Oliver Cromwell arose from his seat as the two veteran soldiers,
Zerubbabel Robins and Merciful Strickalthrow, introduced into the
apartment the prisoner, whom they held by the arms, and fixed his stern
hazel eye on Albert long before he could give vent to the ideas which
were swelling in his bosom. Exultation was the most predominant.
“Art not thou,” he at length said, “that Egyptian which, before these
days, madest an uproar, and leddest out into the wilderness many
thousand men, who were murderers!—Ha, youth, I have hunted thee from
Stirling to Worcester, from Worcester to Woodstock, and we have met at
last!”
“I would,” replied Albert, speaking in the character which he had
assumed, “that we had met where I could have shown thee the difference
betwixt a rightful King and an ambitious Usurper!”
“Go to, young man,” said Cromwell; “say rather the difference between a
judge raised up for the redemption of England, and the son of those
Kings whom the Lord in his anger permitted to reign over her. But we
will not waste useless words. God knows that it is not of our will that
we are called to such high matters, being as humble in our thoughts as
we are of ourselves; and in our unassisted nature frail and foolish;
and unable to render a reason but for the better spirit within us,
which is not of us.—Thou art weary, young man, and thy nature requires
rest and refection, being doubtless dealt with delicately, as one who
hath fed on the fat, and drunk of the sweet, and who hath been clothed
in purple and fine linen.”
Here the General suddenly stopt, and then abruptly exclaimed—“But is
this—Ay! whom have we here? These are not the locks of the swarthy lad
Charles Stewart?—A cheat! a cheat!”
Albert hastily cast his eyes on a mirror which stood in the room, and
perceived that a dark peruke, found among Dr. Rochecliffe’s
miscellaneous wardrobe, had been disordered in the scuffle with the
soldiery, and that his own light-brown hair was escaping from beneath
it.
“Who is this?” said Cromwell, stamping with fury—“Pluck the disguise
from him.”
The soldiers did so; and bringing him at the same time towards the
light, the deception could not be maintained for a moment longer with
any possibility of success. Cromwell came up to him with his teeth set,
and grinding against each other as he spoke, his hands clenched, and
trembling with emotion, and speaking with a voice low-pitched, bitterly
and deeply emphatic, such as might have preceded a stab with his
dagger. “Thy name, young man?”
He was answered calmly and firmly, while the countenance of the speaker
wore a cast of triumph, and even contempt.
“Albert Lee of Ditchley, a faithful subject of King Charles.”
“I might have guessed it,” said Cromwell.—“Ay, and to King Charles
shalt thou go as soon as it is noon on the dial.—Pearson,” he
continued, “let him be carried to the others; and let them be executed
at twelve exactly.”
“All, sir?” said Pearson, surprised; for Cromwell, though he at times
made formidable examples, was, in general, by no means sanguinary.
“_All_”—repeated Cromwell, fixing his eye on young Lee. “Yes, young
sir, your conduct has devoted to death thy father, thy kinsman, and the
stranger that was in thine household. Such wreck hast thou brought on
thy father’s house.”
“My father, too—my aged father!” said Albert, looking upward, and
endeavouring to raise his hands in the same direction, which was
prevented by his bonds. “The Lord’s will be done!”
“All this havoc can be saved, if,” said the General, “thou wilt answer
one question—Where is the young Charles Stewart, who was called King of
Scotland?”
“Under Heaven’s protection, and safe from thy power,” was the firm and
unhesitating answer of the young royalist.
“Away with him to prison!” said Cromwell; “and from thence to execution
with the rest of them, as malignants taken in the fact. Let a
courtmartial sit on them presently.”
“One word,” said young Lee, as they led him from the room. “Stop,
stop,” said Cromwell, with the agitation of renewed hope—“let him be
heard.”
“You love texts of Scripture,” said Albert—“Let this be the subject of
your next homily—‘Had Zimri peace, who slew his master?’”
“Away with him,” said the General; “let him die the death.—I have said
it.”
As Cromwell spoke these words, his aide-de-camp observed that he became
unwontedly pale.
“Your Excellency is overtoiled in the public service,” said Pearson; “a
course of the stag in the evening will refresh you. The old knight hath
a noble hound here, if we can but get him to hunt without his master,
which may be hard, as he is faithful, and”—
“Hang him up!” said Cromwell.
“What—whom—hang the noble dog? Your Excellency was wont to love a good
hound?”
“It matters not,” said Cromwell; “let him be killed. Is it not written,
that they slew in the valley of Achor, not only the accursed Achan,
with his sons and his daughters, but also his oxen and asses, and his
sheep, and every live thing belonging unto him? And even thus shall we
do to the malignant family of Lee, who have aided Sisera in his flight,
when Israel might have been delivered of his trouble for ever. But send
out couriers and patrols—Follow, pursue, watch in every direction—Let
my horse be ready at the door in five minutes, or bring me the first
thou canst find.”
