with him over a year."
"That is it," answered the hostler. "I remember you a boy there. Let us
go drink a pot of beer on it."
Charles excused himself, saying that he must go look after his master's
dinner, and he lost little time in getting out of that town, lest some
one else might have as inconvenient and less doubtful a memory.
While the prince was flying, his foes were pursuing. The fact that the
royal army was scattered was not enough for the politic mind of
Cromwell. Its leader was still at large, somewhere in England; while he
remained free all was at risk. Those turbulent Scotch might be again
raised. A new Dunbar or Worcester might be fought, with different
fortune. The flying Charles Stuart must be held captive within the
country, and made prisoner within a fortress as soon as possible. In
consequence, the coast was sedulously watched to prevent his escape, and
the country widely searched, the houses of known royalists being
particularly placed under surveillance; a large reward was offered for
the arrest of the fugitive; the party of the Parliament was everywhere
on the alert for him; only the good faith and sound judgment of his
friends kept him from the hands of his foes.
At Hele House, the fugitive was near the Sussex coast, and his friends
hoped that a passage to France might be secured from some of its small
ports. They succeeded at length. On October 13, in early morning, the
prince, with a few loyal companions, left his last hiding-place. They
took dogs with them, as if they were off for a hunting excursion to the
downs.
That night they spent at Hambledon, in Hampshire. Colonel Gunter, one of
the party, led the way to the house of his brother-in-law, though
without notifying him of his purpose. The master of the house was
absent, but returned while the party were at supper, and was surprised
to find a group of hilarious guests around his table. Colonel Gunter was
among them, however, and explained that he had taken the privilege of
kinship to use his house as his own.
The worthy squire, who loved good cheer and good society, was nothing
loath to join this lively company, though in his first surprise to find
his house invaded a round Cavalier oath broke from his lips. To his
astonishment, he was taken to task for this by a crop-haired member of
the company, who reproved him in true Puritan phrase for his profanity.
"Whom have you here, Gunter?" the squire asked his brother-in-law.
"This fellow is not of your sort. I warrant me the canting chap is some
round-headed rogue's son."
"Not a bit of it," answered the colonel. "He is true Cavalier, though he
does wear his hair somewhat of the shortest, and likes not oaths. He's
one of us, I promise you."
"Then here's your health, brother Roundhead!" exclaimed the host,
heartily, draining a brimming glass of ale to his unknown guest.
The prince, before the feast was over, grew gay enough to prove that he
was no Puritan, though he retained sufficient caution in his cups not
further to arouse his worthy host's suspicions. The next day they
reached a small fishing-village, then known as Brighthelstone, now grown
into the great town of Brighton. Here lay the vessel which had been
engaged. The master of the craft, Anthony Tattersall by name, with the
merchant who had engaged his vessel, supped with the party at the
village inn. It was a jovial meal. The prince, glad at the near approach
of safety, allowed himself some freedom of speech. Captain Tattersall
watched him closely throughout the meal. After supper he drew his
merchant friend aside, and said to him,--
"You have not dealt fairly with me in this business. You have paid me a
good price to carry over that gentleman; I do not complain of that; but
you should have been more open. He is the king, as I very well know."
"You are very much mistaken, captain," protested the merchant,
nervously. "What has put such nonsense into your pate?"
"I am not mistaken," persisted the captain. "He took my ship in '48,
with other fishing-craft of this port, when he commanded his father's
fleet. I know his face too well to be deceived. But don't be troubled at
that; I think I do my God and my country good service in preserving the
king; and by the grace of God, I will venture my life and all for him,
and set him safely on shore, if I can, in France."
Happily for Charles, he had found a friend instead of a foe in this
critical moment of his adventure. He found another, for the mariner was
not the only one who knew his face. As he stood by the fire, with his
palm resting on the back of a chair, the inn-keeper came suddenly up and
kissed his hand.
"God bless you wheresoever you go!" he said, fervently. "I do not doubt,
before I die, to be a lord, and my wife a lady."
Charles burst into a hearty laugh at this ambitious remark of his host.
