corporal and burst forth into an eloquent reference to the triumph of
the supporters of the Lord's Anointed, as represented by the king's
troops in the late battle, and the downfall of his enemies.
Presently he became uncomfortably aware that Lady Cicely Winslow was
weeping silently into her kerchief, while many of his parishioners at
the back of the building were giving vent more noisily to their grief.
The faces of the men were dark with anger, and below him the figure of
Mistress Barbara grew more and more erect, her head thrown back, her
lips pressed tightly together, and her eyes flashing upon him glances of
indignation and scorn.
The preacher hastily diverted the flow of his discourse into a cautious
condemnation of rebellion in general, but was again driven forward by
the threatening glances of the corporal to particularise and condemn
more thoroughly.
Now, however, he was interrupted by a sharp fit of coughing from
Barbara, loud and aggressive, which ceased when he paused, and when he
continued broke out with new vehemence. For full three minutes the
struggle continued, till Cicely's whispered entreaties induced Barbara
to allow the unfortunate preacher to proceed in peace.
Alas! his nerves were now unstrung, his thoughts hopelessly astray.
Desperately he grasped at a last straw and sought to compromise.
Truly, he protested, rebellion is as the sin of witchcraft, and rebels
are ever to be abhorred. (This to soothe the corporal.) But had not
many rebelled in ignorance, led astray by misrepresentations, by wolves
in sheep's clothing, and for such there was not condemnation, but pity.
This appeared to the worthy doctor an excellent position to adopt, and
for the remainder of his discourse this position he maintained,
endeavouring by appreciative references to the noble supporters of
justice on the one hand, and by an attitude of tender consolation
towards the rebels on the other, to satisfy both sections of his
congregation.
But to Mistress Barbara Winslow such a compromise appeared nothing short
of direct insult. Condemnation as a rebel she could endure, but pity as
an ignorant fool incapable of judging her own path, she felt was more
than any maid should be called upon to accept in silence, and but for
Cicely's restraining hand and entreating whispers she would have left
the church. In deference to her cousin's feelings she remained, but her
indignation was so apparent that the unfortunate pastor could not
continue, and bringing his discourse to an abrupt and bewildered
conclusion he withdrew from the pulpit.
When Barbara rose to leave the church she was a confirmed rebel.
Hitherto she had taken but small interest in the great rising, except in
so far as it concerned her brother, and had certainly been no ardent
supporter of Monmouth, but the worthy doctor's discourse had aroused in
her a keen feeling of anger and opposition.
Now 'tis with a woman as with a stream; endeavour to resist or to direct
her course with argument or reason, and the current of her actions will
but flow the stronger in the ever-narrowing channel.
Barbara's first impulse was to waylay the Reverend Marmaduke in the
churchyard, and there, outside the sacred edifice, pour forth upon his
offending head the vials of her wrath. But discretion and a lengthened
indulgence in the seclusion afforded by the vestry secured the
peace-loving occupant from an encounter not wholly unanticipated. In
ignorance of the exact nature of the events which had passed in the
churchyard during the interval, but satisfied at last that his
congregation had dispersed, he made his way to the safe haven of the
rectory.
Disappointed of her intention, Barbara looked round in search of some
other victim, but there appeared only the corporal, and she would not
demean herself to bandy words with him. Throwing a disdainful glance in
his direction, she swept haughtily down the grass-grown path to the
lych-gate. Here she was perforce delayed. Her cousin had paused to
speak a few words of hope and sympathy to an old woman whose only son
lay in Taunton gaol, awaiting his fate, and as she waited Barbara
glanced carelessly around her.
On the green near the church she noted a couple of mounted dragoons in
charge of four spare troop-horses saddled and bridled, and a third in
charge of a rough-looking cart. She noted these preparations for
departure with satisfaction, and wondered what had been the reason for
such a short and sudden visit.
As the crowd in the churchyard parted, and the corporal, followed by his
two attendant troopers, came down the path to the gate, she was soon to
be enlightened, however.
The corporal advanced and laying his hand on her shoulder, cried in a
voice wherein pompous dignity and elation strove for the mastery:
"Mistress Barbara Winslow, I attaint you as a rebel, and arrest you in
the name of his Majesty."
