forgotten, but that every few weeks he was sent for by the Committee and
examined. The Committee got no new facts from him, and indeed probably
did not expect to get any; but it was very useful to the Parliament
party to keep him before the public gaze as a Royalist and a Jesuit. It
was a common imputation upon the Cavaliers that they were Papists, and
anything that strengthened this belief made the King's party odious to
the nation. Here was a servant of the King's, an avowed Jesuit, and one
self-condemned in the most terrible crimes. It is true he was disowned
by the royal party, apparently sincerely; but the general impression
conveyed by his case was favourable to the Parliament, and they
therefore took care to keep it before the world. These examinations were
looked forward to by Inglesant with great pleasure, the row up the river
and the sight of fresh faces being such a delight to him. He was not
confined to his room, being allowed to walk at certain hours in the
court of the Tower, and he found a box containing a few books, a
Lucretius, and a few other Latin books, probably left by some former
occupant of the cell. These were not taken from him, and he read and
re-read them, especially the Lucretius, many times. They saved him from
utter prostration and despair,--they, and a secret help which he
acknowledged afterwards,--a help, which to men of his nature certainly
does come upon prayer to God, to whatever source it may be ascribed;--a
help which in terrible sleepless hours, in hours of dread weariness of
life, in hours of nervous pain more terrible than all, calms the heart
and soothes the brain, and leaves peace and cheerfulness and content in
the place of restlessness and despair. Inglesant said that repeating the
name of Jesus simply in the lonely nights kept his brain quiet when it
was on the point of distraction, being of the same mind as Sir Charles
Lucas, when, "many times calling upon the sacred name of Jesus," he was
shot dead at Colchester.
More than a year passed over him. From the scraps of news he could
gather from his jailer, and from the soldiers in the court during his
walks, he learnt that the King had been given up by the Scots, had
escaped from Hampton Court, had been retaken and sent to Carisbrooke,
and was soon to come to London, the man said, for his trial.
It was soon after he had learnt this last news that his jailer suddenly
informed him that he was to be tried for his life.
Accordingly, soon after, a warrant arrived from Bradshaw, the President
of the Council of State, to bring him before that body.
The Council sat in Essex House, and some gentlemen, who had surrendered
Pembroke upon terms that they should depart the country in three days,
but--accounting it base to desert their prince, and hoping that there
might be further occasion of service to His Majesty,--had remained in
London, were upon their trial. When Inglesant arrived with his guard
these gentlemen were under examination, and one of them, who had a wife
and children, was fighting hard for his life, arguing the case step by
step with the lawyers and the Council. Inglesant was left waiting in the
anteroom several hours; from the conversation he overheard, the room
being constantly full of all sorts of men coming and going--soldiers,
lawyers, divines--he learnt that the King's trial was coming on very
soon, and he fancied that his name was mentioned as though the nearness
of the King's trial had something to do with his own being hurried on.
It was a cold day, and there was a large fire in the anteroom.
Inglesant had had nothing to eat since morning, and felt weak and faint.
He wished the other examinations over that his own might come on; his,
he thought, would not take long. At last the gentlemen were referred to
the Council of War, to be dealt with as spies, and came out of the
Council chamber with their guards. The one was a plain country
gentleman, and neither of them knew Inglesant, but, stopping a moment in
the anteroom, while the guard prepared themselves, one of them asked his
name, saying he was afraid they had kept him waiting a long time. This
was Colonel Eustace Powell, and Inglesant met him again when he thought
he had only a few minutes to live.
The Council debated whether they should hear Inglesant that day, as it
was now late in the afternoon, and the candles were lighted, but finally
he was sent for into the Council.
As soon as he came to the bar, Bradshaw asked him suddenly when he saw
the King last, to which he replied that he had not seen the King since
Naseby field.
"You were at Naseby, then?" said Bradshaw.
"Yes," said Inglesant.
"And you ran away, I suppose?"
"Yes," said Johnny, "I ran away."
"Then you are a coward as well as a traitor," said Bradshaw.
"I am not braver than other men," said Inglesant.
Inglesant was then examined more in form, but very shortly; everything
he said having been said so often before.
The President then told him that, by his own confession, he was guilty
of death, and should be hanged at once if he persisted in it, but that
the Council did not believe his confession--indeed, had evidence and
confessions from others to prove the reverse; and therefore, if he
persisted in his course, he was his own murderer, and could hope for no
mercy from God. That if he would sign the declaration which they
offered him, which they knew to be true, and which stated that he had
only acted under the King's orders, he should not only have his life
spared, but should very shortly be set at liberty.
To this he replied that if they had evidence to prove what they said,
they did not want his; that he could not put his name to evidence so
contrary to what he had always confessed, and was prepared to stand by
to death; that, as to his fate before God, he left his soul in His
hands, who was more merciful than man.
