THE JOURNEY.
A journey from Oxford to Ipswich in these days is as the swallow
skimming along the air, save that his pinions make less noise than
the gliding railway.
Wolsey resolved to journey to his native town. Arthur's horse had
recovered, and Arthur himself, taking advantage of a cavalcade to
Aylesbury and Bedford, had already started.
In those ages, men travelled in company for security, and a cavalcade
was made up of people of all grades, from the highest to the lowest,
each feeling some sort of protection in the presence of the other.
Now-a-days, men are drawn along by fire and water, feeling no kind of
security in each other, and yet, though the greater the speed the
greater the danger, they are devoid of fear.
Wolsey was not long in finding a party going to the metropolis, in
whose company he could ride with safety, and speak, as every one then
did, of the dangers of the road, without any fear of robbers.
Travellers even from Oxford to London had then some trepidations
about the freebooters of High Wycombe, or of Hampstead Heath; and
like prudent men, made their wills before starting, and they have
need, as prudent men, to do the same now. They made their wills
then, filled their wallets, belted their purses, mounted their
steeds, and, well-armed, proceeded on their way, with pistols well
primed; nor did they journey without swords or cudgels.
The party which Wolsey had joined was mostly composed of
wool-dealers, who at that time were sheep-dealers as well. They were
journeying to London, to meet some Spanish merchants, who had begun
to purchase the fine flocks of England, to pasture upon the plains of
Toledo. This was carried to such an extent just then, that
Government had to interfere, and did so at the suggestion of Wolsey,
who had become aware of the extensive exportation of flocks from this
country.
On his white-faced cob, and not despising his academical or priestly
appearance, sat Wolsey, making himself as agreeable as possible to
his company.
'You will sell half the flocks of England, Master Cuthbert, if you go
on with this species of merchandise much longer. What will become of
our own wool-trade, if you thus sell the very sheep's backs upon
which it grows?'
'As to that, master, we have nothing to do with it. No matter to us
so long as we get a profit, and these Dons give us a good price; and
I say, prosperity to the sheep trade!'
'But do you consider that you injure your country in this traffic?'
'How so? We do but buy and sell at the best market; and what's a
country to us, if we cannot make something out of it?'
'Our wool-trade is great; but every flock you sell must diminish our
means of supplying the demand upon us, and increase it in other
countries. Have you no desire to see your country flourish?'
'Yes, and I hope it will, and last our time. The price of sheep is
wonderfully got up of late.'
'And not to be wondered at either, when you take off so many. If I
were a statesman, I would take care of the trade of my country, and
not destroy one of the best staple commodities we have.'
'Why, master, you don't think we poor dealers want to ruin others, do
you?'
'No! you may not care much about that; but the sheep are more
profitable in our country than they can be out of it, and I have no
idea of enriching others by our own poverty.'
'Well, master, now I dare say you'd buy books out of foreign
countries if you could.'
'That I would, to enrich my own, and not to impoverish them.'
'Well, master, then why mayn't others do the same by us? What's the
difference betwixt traffic in sheep and traffic in books?'
'A wonderful deal of difference. We buy books to increase the
knowledge of the world.'
'And we sell sheep to increase the clothing thereof. What's the
difference?'
'If you sell the staple commodity of a community, you create a want
of general employment, and injure trade for the future, in that
country. Our flocks produce the finest wool in the world, and,
consequently, our wool-combers and their families thrive; but if you
sell the flocks which produce the wool, you immediately take off
their families from their accustomed employment, and your own people
are destitute. Books are but few now-a-days, and scholars are far
less. Printing is but in its infancy, and is a matter of art and
ingenuity. If I were a legislator I would protect the flock-growers
against you wholesale flock-sellers.'
'Well, master, all that's easy said, but not so easy done; but yonder
troops of gipsies look as if they would have no objection to case us,
either of our sheep or our money.'
'Ay, and I would control them as well; and see if I could not get rid
of an idle set of vagabonds, who do nothing but live in the wastes
upon the plenty of others, which they either pilfer, petition for, or
purloin, just as they please.'
'You would make a rare statesman, if you could rid the country of
such folk: but I think, master, you would be too hard upon us poor
flock-dealers.'
