THE GREAT REBELLION.
CHARLES THE FIRST.
“_He nothing common did or mean_
_Upon that memorable scene,_
_But with his keener eye_
_The axe’s edge did try;_
_Nor called the gods with vulgar spite_
_To vindicate his helpless right,_
_But bowed his comely head_
_Down, as upon a bed._”
THE incident you are now to witness is without a parallel in the history
of our land. The scene opens in Westminster Hall, the vast building
erected for the judicial courts of the realm by William the Second.
There is a troop of horse in the courtyard, and armed men guard the
doors. Now a procession enters, and as the doors open to admit it you
hear loud shouts of “Justice! justice!” from the mob in the courtyard.
At the head of the procession are officers bearing the mace and the
sword of state; behind them, in black robes, you see John Bradshaw, and
with him a number of members of Parliament. He takes his seat on a chair
of crimson velvet, and his companions range themselves to the right and
left of him. The sword and the mace are placed on the table at which the
clerk sits, and the doors are flung open. At once a tumultuous crowd
rushes in, eager to witness the dread ceremony. They struggle for
places, and the hall rings with their shouts. At length order is
restored, and the clerk reads the Act of Parliament constituting the
court. Then the roll of judges is called over. Out of one hundred and
thirty-five on the list only sixty-nine answer to their names.
“Mr. Sergeant,” says the president, “bring in the prisoner.”
There is a deep hush, and you hear the tramp of armed men and the clank
of scabbards on the pavement. A guard of thirty-two officers leads the
prisoner to a chair of crimson velvet at the bar. Now you see him
clearly; he is none other than CHARLES STUART, KING OF ENGLAND.
Look at him well. He is tall, dark, and handsome, with a long, fine
face, large black eyes, thick eyebrows, a pointed beard, and black,
curly hair streaked with silver. His whole aspect is noble, dignified,
and refined. He is a chaste, temperate man, devout at prayers, a good
father, and a fond husband, a lover of music and painting. Nevertheless
he is faithless by nature, and addicted to dark and crooked ways. Seldom
or never is he straightforward in his dealings. He is firmly convinced
that between him and his subjects there can be no agreement which will
bind him, and he holds that whether he keeps a promise or breaks it is a
matter for him to decide, and for him alone. He has inherited his
father’s beliefs in the doctrines of the Divine right and the absolute
power of kings, and he has pushed these doctrines to such utmost
extremes that he has plunged the nation into civil war, and in the
contest has irretrievably ruined himself.
He is not a clever man, and he is incurably obstinate. He cannot
understand the great movements which have been going on around him. He
has never been able to perceive that the time has gone by when men will
allow the king to be a tyrant, and permit him to override both the law
and the will of the people. For eleven years he has ruled the land
without a Parliament, aided by subservient ministers, who have been very
geniuses of tyranny, and have goaded and maddened the people by all
sorts of illegal expedients. These ministers have gone to the block, and
he has been powerless to save them. One of them has died with the
ominous words on his lips, “Put not your trust in princes.”
Charles has endeavoured to make himself absolute alike in Church and
State. The Puritans, who are now very strong, have been the especial
object of his hatred. They have been tormented, fined, whipped,
pilloried, and imprisoned. His wife is a Roman Catholic princess, whose
intrigues have still further brought him into bad odour, and he has
showed such favour to those of her faith that the Puritans bitterly
denounce him. Many earnest men of less fanatical mind have long ago come
to the conclusion that unless he is removed all freedom will be banished
from the land.
Fifteen years ago John Hampden refused to pay an illegal tax, and though
he was heavily fined, his resistance thrilled all England and made him
“the argument of all tongues.” The patience of the Scots also broke
down, and they indignantly refused to permit the king to alter their
mode of worship. In the churchyard of Greyfriars, Edinburgh, they signed
their bond of resistance with blood and tears. Charles would gladly have
chastised them, but his soldiers were unwilling to fight and his
treasury was empty. In this plight he was forced to call a Parliament,
which was full of opponents, who were determined to grant no supplies
until the causes of all grievances were pulled up by the roots. But when
this Parliament had done much good work for liberty, the members split
on religious questions, and Charles, profiting by their dissensions, was
safe for a time.
