HOW I SAW A MAN WHO BECAME FAMOUS!
The night was falling fast as I drew near Bedford town. The weather was
very fine, however, and the country side was fair to behold. Flowers
were blooming on all sides, and the scent of the young and bursting life
was indeed pleasant. Not that I was in a mood to enter into the
joyousness of that spring evening, for I had ridden hard since morning,
and I noticed that Black Ben's head drooped, and he dragged one leg
wearily after another. Besides, my mind was filled with many doubts and
fears. Why had I come to a town of which I knew nothing? And why should
I seek to rescue a woman from prison who thought so little of my help
that she had treated my offer with but little respect? Added to this,
why should I, the son of a gentleman who had fought for Charles Stuart,
seek to befriend the woman who had attempted murder in order to prevent
the rightful king of the country from coming back to his throne?
These questions, which persisted in coming to me, were real and forceful
enough, and try as I would I could find no satisfactory answer to them.
Yet did I ride straight on, determined to do that which reason and
welfare declared to be madness. For the woman's face haunted me. The
look of despair I had seen in her eyes, the tone of her voice, appealed
to me so strongly for help that I could not resist. More than that, the
very mystery which surrounded her strengthened my determination. What
led her to Folkestone, and what connection had she with the old man with
whom I had had such strange experiences at Pycroft Hall?
All this determined me to get to Bedford that night, and then to use my
utmost endeavour to deliver her from the hands of Monk's minions and
from the king's power.
I heard the bells from the old church at Bedford pealing out a note of
joy, when I saw a man in plain homely garments trudging along the road
in front of me.
"Give you good even," he said, as I rode up.
"Good even," I replied, trying to discern in the fast failing light
whether he was a man of quality.
"You look as though you have ridden far."
"From London," I replied, reflecting that although he looked not like a
man of wealth, there was an air of authority about him, which made it
impossible to pass him by without a second look.
"Ah," he said eagerly. "And what is the news from London?"
"There is much," I replied; "and yet it will not take long in the
telling."
"And how is that?"
"Because it all hath to do with the same thing. When you have said that
the new king is on his way thither and that the people are preparing to
welcome him, you have told all."
"Ah, but that means much, I fear."
"You fear?"
"Ay, I fear, young master, for I fear me the devil is unloosed in London
town. If what I have heard be true, then all those things which the
children of the Lord have fought against, and driven into the darkness,
are to be flaunted in broad daylight, and no man will dare to cry
shame."
"The new king loves pleasure," I made answer.
He looked at me steadily, and was silent.
I would have ridden on at this; but thinking he might be able to tell me
things I desired to know, I determined to alight and walk by his side.
"We are not far from Bedford, I take it?" I said.
"But a mile."
"Know you of a good hostelry there?"
"I know all that may be found there."
"Then, by your leave, I will walk back with you, for I judge you are
travelling thither."
"Ay," he replied, "my home is at Bedford, and my wife and dear ones live
there."
There was a quiet dignity in the way he spoke, and although I detected
none of the evidences of the schoolman in his speech, I could not help
feeling that he was a man of some authority.
"Do you love God, young master?" he said, the moment I had dismounted,
and walked by his side.
"How may a man do that?" I asked, for the question took me aback.
"By loving His Son, whom He hath sent in the flesh to proclaim his love,
by dying for a sinful world."
"And what may be the signs which show forth that one loves the Son of
God?" I continued, concluding that I had happened across one of the
Puritans of the district.
"The sign of love is obedience," he replied. "For what are His Words?
'He that hath My commandments, and keepeth them, he it is that loveth
Me.'"
"That also may need explanation," I replied, for I determined not to
endanger myself in any way by hasty speech.
"The explanation is simple," he replied quietly. "The teaching of Christ
is that we do good, not only in lip but in life. That we love one
another, and that we also love the truth of God. It is also that we obey
God at all costs, even as the Apostles did of olden time. We have a safe
guide to the will of God in the Holy Scriptures, and especially is it
made clear to us in the New Testament Scriptures. The proofs of love to
God are trust in and obedience to Him, as is set forth therein. For what
said Martin Luther, when he stood before his judges, who called upon him
to recant. 'Confute me with scripture; if you cannot do that, neither
can I recant, for it is neither safe nor wise for a man to disobey his
conscience.' So then he loves God who is true to Him, and this he does
by instructing his conscience by Holy Writ and much prayer, and then
obeying his conscience whatever may befall him."