To this Bradshaw replied that they were most merciful to him, and
desired to save him from himself; that, if he died, he died with a lie
upon his lips, from his own obstinacy and suicide.
Making no answer to this, he was ordered back to the Tower, and warned
to prepare himself for death. He saw clearly that their object was to
bring out evidence signed by him on the eve of the King's trial, which
no doubt would have been a great help to their cause. As he went back
in his barge to the Tower, he wondered why they did not publish
something with his name attached, without troubling themselves about his
consent. As they went down the river, the darkness became denser, and
the boat passed close to many other wherries, nearly running them down;
the lights on the boats and the barges glimmered indistinctly, and made
the course more difficult and uncertain. They shot the bridge under the
mass of dark houses and irregular lights, and proceeded across the pool
towards the Tower stairs. The pool was somewhat clear of ships, and the
lanterns upon the wharves and such vessels as were at anchor made a
clearer light than that above the bridge. As they crossed the pool, a
wherry, rowed by a single man, came towards them obliquely from the
Surrey side, so as to approach near enough to discern their persons, and
then, crossing their bows, suffered itself to be run down before the
barge could be stopped. The waterman climbed in at the bows, as his own
wherry filled and went down. He seemed a stupid, surly man, and might
be supposed to be either deaf or drunk. To the abuse of the soldiers
and watermen he made no answer but that he was an up-river waterman, and
was confused by the lights and the current of the bridge. The officer
called him forward into the stern, and as he came towards them Inglesant
knew him in spite of his perfect disguise. It was the Jesuit. He
answered as many of the officer's questions as he appeared to
understand, and took no manner of notice of Inglesant, who of course
appeared entirely indifferent and uninterested. When they landed at the
stairs, the waterman, with a perfectly professional manner, swung
himself over the side into the water, and steadied the boat for the
gentlemen to land, which act the officer took as an awkward expression
of respect and gratitude. As Inglesant passed him he put his hand up
for his to rest on, and Johnny felt a folded note passed into it.
Without the least pause, he followed the officer across the Tower wharf,
and was conducted to his room. As soon as he was alone he examined the
paper, which contained these words only:--
"You are not forgotten. Keep on a little longer. The end is very
near."
It made little impression upon him, nor did it influence his after
conduct, which had already been sufficiently determined upon. He
expected very little help from any one, though he believed that Father
St. Clare would do what he could. The Jesuit would have died himself at
any moment had his purpose required it, and he could not think that he
would regard as of much importance the fall of another soldier in the
same rank. He was mistaken, but he did not know it; the Jesuit, beneath
his placid exterior, retained for his favourite and cleverest pupil an
almost passionate regard, and would have done for him far more than he
would have thought worth the doing for himself. Meanwhile, Inglesant
translated his words into a different language, and thought more than
once that doubtless they were very true, and that, though in a sense not
intended, the end was very near.
This took place at the beginning of December, and about a week
afterwards the jailer advised Inglesant to prepare for death, for the
warrant to behead him was signed, and would be put into execution that
day week at Charing Cross. He immediately sent a petition to the
Council of State, that a Priest, either of the Roman Catholic or the
English Church, he was indifferent which, might be sent him. To this an
answer was sent immediately that he was dying with a lie upon his lips,
and that the presence of no priest or minister could be of any use to
him, and would not be granted. The same day a Presbyterian minister was
admitted to him, who used the same arguments for some time without
effect, representing the fearful condition that Inglesant was in as an
unrepentant sinner. Inglesant began to regret that he had made any
application, and this regret was increased two days afterwards when a
man, who offered him certain proofs that he was a Roman Catholic Priest,
was admitted, and gave him the same advice, refusing him Absolution and
the Sacrament unless he complied. Upon this Inglesant became desperate,
and refused to speak again. The Priest waited some time and then left,
telling him he was eternally lost.
This was the severest trial he had yet met with; but his knowledge of
the different parties in the Romish Church, and the extent to which they
subordinated their religion to their political intrigues, was too great
to allow him to feel it so much as he otherwise would. He resigned
himself to die unassisted. He applied for an English Prayer Book, but
this also was refused. He remembered the old monastic missals he had
possessed at Westacre, and thought over all those days with the
tenderest regret.
The fatal morning arrived at last. Inglesant had passed a sleepless
night; he had not the slightest fear of death, but excitement made sleep
impossible. He thought often of his brother, but he had learned that he
was in Paris alone; and even had he been in England, he felt no especial
desire to see him under circumstances which could only have been
intensely painful. Mary Collet he thought of night and day, but he knew
it was impossible to obtain permission to see her, and he was tired of
fruitless requests. He was tired and wearied of life, and only wished
the excitement and strain over, that he might be at rest. It struck him
that the greatest harshness was used towards him; his food was very poor
and of the smallest quantity, and no one was admitted to him; but he did
not wonder at this, knowing that his case differed from any other
Loyalist prisoner.