He had been twice discovered within the hour, after a month and a half
of impunity. Yet he felt that he could put full trust in these worthy
men, and slept soundly that last night on English soil.
At five o'clock of the next morning, he, with Lord Wilmot, his constant
companion, went on board the little sixty-ton craft, which lay in
Shoreham harbor, waiting the tide to put to sea. By daybreak they were
on the waves. The prince was resting in the cabin, when in came Captain
Tattersall, kissed his hand, professed devotion to his interests, and
suggested a course for him to pursue.
His crew, he said, had been shipped for the English port of Poole. To
head for France might cause suspicion. He advised Charles to represent
himself as a merchant who was in debt and afraid of arrest in England,
and who wished to reach France to collect money due him at Rouen. If he
would tell this story to the sailors, and gain their good-will, it might
save future trouble.
Charles entered freely into this conspiracy, went on deck, talked
affably with the crew, told them the story concocted by the captain, and
soon had them so fully on his side, that they joined him in begging the
captain to change his course and land his passengers in France. Captain
Tattersall demurred somewhat at this, but soon let himself be convinced,
and headed his ship for the Gallic coast.
The wind was fair, the weather fine. Land was sighted before noon of the
16th. At one o'clock the prince and Lord Wilmot were landed at Fécamp, a
small French port. They had distanced the bloodhounds of the Parliament,
and were safe on foreign soil.
_CROMWELL AND THE PARLIAMENT._
The Parliament of England had defeated and put an end to the king; it
remained for Cromwell to put an end to the Parliament. "The Rump," the
remnant of the old Parliament was derisively called. What was left of
that great body contained little of its honesty and integrity, much of
its pride and incompetency. The members remaining had become infected
with the wild notion that they were the governing power in England, and
instead of preparing to disband themselves they introduced a bill for
the disbanding of the army. They had not yet learned of what stuff
Oliver Cromwell was made.
A bill had been passed, it is true, for the dissolution of the
Parliament, but in the discussion of how the "New Representative" was to
be chosen it became plainly evident that the members of the Rump
intended to form part of it, without the formality of re-election. A
struggle for power seemed likely to arise between the Parliament and the
army. It could have but one ending, with a man like Oliver Cromwell at
the head of the latter. The officers demanded that Parliament should
immediately dissolve. The members resolutely refused. Cromwell growled
his comments.
"As for the members of this Parliament," he said, "the army begins to
take them in disgust."
There was ground for it, he continued, in their selfish greed, their
interference with law and justice, the scandalous lives of many of the
members, and, above all, their plain intention to keep themselves in
power.
"There is little to hope for from such men for a settlement of the
nation," he concluded.
The war with Holland precipitated the result. This war acted as a
barometer for the Parliament. It was a naval combat. In the first
meeting of the two fleets the Dutch were defeated, and the mercury of
Parliamentarian pride rose. In the next combat Van Tromp, the veteran
Dutch admiral, drove Blake with a shattered fleet into the Thames. Van
Tromp swept the Channel in triumph, with a broom at his mast-head. The
hopes of the members went down to zero. They agreed to disband in
November. Cromwell promised to reduce the army. But Blake put to sea
again, fought Van Tromp in a four days' running fight, and won the
honors of the combat. Up again went the mercury of Parliamentary hope
and pride. The members determined to continue in power, and not only
claimed the right to remain members of the new Parliament, but even to
revise the returns of the elected members, and decide for themselves if
they would have them as fellows.
The issue was now sharply drawn between army and Parliament. The
officers met and demanded that Parliament should at once dissolve, and
let the Council of State manage the new elections. A conference was held
between officers and members, at Cromwell's house, on April 19, 1653. It
ended in nothing. The members were resolute.
"Our charge," said Haslerig, arrogantly, "cannot be transferred to any
one."
The conference adjourned till the next morning, Sir Harry Vane engaging
that no action should be taken till it met again. Yet when it met the
next morning the leading members of Parliament were absent, Vane among
them. Their absence was suspicious. Were they pushing the bill through
the House in defiance of the army?