It was well the party advancing on the road towards Hampstead were as
strong as they were, for there was then at that place a formidable
encampment of that artful and imposing people, who had gained such a
footing in the midland counties as to make it dangerous to affront
them, or to refuse their demands. Woe to the unfortunate traveller
who had anything worth losing in his purse, and lost his way in that
neighborhood. It was even dangerous for small parties to travel
unprotected. The gipsies and the robbers were in league against the
liege subjects of the realm. Nothing worthy of being called a
surprise occurred to any of the party until they had passed through
the metropolis, and those who were journeying towards the eastern
counties became less apparently able to defend themselves.
Wolsey changed companies in London, and had now joined a party of
Flemish manufacturers, who were going down to his native town, to
teach the weavers there the manufacture which afterwards raised
Ipswich to such notoriety. These men were a contrast to those with
whom he had journeyed to London. These were consumers, and teachers
of consumers, of that very article for the preservation of which, to
this country, he had been so strong an advocate. He was now more
convinced than before of the folly of sending the flocks out of the
country when such good workmen came from foreign countries, to teach
our men their value.
He found these foreigners intelligent and industrious, acting under
the guidance of a leader, who undertook to give them wages from the
time of their starting from their own country. With them he entered
freely into conversation, speaking to them in their own language, and
astonishing their minds with the knowledge he seemed to possess of
their country and people as well as of the town to which he was bound.
It was upon this journey, too, that Wolsey had an opportunity of
discovering that he had made friends with a worthy, honest class of
men, as stout-hearted as they were strong-armed; and that they were
ready to look upon him with respect as their superior, though by no
means better mounted or provided with cash.
Not far from Ingatstone they were met by a very formidable body of
the idlers who infested that neighborhood, half gipsies, half
robbers--men and women, travelling in company, tinkers,
shoeing-smiths, and braziers, yet of such a wild character, that they
never failed to tax all they met who happened to be too weak to
resist.
They were headed by a tall, swarthy man, commonly called the
Ingatstone Bear, or Wild Man of Brentwood. He was known as King of
the Gipsies far and near.
He had come over from Spain, having escaped the violent persecution
at Toulon, which those unfortunate people had aroused, in consequence
of their having had a deadly encounter with some Turkish traders,
whom they had murdered to a man.
Stanton, as he was called among his own people, was a sinewy and bony
man, who never did any work, but led his people about the country,
occasionally haranguing them in a circle, and appointing the
different men their specific duties. The King of the Gipsies
understood the handicraft of all his people. He also had a very
quick apprehension of character, such as he found among the gentry
and commonalty of England, though he pretended to understand nothing
of their language.
The party of Flemings then journeying to Ipswich in company had hired
a guide who undertook to see them safe through the country. Whether
this man was in league with the gipsies or not, it was never strictly
ascertained, though this was much suspected.
About eight o'clock in the evening, three miles of the Chelmsford
side of Ingatstone, near Hide Green, a large party of these idle
fellows, headed by the Wild Man of Brentwood, chose to stop them, and
to demand, in terms not to be misunderstood, whatever they could
spare. Wolsey, desirous of peace, undertook to state the nature of
the journey the Flemings were pursuing, and the consequent poverty
they were all in at present. As to himself, he told them he was a
scholar, and that what little money he had was at their service: but
he stipulated that the poor Flemings should be permitted to proceed
on their journey without molestation, on his surrendering his own
purse.
The Flemings were ignorant of Wolsey's generosity until they saw him
give up his money. They then saw that he had purchased their
liberation. They were not the men, however, tamely to submit to
imposition, or to suffer an other to be imposed upon in their
company. One fine young fellow, who seemed to be well backed by the
rest, came forward to the King of the Gipsies, and demanded the purse
back again. To his own surprise, the gipsy gave it him; and he
immediately delivered it to Wolsey, who with a quick eye, and as
quick a command, told them at once to be prepared for an attack: for
once having made a compromise with the King of the Gipsies, the
demanding again the surety given was a certain declaration of war,
and they must expect it.