It seemed to Pearson that this was something wildly spoken, and that
the cold perspiration was standing upon the General’s brow as he said
it. He therefore again pressed the necessity of repose, and it would
appear that nature seconded strongly the representation. Cromwell
arose, and made a step or two towards the door of the apartment; but
stopped, staggered, and, after a pause, sate down in a chair. “Truly,
friend Pearson,” he said, “this weary carcass of ours is an impediment
to us, even in our most necessary business, and I am fitter to sleep
than to watch, which is not my wont. Place guards, therefore, till we
repose ourselves for an hour or two. Send out in every direction, and
spare not for horses’ flesh. Wake me if the court-martial require
instruction, and forget not to see the sentence punctually executed on
the Lees, and those who were arrested with them.”
As Cromwell spoke thus, he arose and half-opened a bedroom door, when
Pearson again craved pardon for asking if he had rightly understood his
Excellency, that all the prisoners were to be executed.
“Have I not said it?” answered Cromwell, displeasedly. “Is it because
thou art a man of blood, and hast ever been, that thou dost affect
these scruples to show thyself tenderhearted at my expense? I tell
thee, that if there lack one in the full tale of execution, thine own
life shall pay the forfeit.”
So saying, he entered the apartment, followed by the groom of his
chamber, who attended upon Pearson’s summons.
When his General had retired, Pearson remained in great perplexity what
he ought to do; and that from no scruples of conscience, but from
uncertainty whether he might not err either in postponing, or in too
hastily and too literally executing, the instructions he had received.
In the meantime, Strickalthrow and Robins had returned, after lodging
Albert in prison, to the room where Pearson was still musing on his
General’s commands. Both these men were adjutators in their army, and
old soldiers, whom Cromwell was accustomed to treat with great
familiarity; so that Robins had no hesitation to ask Captain Pearson,
“Whether he meant to execute the commands of the General, even to the
letter?”
Pearson shook his head with an air of doubt, but added, “There was no
choice left.”
“Be assured,” said the old man, “that if thou dost this folly, thou
wilt cause Israel to sin, and that the General will not be pleased with
your service. Thou knowest, and none better than thou, that Oliver,
although he be like unto David the son of Jesse, in faith, and wisdom,
and courage, yet there are times when the evil spirit cometh upon him
as it did upon Saul, and he uttereth commands which he will not thank
any one for executing.”
Pearson was too good a politician to assent directly to a proposition
which he could not deny—he only shook his head once more, and said that
it was easy for those to talk who were not responsible, but the
soldier’s duty was to obey his orders, and not to judge of them.
“Very righteous truth,” said Merciful Strickalthrow, a grim old
Scotchman; “I marvel where our brother Zerubbabel caught up this
softness of heart?”
“Why, I do but wish,” said Zerubbabel, “that four or five human
creatures may draw the breath of God’s air for a few hours more; there
can be small harm done by delaying the execution,—and the General will
have some time for reflection.”
“Ay,” said Captain Pearson, “but I in my service must be more pointedly
obsequious, than thou in thy plainness art bound to be, friend
Zerubbabel.”
“Then shall the coarse frieze cassock of the private soldier help the
golden gaberdine of the captain to bear out the blast,” said
Zerubbabel. “Ay, indeed, I can show you warrant why we be aidful to
each other in doing acts of kindness and long-suffering, seeing the
best of us are poor sinful creatures, who might suffer, being called to
a brief accounting.”
“Of a verity you surprise me, brother Zerubbabel,” said Strickalthrow;
“that thou, being an old and experienced soldier, whose head hath grown
grey in battle, shouldst give such advice to a young officer. Is not
the General’s commission to take away the wicked from the land, and to
root out the Amalekite, and the Jebusite, and the Perizzite, and the
Hittite, and the Girgashite, and the Amorite? and are not these men
justly to be compared to the five kings, who took shelter in the cave
of Makedah, who were delivered into the hands of Joshua the son of Nun?
and he caused his captains and his soldiers to come near and tread on
their necks—and then he smote them, and he slew them, and then he
hanged them on five trees, even till evening—And thou, Gilbert Pearson
by name, be not withheld from the duty which is appointed to thee, but
do even as has been commanded by him who is raised up to judge and to
deliver Israel; for it is written, ‘cursed is he who holdeth back his
sword from the slaughter.’”
Thus wrangled the two military theologians, while Pearson, much more
solicitous to anticipate the wishes of Oliver than to know the will of
Heaven, listened to them with great indecision and perplexity.