The first indication we find at Madeley of the troubled times which
ushered in the most remarkable episode in the history of the 17th century
is an entry in the church register, under date of April 14, 1645,
informing us that on the above date one William Caroloso was buried, the
church at the time being garrisoned by a Parliamentary regiment,
commanded by Captain Harrington. A page of history was being written
which in all future times would be read with interest; agencies, the
growth of centuries, had been developed; struggles for political and
polemical equality had disturbed the stagnation of ages. The injustice
of the courts, the persecutions, pillorings, and beheadings of reformers
and standard-bearers of truth, and the weakness and insincerity of
monarchs, had culminated in revolution, and six years later the weak
vacillating monarch, Charles II., after the battle of Worcester, where
3,000 of his army had been left upon the field, came a fugitive to
Madeley. The story of his flight, his disguise, and of his lodging in
“Wolfe’s bam,” is an episode in history that illustrates the vicissitudes
of life, affords a startling lesson to royalty, and brings into relief
the devotion and faithfulness of those in humble spheres to others when
in misfortune. Having ridden in hot haste from Worcester, and fallen in
with the Earls Buckingham, Derby, Wilmot, and others, “I strove,” he
tells us, “as soon as it was dark, to get them to stand by me against the
enemy, I could not get rid of them now I had a mind to it, having,
afterwards slipt away from them by a by-road when it was dark.”
The story of his retreat through Kidderminster, where Richard Baxter
describes the balls flying all night, and the hurried northward flight
under the trusty scout, Master Walker; then the second pause of terror on
Kinver Heath; the stolen and breathless flight through Stourbridge; the
short and poor refreshment at Kingswinford; and the long gallop to the
White Ladies;—the whole flight being certainly forty miles—has been so
often told as to be familiar to the reader.
These and other incidents of the flight have been worked up in a drama,
in five acts, by Mr. George Griffiths, of Bewdley. Scene 2 is laid at
the White Ladies (nine miles from Wolverhampton and one from Brewood, now
occupied by Mr. Wilson).
“_Enter_ Col. Roscarrock, Richard Penderell, of Hobbal Grange, Edward
Martin, a servant, and Bartholemew Martin, a boy in the house.
“_Col. Roscarrock_ (to the boy Martin):
Come hither, boy, canst thou do an errand,
And speak to no one on the road to Boscobel?
“_Boy_.—That I can, Sir, without reward or fee;
Trust me, I will not say one word
To any he or she, so tell me what’s my duty.
“_Col. Roscarrock_.—Go off to Boscobel the nearest road,
And one that fewest folks do travel by.
Tell William Penderell to hasten hither,
Without a minute’s stopping,
And should he ask thee why and wherefore,
Tell him Good Master Giffard wants him here
Without delay, and see thou com’st back with him;
And shouldst thou meet or pass folks on the road,
Say nought unto them as to where thou’rt going
Or what thy errand is. Haste, and some coin
Shall warm thy pocket if thou mind’st my words.
“_Boy_.—Aye, aye, sir, humble boys have sharpish wits.
Because their simple food keeps them in health;
I’se warrant the Squire’s son, though so well fed,
Cannot leap gates like I, or ride a horse
Barebacked across the hedges of our farm.
Aye, aye, sir, I can keep my counsel, too;
I know a hay-fork from a noble’s sword,
And I do feel that with my harvest fork
I could defend a king as stoutly
As those who carry golden-handled swords.
I go, and no man, no, nor woman either,
Shall coax one word from off my faithful tongue.
[_Exit_.
“_Col. Roscarrock_.—See now, how this young varlet guesses all,
His eye alone told all I thought unknown;
Well, trusty friends dwell oft in rustic hearts
With more sincerity than in the breasts
Of those who fill the highest offices.”
Boscobel was selected upon the suggestion of the Earl of Derby, who,
defeated and wounded on the 25th of August, 1651, at the battle of Wigan,
by the Parliamentary forces under Colonel Lilburn, found his way hither
whilst seeking to join Charles at Worcester, and who, after four or five
days rest here, went on, and reached Worcester on the eve of the famous
battle.