Cromwell was present,--"in plain black clothes, and gray worsted
stockings,"--a plain man, but one not safe to trifle with. The officers
waited a while for the members. They did not come. Instead there came
word that they were in their seats in the House, busily debating the
bill that was to make them rulers of the nation without consent of the
people, hurrying it rapidly through its several stages. If left alone
they would soon make it a law.
Then the man who had hurled Charles I. from his throne lost his
patience. This, in his opinion, had gone far enough. Since it had come
to a question whether a self-elected Parliament, or the army to which
England owed her freedom, should hold the balance of power, Cromwell was
not likely to hesitate.
"It is contrary to common honesty!" he broke out, angrily.
Leaving Whitehall, he set out for the House of Parliament, bidding a
company of musketeers to follow him. He entered quietly, leaving his
soldiers outside. The House now contained no more than fifty-three
members. Sir Harry Vane was addressing this fragment of a Parliament
with a passionate harangue in favor of the bill. Cromwell sat for some
time in silence, listening to his speech, his only words being to his
neighbor, St. John.
"I am come to do what grieves me to the heart," he said.
Vane pressed the House to waive its usual forms and pass the bill at
once.
"The time has come," said Cromwell to Harrison, whom he had beckoned
over to him.
"Think well," answered Harrison; "it is a dangerous work."
[Illustration: OLIVER CROMWELL.]
The man of fate subsided into silence again. A quarter of an hour more
passed. Then the question was put "that this bill do now pass."
Cromwell rose, took off his hat, and spoke. His words were strong.
Beginning with commendation of the Parliament for what it had done for
the public good, he went on to charge the present members with acts of
injustice, delays of justice, self-interest, and similar faults, his
tone rising higher as he spoke until it had grown very hot and
indignant.
"Your hour is come; the Lord hath done with you," he added.
"It is a strange language, this," cried one of the members, springing up
hastily; "unusual this within the walls of Parliament. And from a
trusted servant, too; and one whom we have so highly honored; and
one----"
"Come, come," cried Cromwell, in the tone in which he would have
commanded his army to charge, "we have had enough of this." He strode
furiously into the middle of the chamber, clapped on his hat, and
exclaimed, "I will put an end to your prating."
He continued speaking hotly and rapidly, "stamping the floor with his
feet" in his rage, the words rolling from him in a fury. Of these words
we only know those with which he ended.
"It is not fit that you should sit here any longer! You should give
place to better men! You are no Parliament!" came from him in harsh and
broken exclamations. "Call them in," he said, briefly, to Harrison.
At the word of command a troop of some thirty musketeers marched into
the chamber. Grim fellows they were, dogs of war,--the men of the Rump
could not face this argument; it was force arrayed against law,--or what
called itself law,--wrong against wrong, for neither army nor Parliament
truly represented the people, though just then the army seemed its most
rightful representative.
"I say you are no Parliament!" roared the lord-general, hot with anger.
"Some of you are drunkards." His eye fell on a bottle-loving member.
"Some of you are lewd livers; living in open contempt of God's
commandments." His hot gaze flashed on Henry Marten and Sir Peter
Wentworth. "Following your own greedy appetites and the devil's
commandments; corrupt, unjust persons, scandalous to the profession of
the gospel: how can you be a Parliament for God's people? Depart, I say,
and let us have done with you. In the name of God--go!"
These words were like bomb-shells exploded in the chamber of Parliament.
Such a scene had never before and has never since been seen in the House
of Commons. The members were all on their feet, some white with terror,
some red with indignation. Vane fearlessly faced the irate general.
"Your action," he said, hotly, "is against all right and all honor."
"Ah, Sir Harry Vane, Sir Harry Vane," retorted Cromwell, bitterly, "you
might have prevented all this; but you are a juggler, and have no common
honesty. The Lord deliver me from Sir Harry Vane!"
The retort was a just one. Vane had attempted to usurp the government.
Cromwell turned to the speaker, who obstinately clung to his seat,
declaring that he would not yield it except to force.
"Fetch him down!" roared the general.
"Sir, I will lend you a hand," said Harrison.