"But may a man not need instruction in Holy Writ?" I asked.
"A man's prayer obtains the best instruction," he made answer. "If we
read the Scriptures in prayer and reverence, God will guide us. Thus it
is that a wayfaring man, though a fool, need not err in the ways of
truth."
"But suppose that one be led in reading the Scriptures to hold views
different from those of those set in authority over us?" I asked.
He lifted his large eyes to mine, and scanned my face intently.
"Yet should he hold fast by his integrity," he replied.
"Even if the teachers of the Church command otherwise?" I asked.
"Who are the teachers of the Church?" he asked. "Are they such as
Cardinal Pole, and Stephen Gardiner, falsely called the Bishop of
Winchester, or Dr. Ridley and Master Hugh Latimer, whom they put to
death by fire? Ay, and to whose voice shall we listen; that of Laud, the
Papist in disguise, and his lying master Charles Stuart, or to such as
Cromwell, and Pym, and Hampden, who saved England from Popery and
slavery?"
"That is treason," I said.
"To whom--God or man?" he asked quietly.
"To man," I made answer, even before I knew the words had escaped from
my lips.
"Ay, to man," he replied; "but he who loves God will never be a traitor
to Him. Nevertheless, may God grant that the will of man and the will of
God may never be set against each other."
"Do you fear they will?" I asked.
"What say men in London town?" he asked.
"That the king will bring in a new order of things," I made answer, "and
that those who favoured his father's death shall be punished."
"Ay, ay," he said slowly. "But what of the Church, young master, what of
the Church?"
"It is said that the bishops are already looking forward to the time
when schism shall be overcome, and that they are already making
preparation for the change. That they are overjoyed that the king is
coming back is but to make suggestion of the whole truth."
"Ay, ay," he replied; "but we fight not with carnal weapons; our
strength is in the Lord of Hosts. The three Hebrew youths would not fall
down and worship, and they were thrown into the furnace seven times
heated, yet did the Lord deliver them. The Apostles were commanded not
to preach the Gospel, yet did they preach it, and were thrown into
prison; but the Lord opened the prison doors. At present the cloud is no
bigger than a man's hand, yet it will darken this land. I can see it
plainly, yet must the children of God bear witness to the truth."
The man spoke like one would think the prophets of old times spoke, so
calm and quiet, and yet so full of authority were his tones.
"Methinks, those who call themselves the children of God fight with
other than carnal weapons," I made answer. "If ever there was a man of
the sword it was Oliver Cromwell."
"Ay, but he trusted not in the arm of flesh, but in the Lord God," he
made answer, "else would his armies have been but burning stubble in a
strong wind. It was the men of God whom Cromwell selected, who won
Marston Moor and Naseby. On the other hand, it was the lies and the base
living of Charles and his followers which caused their defeat."
"Ay, but Cromwell is dead, and men have it that a whining, hypocritical
crew have taken his place. There have been some Judas Iscariots and
traitors at the head of England for many months."
"Ay, and some Monks too," he added, a little bitterly, I thought.
"Ay, and a Puritan woman sought to kill him, and if report speaks truly,
she is even now in Bedford Gaol."
I thought I saw him start as I spoke, so being young and foolish, and
wishing to get the better of an argument of which, as I thought, he had
the best all the way, I went on--
"Men have it that Master John Leslie, the father of this woman, is a
great man among the hot-gospellers and Independents, while Sir Charles
Denman, her husband, is almost as much renowned for his preaching as
Hugh Peters himself."
For a moment he stopped still in the road, and he lifted his right hand
above his head. Even in the dim light I noted his sturdy thick-set
figure, his broad mouth, and his searching, yet kindly eyes.
"Is that what men are saying?" he asked presently, dropping his hand.
"It is common gossip," I replied.
"Men have it that Constance, daughter of John Leslie, together with her
husband and father, plotted the murder of Monk, have they? Is that the
talk in London town?"
"It is given out by General Monk himself," I replied. "It is told to the
new king and his counsellors, and more it hath been proved by many
witnesses. The wound in the arm of Monk's secretary is sufficient
proof."
He stood still for a minute without speaking, then he said quietly--
"And have you heard aught concerning the probable fate of this maiden?"