Suddenly terrible news arrived from Ireland. The native Irish, who were
Roman Catholics to a man, had attacked the Protestant English colonists,
and had slaughtered five thousand of them with horrible cruelty. The
leader of the Irish had showed his followers a letter purporting to come
from the king and encouraging him to the massacre. The letter had the
royal seal attached to it, and looked genuine, but it was a forgery. The
English Puritans, however, were now ready to think the worst of Charles,
and they firmly believed that he had instigated the Irish to slaughter
their fellow-countrymen and his own subjects. When Parliament
reassembled, the Puritan leaders drew up a long list of all the illegal
acts which the king had done, and issued it as a manifesto to the
nation. Tact and conciliation might have worked wonders at this time,
but Charles was in no mood for pacific measures. His wife urged him to
go to Parliament and seize the five Puritan leaders. “Pull the rascals
out by the ears,” she cried, and in fatal hour Charles took her advice.
He went down to Westminster at the head of five hundred men, and entered
the House only to discover that “the birds had flown.” The five members
had escaped to the city, and the king was foiled and humiliated. He left
the House amidst low mutterings of fierce discontent and loud cries of
“Privilege! privilege!” The London militia rose in arms to protect the
five members, and war could no longer be avoided.
In April 1642 the king rode to Hull, where there was a large magazine of
arms and gunpowder, and demanded admittance. The gates were shut in his
face, and the governor declared that he would only take orders from
Parliament. This was the first act of war.
On the stormy evening of August 22 the king raised his standard at
Nottingham, and when it was blown down there were many who saw in the
occurrence an evil omen. Then began a series of miserable years, during
which father fought against son and brother against brother. The fortune
of war at first favoured the king; but the tide turned, and the forces
of the Parliament gradually gained the upper hand. It was inevitable
that they should win: London and the most populous and wealthy part of
the country were with them; the great military genius, Cromwell, rose
amongst them; and a deep, religious fervour inspired them.
For three years the land rang with the tumult of battle, but on one June
day in the year 1645 the crisis arrived. The Parliamentary horsemen
scattered the Cavaliers of the king like chaff before the wind, and they
were never dangerous again. The king fled from the field, and in his
captured baggage the victors found damning proof of his intrigues with
the French and the Irish, and proposals that foreign armies should come
over and subdue his revolting subjects.
The king’s cause was now desperate, and he rode to the camp of the
Scots, who had come to the assistance of the English Parliament, and
yielded himself to them. The Scots were glad to have him, and were ready
to restore him to his throne if he would promise to support
Presbyterianism in Scotland and make the Church of England a
Presbyterian Church. Charles indignantly refused to make the Church
which he loved so well the price of his freedom, and the Scots handed
him over to the Parliament. At this time the Parliament was divided in
opinion. The Presbyterians, who were the stronger party and had the
custody of the king, were eager for peace, so they offered to set
Charles on his throne again if he would agree to their demands, which
included the abolition of bishops in the English Church. Charles had
sworn that he would never sacrifice his crown or his Church even to save
his life, and he kept his word. But for months he would not give a
straightforward answer. He tried every sort of shift and trick to gain
time, and in doing so disgusted many of those who would gladly have been
his friends.
Now the army, which was largely composed of Independents, took matters
into its own hands. It seized the king, marched to London, expelled the
members of Parliament opposed to it, and so obtained a majority. But
even the stern men who had overthrown the king on the field of battle
were ready to offer him terms which he might easily have accepted. He
refused them, because he was still hopeful of regaining his throne
without making terms. It was an evil hour when he rejected the final
olive branch. When a Royalist rising took place in Scotland, and a
second and quite unnecessary civil war broke out in England, the army
felt that the end of his tether had come. They hopelessly crushed the
royal forces in less than three months, and the king’s doom was sealed.
The Independent remnant of Parliament passed a Bill for bringing him to
trial, and appointed a High Court of Justice for the purpose.
Now you know why Charles faces a court of his subjects in Westminster
Hall. Now you know why the members keep their hats on their heads, and
refuse to show him honour. To them he is a malefactor, a “man of blood.”
He is now sitting in his chair waiting for the proceedings to begin.
Bradshaw rises and says:—
“Charles Stuart, King of England, the Commons of England assembled in
Parliament, taking notice of the effusion of blood in the land, which is
fixed on you as the author of it, and whereof you are guilty, have
resolved to bring you to a trial and judgment, and for this cause the
tribunal is erected. The charges will now be read by the
Solicitor-General.”