Too much astonished to speak, Barbara was conscious, however, of a
murmur of anger and surprise from the crowd of villagers and of Cicely's
voice enquiring sharply:
"What is the matter? What means this?"
"There is no call to answer questions," replied the corporal pompously.
"But an ye must know, it means that this woman is attainted as a rebel,
and I hold a warrant for her arrest, with orders to conduct her
instantly to Taunton gaol to await trial."
"But it is impossible! she is no rebel."
"She is known to have sheltered rebels, many have been hanged for less,"
answered the corporal, with a sinister glance of triumph at his
prisoner.
"Yet surely it cannot be as ye say?" cried Cicely helplessly. "Taunton
gaol! Why she is a woman, ye cannot. Nay, she is but a child. Oh!
'tis monstrous, monstrous."
"No words, no words," cried the corporal fussily. "You will learn,
madame, that in such affairs of state, least said is soonest mended.
Now, mistress," he continued roughly, turning to Barbara, "we'd best be
moving."
But a growl of anger broke from the still lingering crowd, and Peter
Drew, the blacksmith, sprang upon the low wall of the churchyard.
"Hey, lads!" he cried; "they red-coeats be vor taaekin oor young Miztrez
to Taunton gaol. Zhall her be taaeken, lads? Zhall her go? Hey lads,
we be vaive to one. Zhall her go, lads?"
Peter was no orator, but eloquence was not needed. Love for Barbara,
that old feudal love for their lord; resentment for the many acts of
ill-treatment sustained at the hands of the troopers during their
occupation of the village; and lastly, the spirit of revolt against
injustice and opposition which lurks secretly in every heart, all
combined to rouse his hearers to fury, and it needed no words of the
smith to fan the flame.
They greeted Peter's harangue with a wild shout of triumph, and closed
in round the corporal and his men with gestures which threatened every
moment to develop into a fierce attack.
Barbara's face flushed and her eyes glittered with triumph. Wild
projects flashed through her brain. To overpower the half-dozen
troopers, then to fortify the Manor House, and hold it against all
comers; to rally round her the many secret supporters of the late
rebellion, to recall the exiles from Holland, and to succeed in
establishing justice and the Protestant Religion, or die fighting for
the Cause. Had not other women done as much! These men, she knew,
would cheerfully fight to the death for her; the country was still full
of malcontents; one failure could not be regarded as the death of the
Cause. Hope was high, all things seemed possible. Who shall say what
mad dreams passed through her thoughts during those few moments while
she stood there, the centre of that enthusiastic mob?
But it was not to be. From out the crowd there pressed forward an old
woman, who flung herself trembling at Barbara's feet.
"Eh; Miztress Barbara, dearie," she cried, seizing her hand, "don't-ee,
don't-ee, then. A'll swing for it, for zure a wull if a faight. And
zee there," pointing with her trembling hand at a tall stalwart fellow,
prominent amongst the throng, "thiccy's arl I've left now. Three others
have been taaeken. If they taaek un I maun die, for zure I maun.
Don't-ee, now."
"Vor shaaeme, mother," cried the lad referred to. "Would ee have un
taaek the young Miztress to Taunton? Vor shaaeme."
But the dreams had passed. Barbara's eyes were opened and she
recognised the hopelessness of any resistance. She could not, she must
not sacrifice these lives.
Gently disengaging herself from the clinging hands of the old crone, she
sprang on to the wall at Peter's side and caught his uplifted arm.
"No, no, friends!" she urged; "it won't do. We could not hope for more
than a short-lived victory. She is right, there would be vengeance and
ye would all swing for it. This fellow saith he hath the Royal Warrant
for my arrest, an that be so I must e'en go with him. Be assured they
cannot harm me; I have done no wrong. Besides," she added proudly, "I
would not have them think me afeared to go. Peter, be silent. Nay, I
thank you indeed, but there must be no resistance. Go home quietly. You
women, look to your men folk. No harm shall come to you for my sake,
and none must think I fear to go."
Thus she stood upon the wall, a bright figure in her dainty muslin gown,
smiling down upon them, until with reluctance, and many incoherent
mutterings, the crowd, somewhat reassured by her words, slowly
dispersed. Then turning she addressed the corporal:
"So that is ended. Now, an you will permit me first to return to the
Manor House to collect some necessaries, I am ready to go with you to
Taunton."
