
and instant execution commanded.
Heavy steps were at last heard, and Pearson and some of the soldiers
returned. This seemed to be what Cromwell waited for. He started up,
and asked hastily, “Any news, Pearson? any prisoners—any malignants
slain in thy defence?”
“None, so please your Excellency,” said the officer.
“And are thy sentinels all carefully placed, as Tomkins’ scroll gave
direction, and with fitting orders?”
“With the most deliberate care,” said Pearson.
“Art thou very sure,” said Cromwell, pulling him a little to one side,
“that this is all well and duly cared for? Bethink thee, that when we
engage ourselves in the private communications, all will be lost should
the party we look for have the means of dodging us by an escape into
the more open rooms, and from thence perhaps into the forest.”
“My Lord-General,” answered Pearson, “if placing the guards on the
places pointed out in this scroll be sufficient, with the strictest
orders to stop, and, if necessary, to stab or shoot, whoever crosses
their post, such orders are given to men who will not fail to execute
them. If more is necessary, your Excellency has only to speak.”
“No—no—no, Pearson,” said the General, “thou hast done well.—This night
over, and let it end but as we hope, thy reward shall not be
wanting.—And now to business.—Sir Henry Lee, undo me the secret spring
of yonder picture of your ancestor. Nay, spare yourself the trouble and
guilt of falsehood or equivocation, and, I say, undo me that spring
presently.”
“When I acknowledge you for my master, and wear your livery, I may obey
your commands,” answered the knight; “even then I would need first to
understand them.”
“Wench,” said Cromwell, addressing Phœbe, “go thou undo the spring—you
could do it fast enough when you aided at the gambols of the demons of
Woodstock, and terrified even Mark Everard, who, I judged, had more
sense.”
“Oh Lord, sir, what shall I do?” said Phœbe, looking to the knight;
“they know all about it. What shall I do?”
“For thy life, hold out to the last, wench! Every minute is worth a
million.”
“Ha! heard you that, Pearson?” said Cromwell to the officer; then,
stamping with his foot, he added, “Undo the spring, or I will else use
levers and wrenching-irons—Or, ha! another petard were well bestowed—
Call the engineer.”
“O Lord, sir,” cried Phœbe, “I shall never live another peter—I will
open the spring.”
“Do as thou wilt,” said Sir Henry; “it shall profit them but little.”
Whether from real agitation, or from a desire to gain time, Phœbe was
some minutes ere she could get the spring to open; it was indeed
secured with art, and the machinery on which it acted was concealed in
the frame of the portrait. The whole, when fastened, appeared quite
motionless, and betrayed, as when examined by Colonel Everard, no
external mark of its being possible to remove it. It was now withdrawn,
however, and showed a narrow recess, with steps which ascended on one
side into the thickness of the wall. Cromwell was now like a greyhound
slipped from the leash with the prey in full view.—“Up,” he cried,
“Pearson, thou art swifter than I—Up thou next, corporal.” With more
agility than could have been expected from his person or years, which
were past the meridian of life, and exclaiming, “Before, those with the
torches!” he followed the party, like an eager huntsman in the rear of
his hounds, to encourage at once and direct them, as they penetrated
into the labyrinth described by Dr. Rochecliffe in the “Wonders of
Woodstock.”