As the Solicitor-General rises to speak, the king touches him with his
cane on the shoulder and cries “Silence!” The head of the king’s cane
falls off! It is a ghastly portent, and the king himself shows a
momentary sign of emotion. Then the Solicitor-General reads out a long
indictment, and concludes by demanding that justice be done upon the
king as a tyrant, traitor, and murderer. At these words Charles laughs
in the face of the court.
Usually he hesitates in his speech, but to-day he is very fluent. He
refuses to plead before such a court. He tells his judges that they are
an illegal meeting appointed by a mere remnant of the House of Commons.
Again and again he declares that they have no authority to sit in
judgment on him.
Then Bradshaw cries, “Take away the prisoner. The court adjourns to
Monday next.” The escort marches up, and the king rises to depart with
them. As he does so his eye falls on the sword placed on the table. “I
do not fear that,” he says, pointing to it with his cane. Then he is led
forth, and the populace greet him with mingled cries of “Justice!
justice!” and “God save the king!” “God save your Majesty!”
On Monday the court sits again, and the king makes the same protest. On
Tuesday the same scene is enacted, and meanwhile popular sympathy for
the royal prisoner is growing rapidly. The shouts of “Justice!” and
“Execution!” are now only raised by the soldiers. The crowd cries “God
save the king!” whenever it can do so with impunity. As the hours pass
by the same cry is heard amongst the troops. A soldier of the guard who
has dared to say to the king, “Sire, God bless you!” is struck by his
officer. “Methinks,” says Charles, “the punishment exceeds the offence.”
On Wednesday and Thursday the court meets to hear evidence, and then
retires to consider its verdict. On the 27th, at noon, it assembles
again, and all men notice that Bradshaw wears a red robe in place of the
customary black. As the roll of judges is called over there is no
response to the name of Fairfax. Suddenly the silence is broken by the
voice of his wife in the gallery, “He has too much wit to be here.” The
king enters, and loud shouts of “Justice!” “Execution!” are raised by
the soldiers, but the crowd is silent.
The president harangues the prisoner; but when he speaks of the crimes
charged against him in the name of the people of England, he is cut
short by the voice which has answered to the name of Fairfax, “Where are
they or their consents? Oliver Cromwell is a traitor!”
Excitement and confusion break out for a space, but the cry of “Justice!
execution!” is again raised. The king, almost beside himself,
passionately cries, “Hear me! hear me!” but he is not permitted to
speak. Then Bradshaw delivers a long and solemn address, the clerk reads
the sentence, and the judges stand in their places to signify their
assent. The king again tries to speak, but being considered dead in law
is not permitted to do so. He is led away, and as he leaves the hall the
soldiers on the stairs puff smoke in his face and hurl the grossest
insults at him. But outside the mob shouts, “God save your Majesty!”
“God deliver your Majesty from the hands of your enemies!” The soldiers
retort with cries of “Justice!” “Execution!” and the king, who has now
regained his serenity, observes, “Poor souls! for a piece of money they
would do so to their commanders.”
The condemned king is lodged in St. James’s Palace, where he is allowed
to take a last fond farewell of his weeping children. He takes the
little boy on his knee, and says, “My dear heart, they will soon cut off
thy father’s head. Mark, child, what I say: they will cut off my head,
and perhaps make thee king; but thou must not be king so long as thy
brothers Charles and James live. I charge thee, do not be made a king by
them.” To which the child replies amidst its tears, “I will be torn in
pieces first.” The children are removed, and the king spends the few
remaining hours in prayer with his good friend Bishop Juxon. On January
30, between two and three in the afternoon, he is led by armed men
through the leafless avenues of St. James’s Park to his palace of
Whitehall, before which a scaffold draped with black has been erected.
All marvel at the calm dignity which he displays.
The scaffold is hedged round with soldiers, and the headsman stands
beside the block. The king, with head erect, steps through an opening in
the wall of the banqueting hall on to the scaffold. He addresses himself
to the bystanders, and in the last words he utters he shows clearly that
he has not abandoned his fatal theory of kingship. Then he turns to the
good Juxon, who says, “There is but one stage more, sire; it is full of
trouble and anguish, but it is a very short one, and it will carry you a
great way—from earth to heaven!” “I go,” returns the king, “from a
corruptible to an incorruptible crown, where I shall have no trouble to
fear.” Then with a mysterious admonition—“_Remember!_”—he lays his
head on the block. The axe falls, and a deep groan of pity and horror
goes up from the people.
A blood-red line has been ruled across the page of our national
history—the Old Rule has gone; the New Rule has yet to appear.