"I am rejoiced, mistress," he assured her pompously, "that you have
decided to submit peaceably to my orders."
"Aye, corporal," answered Barbara, with a smile at his perturbed
countenance. "I do not doubt but you are indeed rejoiced. But come, I
must to the Manor House, to prepare for the journey. I presume you will
allow me so much grace?"
"The escort will accompany you thither."
"I had thought my submission had been proof enough of my good faith, but
as you will," answered Barbara carelessly, passing through the gate.
"Barbara, I must with you to Taunton, indeed I must," pleaded Cicely, as
she hastened after her cousin. "'Tis monstrous that you should go alone
with these men."
"Thou, Cicely? Impossible! What could'st thou do there? Where
could'st thou lodge? Not i' the gaol indeed."
"There be many kindly folk in the town who would house me, and they will
perchance advise too what 'twere best to do for thee. There is good
Mistress Lane, the wool-merchant's wife, I will seek her out. But go
with you I must indeed."
"In truth, Cicely," answered Barbara with a quick sigh, "I would fain
have thee near, if 'twere only to teach myself the folly of my fears by
laughing at thine."
With a tyranny born of his newly acquired importance, Corporal Crutch
refused to allow his prisoner more than a few minutes' preparation
before her journey to Taunton, but having resigned herself to fate
Barbara had no mind to delay, and in less than half an hour after their
return to the house the two enforced travellers were ready for
departure.
Barbara's resolution was by no means strengthened at sight of the
ramshackle cart provided to convey her to Taunton.
"To what low estate our fortunes have fallen!" she muttered with a wry
face.
"Rebels cannot expect to be treated like honest folk," remarked the
Corporal complacently.
"Set a watch on thy tongue, Master Corporal," retorted she angrily. "I
am no rebel till I be proved such, therefore I warn thee 'twere best be
more careful of thy words," and turning abruptly from the startled man
she took her seat in the cart.
For the first few miles of their journey each of the girls devoted all
her efforts to the difficult task of cheering the other. Upon leaving
the village and their friends behind them, some sense of the utter
helplessness of her position filled Barbara's mind, and she was but a
sorry comforter.
But hers was not a nature to sigh long, and soon the fresh air, the
bright sunshine, and the interest and amusement she found in watching
her escort, had their effect. The result of this reaction from her
former depression was a mood of high spirits and brighter hopes.
"In truth, Cicely," she broke out suddenly with a laugh, "we are both
fools. At worst 'tis but a matter of a night or two in gaol, where I
doubt not I shall meet much good company; an interview with Lord
Jeffreys (I would fain see him, they say he is a right handsome man, for
all he has such a tongue); then perchance a fine, and so home. Why 'tis
not worth a sigh. 'Tis but an adventure, and thou knowest I love such."
"Aye, Barbara, you speak truly," answered her companion, with a
desperate attempt at cheerfulness. "They would not dare to harm a woman.
I make no doubt these tales of my Lord Jeffreys' punishment and--and of
Lady Alice Lisle, are gross exaggerations." This last she added with a
tentative air--Cicely longed for corroboration of that statement.
At mention of Lady Lisle Barbara's face fell slightly, but she
resolutely dismissed her fears.
"There is not a doubt of it, sweet. Yet even an it were not so, they
could prove nought against me. They have no testimony to show that we
housed or aided either Rupert or Sir Peter."
"That is so," assented Cicely joyously. "And in justice none could
punish us for what is unproven."
"Oh! Cicely, look at yon red-headed trooper, didst ever behold so
scarlet a poll?"
"Aye. And mark how he sits his horse. I wager he will be over its head
ere he sees Taunton. Note his face when the creature pricks his ears;
'tis a very picture of terror."
"Didst note the corporal as we passed trough the village?" laughed
Barbara. "The poor fool feared an ambuscade at every corner, and
well-nigh fell from his horse with fright when old Mother Gilkin's pot
fell down as we reached her cottage. I hate the fellow, yet I cannot
but laugh at his antics."
Thus for a while the two chattered bravely as they clattered and bumped
along the rough country roads to Taunton. But as night drew on the sky
became overcast with clouds, and a cold wind and drizzling rain added to
the discomfort of the journey. Their conversation became more and more
desultory, and finally ceased altogether.
Only once again did Barbara break the silence.
