FLEET PRISON
I was kept in Fleet Prison for wellnigh two years, and during the first
year of that time I scarce ever spoke to a fellow-prisoner. Moreover,
none of my gaolers ever had speech with me. So silent were they when
they brought me my meals that I judged they had been commanded to be
silent. It was easy to divine a meaning in this, for if the king had
bidden that no man should speak to me he would be obeyed. And I believed
that he had done this, else why was I treated differently from all
others who were immured within those grim walls? Moreover there was a
reason why he should give the command. He did not desire that his
marriage with Lucy Walters should be known; he did not wish that the boy
James Croft should be spoken of as the future King of England.
Of my sufferings during that year I will say but little. It is but
little to a man's credit that he should make known his tale of woe,
rather should he endeavour to make the best of his lot, and think of
what comforts he had. And yet if I would tell my story truly I must e'en
remark on the dark days I spent there, for they were dark days. For a
time I almost wished that I had no hope that Constance loved me, for it
seemed to make my burden harder to bear. But it was only for a time. I
could not help being glad because of the lovelight I had seen in her
eyes, even though the thought of it brought me pain; For bring me pain
it did. How could it be otherwise? I remembered the words of the king,
and I knew that he meant what he said. All nights have I lain awake,
heedless of the vermin that swarmed the cell, thinking of what had
become of her, and how she fared. For not one word did I hear. Whether
she was dead or alive I knew not. Whether she had escaped from the
king's power, or whether he cruelly persecuted her no one could tell
me. And this made my burden hardest to bear. If I knew she was dead I
think I could have borne up better, for I should know that she had died
thinking of me. Ay, I knew that, for no woman could look at a man as she
looked at me without thinking of him always. Even as I lay in the
darkness I remembered that look, and rejoiced. My imprisonment I would
not have minded one whit, if I knew she was safe. I did not even fear
her being a hunted refugee as she was when I had seen her first of all.
Nay, it was the thought of what was in the king's mind that drove me
wellnigh mad, and many a time while I was in prison had I wished that I
had seized his fleshy neck and strangled the life out of him, even
although I suffered the tortures of hell as a consequence.
But I could do nothing. Day succeeded day, and week succeeded week, and
I heard not so much as a breath of a whisper. Besides I could do
nothing, for my prison door was safely locked, and not a vestige of
chance to hear aught of the outside world came to me.
Thus a year passed away. During that time I had grown as weak as a
child. Each morning as I awoke a great nausea mastered me, and my mouth
was full of bitterness, until one day one of my gaolers watched me as I
was retching, and saw how faint and giddy I was afterwards, and then a
change was made in my condition. I was allowed clean clothes, a big tub
was brought to me so that I could bath myself, and a better cell was
given me.
It was just after this that I heard something which set me thinking. Two
gaolers were outside my door, and I heard them talking.
"Young Master Rashcliffe is better, eh?"
"Ay, he is better. I am told he is to have more liberty."
"What, mix with the other prisoners?"
"Ah, why the change? Know you?"
"No, I know not. For my part I am glad. It was fair sad to see him. He
was mad at one time."
"Ay, that he was. Well, the prisoners be treated more harshly now than
in Old Nol's time."
"Ay, and there are far more of them too. Have you heard about the king's
oath?"
"Nay, I have heard of no oath save that he is going to stamp out the
Dissenters."
"Nay, it hath nought to do with that, although the place is full enough
of them. It is about the black box."
"What black box?"
"Have you not heard? One of the big lords, I know not which, said that
an old man had shewed him the marriage certificate between the king and
that pretty Welsh wench, Lucy Walters."
"Ah, no, I had not heard."
"But it is so. Well, the king hath taken an oath that, while the lad of
whom there hath been so much talk is his son, he never wedded Lucy. I
hear the king was wellnigh angered to death when the thing got noised
abroad."
"And what hath become of the old man who shewed the great lord the
thing?"
"I know not; but the strange thing is that he claims to be Lucy Walters'
father."
"And the king says it is a forgery?"
"Ay, that is his oath."
"That will end in the old man being caught and hanged."
"Ay, they will have to hang him, for of a truth every prison in England
is full."