The warning of Wolsey was taken in earnest. The Flemings had been
hitherto in their loose jackets, seeming to have nothing but their
working tools. In one moment each man had a formidable weapon,
scarcely known in England, but used with great dexterity by the
Flemish, and which gave them, as will be seen, a perfect ascendancy
over their antagonists. This weapon was a ball and thong. A ball of
lead or iron, which they could cast out of their hands, End draw back
again with well-trained facility, called a 'Battledoer.'
They had scarcely collected themselves in a band round Wolsey and
three others, before a shrill whistle from the King of the Gipsies
announced the commencement of hostilities. The women and children
ran screaming up the green to their encampment, whence several men
might be seen hastening to the scene of dispute. The heavy Flemings,
on their long-tailed shaggy horses, were not accustomed to move very
quickly along the road; but were as little accustomed to be stayed in
their steady progress.
The King of the Gipsies presented a bold front; for, coming forward
from his numerous subjects, ha insisted upon the whole party going
back the way they came, or paying the toll which they had once paid
and taken away.
The Flemings were not disposed to turn their backs; their tactics
were of a very simple kind. If the attack was made in front, four
from each side drew up in a moment, to support their leaders. If in
the rear, three on each side drew up for the defence; and if on
either side, there were seven on each side perfectly prepared. This
little oblong square was formed with dexterity and resolution, and
evidently discomposed the gipsies at the very first step; for when
the leaders moved on, the King of the Gipsies receded instinctively.
In another moment, however, his word of command was given, and his
men came on, with bludgeons, stones, and iron hooks, to the attack.
One or two gipsies only appeared to have fire-arms, and of these they
made so much parade that it was strongly suspected that they were
unloaded, or that they dare not fire them off. A volley or stones,
however, soon came rattling among the Flemings, who from that moment
moved on with a front rank of ten horsemen and a flank of eight,
undismayed by the numbers of their antagonists.
The very first volley of their leaden missiles had all the effect of
a discharge of musketry. The balls were thrown with such precision
that men fell as if they were shot; and the immediate recoiling of
them, so as to send another shower, as quickly as a man could pick up
a stone, was what these fellows did not wait for. They fled
immediately, the King of Brentwood Forest among them, whilst the
brave Flemings, passing over the bodies of their stunned foes, moved
on without further molestation to Chelmsford.
The only man injured in their party was their guide, who, being
knocked from his horse by a blow on the forehead from a stone thrown
by the gipsies, was carried into the town of Chelmsford, and there
left with the Abbot of the monastery.
Wolsey now became the conductor of the party, and, greatly pleased
with their conduct, he felt a pride and pleasure in introducing such
men into his native town. Messrs. Hall and Baldry were the parties
to whom they were engaged, and our young scholar did not fail to
speak of them by letter to his uncle, Edmund Daundy, in terms of such
commendation as they deserved.
They arrived without any other molestation, and Dame Joan received
her son, for the last time, into her house, and found him grown a
greater man than she had ever known him, but at that time far from
happy or cheerful. She never knew him to smile upon her after that
day.
'Mother,' said Wolsey on his arrival, 'I am come to perform a promise
extracted from me, in your own presence, on the memorable evening of
my gallantry, when the ox shin-bone did execution upon the head of
the mastiff.'
'What was that, my son?'
'To be present at the marriage of Ellen De Freston--ay, and more, not
only to see her given in marriage, but to unite her with my friend
Latimer.'
'Oh, why, my son, why perform the ceremony? I know you have loved
Ellen, but--'
'But, hush, mother! hush! breathe not a word of this. Let it die. I
am a priest, mother. I must not marry--I cannot. I must deny,
denounce, and destroy any such idea in my soul! Your prayers,
mother, in silence; but tell it not to De Freston--tell it not to my
uncle--breathe it not to the world--that thy son, Thomas Wolsey, ever
had such a weakness.'
'How, my dear son, wilt thou ever sustain the shock? I cannot bear
to think of it.'
'Thou must assist me, mother, with all thy courage and thy kindness
to smile upon the bride and the bridegroom. Doubt not my strength.
I can do what I will with myself, but do not thou betray me or my
weakness. I would retire to prepare for the morrow's interview at
Freston Hall. Once more I will see the Tower, the Orwell--the scenes
of my youth and of my early love--and then, farewell for ever.'