Speaker Lenthall left the chair. One man could not resist an army.
Through the door glided, silent as ghosts, the members of Parliament.
"It is you that have forced me to this," said Cromwell, with a shade of
regret in his voice. "I have sought the Lord night and day, that He
would rather slay me than put upon me the doing of this work."
He had, doubtless; he was a man of deep piety and intense bigotry; but
the Lord's answer, it is to be feared, came out of the depths of his own
consciousness. Men like Cromwell call upon God, but answer for Him
themselves.
"What shall be done with this bauble?" said the general, lifting the
sacred mace, the sign-manual of government by the representatives of the
people. "Take it away!" he finished, handing it to a musketeer.
His flashing eyes followed the retiring members until they all had left
the House. Then the musketeers filed out, followed by Cromwell and
Harrison. The door was locked, and the key and mace carried away by
Colonel Otley.
A few hours afterwards the Council of State, the executive committee of
Parliament, was similarly dissolved by the lord-general, who, in person,
bade its members to depart.
"We have heard," cried John Bradshaw, one of its members, "what you have
done this morning at the House, and in some hours all England will hear
it. But you mistake, sir, if you think the Parliament dissolved. No
power on earth can dissolve the Parliament but itself, be sure of that."
The people did hear it,--and sustained Cromwell in his action. Of the
two sets of usurpers, the army and a non-representative Parliament, they
preferred the former.
"We did not hear a dog bark at their going," said Cromwell, afterwards.
It was not the first time in history that the army had overturned
representative government. In this case it was not done with the design
of establishing a despotism. Cromwell was honest in his purpose of
reforming the administration, and establishing a Parliamentary
government. But he had to do with intractable elements. He called a
constituent convention, giving to it the duty of paving the way to a
constitutional Parliament. Instead of this, the convention began the
work of reforming the constitution, and proposed such radical changes
that the lord-general grew alarmed. Doubtless his musketeers would have
dealt with the convention as they had done with the Rump Parliament, had
it not fallen to pieces through its own dissensions. It handed back to
Cromwell the power it had received from him. He became the lord
protector of the realm. The revolutionary government had drifted,
despite itself, into a despotism. A despotism it was to remain while
Cromwell lived.
_THE RELIEF OF LONDONDERRY._
Frightful was the state of Londonderry. "No surrender" was the ultimatum
of its inhabitants, "blockade and starvation" the threat of the
besiegers; the town was surrounded, the river closed, relief seemed
hopeless, life, should the furious besiegers break in, equally hopeless.
Far off, in the harbor of Lough Foyle, could be seen the English ships.
Thirty vessels lay there, laden with men and provisions, but they were
able to come no nearer. The inhabitants could see them, but the sight
only aggravated their misery. Plenty so near at hand! Death and
destitution in their midst! Frightful, indeed, was their extremity.
The Foyle, the river leading to the town, was fringed with hostile forts
and batteries, and its channel barricaded. Several boats laden with
stone had been sunk in the channel. A row of stakes was driven into the
bottom of the stream. A boom was formed of trunks of fir-trees, strongly
bound together, and fastened by great cables to the shore. Relief from
the fleet, with the river thus closed against it, seemed impossible. Yet
scarcely two days' supplies were left in the town, and without hasty
relief starvation or massacre seemed the only alternatives.
Let us relate the occasion of this siege. James II. had been driven from
England, and William of Orange was on the throne. In his effort to
recover his kingdom, James sought Ireland, where the Catholic peasantry
were on his side. His appearance was the signal for fifty thousand
peasants to rise in arms, and for the Protestants to fly from peril of
massacre. They knew their fate should they fall into the hands of the
half-savage peasants, mad with years of misrule.
In the north, seven thousand English fugitives fled to Londonderry, and
took shelter behind the weak wall, manned by a few old guns, and without
even a ditch for defence, which formed the only barrier between them and
their foes. Around this town gathered twenty-five thousand besiegers,
confident of quick success. But the weakness of the battlements was
compensated for by the stoutness of the hearts within. So fierce were
the sallies of the desperate seven thousand, so severe the loss of the
besiegers in their assaults, that the attempt to carry the place by
storm was given up, and a blockade substituted. From April till the end
of July this continued, the condition of the besieged daily growing
worse, the food-supply daily growing less. Such was the state of affairs
at the date with which we are specially concerned.