[Illustration: =Charles I. leaving Westminster Hall after his Trial.=
(_From the picture by Sir John Gilbert, R.A., in the Mappin Art Gallery,
Sheffield. By permission of the Corporation of Sheffield._)]
[Illustration: =CROMWELL AT MARSTON MOOR.=
(_From the picture by Ernest Crofts, A.R.A._)]
[Illustration]
OLIVER CROMWELL.
“_Cromwell, our chief of men, who through a cloud_
_Not of war only, but detractions rude,_
_Guided by faith and matchless fortitude._”
Six years have come and gone since the execution of Charles the First,
and England has had no king in the interval. The great, strong man,
Oliver Cromwell, who by his military genius has overthrown the king and
made the army supreme, has crushed all opposition by the weight of his
iron hand. At the head of his buff-coated Ironsides—men with psalms on
their lips and ruth in their hearts—he has stamped the very life out of
Ireland, and by a happy accident, which he believes to be an
interposition of Providence, he has reduced Scotland to impotence. Now
he is master of three kingdoms, and only the remnant of an old
Parliament stands in his way. The “Rump,” as it is contemptuously
called, refuses to dissolve, so Cromwell strides into the House and,
after roundly rating the members, stamps on the floor. At the signal
armed men enter and proceed to drive out the occupants of the chamber.
The Speaker refuses to leave the chair, and tries to speak, but his
voice is drowned in the uproar. Then one of Cromwell’s friends offers to
lend him a hand to come down, and the Speaker, yielding to force, does
so. Pointing to the mace, the symbol of the authority of the House of
Commons, Cromwell cries, “What shall we do with this bauble? Here, take
it away!” and a soldier removes it. Then he locks the door and strides
away with the key in his pocket, while a wag chalks up on the building,
“This house to let.”
Six weeks later he summons another Parliament, and finds it composed of
fanatics and doctrinaires who are passionate admirers of his, but
propose to overturn every established custom. Under the leadership of
“Praise-God Barebone” it actually suggests that the law of England shall
be superseded in favour of the law of Moses! The members quarrel
fiercely, and at last give up to the Lord-General the powers which they
have received from him. The Council of State begs him to become Lord
Protector, with rights and duties which differ very little from those of
a king, and he accepts the proffered honour. Nine months elapse, and
another Parliament is called; but it is a hindrance to the Lord
Protector’s schemes, and is dissolved. Another takes its place, and
offers to make Cromwell king. He refuses, for the name of king is
loathsome to him, and he is already king in all but name. Then this
Parliament goes the way of the others, and Cromwell never calls another.
You see him now an even more absolute ruler than “martyred Charles:” he
is a despot, but with a difference. Whatever his detractors may say of
him, this cannot be disputed, that never was the sceptre of England
wielded by a more vigorous or sagacious hand. His protectorship,
compared with any preceding age, or with several ages succeeding it, was
an era of toleration, justice, and law. Weakened though she was by the
Civil Wars, England rose to respect and greatness abroad, and foreign
tyrants and persecutors trembled at her name. “We always reckon,” said a
Royalist bishop, “those eight years of the usurpation as a time of great
peace and prosperity.” Trade and commerce increased, and the land grew
wealthy and great; yet all the while Cromwell was bitterly hated, and
his life was always in peril. He wore mail beneath his clothes, and
slept in a different room almost every night. Despite his ever-present
danger, he went his way fearlessly, though expecting a pistol-shot from
every dark corner.
Now let us witness a scene which shows Cromwell at his best. You see
before you the interior of a room in the palace of Whitehall. Seated
carelessly on a table is the Lord Protector. He is a man of massive
build, with a “figure of sufficient impressiveness: not lovely to the
man-milliner species, nor pretending to be so.” A massive “head so
shaped as you might see in it a storehouse and shop of a vast treasury
of natural parts. . . . On the whole, a right noble lion-face and
hero-face; and to me royal enough.” He is careless in his dress, utterly
indifferent to externals, and wholly without affectation. He is the man
who warned Lely, when painting his picture, to put in all the
roughnesses, pimples, and warts of his countenance, or he would not pay
a farthing for the work. Hard, stern, implacable in warfare, he is
nevertheless simple, loving, and pure in his private life, sincerely and
ardently religious, and convinced to the bottom of his soul that he is a
chosen instrument “to do God’s people some good.” True, he owes his
power to the sword; but he wields that power so well, and stoops to so
little that is mean or base, that future generations will have good
cause to rejoice that the guidance of the state was for a brief space of
years entrusted to him.