"She is to be brought to London without delay after the king hath
arrived thither, and then she is to be tried, condemned, and put to
death. Men also have it that there is a warrant out against Sir Charles
Denman and Master John Leslie."
"Perhaps it is the will of God," he said, presently. "The blood of the
martyr hath ever been the seed of the Church of the living God."
"Martyr," I said, for something made me feel that this man knew much of
these people. "Can the death of a woman who hath attempted murder be
called martyrdom?"
I could have almost bitten my tongue for having uttered these words, for
although my reason told me they were true, my heart went against them,
and accused me of being unjust to the woman to whom I had avowed that
she could never do an unworthy deed.
"There be many things known only to God," he replied solemnly, "and
God's ways are not our ways, neither His thoughts our thoughts, yet will
we trust Him though He slay us."
"Know you aught of this woman?" I asked.
"I know what all men know," he answered. "I know that she was on her way
to Bedford to visit her father, who is a man of substance in Bedford, as
well as in London, and that while coming hither she was taken by the
minions of Monk, and dragged to gaol."
"From whence did she come?"
"From the south, somewhere."
"But had she no protector?"
"She had none. She was taken during the night."
"But surely she could not travel from the south on foot."
"Nay, she rode a good horse."
I wanted to ask other questions, but I was afraid, for I knew not who
the man was, and I dared not trust him so far as to lead him to think I
knew anything concerning her.
"Know you aught of her, young master?"
"I have come from the south," I answered, "and it was said that she had
been seen not twenty miles from where the king landed but yesterday."
"Ay, poor child, I fear me that this led her to think she would be safe
here. For you are mistaken in believing that a warrant is out against
her father. It is not true. It hath been proved that Master Leslie had
neither part nor lot in the attempt to murder Monk, and in proof of my
words he may be seen in Bedford town, although in sore grief that his
daughter is now awaiting such a fearful end."
"But he would have sheltered her, ay, and have sought to hide her, had
she reached his house?" I said.
"Did not the early Christians hide each other in Rome?" he asked. "And
did not men hide their faithful friends in the time of Mary?"
"But they were innocent?"
"And is not she innocent?"
At this I did not speak, although there seemed but little doubt, as I
gathered from the words spoken to the king, that proofs of her guilt
were unanswerable.
"Nevertheless," he went on, "although Master John Leslie is a man of
station and wealth, he has been much insulted these last three days. Men
wag their heads as he passes by, especially those who are godless, and
rejoice because they believe the coming of the king will mean
godlessness and licentiousness. Ay, and whatever be the state of things
in London, it seems as though the devil is unchained. Drunkenness and
vice walk naked and not ashamed, while many who I thought were founded
in the faith have joined the hosts of those who love not the Lord."
By this time we had entered the town, and I began to look around me for
some inn where I could find fodder for my horse and a supper for myself.
"Stay you long in Bedford, young master?"
"I hope my stay may be brief," I replied. "Will you show me to the best
inn the town affords?"
"The place most free from reproach, and where men of standing gather, is
_The Bull_," he replied, "but methinks even that will scarce be a
fitting place to-night for a well-behaved youth, as you seem to be."
"And why?" I asked.
"Because, as I told you, the whole town, since the news of the coming of
the king, hath been a scene of drunkenness and revelry. Wherever there
is much ale there is much devilry, whether it be drunk at _The Bull_ or
elsewhere. Even the ostlers cannot be got to attend to their duties,
therefore I fear you will have to groom and feed your horse yourself. As
for sleep, I much fear me that you will not be able to obtain it. I will
e'en call with you so that you may see for yourself, and if the place is
given over to carousal, then if you can think of nought better, I will
gladly offer you a bed in my own poor home."
"Thank you, good friend," I made answer, "I trust I may not need to take
advantage of your good nature; all the same I am grateful to you, and
would like to know the name of one who hath proffered such kindness."
"My name is John Bunyan," he replied, "and I minister to God's people in
this town."
"You are then an Independent preacher?" I asked.
"I am called to preach the Gospel of Christ," he replied, "and God hath
so blessed me, that I, who was a vile sinner, have been able to point a
great multitude to the Lamb of God which taketh away the sins of the
world."
I do not know why it was, but although my father had not influenced me
to lean either towards the Episcopal Church or towards the Dissenters, I
felt prejudiced against him. I determined therefore that nothing should
induce me to sleep at his house, and when we presently reached _The
Bull_, and I found the place given over to drinking and revelry even as
he had said, I persisted in having the room offered to me.