"Perhaps the king will hang the Dissenters instead, and yet I should be
sorry. They cause no trouble in prison, even although there are so many.
The only thing for which I do not like them, is that they look at one so
mournfully if he should happen upon oath, or say something that is not
over pious."
"Ha, ha! Then must they often look mournfully on you. But I do not like
their pious talk. I would rather have to do with prisoners which ought
to be here. As it is, the place is full of these pious people who were
preaching and praying in barns instead of in the parish church, and
singing their own hymns instead of abiding by the Prayer-book, while the
blackguards who used to be clapped into prison in Old Nol's time are
allowed to go free. Then prisoners were real prisoners--drunkards, and
wife-beaters, and thieves, and wizards, and witches; but now we have
hardly any but these pious people, who are guilty of nought worse than
singing hymns and preaching."
"Still law is law, and the king is king. Besides, what would you, if the
king and the bishops will have everybody pray according to the
Prayer-book, what right have these Dissenters to pray in their own way?"
After this they went away, and I heard no more of them. For several days
moreover there was no change in my condition, except that my prison was
clean and my food a little more wholesome. At the end of a week,
however, I found myself at liberty to move freely around among my
fellow-prisoners, and it was then that I understood the meaning of the
conversation I have recorded. For in truth the place seemed full of men
who were sent hither because they had disobeyed certain Acts of
Parliament, the which, as I understood it, meant that if any number of
people worshipped God in any other way than that prescribed by the
Prayer-book, or in any other place than the parish church, their
meetings could at once be pounced upon by the constables, and the
offenders haled before the magistrates, and sentenced to imprisonment. I
was also told that these Acts prohibited any person who had been guilty
of preaching the Gospel, other than those empowered by the laws of the
country, living within five miles of the town where they had preached.
With this news there came to me also the information that about two
thousand clergymen, most of whom were pious Godfearing men, were ejected
from their parishes because they could not obey laws which they believed
were contrary to the laws of God. Moreover, many of these clergymen,
believing they were called of God to preach, had continued to minister
to their flocks, with the result that the prisons of England were full
of them.
In addition to this, the law, having regarded not only Nonconformist
preachers but Nonconformist worshippers as equally guilty, meetings were
broken up, and the guilty people were clapped into gaol without more
ado.
I had never taken any considerable interest in such matters, yet now
that I saw these people in gaol, and heard their stories, I realized
that what the squire and vicar of the parish where I had seen such a
strange sight in the county of Kent had predicted had come to pass.
One old man interested me greatly, for he spoke kindly to me, and
inquired lovingly after my condition. He had, so he told me, married
late in life, and had a family of a wife and five children. When the Act
of Uniformity was passed he was cast forth from his parish because he
would not be re-ordained, and then having been guilty of preaching the
Gospel to a few of his flock, and praying with them, he was seized by
the magistrates and cast into prison.
"And what hath become of your wife and family?" I asked.
"Ah, that is what grieves me sorely," he replied; "for myself I do not
mind one whit, except that I can no longer proclaim the glad news which
I was called to preach; but to think of my poor delicate wife wandering
helpless and homeless with my dear little ones grieves me beyond words.
I can do nought but pray for them, the which I do continually."
"But why could you not obey the law?" I asked.
"Obey the law! How could I? I had been ministering to my people for many
years, and God had given seals to my ministry by enabling me to lead
many to the Lamb of God, which taketh away the sins of the world. Then
came this law, which said that I had not hitherto been ordained of God,
and must be ordained according to priestly traditions. Now, how could I
do that? If I did, it would be tantamount to confessing that my previous
ordination was not of God. Then, again, I could not subscribe to every
word of the Prayer-book, for it is riddled with popery. The question
which the Apostle asked came to me--'Whether it be right to obey God or
man judge ye,' and I could only answer it in one way."
"And be there many Nonconformists?" I asked.
"You can judge something of that by the number who preferred to obey God
rather than man," he replied. "Two thousand and more have been ejected
from their parishes, while thousands of the people belonging to their
flocks are to-day suffering imprisonment for love of the true Gospel."
"And who do you blame for all this?" I asked. "The king?"