At the other end of the table sits John Milton, that inspired poet of
whom Wordsworth wrote:——
“His soul was like a star, and dwelt apart;
So didst thou travel on life’s common way
In cheerful godliness.”
Look at his noble face, which reflects in its every expression the
splendid mind with which he is gifted and the noble thoughts which flit
through it. No man ever served the Muses with such exquisite devotion.
He comes to his desk as a knight to his vigil, believing that no man can
worthily write of great things unless his life is worthily lived. He
loves virtue with all the passion of his nature——
“She can teach ye how to climb
Higher than the sphery chime.”
And now he is engaged on a task which enlists all his sympathy, and
sends a throb of righteous indignation through his veins.
He is Latin Secretary to the Council, and it is his task to Latinize all
communications to foreign states. Cromwell has heard that in the valleys
of Piedmont the Waldenses, a body of dogged Puritans, are being
persecuted by the Duke of Savoy, who is harrying them with savage
cruelty, and has already slain thousands of them. Cromwell is greatly
moved by the news, and his anger breaks forth in a torrent of
inconsequent words. The upshot, however, is clear to Milton: France
shall receive those attentions which have made the English fleet the
terror of the Mediterranean, unless an immediate end is put to the
persecution. Milton has already written the most sublime of all his
sonnets on this subject:——
“Avenge, O Lord! Thy slaughtered saints, whose bones
Lie scattered on the Alpine mountains cold;
Even them who kept Thy truth so pure of old,
When all our fathers worshipped stocks and stones,
Forget not; in Thy book record their groans
Who were Thy sheep, and in their ancient fold
Slain by the bloody Piedmontese that rolled
Mother with infant down the rocks. Their moans
The vales redoubled to the hills, and they
To heaven. Their martyred blood and ashes sow
O’er all the Italian fields, where still doth sway
The triple Tyrant; that from these may grow
A hundredfold, who, having learned Thy way,
Early may fly the Babylonian woe.”
Cromwell has already sent £2,000 out of his own purse to the sufferers.
Now he dictates his stern message, and Milton translates it into
resounding Latin of such force and fervour that Cardinal Mazarin dare
not ignore its purport. The Duke of Savoy and the cardinal may gnash
their teeth with rage, but, with the whole power of France at their
command, they dare not again lift a finger against the Waldenses while
Cromwell lives. No incident in the whole history of the Commonwealth
reveals more clearly the salutary fear which the name of Cromwell
excites on the Continent.
But his days are numbered. In three short years he will go hence, and in
two years more a Stuart will sit on the throne, and at his coming
England will be “reduced to a nullity”—aye, and worse, to reproach and
shame. Worn out with constant anxiety, the death of a favourite daughter
brings him speedily to the valley of the shadow. “I would be willing to
live,” murmurs the dying man, “to be further serviceable to God and His
people; but my work is done.” He lies on his deathbed while a great
storm rages over England. In the morning calm succeeds tempest, and on
the anniversary of his great victories at Dunbar and Worcester he
breathes his last. They bury him in Westminster Abbey, amidst the kings;
but his bones are not long to rest in that hallowed fane. The Stuart
king, to his everlasting shame, will tear the unoffending body from its
coffin and gibbet it in unavailing contempt. But ages to come will do
him tardy justice, and men will come to honour his memory even while
they lift their hats and pray, “God save the king!”
[Illustration]
[Illustration: =Cromwell dictating Dispatches to Milton.=
(_From the picture by Ford Madox Brown, in the Manchester Art Gallery. By
permission of the Manchester Corporation._)]
[Illustration]
ROBERT BLAKE.
“_Where Blake and mighty Nelson fell_
_Your manly hearts shall glow,_
_As ye sweep through the deep,_
_While the stormy winds do blow,_
_While the battle rages loud and long,_
_And the stormy winds do blow._”
An admiral sits writing at a table in the cabin of his dismasted
flagship, the _Triumph_. He is a short, squat, ungainly man, but within
that unprepossessing exterior there is one of the most heroic and purely
patriotic souls that ever existed. His heavy face is clouded by deep
depression. He is a beaten man, and he is even now inditing the frank
and ungarnished story of his defeat to the Lords of the Council. “Your
honours,” he writes, “I hope it will not be unreasonable for me to
desire your honours that you would think of giving me, your unworthy
servant, a discharge from this employment so far too great for me, that
so I may be freed from that burden of spirit which lies upon me, arising
from the sense of my own insufficiency.” He finishes his task, signs it
“Robert Blake, Admiral,” strews the sand upon the wet ink, folds the
missive, and dispatches it.