At about eight o'clock on the appointed morning, the same officer who
had conducted him before entered his room with the lieutenant of the
Tower, bringing the warrant for his death. The lieutenant parted from
him in a careless and indifferent way. They went by water and landed by
York Stairs, and proceeded by back ways to a house nearly adjoining
Northumberland House, facing the wide street about Charing Cross. From
one of the first floor windows a staircase had been contrived, leading
up to a high scaffold or platform on which the block was fixed.
Inglesant had not known till that morning whether he was to be hanged or
beheaded; like every other thought, save one, it was indifferent to
him--that one, how he should keep his secret to the last. In the room
of this house opening on the scaffold, he found Colonel Eustace Powell,
whom he had met at Essex House, who was to precede him to death. He
greeted Inglesant with great kindness, but, as Johnny thought, with some
reserve. He was a very pious man, strongly attached to the Protestant
party in the Church of England, and he had passed the last three days
entirely in the company of Dr. S----, who was then in the room with him,
engaged in religious exercises, and his piety and resignation had
attached the Doctor to him very much. The Doctor now proceeded to ask
the Colonel, before Inglesant and the others, a series of questions, in
order that he should give some account of his religion, and of his
faith, charity, and repentance, to all of which he answered fully; that
he acknowledged his death to be a just punishment of God for his former
sins; that he acknowledged that his just due was eternal punishment,
from which he only expected to escape through the satisfaction made by
Christ, by which Mediator, and none other, he hoped to be saved. The
Doctor then asking him if, by a miracle (not to put him in vain hope),
God should save him that day, what life he would resolve to lead
hereafter? he replied, "It is a question of great length, and requires
a great time to answer. Men in such straits would promise great things,
but a vow I would make, and by God's help endeavour to keep it, though I
would first call some friend to limit how far I should make a vow, that
I might not make a rash one, and offer the sacrifice of fools."
In answer to other questions, he said,--"He wished well to all lawful
governments; that he did not justify himself in having ventured against
the existing one; he left God to judge it whether it be righteous, and
if it be, it must stand. He desired to make reparation to any he had
injured, and he forgave his enemies."
The Doctor then addressed him at length, saying,--
"Sir, I shall trouble you very little farther. I thank you for all
those heavenly colloquies I have enjoyed by being in your company these
three days, and truly I am sorry I must part with so heavenly an
associate. We have known one another heretofore, but never so
Christianlike before. I have rather been a scholar to learn from you
than an instructor. I wish this stage, wherein you are made a spectacle
to God, angels, and the world, may be a school to all about you; for
though I will not diminish your sins, yet I think there are few here
have a lighter load upon them than you have, and I only wish them your
repentance, and that measure of faith that God hath given you, and that
measure of courage you have attained from God."
The Colonel, having wished all who were present in the room farewell,
went up on the scaffold accompanied by the Divine. The scaffold was so
near that Inglesant and the officers and the guards, who stood at the
window screened from the sight of the people, could hear every word that
passed. They understood that the whole open place was densely crowded,
but they could scarcely believe it, the silence was so profound.
Colonel Powell made a speech of some length, clearing himself of Popery
in earnest language, not blaming his judges, but throwing the guilt on
false witnesses, whom, however, he forgave. He bore no malice to the
present Government, nor pretended to decide controversies, and spoke
touchingly of the sadness and gloom of violent death, and how mercifully
he was dealt with in being able to face it with a quiet mind. He
finally thanked the authorities for their courtesy in granting him the
death of the axe--a death somewhat worthy of his blood, answerable to
his birth and qualification--which courtesy had much helped towards the
pacification of his mind.
Inglesant supposed the end was now come, but to his surprise the Doctor
again stepped forward, and before all the people repeated the whole
former questions, to each of which the Colonel replied in nearly the
same words.
Then, stepping forward again to the front of the scaffold, the Colonel
said, speaking to the people in a calm and tender voice,--
"There is not one face that looks upon me, though many faces, and
perhaps different from me in opinion and practice but methinks hath
something of pity in it; and may that mercy which is in your hearts now,
be meted to you when you have need of it! I beseech you join with me in
prayer."
The completest silence prevailed, broken only by a faint sobbing and
whispering sound from the excited and pitying crowd. Colonel Powell
prayed for a quarter of an hour with an audible voice; then taking leave
again of his friends and directing the executioner when to strike, he
knelt down to the block, and repeating the words, "Lord Jesus, receive
me," his head was smitten off with a blow.