"Ay, I blame the king, but not him only. I blame the king because he
promised us fairly. Had he not so promised he would not have been
invited back. He promised that none of us should be disturbed, and that
every man should worship God according to the dictates of his own
conscience. As you know also the Act of Oblivion was passed, whereby all
those who took part in the death of the late king should be forgiven.
But what hath happened? His Majesty hath hanged many of those who
thought it their duty to put that man to death, and not contented with
this he hath dragged others from their graves and had their bodies
degraded."
"Who among the living hath he hanged?" I asked.
He named some whose names I did not know, and then I heard the name of
Master John Leslie.
"Master John Leslie!" I cried, "hath he been put to death?"
"Hanged at Tyburn," said the old man solemnly. "A good man and a
faithful he was, although I agreed not with all his tenets. He was
somewhat influenced by the Quaker doctrines of the man Fox, and would
not allow himself to be called Sir John Leslie, although he was entitled
to that honour."
"And his daughters," I cried, "know you aught of them?"
"They are both in hiding I am told."
"The wife of Sir Charles Denman hath never been captured then?"
"No, although how she hath escaped is a mystery, for Sir Charles hath
fled out of the country."
"And the other sister?" I asked feverishly, for my heart was all aflame.
"Ah, the other sister. God only knows what hath become of her, for it is
said that she found favour in the eyes of the king," he replied.
At this I could not speak another word, for it seemed to me that nought
was left worth living for. But the old man did not heed my grief,
instead he went on speaking.
"Not that I blame the king for all. The episcopal bishops and the
popishly inclined clergy have allowed him no rest. My brethren have
appealed for justice, but in order to please the clergy, Parliament hath
passed one law after another, each more abominable in the sight of God
than the other. Our greatest enemies everywhere have been those who have
wanted the heresies of the Prayer-book. They have hunted us from place
to place, they have given information to the magistrates, and have not
been contented until the Nonconformists have either sworn allegiance to
the Prayer-book or been thrust into prison. As for the king, he careth
more for his pleasures than aught else."
"But if this is all for the good of religion?" I asked presently,
although my heart went not with my words.
"Religion!" cried the old man. "Religion! where can we find it? Religion
is laughed at on every hand. Those in high places live in open sin, and
there are none to say them nay. The Court is turned into a pigsty.
Obscene plays are in all the theatres, while vice and profligacy are
actually boasted of in the streets of London. Even while we
Nonconformists be imprisoned in stinking cells the very worst sins are
condoned, excused, and in many places even praised, while the clergy
openly proclaim that they would rather have open sin than Nonconformity.
But this cannot be for long."
"Why, do you think the king will relent?"
"Relent! It is well known that he careth little for religion. How can
he, seeing the life he lives? It is said by those who know him best,
that he favours the Papist religion more than any other, and would bring
it back if he could. His mother hath a host of intriguing priests from
Rome with her every day; these priests are treated like great nobles,
and the king allows it--nay, smiles upon it. I have been told that
Charles Stuart doth not believe in our Lord Christ at all, and calls
himself a Deist. Such is the state of religion. People live for carnal
pleasures, while the virtue of maidens is laughed at as an idle tale."
Conversation like this I heard again and again during the next few
months, and I judged from all that came to me from the outside world
that it was true. Meanwhile the prison became more and more crowded with
Nonconformists. Men, women, and even children were packed in this
evil-smelling place, and as far as I could discover their only crime was
that they desired to pray and to preach according to the dictates of
their conscience.
Meanwhile, I learnt no more concerning Constance. I asked many
questions, but no man could give me an answer except that the king
regarded her with favour.
Not once did my father visit me, at the which I wondered greatly, for I
knew that he loved me, and would not willingly allow me to remain here
to die like a rat in a hole as I was like to do. One day, however, after
I had been a long time here, my heart gave a great leap, for I heard his
voice speaking to a gaoler, and shortly after we were alone together.
"I grieve much for you, Roland," he said presently, "and yet it is your
own fault."
"My own fault, father?"
"Ay, your own fault."
"Why, what have I done?" I asked.
"You have opposed the king's will," he replied; "you have used your
information like a fool."