Boscobel, so named, as we have seen, by Sir Basil Brooke, of the Court
House, Madeley, on account of its beautiful and well-wooded situation,
and built ostensibly as a hunting-lodge, but in reality as a hiding-place
for priests, amid the sombre forest of Brewood, was often used for the
purpose for which it was designed, as well as a shelter for distressed
Cavaliers.
The story of the disfigurement of Charles, and his crouching wet and
weary in the woods, has been often told in prose and verse. We quote
Griffiths again:—
“_W. Penderell_ (to the King).—Sire, disguise is your first need,
henceforth your title must not pass
Our lips; here in this chimney rub your hands
And then transfer the blackness to your face.
We must in, and clothe you in a rustic suit
Of green, with leathern doublet and a noggain shirt
For we have heard that troops have come to Codsall
But three miles off, under the traitor Ashenhurst.
Haste! Haste! and when your rough disguise is donned
We must take shelter in the thick Spring Coppice,
The darkest covert Boscobel doth claim.
“SCENE 4. Richard Penderell’s house at Hobbal Grange. Enter the
King, old Mrs. Penderell, and her son Richard.
“_The King_.—We must not stop here long, the air is full of spies,
The night now favours us; no moon nor stars
Shine out to show us to our enemies.
Let’s hence to Wales, fidelity lives there
More than on English soil. Oft have I read
Of their unvarying faith to those they served,
What straits and stratagems they felt and wrought,
To save misfortune’s sons from grievous fates.
“_R. Penderell_.—We must disguise you more;
Rub well your hands in the wet dirt,
Here, take this bill, a woodman you must be,
And for a name let William Jones suffice;
Shew no dread, but speak few words,
For fear they should betray your better teaching.
Come, let’s away, I have a friend at Madeley,
Wolfe by name, faithful and trusty.”
William Penderell acting as barber, the king was eased of his royal
locks, his hands and face were toned down to that of a country labourer,
and he sallied forth, wood-bill in hand, in the direction of Madeley,
with “a country-fellow,” whose borrowed suit he travelled in. To
understand his majesty’s toilet the reader must conceive the royal person
in a pair of ordinary grey cloth breeches—“more holy than the
wearer”—rather roomy in the slack; a leathern doublet, greasy about the
collar; hose much darned; shoes that let in dirt and wet to the royal
feet—ventilators in their way; and above all a sugar-loaf hat, rain proof
by reason of grease, turned up at the sides, the corners acting as
water-spouts. Thus disguised, the rain pouring in torrents, on a dark
night, along a rough by-road, “guided by the rustling sound of Richard’s
calf-skin breeches,” through mud and mire, over ruts, plunging now and
then into swollen streams, the king and his guide travelled in the
direction of Madeley. Slamming the gate at Evelyth bridge, in the middle
of the night, brought out the miller, who ordered them to stand, and
raised an outcry of “Rogues, rogues.” Foot-sore and weary, resolving
sometimes to go no farther, then plucking up their spirits and trudging
on, the house of Mr. Wolfe, who had “hiding holes for priests,” was
reached, where the king slept in a barn.
Hearing from Mr. Wolfe’s son, who had escaped from Shrewsbury, that every
bridge and boat were in the possession of the Roundheads, so that escape
in that direction was hopeless, it was decided to advise his majesty to
return. Mr. Wolfe, according to Pepys, persuaded the king to put on “a
pair of old green yarn stockings, all worn and darned at the knees, with
their feet cut off, to hide his white ones, for fear of being observed;”
and Mrs. Wolfe having again had recourse to walnut-juice for the purpose
of deepening the tone upon the royal face, he again set out in the
direction of Boscobel. The king, in the diary above quoted, is made to
say:—
“So we set out as soon as it was dark. But, as we came by the mill
again, we had no mind to be questioned a second time there; and
therefore asking Richard Penderell whether he could swim or no, and
how deep the river was, he told me it was a scurvy river, not easy to
be past in all places, and that he could not swim. So I told him,
that the river being a little one, I would undertake to help him
over. Upon which we went over some closes to the river side, and I,
entering the river first, to see whether I could myself go over, who
knew how to swim, found it was but a little above my middle; and
thereupon taking Richard Penderell by the hand, I helped him over.”