What is the meaning of this scene? You see a man of the sublimest
courage and the most ardent patriotism humiliated and vexed with himself
because he has failed to achieve the impossible. A little more than a
month ago he met the Dutch fleet, and fought a furious battle which
raged until nightfall, when the foe, too severely handled to continue
the struggle, drew off and sailed for home. “Nothing in this to be
ashamed of,” you will say; but you do not yet know the whole story.
After the victory—for such it was—the Commonwealth, feeling secure,
dispersed the fleet either on various detached services or to refit, and
left Blake with only thirty-seven ships to guard the Channel. The
Dutchmen, on the other hand, flung themselves heart and soul into the
work of preparing a fleet which should speedily cancel their reverse and
restore that great prestige which they then enjoyed as the first of
maritime nations. Yesterday this fleet of eighty ships of war, convoying
three hundred merchantmen, appeared off the Goodwins, standing to the
southward, and evidently about to force the strait in defiance of its
guardian. As the vast and well-equipped fleet of the Dutchmen hove in
sight Blake called a hasty council of war, and announced his
determination of attacking it with the wholly inadequate forces at his
command. It was a venture rash almost to the verge of madness, but Blake
could not sit still and see the proudly defiant foe go by without
attempting to chastise it. Twice before he had met the Dutchman and
belaboured him; he would do so again.
In the battle which followed, the wind blew Blake’s leading ships into
the midst of the enemy. A stout fight was stubbornly maintained against
tremendous odds; but the Dutchmen were overwhelmingly strong, and by
evening two English ships had been captured, one had been burnt, another
had blown up, and the remainder, under cover of the darkness, had
staggered into Dover for safety. And now the Channel is full of Dutch
ships, and their admiral, in the arrogance of victory, has hoisted a
broom at his masthead to signify that he has swept the narrow seas
clean! No wonder Blake is sick at heart; no wonder he writes himself
down failure, and begs to be relieved of his command. But to-morrow he
will be himself again. The Council will refuse to supersede him; they
will cheer him with tokens of their confidence; they will immediately
set about repairing their errors, and will speedily give him a fleet
adequate to the work which they expect him to do. They know full well
the splendid courage and the unswerving fidelity of their admiral, and
they repudiate the “insufficiency” which, with the modesty of the truly
brave, he ascribes to himself.
And now, before we relate the story of his subsequent exploits, let us
learn something of his earlier career. As a young Oxford scholar he
coveted a fellowship, but his appearance offended the artistic eye of
the warden of his college and he was passed over. When the Civil War
broke out he was forty-three years of age, and his sentiments were
strongly republican. Joining the Parliamentary army, he was entrusted
with the defence of a post at Bristol, which was then besieged by the
Royalists. The town was yielded by the governor after a feeble
resistance, but Blake resolutely held on to his post for twenty-four
hours after the capitulation was signed. He was compelled to yield, and
narrowly escaped hanging; but the eye of the Parliament was now upon
him, and before long he found himself entrusted with the defence of
Taunton town.
The place was wholly without defences. It had no forts, no walls, and
only a meagre garrison of eighty men. Nevertheless, it was a most
important strategic post, situated at a point on which all the main
roads converged, and Blake saw that it must be defended at all costs. He
worked like a Trojan, and inspired his men to similar efforts. Roads
were barricaded, breastworks were thrown up, guns were mounted, houses
loopholed, and the Royalists, unable to carry it by storm, were forced
to invest it and wait for famine to do its deadly work. The little
garrison grew terribly hungry, but Blake was as blithe as a lad on a
holiday escapade. When only one pig remained, he had it driven about the
town and whipped from time to time, so that its squeals might delude the
besiegers into the belief that he still possessed a whole herd of
porkers. When the Royalist captain sent in a ragged messenger to treat
for terms, Blake dismissed him with a new suit of clothes! Taunton never
yielded. After the battle of Naseby the siege was raised, and Blake
emerged from his heap of ruins a man of mark. He had delayed a whole
army in the west, and had enabled the Parliamentary army in the Midlands
to win the decisive battle of the Civil War.