"Cis," she asked with some slight hesitation, "thinkest thou that
Captain Protheroe knows aught of my arrest?"
"Knows aught!" cried Cicely in astonishment. "Why, Barbara, child, who
else hath accused thee?"
"Nay, nay; I will not believe that of him," answered Barbara stoutly.
"Believe what thou wilt, I tell thee it is the truth. Thinkest thou he
would tamely endure to be duped as thou hast duped him, without some
revenge? Oh! I tell thee as I have ever done, the fellow is to be
mistrusted, and to take such revenge on thee were but his nature."
"In truth, Cicely, you do not know him," pleaded Barbara. "He is not--I
would trust him."
"Why, Barbara! Hath the man bewitched thee that thou art so ready in
his defence?" cried Cicely, looking at her curiously. "What hath he
done to win such trust? Or dost thou deem, perchance, that thou hast
bewitched him, and so bound him to thy cause? I' faith, coz, I warn
thee, trust not too much to the power of thine eyes; all men be not so
easily ensnared."
But Barbara answered not, only sighed lightly and stared thoughtfully
into the gathering darkness, her eyes wide with wonder and with doubt.
The distance from Durford to Taunton is scarce twelve miles, and 'twas
little past noon when they set out on their journey, but the progress of
the cart was slow, owing to the bad roads.
A horse, too, cast a shoe, and they must needs stop at the next village
to seek a smith. The escort halted more than once for refreshment, and
in fine it was night before they reached their destination.
Perhaps the darkness was not without its compensation. At the cross
roads were scenes ill-suited to a woman's eyes, traces of that wholesale
butchery which for many weeks had devastated the fairest county of the
West. Gaunt figures swinging in their chains from the sign-posts,
tokens of the merciless punishment meted out to those even suspected of
rebellion, had been no cheering welcome to such travellers as they.
When they entered Taunton the streets were almost deserted, and the
dwelling houses closed and in darkness, but the windows of the White
Hart Inn, the headquarters of the royal troops, blazed with light, and
the shouts of laughter and snatches of song from within indicated that
the soldiery were holding revelry, heedless alike of the hallowedness of
the Sabbath, of the misery of the townsfolk, and of the despair of
hundreds of prisoners who lay awaiting their doom in the crowded gaols
of the town.
As the cavalcade passed before the Inn an officer lounged into the light
of the doorway, and stared carelessly at the passing company. Barbara
with a gasp of astonishment half rose to her feet, but Cicely's hand
restrained her, and reluctantly she sank down beside her cousin.
The cart passed, leaving Captain Protheroe to continue his inspection of
the night all unconscious of whom the vehicle conveyed.
*CHAPTER X*
"So! Now am I in prison. Well, I had as lief be elsewhere," muttered
Barbara when she awoke after her first night in gaol, and proceeded
philosophically to take stock of her surroundings, which she had been
too weary to notice on the previous night.
She was not confined in the regular gaol of the town; for nigh two
months past that had been filled to overflowing. Those arrested within
the last few weeks, together with the unfortunates sent on from Exeter
in the van of the dread-inspiring Jeffreys, were lodged in convenient
sheds and storehouses, situated in various parts of the town; bare,
dreary places with little or no suitable accommodation for the wretches
herded within their walls, but affording enough shelter in the opinion
of the authorities for rebels during the short interval which must
elapse before their trial.
The building wherein Barbara awoke was a large wooden shed, originally a
storehouse for wool, some few bales of which still remained piled in the
corners. A large door closely guarded and windows high in the roof were
the only means of egress, and no provision for the accommodation of the
inmates had been made beyond a few straw pallet-beds for the women
prisoners, roughly screened from the rest of the shed by a dilapidated
piece of sacking. Even in the most hopeless moments since her arrest
Barbara had calculated on nothing so dismal as this.
She had slept late after the fatigues of the previous day, and when at
length she awoke, the other occupants of her corner had already risen,
and passed beyond the partition into the shed.
Barbara seated herself on the edge of her bed and stared forlornly at
the bare wall opposite.
"Well! Many better women have been in worse plights, there is not a
doubt. I must e'en comfort myself with that," was her verdict after
musing some minutes upon her situation. "Now let me see. Rupert would
say that the duty of every woman under every circumstance is to look her
fairest, but there seemeth little scope for that maxim here, and I see
not wherein lies the vantage of tending one's looks when here is no
mirror to show the result. However, for lack of other advice I'll e'en
follow Rupert's."