"But perchance you do not know all that hath taken place," I said; "you
do not know what the king would have had me do?"
"Ay, I have heard all. Not that the news hath long come to me, for I
have only but lately arrived from France, where I have been at the
behest of James of York. Had I known earlier I would have been to see
you before, but I never dreamed that you would have been such a fool."
My heart grew cold at these words, for my father spoke, as I thought,
strangely.
"I went away with a light heart," he went on, "for I believed that you
had wit enough to make good use of whatever you should find out. I left
you enough money for all needs, and I believed that when I came back I
should find you in high favour with the king. Instead, I find that you
have espoused the cause of the daughter of a regicide, that you have
refused to obey the king's commands, and that you have acted like a fool
in relation to the discovery which you made."
"What would you have had me do?" I asked.
"Do!" he replied. "Did I not tell you from your earliest childhood that
no man would do aught for you, except that which would help forward his
own plans? And did I not trust you to make a wise use of your
knowledge? That is why I laid down no plan of action for you when we met
at Dover. I said 'the boy hath all his wits, and will be able to act
wisely when the right time comes,' Why, having once obtained the ear of
the king, thou shouldst have gone to him after what thou didst find out,
and thou shouldst have appeared before him as one anxious to serve him.
He would then, in his own interests, have rewarded thee with some fair
demesne and a wealthy dame's hand. Instead, what dost thou do? Thou dost
become the aider and abettor of this daughter of John Leslie, and when
obedience to the king would have found his favour, thou didst like a
fool refuse to do his bidding. Ay, and what happened then? The king,
being desirous of keeping his marriage with Lucy Walters a secret, and
knowing that thou wert a dangerous fool, clapped thee into prison."
"And you, father," I said, "what have you done?"
"I have done what I meant to do," he replied. "If the son is a fool
there is no reason why the father should be. I have so managed the king,
through His Grace of York that I have got my old lands back, so that in
spite of thine own foolishness thou wilt no longer be a landless
Rashcliffe. The king's marriage with Lucy Walters was not the only card
I had to play, so when my time came I played it, and I took the trick
too."
At this I was silent, for somehow I felt my father to be a different
man.
"If ever a man had his chances you had," my father went on. "I had known
for years that Katharine Harcomb had been trying to find out through
Lucy Walters' mother where the old madman Walters was, and I knew that
when she found out she would come and tell me."
"How did you know?" I asked.
"Because I had power over her. Because in her young days she had done
that which, if I had chosen to make known, would have sent her to the
gallows. Because I had made her promise that if ever she found out where
old Solomon, as he called himself, was, she dared do no other than to
tell me. She knew that he had got hold of the marriage contract; the
question was, where the old man was hiding." And then my father told me
a long story which I will not here set down, because it hath no real
bearing on my history.
"You have disappointed me greatly," he went on presently. "You had a
chance such as few men have, and you spoiled it; you have gained the
king's enmity, and you have allowed yourself to be mewed up here in this
stinking hole with a lot of psalm-singing Nonconformists. Besides, you
have done no good by it all. The story hath come out, and the king hath
taken an oath that he did never wed Lucy. Therefore your knowledge doth
avail nothing."
"But I saw the contract," I cried.
"Ay, but the king hath taken his oath," he laughed.
"What, to a lie!" I said.
"The oath of Charles Stuart!" said my father. "What was his father's
oath worth? What is the son's oath worth? But you have spoiled your
chance. What matters whether the thing is a forgery or no? Now that the
thing hath come to light it doth not matter. That is what angers me. The
son in whom I trusted to have clever wits hath acted like a Puritan."
"And am I to remain in gaol?" I asked.
"As to that, no," he replied. "Now that the thing hath come to light
nought matters. Had I come back earlier I had set you at liberty long
ago. As soon as I discovered how matters stood I took steps to gain your
freedom."
"Then I may leave this place?" I cried.
"Ay, be thankful that your father is not a fool. You can e'en return to
your old home to-morrow."
"And know you aught of Mistress Constance Leslie?" I asked.
"Ay, I do," he replied.
"What? Tell me!" I cried.
My father turned and looked around him before speaking, as though he
feared some one was listening.