When the second Civil War broke out, part of the fleet declared for the
king, and, under Prince Rupert, the “mad Cavalier,” was giving much
trouble. A fleet was fitted out to meet this new danger, and, somewhat
inexplicably, Blake was chosen as one of the generals-at-sea. Probably
Cromwell thought that the man who could defend Taunton town could defend
anything. Blake knew little more about naval matters than the Duke of
Medina Sidonia; but he was a born sailor, and before long he was a
master of seamanship in all its intricacies. Rupert was a most difficult
man to catch; but Blake cornered him at last, and at Cartagena drove his
ships ashore and set fire to them. For this exploit Blake received the
grateful thanks of Parliament and a sum of one thousand pounds.
Blake had now to meet a much more powerful foe than Rupert. The Dutch
and the English, old allies against Spain, were now at daggers drawn.
Ill-feeling between the two nations had been long rife; now it came to a
head. Holland swarmed with Royalist exiles, and the Government showed
them much friendship. A Commonwealth envoy was murdered, and the Dutch
Government would give no satisfaction for the outrage. Further, and
beyond all, the two nations were rivals in trade, and the Dutch were
going ahead every day. The bulk of the carrying trade of the world was
in their hands; they waxed fat and kicked. The heads of the Commonwealth
knew that war with Holland would be popular, and in spite of Cromwell’s
opposition they proceeded to provoke it. A Navigation Act was passed,
aimed directly at Dutch trade. Henceforth no goods were to be imported
into England unless they came in English ships or in those of the
country which produced them. This hit the Dutch hard, and war began.
Under Van Tromp, a genuine son of the Vikings, who had risen from
cabin-boy to admiral, the Dutch sent to sea a magnificent fleet of one
hundred sail, which the raw English navy could scarcely hope to beat.
The first shot was fired off Dover in May 1652, and you already know
something of the course of events up to that bitter day in November of
the same year, when Blake was beaten by a largely superior force of the
enemy, and wrote despairingly to the Council of State to suggest that he
should be retired on account of his “insufficiency.” You know, too, what
their answer was. They were true to their promise, and by the middle of
February 1653 Blake was provided with more than seventy sail, ready to
renew the contest.
He had not long to wait for a chance of retrieving his credit. Tromp,
with ninety ships, was returning with the home-coming fleet from the
Indies, and Blake was scouring the Channel looking for him. On Friday,
February 18, Blake sighted him; but Tromp took him at a disadvantage,
and he had to bear the brunt of the fighting with his single division of
twelve ships, the remaining divisions under Penn and Monk being then at
a considerable distance from the scene of the battle.
The battle raged fiercely round the _Triumph_, and Blake was in the
utmost peril. He himself was severely wounded, and large numbers of his
men fell around him. Four ships were captured, and the end seemed near,
when Penn and Monk arrived. At once the fight assumed a different
complexion, and the captured ships were retaken before nightfall
suspended the battle. Neither side could yet claim the victory, and the
loss of both, though very great, was fairly equal. In the night Tromp
slipped off; but he was followed, and the battle was resumed. The “four
days’ battle” ended on Sunday the 20th. Five Dutch ships had been sunk
and four captured, as well as some thirty or forty merchant vessels.
Tromp, however, got the remainder away safely by dint of clever
seamanship. The Dutch had been beaten, but they were by no means
dismayed, and immediately began to make preparations for a renewal of
the struggle.
While Blake was making a slow recovery from his wound news arrived that
the Dutch were again at sea. Before, however, he could reach the fleet a
great battle had been fought. He and his squadron did not arrive till
late in the afternoon, but their coming turned the victory into a rout.
Tromp’s vessel was boarded; but to save her from falling into the hands
of his foes, he blew her up, and by a miracle saved both himself and his
ship. Another English victory followed, in which the gallant Tromp was
killed, and then the war was brought to a close. Holland paid a war
indemnity, and agreed that the English were masters of the sea.
Henceforth the Dutch might only pass through the Strait of Dover by the
kind permission of England. Blake and Monk received the thanks of
Parliament, gold medals, and gold chains valued at £300. A few weeks’
rest restored Blake to health so far as to enable him to return to the
fleet, and all was ready for his next exploit.
Cromwell, now dictator, turned his attention to Spain, which was the
most dangerous trade rival of the English Puritans in America.