Having come to this laudable conclusion, Barbara opened her bundle and
proceeded to arrange her curls, and make such improvements in her toilet
as the scanty means at her disposal allowed. This done she drew aside
the partition and stepped into the room beyond.
It was a curious sight that met her eyes. The shed was totally
destitute of furniture, unless as such might be designated the few bales
of wool and some bundles of straw, used by the prisoners
indiscriminately as couch, chair, or table.
The place served as lodging for about fifty prisoners, many of whom had
been from two to three weeks in captivity. The majority of them were
rough, ignorant peasants, who, having faithfully followed their leaders
into a quarrel which they themselves but half comprehended, now awaited
their doom with that same half-puzzled, stolid patience and dogged
courage which had helped them already to face death on the fatal field
of Sedgemoor.
There were some, too, of the yeoman class, some of the richer townsfolk,
and here and there a noncomformist divine, but save perhaps in a certain
intelligence and eagerness of expression, there was nothing to
distinguish the man of learning or station from the poorest peasant.
All alike were dirty, ragged, and dishevelled; unshaven, unwashed, with
ill-kempt beards and hair. Existence in such a prison, following in
many cases upon days of homeless wanderings, had wrought this levelling
effect upon them all. Their money, what little they once possessed, was
long ago exhausted. They could pay their gaolers for neither books,
amusements, nor drink. They talked little; what was there to talk of?
For the most part they were plunged in the deepest apathy. They had
fought, they had failed; now they awaited what was to come in silence.
They showed no fear, no despair, no hope, only a great patience.
Barbara gazed on the scene with the utmost astonishment and indignation.
Were these men, indeed, the same wild enthusiasts who a while ago had so
eagerly cheered Monmouth through the streets of Taunton? Aye, and not
only cheered him, but aided him loyally, leaving work, home, wife,
children, and all, that they might follow him and strike a blow for the
Cause. Were these indeed those who, armed but with stake or scythe, had
made such a gallant stand against the best disciplined troops of the
country; those who (men were forced to confess) would but for an
accident, undoubtedly have won an unprecedented victory? Could these
indeed be the same? She stared with anger and scorn at their silence,
their apathy, their unkempt looks. Her ardent young nature had no
understanding of this submission to the Inevitable; she had not yet
learned that an Inevitable might exist.
Her birth and breeding afforded her no comprehension of the stolid
bravery of the peasantry. The farther man is removed from the natural
state, the greater the advance he has made in civilisation, so much the
more does he deem it necessary to hide his emotions beneath an
artificial mask, to seem to be that which he is not. A century later in
the massacres in Paris the victims were for the most part nobles and
gentlemen; they went to their doom bravely, with a smile in their eyes,
a jest upon their lips. In this great Rebellion of the West the victims
were the poorest of the peasantry; they faced their doom no less
bravely, but they faced it gravely, in silence.
Barbara's family traditions had taught her nothing of this. She had
expected her fellow prisoners to be a company of merry dare-devils such
as her brother Rupert, or Sir Peter Dare, men who laughed at danger,
mocked their gaolers, and turned misfortune, nay, death itself, into a
subject for jest. Men, too, who could fight fiercely and endure bravely
on occasion, yet would scorn to appear serious in any circumstances
(save perchance when discussing the set of a doublet or the colour of a
bow), and who looked upon gravity as a sign of cowardice. Such were the
rebels she knew, the rebels she had dreamed of, gay, careless, defiant
to the end; not such as these, silent, sunk in a helpless submission to
their fate. She could not understand. She looked round upon them in
indignation, her lips curled in scorn.
But while she stood there surveying the scene she had herself been the
subject of observation; presently one of the prisoners approached her
and interrupted her meditations.
"What are you doing in this place, my child?" he asked gently.
The speaker was a small, spare man, with bushy white hair and beard, a
face seamed and lined with age, yet full of kindliness and humour, with
a pair of bright, piercing eyes; a face calculated to win friends or to
daunt foes.
Barbara turned to him at once as to an old friend; his voice invited
confidence.
"I was arrested but yesterday, sir, on a charge of sheltering rebels,
and I am here, as the rest of the company, to await my trial."