A long deep groan, followed by an intense silence, ran through the
crowd. The officer who accompanied Inglesant looked at him with a
peculiar expression; and, bowing in return, Inglesant passed through the
window, and as he mounted the steps and his eyes came to the level of,
and then rose higher than the interposing scaffold, he saw the dense
crowd of heads stretching far away on every hand, the house windows and
roofs crowded on every side. He scarcely saw it before he almost lost
the sight again. A wild motion that shook the crowd, a roar that filled
the air and stunned the sense, a yell of indignation, contempt, hatred,
hands shook and clutched at him, wild faces leaping up and staring at
him, cries of "Throw him over!" "Give over the Jesuit to us!" "Throw
over the Irish murderer!" made his senses reel for a moment, and his
heart stop. It was inconceivable that a crowd, the instant before
placid, pitiful, silent, should in a moment become like that, deafening,
mad, thirsting for blood. The amazing surprise and reaction produced the
greatest shock. Hardening himself in a moment, he faced the people, his
hat in his hand, his pale face hard set, his teeth closed. Once or twice
he tried to speak; it would have been as easy to drown the Atlantic's
roar. As he stood, apparently calm, this terrible ordeal had the worst
possible effect upon his mind. Other men came to the scaffold calm in
mind, prepared by holy thoughts, and the sacred, tender services of the
Church of their Lord, feeling His hand indeed in theirs. They spoke,
amid silence and solemn prayers, to a pitying people, the name of Jesus
on their lips, the old familiar words whispered in their ears, good
wishes, deference, respect all around, their path seemed smooth and
upward to the heavenly gates. But with him--how different! Denied the
aid of prayer and sacrament, alone, overwhelmed with contempt and
hatred, deafened with the fiendish noise which racked his excited and
overwrought brain. He was indifferent before; he became hardened,
fierce, contemptuous now. Hated, he hated again. All the worst spirit
of his party and of his age became uppermost. He felt as though engaged
in a mad duel with a despised yet too powerful foe. He turned at last
to the officer, and said, his voice scarcely heard amid the unceasing
roar,--
"You see, sir, I cannot speak; do not let us delay any longer."
The officer hesitated, and glanced at another gentleman, evidently a
Parliament man, who advanced to Inglesant, and offered him a paper, the
purport of which he knew by this time too well.
He told him in his ear that even now he should be set at liberty if he
would sign the true evidence, and not rush upon his fate and lose his
soul. He repeated that the Parliament knew he was not guilty, and had
no wish to put him to death.
Inglesant saw the natural rejoinder, but did not think it worth his
while to make it. Only get this thing over, and escape from this
maddening cry, tearing his brain with its terrible roar, to something
quieter at any rate.
He rejected the paper, and turning to the officer he said, with a motion
towards the people of inexpressible disdain,--
"These good people are impatient for the final act, sir; do not let us
keep them any longer."
The officer still hesitated, and looked at the Parliament man, who shook
his head, and immediately left the scaffold. The officer then leaned on
the rail, and spoke to his lieutenant in the open space round the
scaffold within the barriers. The latter gave a word of command, and the
soldiers fell out of their rank so as to mingle with the crowd. As soon
as the officer saw this manoeuvre completed, he took Inglesant's arm,
and said hurriedly,--"Come with me to the house, and be quick." Not
knowing what he did, Inglesant followed him hastily into the room. They
had need to be quick. A yell, to which the noise preceding it was as
nothing--terrible as it had been,--a shower of stones, smashing every
pane of glass, and falling in heaps at their feet,--showed the fury of a
maddened, injured people, robbed of their expected prey.
The officer looked at Inglesant, and laughed.
"I thought there would be a tumult," he said; "we are not safe here; the
troops will not oppose them, and they will break down the doors. Come
with me."
He led Inglesant, still almost unconscious, through the back entries and
yards, the roar of the people still in their ears, till they reached a
stair leading to the river, where was a wherry and two or three guards.
The officer stepped in after Inglesant, crying, "Pull away! The Tower!"
then, leaning back, and looking at Inglesant, he said,--
"You stood that very well. I would rather mount the deadliest breach
than face such a sight as that."
Inglesant asked him if he knew what this extraordinary change of
intention meant.
To which he replied,--
"No; I acted to orders. Probably you are of more use to the Parliament
alive than dead; besides, I fancy you have friends. I should think you
are safe now."
That afternoon, a report spread through London that Inglesant, the
King's servant, had confessed all that was required of him upon the
scaffold, and had his life given him in return. This report was
believed mostly by the lower orders, especially those who had been
before the scaffold; but few of the upper classes credited it, and even
these only did so for a day or two. The Parliament made no further
effort; and Inglesant was left quietly in prison.