Inside the town, at that date, the destitution had grown heart-rending.
The fire of the enemy was kept up more briskly than ever, but famine and
disease killed more than cannon-balls. The soldiers of the garrison
were so weak from privation that they could scarcely stand; yet they
repelled every attack, and repaired every breach in the walls as fast as
made. The damage done by day was made good at night. For the garrison
there remained a small supply of grain, which was given out by
mouthfuls, and there was besides a considerable store of salted hides,
which they gnawed for lack of better food. The stock of animals had been
reduced to nine horses, and these so lean and gaunt that it seemed
useless to kill them for food.
The townsmen were obliged to feed on dogs and rats, an occasional small
fish caught in the river, and similar sparse supplies. They died by
hundreds. Disease aided starvation in carrying them off. The living were
too few and too weak to bury the dead. Bodies were left unburied, and a
deadly and revolting stench filled the air. That there was secret
discontent and plottings for surrender may well be believed. But no such
feeling dared display itself openly. Stubborn resolution and vigorous
defiance continued the public tone. "No surrender" was the general cry,
even in that extremity of distress. And to this voices added, in tones
of deep significance, "First the horses and hides; then the prisoners;
and then each other."
Such was the state of affairs on July 28, 1689. Two days' very sparse
rations alone remained for the garrison. At the end of that time all
must end. Yet still in the distance could be seen the masts of the
ships, holding out an unfulfilled promise of relief; still hope was not
quite dead in the hearts of the besieged. Efforts had been made to send
word to the town from the fleet. One swimmer who attempted to pass the
boom was drowned. Another was caught and hanged. On the 13th of July a
letter from the fleet, sewed up in a cloth button, reached the commander
of the garrison. It was from Kirke, the general in command of the party
of relief, and promised speedy aid. But a fortnight and more had passed
since then, and still the fleet lay inactive in Lough Foyle, nine miles
away, visible from the summit of the Cathedral, yet now tending rather
to aggravate the despair than to sustain the hopes of the besieged.
The sunset hour of July 28 was reached. Services had been held that
afternoon in the Cathedral,--services in which doubtless the help of God
was despairingly invoked, since that of man seemed in vain. The
heart-sick people left the doors, and were about to disperse to their
foodless homes, when a loud cry of hope and gladness came from the
lookout in the tower above their heads.
"They are coming!" was the stirring cry. "The ships are coming up the
river! I can see their sails plainly! Relief is coming!"
How bounded the hearts of those that heard this gladsome cry! The
listeners dispersed, carrying the glad news to every corner of the town.
Others came in hot haste, eager to hear further reports from the lookout
tower. The town, lately so quiet and depressed, was suddenly filled with
activity. Hope swelled every heart, new life ran in every vein; the
news was like a draught of wine that gave fresh spirit to the most
despairing soul.
And now other tidings came. There was a busy stir in the camp of the
besiegers. They were crowding to the river-banks. As far as the eye
could see, the stream was lined. The daring ships had a gauntlet of fire
to run. Their attempt seemed hopeless, indeed. The river was low. The
channel which they would have to follow ran near the left bank, where
numerous batteries had been planted. They surely would never succeed.
Yet still they came, and still the lookout heralded their movements to
the excited multitude below.
The leading ship was the Mountjoy, a merchant-vessel laden heavily with
provisions. Its captain was Micaiah Browning, a native of Londonderry.
He had long advised such an attempt, but the general in command had
delayed until positive orders came from England that something must be
done.
On hearing of this, Browning immediately volunteered. He was eager to
succor his fellow-townsmen. Andrew Douglas, captain of the Phoenix, a
vessel laden with meal from Scotland, was willing and anxious to join in
the enterprise. As an escort to these two merchantmen came the
Dartmouth, a thirty-six-gun frigate, its commander John Leake,
afterwards an admiral of renown.