Accordingly, in 1654, he sent out two fleets, one to the Mediterranean
under Blake, the other to the West Indies under Penn and Venables. Blake
had a general commission to protect British commerce, and this he
interpreted as permission to attack the Barbary pirates, who levied
blackmail on all the commerce of Europe passing their shores. Scores of
luckless merchantmen bound for the Levant were boarded and rifled, and
their crews carried off as slaves. Possibly the compilers of the English
Church Litany had the sufferings of thousands of their fellow-countrymen
in mind when they wrote, “That it may please Thee to show Thy pity upon
all prisoners and captives.” Blake ran into the harbour of Tunis in
spite of fleet, castles, moles, batteries, and musketeers, and in a few
hours nine vessels of the pirate fleet were in flames, and he was
outward bound, congratulating himself on a good work well done. This
gallant exploit made the British name a terror in the Mediterranean. He
now visited the chief ports of the western Mediterranean “to show his
flag” and everywhere he was received with fear and trembling.
He returned to England in October 1655, but spent little time ashore,
for the Protector had now a daring task to set him. Penn and Venables
had failed miserably in the West Indies, and British arms had suffered a
discreditable reverse. Cromwell was not the man to overlook failures of
this sort. He promptly sent the quarrelsome officers to the Tower, and
dispatched Blake to the Spanish Main to do the work properly. In a
preliminary cruise off the Spanish coast he captured several Plate
ships, and in 1657 he set sail for Santa Cruz, in Teneriffe, where he
accomplished his last and most brilliant feat. Within the
horseshoe-shaped harbour, belted with forts mounting the heaviest
artillery then known, lay sixteen great galleons, all well armed. The
Spaniards boasted that within that death-trap their treasure-ships were
absolutely safe. The historian of the time wrote truly: “All men who
knew the place concluded that no sober men, with whatever courage soever
endued, would ever undertake it.”
Blake discovered that the six largest galleons were drawn up in line,
commanding the entrance to the harbour, and that behind them were the
other ships. When he learnt this he might have repeated Cromwell’s
exulting cry at Dunbar, “The Lord hath delivered them into my hands.” If
he ran in with a fair wind and a flowing tide beneath the walls of the
great fort at the entrance, little harm could come to him, for its great
guns could not readily be depressed so as to stay his progress. Further,
the massing of the largest galleons at the harbour mouth covered the
fire of the ships behind, and prevented several of the forts from firing
lest they should injure friend and foe alike.
To make a long story short, Blake dashed into the harbour, attacked at
the very closest quarters, and before evening had burnt, blown up, or
sunk every Spanish ship in it. Then, under cover of the dense masses of
smoke blowing seaward, the British ships crept out into safety, with not
above fifty men slain outright and one hundred and twenty wounded.
Nothing so daring or so brilliant had ever been accomplished before, not
even by Drake when he “singed the King of Spain’s beard.” The sea-power
of Spain was absolutely annihilated, and England rang with the praises
of the man who had done it.
A public thanksgiving was held, and the Protector wrote to the
victorious admiral: “We cannot but take notice how eminently it hath
pleased God to make use of you in this service, assisting you with
wisdom in the conduct and courage in the execution; and have sent you a
small jewel”—his own portrait set in gold and diamonds—“as a testimony
of our own and the Parliament’s good acceptance of your courage in this
action.”
Blake now sailed for home, and his countrymen eagerly waited his coming.
Alas, he was never to tread the shores of his native land again, never
to see the fields and hedgerows, the hills and moorlands of his
dear-loved West Country. Worn out by the fatigues and anxieties of
warfare, he grew feebler day by day, and constantly asked if the shores
of England were in sight. When at last the look-out at the masthead
cried “Land O!” Blake was a dying man. He called his captains to him and
bade them farewell. Then just as his ship entered Plymouth Sound he
breathed his last.
In what lay the great glory and inspiration of Blake’s life? Not so much
in his brilliant achievements, not so much in the care and forethought
which he exhibited, as in his chivalrous character and splendid
patriotism. His men loved him and honoured him because his honour and
honesty of purpose were unimpeachable, and because he had no trace of
self-seeking in his character. His first and only thought was for the
honour and glory of his land. He was a British sailor—nothing more and
nothing less. To him was entrusted the sacred jewel of the national
honour, and never was it placed in cleaner or more zealous hands. “It is
not for us,” he once declared, “to mend state affairs, but to keep
foreigners from fooling us.” This was the watchword of his life, and
this was his fame.
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