"Perhaps we shall meet again, young master," he said, as he walked away.
"God hath a purpose in bringing people together, and although when I
went out this evening to speak words of comfort to a sick member of my
flock, I had no premonition that I should meet you, yet I believe God
had a purpose in it, for truly I can see that thou art not far from the
Kingdom."
It was some time before I was able to obtain an ostler to feed and groom
my horse; at length, however, I succeeded in so doing by the promise of
extra payment, and then having satisfied myself on this score, I found
my way to the inn again, in the hope of supper. But in this I found
great difficulty. Drink was plentiful enough, but something to eat was a
different matter. Every one in the house seemed too busy in supplying
drink to those who came hither to drink the king's health to be able to
care aught for the needs of a traveller such as myself. At length,
however, I obtained some boiled beef and bread, and with this I had to
be content, and after partaking thereof I found my way into a room where
I was told the people of quality had congregated.
Little notice was taken of my coming, until it became known that I had
come from London town, after which I became a person of great
importance, and was plied with many questions. These I answered freely
enough. First because my answers could arouse no suspicion, and second
because I thought I should thereby lead my questioners to talk about the
woman who was imprisoned at Bedford Gaol. In this I found I had
conjectured rightly, and when, presently, I found that one of those who
talked with me was no less a person than the governor of the gaol, I
rejoiced greatly that I had not accepted the hospitality of Master John
Bunyan.
"Ah, but it is a feather in my cap," said this man, whose name I found
to be John Sturgeon, "and I doubt not that when all the happenings reach
the king's ears he will be mightily pleased with me."
I saw that he had been drinking freely, and that he weighed not his
words. Moreover, he seemed to be a man of choleric temper, and did not
brook opposition from any one.
"And how may that be, Master Sturgeon?" I said. "Think you the king will
have so little to do when he arrives at Whitehall that he will pay heed
to the imprisonment of what you have called a Puritan woman?"
"Surely you have not lived in London, or you would not speak so
foolishly," he cried. "Suppose, I say, suppose she had killed General
Monk, would the king have been welcomed back? I tell you no. Therefore
will the king bear in mind all who have had aught to do with the capture
of such a one."
"Ay, but," I urged, "the governor of the gaol is not the constable who
caught her coming hither?"
"Again you speak like a fool, young master, or you would know that I am
a man of authority in Bedford. Moreover, was it not I who had Master
John Leslie watched? Did I not note his looks of uneasiness, and did not
the inquiries I made concerning him lead me to place men along the roads
to London? Ah, but it was by the merest shave that they took her. For
what was she dressed like, think you? As a witch? Nay, but as a saucy
young springald. Moreover, she carried things with a high hand, and
threatened Jonathan Wild, the biggest constable in Bedford, to horsewhip
him. But her face betrayed her, for one of the men, although she hath
lived much in London, and is but little known in Bedford, recognized her
in the moonlight, and then having suspicions, pulled off her headgear,
whereupon her hair fell down her back."
At this there was much laughter, and many coarse jests.
"Ah, well," went on Master Sturgeon, "I never did like Master Leslie,
for he sent many a good fellow to Bedford Gaol, simply because they were
not straightlaced Puritans like himself. Things are changed now, and
mayhap that I shall have even him under lock and key."
"How did she get her horse and her attire?" I asked.
"That I cannot tell," he replied, "but I doubt not it will all come out
when she is tried."
"When and where is the trial to be?"
"In London, I do hear. This, I think, is a shame, for why should all the
fun be in London. Still the deed was done there, and mayhap the king,
who loves a pretty face, may wish to be at the trial."
Although much more was said, there was little of importance; moreover I
found that men were too eager to talk of the events which were to take
place in London because of the king's coming, to pay much heed to the
woman who had attempted the life of General Monk, wife to Sir Charles
Denman though she might be.
Still I kept in the room until wellnigh midnight, when Master Sturgeon
rose to go. I was told that he boasted of being able to carry more drink
than any man in Bedford, nevertheless I saw that he staggered somewhat
on leaving the inn. As he put on his hat a plan was suddenly born in my
mind, and without weighing its value I followed him into the street,
determining to make my first attempt that very night to obtain the
liberty of the woman into whose company I had been so strangely thrown.