They reached Boscobel at five o’clock on the morning of Saturday,
September 6th. Penderell, leaving the king in the wood, went to the
house to reconnoitre. All was secure, and he found Colonel Carless, who
was also hiding at Boscobel. He had been an active soldier throughout
the war. His presence cheered the tired and wandering monarch, who now
for the first time was brought into the house, and sitting by the fire
was refreshed with bread and cheese and a warm posset of beer, prepared
by W. Penderell’s wife, Joan, who also brought him warm water to bathe
his feet, and dried his shoes by placing in them hot embers. After a
short slumber the king was aroused by his anxious attendants, he not
being safe in the house in the daylight. With Colonel Carless he then
climbed into an oak tree that stood a few yards from the house, at some
distance from the other trees. It had been lopped or pollarded, some
years before, and in consequence had grown very bushy, and afforded a
good hiding-place. They took provisions for the day with them. Screened
from view, the king, resting his head on the knees of Carless, slept
soundly for some time. The king, in his narrative, as recorded by Pepys,
says:—“While we were in the tree we saw soldiers going up and down in the
thickets of the wood, searching for persons escaped, we seeing them now
and then peeping out of the wood.”
Saturday evening brought darkness, of which the fugitives availed
themselves by going into the house, and Penderell’s wife, Dame Joan,
provided a dainty dish of roast chickens for the king’s supper. That
being over, the king retired to a hiding-hole at the top of the stairs,
where a pallet was laid ready, and there he passed the night. On Sunday
morning the king arose refreshed, and passed the day partly at his
devotions, partly in watching, and partly reading in the garden. We must
not forget to mention that he cooked his meat, frying some collops of
mutton. Meanwhile, John Penderell had gone in search of Lord Wilmot,
whom he found at Moseley Hall with Mr. Whitgreave, and in the evening he
returned, bringing tidings that the king could be received at Moseley.
Whereupon Charles, taking leave of Carless, set out on Humphrey
Penderell’s (the miller’s) horse, attended by the five Penderells and
their brother-in-law, Yates, well armed with bills and pike-staves, as
well as pistols. The king complained of the rough motion of the horse.
“Can you blame the horse, my liege,” said the honest miller, “to go
heavily, when he has the weight of three kingdoms on his back?” At
Moseley Hall the king remained from Sunday night till Tuesday evening,
when Colonel Lane came from Bentley, bringing a horse for him. Being
dressed in a suit of grey hose, and with the name of Jackson, he acted as
serving-man to Miss Jane Lane, rode before her, and eventually embarked
for France, which country after many narrow escapes, he reached safely on
the 16th of October.
To Mr. Wolfe, of Madeley, the king presented a very handsome silver
tankard with the inscription, “Given by Charles the Second, at the
Restoration, to F. Wolfe, of Madeley, in whose barn he was secreted after
the defeat at Worcester, 1651.” The tankard is now in the possession of
W. Rathbone, Esq., of Liverpool, but a print of it hangs in the old
house. The tankard has upon the cover a coat of arms: the crest is a
demi-wolf supporting a crown. In the hall there is an old panel, which
was cut out of the wainscoating of the dining-room, with the initials,
thus:—
F. W. M.
1621.
In the church register we find the burial of Barbara Wolfe, January 13th,
1660; of Ann Wolfe, September 19th, 1672; of Francis Wolfe, December 7th,
1665; and of Sarah Wolfe, late wife of Francis Wolfe, January 10th, 1698.
The house is a very old one, and Mr. Joseph Yate, of the Hall, close by,
says he remembers his father telling him that in former times it was “a
house of entertainment.” The barn which is not more than twenty feet
from the house, afterwards became the Market House, the butchers’
shambles being still discernible. The upper portion was rebuilt, or
cased, a few years ago, but the old timber skeleton remains.
It is pleasant to find that Charles, at the restoration, further
remembered his preservers, and settled pensions on their survivors; but
not till 1675 was permanent provision made. Certain rents from estates
in Stafford, Salop, Hereford, &c., were intrusted to Sir Walter
Wollesley, John Giffard, of Black Ladies, and Richard Congreve, of
Congreve, to pay the yearly proceeds to the Penderell family, the sum
amounting to about £450 per annum, thus:—
£100 a-year to Richard Penderell or his heirs,
£100 a-year to William or his heirs.